[Enter Pomander behind—Woffington appears sunk in grief—he comes forward—she starts and gives a little shriek.]
POM. My dear Mrs. Vane (she shrinks). Do not be alarmed—loveliness neglected, and simplicity deceived, give irresistible claims to respect as well as adoration. Had fate given me this hand (he takes her hand)—
WOFF. Oh, please sir!
POM. Would I have abandoned it for that of a Woffington—as artificial and hollow a jade as ever winked at a side-box. Oh, had I been your husband, madam—how would I have revelled in the pastoral pleasures you so sweetly recalled yesterday—the Barbary mare—
WOFF. (timidly). Hen!
POM. Ah, yes, the Barbary hen; and old dame—dame—
WOFF. Best, please sir!
POM. Yes, Best—that happy though elderly female for whom you have condescended to make puddings.
WOFF. Alas, sir!
POM. You sigh! It is not yet too late to convert me. Upon this white hand I swear to become your pupil, as I am your adorer (he kisses it); let me thus fetter it with a worthy manacle. (Aside. What will innocence say to my five hundred guinea diamond?)