CYNT. O good, my lord, let's hear it.
BRISK. 'Tis not a song neither, it's a sort of an epigram, or
rather an epigrammatic sonnet; I don't know what to call it, but
it's satire. Sing it, my lord.
LORD FROTH sings.
Ancient Phyllis has young graces,
'Tis a strange thing, but a true one;
Shall I tell you how?
She herself makes her own faces,
And each morning wears a new one;
Where's the wonder now?
BRISK. Short, but there's salt in't; my way of writing, egad.
SCENE XI.
[To them] FOOTMAN.
LADY FROTH. How now?
FOOT. Your ladyship's chair is come.
LADY FROTH. Is nurse and the child in it?
FOOT. Yes, madam.
LADY FROTH. O the dear creature! Let's go see it.
LORD FROTH. I swear, my dear, you'll spoil that child, with sending
it to and again so often; this is the seventh time the chair has
gone for her to-day.
LADY FROTH. O law! I swear it's but the sixth--and I haven't seen
her these two hours. The poor creature--I swear, my lord, you don't
love poor little Sapho. Come, my dear Cynthia, Mr. Brisk, we'll go
see Sapho, though my lord won't.
CYNT. I'll wait upon your ladyship.
BRISK. Pray, madam, how old is Lady Sapho?
LADY FROTH.
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