TRIP. Not a bit. (Woffington stretches.) You must not yawn, ma’am—you must not yawn just now!
WOFF. Oh, yes, I must, if you will be so stupid.
TRIP. I was just about to catch the turn of the lip.
WOFF. Well, catch it, it won’t run away.
TRIP. A pleasant half-hour it will be for me, when all your friends come here, like cits at a shilling ordinary, each for his cut. Head a little more that way. (Sadly) I suppose you can’t sit quiet, Madam; then never mind. Look on this picture and on that!
WOFF. Meaning, that I am painted as well as my picture.
TRIP. Oh, no, no, no! but to turn from your face, on which the lightning of expression plays continually, to this stony, detestable, dead daub: I could—(seizes palette-knife)—miserable mockery! vile caricature of life and beauty! take that! (dashes the knife through picture.)
WOFF. Oh! right through my pet dimple! Hark! I hear the sound of coaches—the hour of critique approaches!
TRIP. Two coach loads of criticism, and the picture ruined!