LADY. Have you pulvilled the coachman and postillion, that they may not stink of the stable when Sir Rowland comes by? FOIB. Yes, madam. LADY. And are the dancers and the music ready, that he may be entertained in all points with correspondence to his passion? FOIB. All is ready, madam. LADY. And—well—and how do I look, Foible? FOIB. Most killing well, madam. LADY. Well, and how shall I receive him? In what figure shall I give his heart the first impression? There is a great deal in the first impression. Shall I sit? No, I won’t sit, I’ll walk,—ay, I’ll walk from the door upon his entrance, and then turn full upon him. No, that will be too sudden. I’ll lie,—ay, I’ll lie down. I’ll receive him in my little dressing-room; there’s a couch—yes, yes, I’ll give the first impression on a couch. I won’t lie neither, but loll and lean upon one elbow, with one foot a little dangling off, jogging in a thoughtful way. Yes; and then as soon as he appears, start, ay, start and be surprised, and rise to meet him in a pretty disorder. Yes; oh, nothing is more alluring than a levee from a couch in some confusion. It shows the foot to advantage, and furnishes with blushes and re-composing airs beyond comparison. Hark! There’s a coach. FOIB. ’Tis he, madam. LADY. Oh dear, has my nephew made his addresses to Millamant? I ordered him. FOIB. Sir Wilfull is set in to drinking, madam, in the parlour. LADY. Ods my life, I’ll send him to her. Call her down, Foible; bring her hither. I’ll send him as I go. When they are together, then come to me, Foible, that I may not be too long alone with Sir Rowland. SCENE II. MRS. MILLAMANT, MRS. FAINALL, FOIBLE. FOIB. Madam, I stayed here to tell your ladyship that Mr. Mirabell has waited this half hour for an opportunity to talk with you; though my lady’s orders were to leave you and Sir Wilfull together. Shall I tell Mr. Mirabell that you are at leisure? MILLA. No. What would the dear man have? I am thoughtful and would amuse myself; bid him come another time. There never yet was woman made, Nor shall, but to be cursed. [_Repeating and walking about_.] That’s hard! MRS. FAIN. You are very fond of Sir John Suckling to-day, Millamant, and the poets. MILLA. He? Ay, and filthy verses. So I am. FOIB. Sir Wilfull is coming, madam. Shall I send Mr. Mirabell away? MILLA. Ay, if you please, Foible, send him away, or send him hither, just as you will, dear Foible. I think I’ll see him. Shall I? Ay, let the wretch come. Thyrsis, a youth of the inspired train. [_Repeating_] Dear Fainall, entertain Sir Wilfull:—thou hast philosophy to undergo a fool; thou art married and hast patience. I would confer with my own thoughts. MRS. FAIN. I am obliged to you that you would make me your proxy in this affair, but I have business of my own.