LORD FROTH. Heav’ns! that can never be. But why do you think so?
CYNT. Because he has not so much reason to be fond of himself.
LORD FROTH. Oh, your humble servant for that, dear madam. Well, Mellefont, you’ll be a happy creature.
MEL. Ay, my lord, I shall have the same reason for my happiness that your lordship has, I shall think myself happy.
LORD FROTH. Ah, that’s all.
BRISK. [To Lady Froth.] Your ladyship is in the right; but, i’gad, I’m wholly turned into satire. I confess I write but seldom, but when I do—keen iambics, i’gad. But my lord was telling me your ladyship has made an essay toward an heroic poem.
LADY FROTH. Did my lord tell you? Yes, I vow, and the subject is my lord’s love to me. And what do you think I call it? I dare swear you won’t guess—The Sillabub, ha, ha, ha.
BRISK. Because my lord’s title’s Froth, i’gad, ha, ha, ha, deuce take me, very à propos and surprising, ha, ha, ha.
LADY FROTH. He, ay, is not it? And then I call my lord Spumoso; and myself, what d’ye think I call myself?
BRISK. Lactilla, may be,—i’gad, I cannot tell.