And here your--what-shall-I-call-her of a wife,
with all the insolence of youth and beauty on her side, follows me
with a glass, and would make me look in it, whether I will or not. I'm
a plaguy good-humoured old fellow--if I am an old fellow--or I should
not bear the insults contained in your letter. Between you and your
lady, you make a wretched figure of me, that's certain.--And yet 'tis
_taking my part_.
But what must I do?--I'd be glad at any rate to stand in your
lady's graces, that I would; nor would I be the last rake libertine
unreformed by her example, which I suppose will make virtue the
fashion, if she goes on as she does. But here I have been used to cut
a joke and toss the squib about; and, as far as I know, it has
helped to keep me alive in the midst of pains and aches, and with two
women-grown girls, and the rest of the mortifications that will attend
on _advanced years_; for I won't (hang me if I will) give it up as
absolute _old age!_
But now, it seems, I must leave all this off, or I must be mortified
with a looking glass held before me, and every wrinkle must be made
as conspicuous as a furrow--And what, pray, is to succeed to this
reformation?--I can neither fast nor pray, I doubt.
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