MRS. FRAIL. You?
SCAN. Yes, faith; I can shew you your own picture, and most of your acquaintance to the life, and as like as at Kneller’s.
MRS. FRAIL. O lying creature! Valentine, does not he lie? I can’t believe a word he says.
VAL. No indeed, he speaks truth now. For as Tattle has pictures of all that have granted him favours, he has the pictures of all that have refused him: if satires, descriptions, characters, and lampoons are pictures.
SCAN. Yes; mine are most in black and white. And yet there are some set out in their true colours, both men and women. I can shew you pride, folly, affectation, wantonness, inconstancy, covetousness, dissimulation, malice and ignorance, all in one piece. Then I can shew you lying, foppery, vanity, cowardice, bragging, lechery, impotence, and ugliness in another piece; and yet one of these is a celebrated beauty, and t’other a professed beau. I have paintings too, some pleasant enough.
MRS. FRAIL. Come, let’s hear ’em.
SCAN. Why, I have a beau in a bagnio, cupping for a complexion, and sweating for a shape.
MRS. FRAIL. So.
SCAN. Then I have a lady burning brandy in a cellar with a hackney coachman.
MRS. FRAIL. O devil! Well, but that story is not true.