Oliv. Ay, her daughter; the very disgrace to good clothes, which she always wears but to heighten her deformity, not mend it: for she is still most splendidly, gallantly ugly, and looks like an ill piece of daubing in a rich frame.
Nov. So! But have you done with her, madam? and can you spare her to me a little now?
Oliv. Ay, ay, sir.
Nov. Then, she is like—
Oliv. She is, you'd say, like a city bride; the greater fortune, but not the greater beauty, for her dress.
Nov. Well: yet have you done, madam? Then she—
Oliv. Then she bestows as unfortunately on her face all the graces in fashion, as the languishing eye, the hanging or pouting lip. But as the fool is never more provoking than when he aims at wit, the ill-favoured of our sex are never more nauseous than when they would be beauties, adding to their natural deformity the artificial ugliness of affectation.
Eliza. So, cousin, I find one may have a collection of all one's acquaintance's pictures as well at your house as at Mr. Lely's.[101] Only the difference is, there we find 'em much handsomer than they are, and like; here much uglier, and like: and you are the first of the profession of picture-drawing I ever knew without flattery.
Oliv. I draw after the life; do nobody wrong, cousin.