Lady Teazle. Dear Sir Peter, how can you be angry at those little elegant expenses? Sir Peter. Had you any of those little elegant expenses when you married me? Lady Teazle. Very true, indeed; and after having married you, I should never pretend to taste again. Sir Peter. Very well, very well, madam; you have entirely forgot what your situation was when I first saw you. Lady Teazle. No, no, I have not; a very disagreeable situation it was, or I'm sure I never would have married you. Sir Peter. You forget the humble state I took you from —the daughter of a poor country 'squire. When I came to your father's, I found you sitting at your tambour, in a linen gown, a bunch of keys at your side, and your hair combed smoothly over a roll. Lady Teazle. Yes, I remember very well: my daily occupations were, to overlook the dairy, superintend the poultry, make extracts from the family K receipt-book, and comb my aunt Deborah's lap-dog. Sir Peter. Oh, I am glad to find you have so good a recollection. Lady Teazle. My evening's employments were, to draw patterns for ruffles, which I had not materials to make up; play at Pope Joan with the curate; read a sermon to my aunt Deborah; or perhaps be stuck up at an old spinnet, to thrum my father to sleep after a fox-chase. Sir Peter. Then you were glad to take a ride out behind the butler, upon the old docked coach-horse. Lady Teazle. No, no; I deny the butler and the coach horse. Sir Peter. I say you did. This was your situation. Now, madam, you must have your coach, visa-vis, and three powdered footmen to walk before your chair; and in summer two white cats to draw you to Kensington Gardens; and instead of your living in that hole in the country, I have brought you home here, made a woman of fortune of you, a woman of quality -in short, I have made you my wife. Lady Teazle. Well, and there is but one thing more you can now add to the obligation, and that is— Sir Peter. To make you my widow, I suppose. Hem! Lady Teazle. Sir Peter. Very well, madam, very well; I am much obliged to you for the hint. Lady Teazle. Why, then, will you force me to say shocking things to you? But now we have finished our morning conversation, I presume I may go to my engagements at Lady Sneerwell's. Sir Peter. Lady Sneerwell—a precious acquaintance you have made of her too, and the set that frequent her house. Such a set! Many a wretch who has been drawn upon a hurdle, has done less mischief than those barterers of forged lies, coiners of scandal, and clippers of reputation. Lady Teazle. How can you be so severe? I am sure they are all people of fashion, and very tenacious of reputation. Sir Peter. Yes, so tenacious of it, they'll not allow it to any but themselves. Lady Teazle. I vow, Sir Peter, when I say an ill-natured thing, I mean no harm by it, for I take it for granted they'd do the same by me. Sir Peter. They've made you as bad as any of them. Yes, I think I bear my part with a tolerable grace. Grace, indeed! Sir Peter. Lady Teazle. Well but, Sir Peter, you know you promised to come. Sir Peter. Well, I shall just call in to look after my own character. Lady Teazle. Then, upon my word, you must make haste after me, or you'll be too late. Sir Peter. [Exit Lady Teazle. I have got much by my intended expostulation. What a charming air she has! and how pleasantly she shows her contempt of my authority! Well, though I can't make her love me, 'tis some pleasure to tease her a little; and I think she never appears to such advantage, as when she is doing everything to vex and plague me. SHERIDAN. CLIX. PLEASURES. Pleasures are like poppies spread; BURNS. CLX. CHILDHOOD. The tear down childhood's cheek that flows, When next the summer breeze comes by, SCOTT. CLXI. HUMAN LIFE. Live while you live, the epicure would say, |