CLIVE (yawns). Cut it as deep as you like, there will be enough left; and so I shall tell the author if he is there.
[Exeunt Quin and Clive L.
[Enter Mr. Vane and Sir Charles Pomander L.]
POM. All this eloquence might be compressed into one word—you love Mrs. Margaret Woffington.
VANE. I glory in it.
POM. Why not, if it amuses you? We all love an actress once in our lives, and none of us twice.
VANE. You are the slave of a word, Sir Charles Pomander. Would you confound black and white because both are colours? Actress! Can you not see that she is a being like her fellows in nothing but a name? Her voice is truth, told by music: theirs are jingling instruments of falsehood.
POM. No—they are all instruments; but hers is more skilfully tuned and played upon.
VANE. She is a fountain of true feeling.