_Arch_. O madam, 'tis poor Ovid in his exile. _Mrs. Sul_. What was he banished for? _Arch_. His ambitious love, madam.--[_Bowing_.] His misfortune touches me. _Mrs. Sul_. Was he successful in his amours? _Arch_. There he has left us in, the dark. He was too much a gentleman to tell. {331} _Mrs. Sul_. If he were secret, I pity him. _Arch_. And if he were successful, I envy him. _Mrs. Sul_. How d 'ye like that Venus over the chimney? _Arch_. Venus! I protest, madam, I took it for your picture; but now I look again, 'tis not handsome enough. _Mrs. Sul_. Oh, what a charm is flattery! If you would see my picture, there it is over that cabinet. How d' ye like it? {340} _Arch_. I must admire anything, madam, that has the least resemblance of you. But, methinks, madam --[_He looks at the picture and Mrs. Sullen three or four times, by turns_.] Pray, madam, who drew it? _Mrs. Sul_. A famous hand, sir. [_Here Aimwell and Dorinda go off_. _Arch_. A famous hand, madam!--Your eyes, indeed, are featured there; but where's the sparking moisture, shining fluid, in which they swim? The picture, indeed, has your dimples; but where's the swarm of killing Cupids that should ambush there? The lips too are figured out; but where's the carnation dew, the pouting ripeness that tempts the taste in the original? {353} _Mrs. Sul_. Had it been my lot to have matched with such a man! [_Aside_. _Arch_. Your breasts too--presumptuous man! what, paint Heaven!--Apropos, madam, in the very next picture is Salmoneus, that was struck dead with lightning, for offering to imitate Jove's thunder; I hope you served the painter so, madam? {360} _Mrs. Sul_. Had my eyes the power of thunder, they should employ their lightning better. _Arch_. There's the finest bed in that room, madam! I suppose 'tis your ladyship's bedchamber. _Mrs. Sul_. And what then, sir? _Arch_. I think the quilt is the richest that ever I saw. I can't at this distance, madam, distinguish the figures of the embroidery; will you give me leave, madam? {369} _Mrs. Sul_. [_Aside_.] The devil take his impudence!-- Sure, if I gave him an opportunity, he durst not offer it?--I have a great mind to try.--[_Going: Returns_.] 'Sdeath, what am I doing?--And alone, too!--Sister! sister! [_Runs out_. _Arch_. I 'll follow her close-- For where a Frenchman durst attempt to storm, A Briton sure may well the work perform. [_Going_. _Re-enter Scrub_. _Scrub_. Martin! brother Martin! {378} _Arch_. O brother Scrub, I beg your pardon, I was not a-going: here's a guinea my master ordered you. _Scrub_. A guinea! hi! hi! hi! a guinea! eh--by this light it is a guinea! But I suppose you expect one-and-twenty shillings in change? _Arch_. Not at all; I have another for Gipsy.