Horn. Harcourt, Dorilant, look you here, this is the likeness of that dowdy he told us of, his wife; did you ever see a lovelier creature? The rogue has reason to be jealous of his wife, since she is like him, for she would make all that see her in love with her.
Har. And, as I remember now, she is as like him here as can be.
Dor. She is indeed very pretty, if she be like him.
Horn. Very pretty? a very pretty commendation!—she is a glorious creature, beautiful beyond all things I ever beheld.
Pinch. So, so.
Har. More beautiful than a poet's first mistress of imagination.
Horn. Or another man's last mistress of flesh and blood.
Mrs. Pinch. Nay, now you jeer, sir; pray don't jeer me.
Pinch. Come, come.—[Aside.] By Heavens, she'll discover herself!
Horn. I speak of your sister, sir.