POM. No—a pipe that conveys it, without spilling or retaining a drop.
VANE. She has a heart alive to every emotion.
POM. And influenced by none.
VANE. She is a divinity to worship.
POM. And a woman to fight shy of. No—no—we all know Peg Woffington; she is a decent actress on the boards, and a great actress off them. But I will tell you how to add a novel charm to her. Make her blush—ask her for the list of your predecessors.
VANE (with a mortified air). Sir Charles Pomander! But you yourself profess to admire her.
POM. And so I do, hugely. Notwithstanding the charms of the mysterious Hebe I told you of, whose antediluvian coach I extricated from the Slough of Despond, near Barnet, on my way to town yesterday, I gave La Woffington a proof of my devotion only two hours ago.
VANE. How?
POM. By offering her three hundred a-year—house—coach—pin-money—my heart——and the et ceteras.
VANE. You? But she has refused.