TRIP. Not a bit. (_Woffington stretches._) You must not yawn, ma'am--you must not yawn just now! WOFF. Oh, yes, I must, if you will be so stupid. TRIP. I was just about to catch the turn of the lip. WOFF. Well, catch it, it won't run away. TRIP. A pleasant half-hour it will be for me, when all your friends come here, like cits at a shilling ordinary, each for his cut. Head a little more that way. (_Sadly_) I suppose you can't sit quiet, Madam; then never mind. Look on this picture and on that! WOFF. Meaning, that I am painted as well as my picture. TRIP. Oh, no, no, no! but to turn from your face, on which the lightning of expression plays continually, to this stony, detestable, dead daub: I could--(_seizes palette-knife_)--miserable mockery! vile caricature of life and beauty! take that! (_dashes the knife through picture._) WOFF. Oh! right through my pet dimple! Hark! I hear the sound of coaches--the hour of critique approaches! TRIP. Two coach loads of criticism, and the picture ruined! WOFF. (_reflecting_). I'll give you a lesson--your palette-knife (_cuts away face of the picture_). TRIP. There will be Mr. Cibber with his sneering snuff-box; Mr. Quin with his humourous bludgeon; Mrs. Clive with her tongue; Mr. Snarl with his abuse; and Mr. Soaper with his praise!--but I deserve it all! WOFF. That green baize--(_gets behind easel_)--fling it over the easel--so; and now (_shewing her face through the picture_) you shall criticise criticism, and learn the true weight of goose's feathers. (_Triplet throws the baize over the picture._) [_Enter Cibber, Clive, Quin, Snarl, and Soaper. Triplet bows humbly. They return his salute carelessly._] CIB. Ough! Four pair of stairs! QUIN. Well, where's the picture? (_crossing to R. H. with Clive._) (_They take up positions to look at it._) TRIP. Mrs. Woffington, gentlemen! (_Triplet removes the baize and suppresses a start._) SOAP. Ah! SNARL. Umph! QUIN. Ho! CLIVE. Eh? CIB. Ah! QUIN. Whose portrait did you say? CLIVE. He, he! Peg Woffington's--it's a pretty head enough, and not a bit like Woffington. QUIN. Nay--compare paint with paint, Kitty--who ever saw Woffington's real face? SOAP. Now, I call it beautiful; so smooth, polished, and uniform. SNARL. Whereas nature delights in irregular and finely graduated surfaces. Your brush is not destitute of a certain crude talent, Mr. Triplet, but you are deficient in the great principles of Art; the first of which is a loyal adherence to truth; beauty itself is but one of the forms of truth, and nature is our finite exponent of infinite truth. SOAP. What wonderful criticism! One quite loses oneself among such grand words! CIB. Yes, yes! proceed Mr. Snarl. I am of your mind. SNARL. Now in nature, a woman's face at this distance, has a softness of outline--(_draws back and makes a lorgnette of his two hands, the others do the same_), whereas your work is hard and tea-boardy.