WOFF. That’s true. Well, I went there once to learn tragedy of the great Dumesnil (recites a couple of lines of tragedy à la Française). But Peg Woffington was never meant to walk the stage on stilts;—no, let Mrs. Pritchard pledge Melpomene in her own poison-bowl, I’ll give you Thalia in a bumper of Burgundy. Come, drink to your new mistress, Triplet (fills her glass). Mrs. Triplet (she rises, bottle and glass in hand), I must prescribe for you too. A wine glassful of this elixir six times a day till further notice. Success to your husband’s comedy! What’s this? (Sees fiddle in cradle). A fiddle, as I’m an ex-orange wench! (Giving it to Triplet.) Here, Triplet, a jig—a jig. (Triplet takes fiddle.) Peggy has not forgotten how to cover the buckle. Come, young ones—(Triplet plays. She dances a jig with the children)—more power to your elbow, man—shake it, ye sowl! Hurroo! (She dances up to Triplet, who, in his excitement, rises and joins in the jig, while Mrs. Triplet follows their movements with her body.) But come, Mr. Triplet, you really shan’t make me play the fool any longer. Business!—my picture is to be finished. Mrs. Triplet, we must clear the studio:—take your cherubs into the bed-room.
MRS. T. (seizes her hand). Oh, madam! may the blessings of a mother watch over you in life and after it, and the blessings of these innocents too!
WOFF. Pooh! pooh! let me kiss the brats (kisses them). (Aside. Poor things!)
BOY. I shall pray for you after father and mother.
GIRL. I shall pray for you after daily bread, because we were so hungry till you came.
WOFF. (putting them off). There, there. Exeunt mother and cherubs. Music for the exit, Trippy—the merriest you can extort from that veteran Stradivarius of yours. (Aside. Heaven knows I’ve as much need of merry music as the saddest of them) (sees Triplet overcome). Why, how now? If there isn’t this kind-hearted, soft-headed, old booby of a Triplet making a picture of himself in water colours. (Goes up to him—taps him on the arm). Come! to work—to work, and with a will, for I have invited Cibber, and Quin, and Clive, and Snarl, Soaper and all, to see the portrait, which is to make your fortune and hand me down to posterity not half as handsome as nature made me. There (sits), I must put on my most bewitching smile of course. (Aside) Oh, dear! how it belies my poor aching heart.
[Triplet, during this, has got his palette and pencil, set his easel, and begun to work, while Woffington sits.]
Well, are you satisfied with it?
TRIP. Anything but, madam (paints).
WOFF. Cheerful soul! then I presume it is like.