her name; the old fat fool that paints so exorbitantly.

BRISK. I know whom you mean--but deuce take me, I can't hit of her
name neither. Paints, d'ye say? Why, she lays it on with a trowel.
Then she has a great beard that bristles through it, and makes her
look as if she were plastered with lime and hair, let me perish.

LADY FROTH. Oh, you made a song upon her, Mr. Brisk.

BRISK. He! egad, so I did. My lord can sing it.

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.