[Enter Filch.]
FILCH. Madam, here's Miss Polly come to wait upon you.
LUCY. Show her in.
[Enter Polly.]
Dear Madam, your Servant.--I hope you will pardon my Passion, when I
was so happy to see you last.--I was so over-run with the Spleen,
that I was perfectly out of myself. And really when one hath the
Spleen, every thing is to be excus'd by a Friend.
AIR XLVII. Now Roger, I'll tell thee because thou 'rt my Son.
When a Wife's in her Pout,
(As she's sometimes, no doubt;)
The good Husband as meek as a Lamb,
Her Vapours to still,
First grants her her Will,
And the quieting Draught is a Dram. Poor Man!
And the quieting Draught is a Dram.
- I wish all our Quarrels might have so comfortable a Reconciliation.
POLLY. I have no Excuse for my own Behaviour, Madam, but my
Misfortunes.--And really, Madam, I suffer too upon your Account.
LUCY. But, Miss Polly--in the way of Friendship, will you give me
leave to propose a Glass of Cordial to you?
POLLY. Strong-Waters are apt to give me the Headache--I hope, Madam,
you will excuse me.
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