Hussy, you shall have a rod.
MISS PRUE.
A fiddle of a rod! I'll have a husband. And if you won't get me one, I'll get one for myself. I'll marry our Robin the butler. He says he loves me, and he's a handsome man, and shall be my husband. I warrant he'll be my husband, and thank me too, for he told me so.
[134]: Congreve, The Way of the World.
But art thou sure Sir Rowland will not fail to come? Or will he not fail when he does come? Will he be importunate, Foible, and push? For if he should not be importunate—I shall never break decorum.—I shall die with confusion, if I am forced to advance.—Oh no, I can never advance. I shall swoon, if he should expect advances. No, I hope Sir Rowland is better bred than to put a lady to the necessity of breaking her forms. I won't be too coy neither—I won't give him despair.—But a little disdain is not amiss—a little scorn is alluring.
FOIBLE.
A little scorn becomes your Ladyship.
LADY WISHFORT.
Yes, but tenderness becomes me best—a sort of dyingness. You see that picture has a sort of a—ha, Foible?—a swimmingness in the eyes.—Yes, I'll look so.—My niece affects it. But she wants features.—Is Sir Rowland handsome? Let my toilet be removed.—I'll dress above. I'll receive Sir Rowland here.—Is he handsome? Don't answer me. I won't know. I'll be inspirated. I'll be taken by surprise....