POM. I sincerely trust not (goes to table, C.). I do not feel at all anxious to figure in the museum of town antiquities—labelled, “Old Beau, very curious.”
CIB. (aside). Coxcomb! Let me tell you your old beaux were the only ones worthy of winging the shafts from Cupid’s quiver.
SNARL. Witness Mr. Cibber (goes to table, C.).
WOFF. Oh, Colley is like old port—the more ancient he grows the more exquisite his perfume becomes.
SOAP. Capital! She alludes to Mr. Cibber’s pulvilio.
SNARL. And the crustier he gets.
SOAP. Delicious! He alludes to Mr. Cibber’s little irritability.
CIB. Ah, laugh at us old fellows as you will, young people; but I have known Loungeville entertain a fine lady in this very saloon, whilst a rival was fretting and fuming on the other side of that door. Ha, ha! (sighs.) It is all over now.
POM. Nay, Mr. Cibber, why assume that the house has lost its virtue in our friend’s hands?
CIB. Because, young gentleman, you all want sçavoir faire; the fellows of the day are all either unprincipled heathens like you, or cold blooded Amadisses like our host. The true Preux des Dames (regretfully) went out with the full periwig, stap my vitals!