Chapter V: Part 5

We once again, you see, are Man and Wife,
And now, perhaps, the Bargain's struck for Life:
If I mistake, and we shou'd part again.
At least you see you may have choice of Men:
Nay, shou'd the War at length such Havock make,
That Lovers shou'd grow scarce, yet for your sake,
Kind Heaven always will preserve a Beau--

_Pointing to_ Lord Fop.] You'll find his Lordship ready to come to. }
}
_Lord Fop._ Her Ladyship shall stap my Vitals, if I do. }

EPILOGUE,

Spoken by

Lord =Foppington=.

Gentlemen and Ladies,

_These People have regal'd you here to-day
(In my Opinion) with a saucy Play;
In which the Author does presume to shew,
That Coxcomb,_ ab Origine--_was Beau.
Truly I think the thing of so much weight, }
That if some sharp Chastisement ben't his Fate, }
Gad's Curse, it may in time destroy the State. }
I hold no one its Friend, I must confess,
Who wou'd discauntenance you Men of Dress.
Far, give me leave t'abserve, good Clothes are Things
Have ever been of great Support to Kings:
All Treasons come fram Slovens; it is nat
Within the reach of Gentle Beaux to plat;
They have no Gall; no Spleen, no Teeth, no Stings,
Of all Gad's Creatures, the most harmless Things.
Thro' all Recard, no Prince was ever slain
By one who had a Feather in his Brain,
They're Men of too refin'd an Education,
To squabble with a Court--for a vile dirty Nation.
I'm very pasitive, you never saw
A tho'ro' Republican a finish'd Beau.
Nor truly shall you very often see
A ~Jacobite~ much better drest than he:
In short, thro' all the Courts that I have been in,
Your Men of Mischief--still are in faul Linen.
Did ever one yet dance the ~Tyburn~ Jigg,
With a free Air, or a well pawder'd Wig?
Did ever Highway-man yet bid you stand,
With a sweet bawdy Snuff-Box in his Hand?
Ar do you ever find they ask your Purse
As Men of Breeding do?----Ladies, Gad's Curse,
This Author is a Dag, and 'tis not fit
You shou'd allow him e'en one Grain of Wit:
To which, that his Pretence may ne'er be nam'd,
My humble Motion is----he may be damn'd._

THE

PROVOK'D WIFE.

A

COMEDY.

PROLOGUE.

Spoken by Mrs. _Bracegirdle_.

_Since 'tis th' Intent and Business of the Stage,
To copy out the Follies of the Age;
To hold to every Man a faithful Glass,
And shew him of what Species he's an Ass:
I hope the next that teaches in the School,
Will shew our Author he's a scribbling Fool.
And that the Satire may be sure to bite, }
Kind Heav'n! inspire some venom'd Priest to write, }
And grant some ugly Lady may indite. }
For I wou'd have him lash'd, by Heavens! I wou'd,
Till his Presumption swam away in Blood.
Three Plays at once proclaim a Face of Brass, }
No matter what they are; That's not the Case-- }
To write three Plays, e'en that's to be an Ass. }
But what I least forgive, he knows it too,
For to his Cost he lately has known you--
Experience shews, to many a Writer's Smart,
You hold a Court where Mercy ne'er had part;
So much of the old Serpent's Sting you have,
You love to Damn, as Heaven delights to Save.
In foreign Parts, let a bold Volunteer, }
For Public Good, upon the Stage appear, }
He meets ten thousand Smiles to dissipate his Fear. }
All tickle on th' adventuring young Beginner,
And only scourge th' incorrigible Sinner;
They touch indeed his Faults, but with a Hand
So gentle, that his Merit still may stand;
Kindly they buoy the Follies of his Pen,
That he may shun 'em when he writes again.
But 'tis not so in this good-natur'd Town, }
All's one, an Ox, a Poet, or a Crown; }
Old ~England~'s Play was always knocking down._ }

Dramatis Personæ.

MEN.

_Constant_, Mr. _Verbruggen_.
_Heartfree_, Mr. _Hudson_.
Sir _John Brute_, Mr. _Betterton_.
_Treble_, a Singing-Master, Mr. _Bowman_.
_Rasor_, Valet de Chambre to Sir _John Brute_, Mr. _Bowen_.
Justice of the Peace, Mr. _Bright_.
Lord _Rake_, } Companions to
Col. _Bully_, } Sir _John Brute_.
Constable _and_ Watch.

WOMEN.

Lady _Brute_, Mrs. _Barry_.
_Belinda_, her Niece, Mrs. _Bracegirdle_.
Lady _Fancyfull_, Mrs. _Bowman_.
_Madamoiselle_, Mrs. _Willis_.
_Cornet_ and _Pipe_, Servants to Lady _Fancyfull_.

THE
PROVOK'D WIFE.

+ACT+ I. +SCENE+ I.

+SCENE+, _Sir ~John Brute~'s House_.

_Enter Sir ~John~, solus._

What cloying Meat is Love--when Matrimony's the Sauce to it! Two Years Marriage has debauch'd my five Senses. Every thing I see, every thing I hear, every thing I feel, every thing I smell, and every thing I taste--methinks has Wife in't. No Boy was ever so weary of his Tutor, no Girl of her Bib, no Nun of doing Penance, or old Maid of being chaste, as I am of being married. Sure there's a secret Curse entail'd upon the very Name of Wife. My Lady is a young Lady, a fine Lady, a witty Lady, a virtuous Lady,--and yet I hate her. There is but one thing on Earth I loath beyond her: That's Fighting. Would my Courage come up to a fourth part of my Ill-Nature, I'd stand buff to her Relations, and thrust her out of doors. But Marriage has sunk me down to such an Ebb of Resolution, I dare not draw my Sword, tho' even to get rid of my Wife. But here she comes.

_Enter ~Lady Brute~._

_Lady Brute._ Do you dine at home to-day, Sir _John_?

_Sir John._ Why, do you expect I should tell you what I don't know myself?

_Lady Brute._ I thought there was no harm in asking you.

_Sir John._ If thinking wrong were an excuse for Impertinence, Women might be justify'd in most things they say or do.

_Lady Brute._ I'm sorry I have said any thing to displease you.

_Sir John._ Sorrow for things past is of as little importance to me, as my dining at home or abroad ought to be to you.

_Lady Brute._ My Enquiry was only that I might have provided what you lik'd.

_Sir John._ Six to four you had been in the wrong there again; for what I lik'd yesterday I don't like to-day; and what I like to-day, 'tis odds I mayn't like to-morrow.

_Lady Brute._ But if I had ask'd you what you lik'd?

_Sir John._ Why then there wou'd have been more asking about it than the thing was worth.

_Lady Brute._ I wish I did but know how I might please you.

_Sir John._ Ay, but that sort of Knowledge is not a Wife's Talent.

_Lady Brute._ Whate'er my Talent is, I'm sure my Will has ever been to make you easy.

_Sir John._ If Women were to have their Wills, the World wou'd be finely govern'd.

_Lady Brute._ What reason have I given you to use me as you do of late? It once was otherwise: You marry'd me for Love.

_Sir John._ And you me for Money: So you have your Reward, and I have mine.

_Lady Brute._ What is it that disturbs you?

_Sir John._ A Parson.

_Lady Brute._ Why, what has he done to you?

_Sir John._ He has married me.

[_Exit Sir ~John~._

_Lady ~Brute~ sola._

The Devil's in the Fellow, I think----I was told before I married him, that thus 'twou'd be: But I thought I had Charms enough to govern him; and that where there was an Estate, a Woman must needs be happy; so my Vanity has deceiv'd me, and my Ambition has made me uneasy. But there's some Comfort still; if one wou'd be reveng'd of him, these are good times; a Woman may have a Gallant, and a separate Maintenance too--The surly Puppy--yet he's a Fool for't: for hitherto he has been no Monster: But who knows how far he may provoke me? I never lov'd him, yet I have been ever true to him; and that, in spite of all the Attacks of Art and Nature upon a poor weak Woman's Heart, in favour of a tempting Lover. Methinks so noble a Defence as I have made, shou'd be rewarded with a better Usage--Or who can tell?----Perhaps a good part of what I suffer from my Husband, may be a Judgment upon me for my Cruelty to my Lover.----Lord, with what pleasure could I indulge that Thought, were there but a Possibility of finding Arguments to make it good!----And how do I know but there may?--Let me see----What opposes?--My matrimonial Vow----Why, what did I vow? I think I promis'd to be true to my Husband. Well; and he promis'd to be kind to me. But he han't kept his Word----Why then I'm absolv'd from mine--Ay, that seems clear to me. The Argument's good between the King and the People, why not between the Husband and the Wife? O, but that Condition was not exprest--No matter, 'twas understood. Well, by all I see, if I argue the matter a little longer with myself, I shan't find so many Bug-bears in the Way as I thought I shou'd. Lord, what fine Notions of Virtue do we Women take up upon the Credit of old foolish Philosophers! Virtue's its own Reward, Virtue's this, Virtue's that----Virtue's an Ass, and a Gallant's worth forty on't.

_Enter ~Belinda~._

_Lady Brute._ Good-morrow, dear Cousin.

_Bel._ Good-morrow, Madam; you look pleas'd this Morning.

_Lady Brute._ I am so.

_Bel._ With what, pray?

_Lady Brute._ With my Husband.

_Bel._ Drown Husbands; for your's is a provoking Fellow: As he went out just now, I pray'd him to tell me what time of Day 'twas; and he ask'd me if I took him for the Church-Clock, that was oblig'd to tell all the Parish.

_Lady Brute._ He has been saying some good obliging things to me too. In short, _Belinda_, he has us'd me so barbarously of late, that I cou'd almost resolve to play the downright Wife--and cuckold him.

_Bel._ That would be downright indeed.

_Lady Brute._ Why, after all, there's more to be said for't than you'd imagine, Child. I know, according to the strict Statute-Law of Religion, I shou'd do wrong: But if there were a Court of Chancery in Heav'n, I'm sure I shou'd cast him.

_Bel._ If there were a House of Lords, you might.

_Lady Brute._ In either I should infallibly carry my Cause. Why, he is the first Aggressor, not I.

_Bel._ Ay, but you know we must return Good for Evil.

_Lady Brute._ That may be a Mistake in the Translation--Pr'ythee be of my Opinion, _Belinda_; for I'm positive I'm in the right; and if you'll keep up the Prerogative of a Woman, you'll likewise be positive you are in the right, whenever you do any thing you have a mind to. But I shall play the Fool, and jest on, till I make you begin to think I'm in earnest.

_Bel._ I shan't take the Liberty, Madam, to think of any thing that you desire to keep a Secret from me.

_Lady Brute._ Alas, my Dear, I have no Secrets. My Heart cou'd never yet confine my Tongue.

_Bel._ Your Eyes, you mean; for I'm sure I have seen them gadding, when your Tongue has been lock'd up safe enough.

_Lady Brute._ My Eyes gadding! Pr'ythee after who, Child?

_Bel._ Why, after one that thinks you hate him, as much as I know you love him.

_Lady Brute._ _Constant_ you mean.

_Bel._ I do so.

_Lady Brute._ Lord, what shou'd put such a thing into your Head?

_Bel._ That which puts things into most People's Heads, Observation.

_Lady Brute._ Why what have you observ'd, in the Name of Wonder?

_Bel._ I have observed you blush when you met him; force yourself away from him; and then be out of humour with every thing about you: In a Word, never was poor Creature so spurr'd on by Desire, and so rein'd in with Fear.

_Lady Brute._ How strong is Fancy!

_Bel._ How weak is Woman!

_Lady Brute._ Pr'ythee, Niece, have a better Opinion of your Aunt's Inclination.

_Bel._ Dear Aunt, have a better Opinion of your Niece's Understanding.

_Lady Brute._ You'll make me angry.

_Bel._ You'll make me laugh.

_Lady Brute._ Then you are resolv'd to persist?

_Bel._ Positively.

_Lady Brute._ And all I can say----

_Bel._ Will signify nothing.

_Lady Brute._ Tho' I should swear 'twere false--

_Bel._ I should think it true.

_Lady Brute._ Then let us both forgive; [_Kissing her._] for we have both offended: I, in making a Secret; you, in discovering it.

_Bel._ Good Nature may do much: But you have more Reason to forgive one, than I have to pardon t'other.

_Lady Brute._ 'Tis true, _Belinda_, you have given me so many Proofs of your Friendship, that my Reserve has been indeed a Crime: But that you may more easily forgive me, remember, Child, that when our Nature prompts us to a thing our Honour and Religion have forbid us; we wou'd (wer't possible) conceal even from the Soul itself, the Knowledge of the Body's Weakness.

_Bel._ Well, I hope, to make your Friend amends, you'll hide nothing from her for the future, tho' the Body shou'd still grow weaker and weaker.

_Lady Brute._ No, from this Moment I have no more Reserve; and for a Proof of my Repentance, I own, _Belinda_, I'm in danger. Merit and Wit assault me from without; Nature and Love sollicit me within; my Husband's barbarous Usage piques me to Revenge; and _Satan_, catching at the fair Occasion, throws in my way that Vengeance, which of all Vengeance pleases Women best.

_Bel._ 'Tis well _Constant_ don't know the Weakness of the Fortification; for o' my Conscience he'd soon come on to the Assault.

_Lady Brute._ Ay, and I'm afraid carry the Town too. But whatever you may have observ'd, I have dissembled so well as to keep him ignorant. So you see I'm no Coquette, _Belinda_: And if you follow my Advice, you'll never be one neither. 'Tis true, Coquetry is one of the main Ingredients in the natural Composition of a Woman; and I, as well as others, cou'd be well enough pleas'd to see a Crowd of young Fellows ogling, and glancing, and watching all Occasions to do forty foolish officious Things: Nay, shou'd some of 'em push on, even to hanging or drowning, why--'faith--if I shou'd let pure Woman alone, I shou'd e'en be but too well pleas'd with it.

_Bel._ I'll swear 'twould tickle me strangely.

_Lady Brute._ But after all, 'tis a vicious Practice in us, to give the least Encouragement but where we design to come to a Conclusion. For 'tis an unreasonable thing to engage a Man in a Disease, which we beforehand resolve we never will apply a Cure to.

_Bel._ 'Tis true; but then a Woman must abandon one of the supreme Blessings of her Life. For I am fully convinc'd, no Man has half that Pleasure in possessing a Mistress, as a Woman has in jilting a Gallant.

_Lady Brute._ The happiest Woman then on Earth must be our Neighbour.

_Bel._ O the impertinent Composition! She has Vanity and Affectation enough to make her a ridiculous Original, in spite of all that Art and Nature ever furnish'd to any of her Sex before her.

_Lady Brute._ She concludes all Men her Captives; and whatever Course they take, it serves to confirm her in that Opinion.

_Bel._ If they shun her, she thinks 'tis Modesty, and takes it for a Proof of their Passion.

_Lady Brute._ And if they are rude to her, 'tis Conduct, and done to prevent Town-talk.

_Bel._ When her Folly makes 'em laugh; she thinks they are pleased with her Wit.

_Lady Brute._ And when her Impertinence makes 'em dull, concludes they are jealous of her Favours.

_Bel._ All their Actions and their Words, she takes for granted, aim at her.

_Lady Brute._ And pities all other Women, because she thinks they envy her.

_Bel._ Pray, out of pity to ourselves, let us find a better Subject; for I'm weary of this. Do you think your Husband inclined to Jealousy?

_Lady Brute._ O, no; he does not love me well enough for that. Lord, how wrong Men's Maxims are! They are seldom jealous of their Wives, unless they are very fond of 'em; whereas they ought to consider the Women's Inclinations; for there depends their Fate. Well, Men may talk; But they are not so wise as we----that's certain.

_Bel._ At least in our Affairs.

_Lady Brute._ Nay, I believe we shou'd out-do 'em in the Business of the State too: For, methinks, they do and undo, and make but bad Work on't.

_Bel._ Why then don't we get into the Intrigues of Government as well as they?

_Lady Brute._ Because we have Intrigues of our own, that make us more Sport, Child. And so let's in and consider of 'em.

[_Exeunt._

+SCENE+, _A Dressing-Room_.

_Enter Lady ~Fancyfull~, ~Madamoiselle~, and ~Cornet~._

_Lady Fan._ How do I look this Morning?

_Cor._ Your Ladyship looks very ill, truly.

_Lady Fan._ Lard, how ill-natur'd thou art, _Cornet_, to tell me so, tho' the thing shou'd be true! Don't you know that I have Humility enough to be but too easily out of Conceit with myself? Hold the Glass; I dare swear that will have more Manners than you have. _Madamoiselle_, let me have your Opinion too.

_Madam._ My opinion pe, Matam, dat your Latyship never look so well in your Life.

_Lady Fan._ Well, the _French_ are the prettiest, obliging People; they say the most acceptable, well-manner'd things--and never flatter.

_Madam._ Your Latyship say great Justice inteed.

_Lady Fan._ Nay, every thing's just in my House but _Cornet_. The very Looking-Glass gives her the _Dementi_. But I'm almost afraid it flatters me, it makes me look so very engaging.

[_Looking affectedly in the Glass._

_Madam._ Inteed, Matam, your face pe handsomer den all de Looking-Glass in de World, _croyez moy_.

_Lady Fan._ But is it possible my Eyes can be so languishing--and so very full of Fire?

_Madam._ Matam, if de Glass was Burning-Glass, I believe your Eyes set de Fire in de House.

_Lady Fan._ You may take that Night-gown, _Madamoiselle_; get out of the Room, _Cornet_; I can't endure you. This Wench, methinks, does look so unsufferably ugly.

_Madam._ Every ting look ugly, Matam, dat stand by your Latyship.

_Lady Fan._ No really, _Madamoiselle_, methinks you look mighty pretty.

_Madam._ Ah Matam! de Moon have no Eclat ven de Sun appear.

_Lady Fan._ O pretty Expression! Have you ever been in Love, _Madamoiselle_?

Madam. _Ouy_, Matame.

[_Sighing._

_Lady Fan._ And were you belov'd again?

Madam. _Non_, Matame.

_Lady Fan._ O ye Gods! What an unfortunate Creature shou'd I be in such a Case! But Nature has made me nice, for my own Defence: I'm nice, strangely nice, _Madamoiselle_; I believe were the Merit of whole Mankind bestow'd upon one single Person, I shou'd still think the Fellow wanted something to make it worth my while to take notice of him; and yet I could love; nay, fondly love, were it possible to have a thing made on purpose for me: For I'm not cruel, _Madamoiselle_; I'm only nice.

_Madam._ Ah Matam, I wish I was fine Gentleman for your sake. I do all de ting in de World to get leetel way into your Heart. I make Song, I make Verse, I give you de Serenade, I give great many Present to _Madamoiselle_; I no eat, I no sleep, I be lean, I be mad, I hang myself, I drown myself. _Ah ma chere Dame, que je vous aimerois!_

[_Embracing her._

_Lady Fan._ Well, the _French_ have strange obliging ways with 'em; you may take those two pair of Gloves, _Madamoiselle_.

_Madam._ Me humbly tanke my sweet Lady.

_Enter ~Cornet~._

_Cor._ Madam, here's a Letter for your Ladyship by the Penny Post.

_Lady Fan._ Some new Conquest, I'll warrant you. For without Vanity, I look'd extremely clear last Night when I went to the Park.--O agreeable! Here's a new Song made of me: And ready set too. O thou welcome thing! [_Kissing it._] Call _Pipe_ hither, she shall sing it instantly.

_Enter ~Pipe~._

Here, sing me this new Song, _Pipe_.

SONG.

I.

_Fly, fly, you happy Shepherds, fly;
Avoid ~Philira~'s Charms;
The Rigour of her Heart denies
The Heaven that's in her Arms.
Ne'er hope to gaze, and then retire,
Nor yielding, to be blest;
Nature, who form'd her Eyes of Fire,
Of Ice compos'd her Breast._

II.

_Yet, lovely Maid, this once believe
A Slave whose Zeal you move;
The Gods, alas! your Youth deceive,
Their Heav'n consists in Love.
In spite of all the Thanks you owe,
You may reproach 'em this;
That where they did their Form bestow,
They have deny'd their Bliss._

_Lady Fan._ Well, there may be Faults, _Madamoiselle_, but the Design is so very obliging, 'twou'd be a matchless Ingratitude in me to discover 'em.

Madam. _Ma foy, Madame_, I tink de Gentleman's Song tell you de Trute. If you never love, you never be happy--Ah--_que l'aime l'amour moy_!

_Enter Servant with another Letter._

_Ser._ Madam, here's another Letter for your Ladyship.

_Lady Fan._ 'Tis this way I am importun'd every Morning, _Madamoiselle_. Pray how do the _French_ Ladies when they are thus _accablées_?

_Madam._ Matam, dey never complain. _Au contraire_, when one _Frense_ Laty have got hundred Lover--den she do all she can--to get a hundred more.

_Lady Fan._ Well, strike me dead, I think they have _le Gout bon_. For 'tis an unutterable Pleasure to be ador'd by all the Men, and envy'd by all the Women----Yet I'll swear I'm concern'd at the Torture I give 'em. Lard, why was I form'd to make the whole Creation uneasy! But let me read my Letter. [_Reads._]

"If you have a mind to hear of your Faults, instead of being
prais'd for your Virtues, take the pains to walk in the Green-walk
in St. _James_'s with your Woman an Hour hence. You'll there
meet one, who hates you for some things, as he cou'd love
you for others, and therefore is willing to endeavour your
Reformation.----If you come to the Place I mention, you'll know who
I am: If you don't, you never shall: so take your Choice."

This is strangely familiar, _Madamoiselle_; now have I a provoking Fancy to know who this impudent Fellow is.

_Madam._ Den take your Scarf and your Mask, and go to de Rendezvous. De _Frense_ Laty do _justement comme ça_.

_Lady Fan._ Rendezvous! What, rendezvous with a Man, _Madamoiselle_!

Madam. _Eh, pourquoy non?_

_Lady Fan._ What, and a Man perhaps I never saw in my Life?

Madam. _Tant mieux: c'est donc quelque chose de nouveau._

_Lady Fan._ Why, how do I know what Designs he may have? He may intend to ravish me, for aught I know.

_Madam._ Ravish!--_Bagatelle_. I would fain see one impudent Rogue ravish _Madamoiselle: Ouy, je le voudrois_.

_Lady Fan._.O, but my Reputation, _Madamoiselle!_ my Reputation! _Ah ma chere Reputation!_

Madam. _Madame--Quand on la une fois perdue--On n'en est plus embarassée._

_Lady Fan._ Fe, _Madamoiselle_, Fe! Reputation is a Jewel.

Madam. _Qui coute bien chere, Madame._

_Lady Fan._ Why sure you would not sacrifice your Honour to your Pleasure?

Madam. _Je suis Philosophe._

_Lady Fan._ Bless me, how you talk! Why, what if Honour be a Burden, _Madamoiselle_, must it not be borne?

Madam. _Chaqu'un a sa façon--Quand quelque chose m'incommode moy--je m'en defais vite._

_Lady Fan._ Get you gone, you little naughty _French-woman_, you; I vow and swear I must turn you out of doors, if you talk thus.

_Madam._ Turn me out of doors!----Turn yourself out of doors, and go see what de Gentleman have to say to you--_Tenez_. _Voila_ [Giving her her things hastily.] _vostre Esharpe_, _voila vostre Quoife_, _voila vostre Masque_, _voila tout_. _Hey_, _Mercure_, _Coquin_: Call one Chair for Matam, and one oder [_Calling within._] for me: _Va t'en vite_. [Turning to her Lady, and helping her on hastily with her things.] _Allons, Madame, depechez vous donc. Mon Dieu, quelles Scrupules!_

_Lady Fan._ Well, for once, _Madamoiselle_, I'll follow your Advice, out of the intemperate Desire I have to know who this ill-bred Fellow is. But I have too much _Delicatesse_, to make a Practice on't.

Madam. _Belle chose vrayment que la Delicatesse, lors qu'il s'agit de se devertir--à ça--Vous voila equipés, partons.--He bien!--qu'avez vous donc?_

Lady Fan. _J'ay peur._

Madam. _Je n'en ay point moy._

_Lady Fan._ I dare not go.

Madam. _Demeurez donc._

Lady Fan. _Je suis poltrone._

Madam. _Tant pis pour vous._

_Lady Fan._ Curiosity's a wicked Devil.

Madam. _C'est une charmante Sainte._

_Lady Fan._ It ruined our first Parents.

Madam. _Elle a bien diverti leurs Enfans._

Lady Fan. _L'Honneur est contre._

Madam. _La Plaisir est pour._

_Lady Fan._ Must I then go?

_Madam._ Must you go?--Must you eat, must you drink, must you sleep, must you live? De Nature bid you do one, de Nature bid you do toder. _Vous me ferez enrager._

_Lady Fan._ But when Reason corrects Nature, _Madamoiselle_----

Madam. _Elle est donc bien insolente, c'est sa Sœur aisnée._

_Lady Fan._ Do you then prefer your Nature to your Reason, _Madamoiselle_?

Madam. _Ouy da._

Lady Fan. _Pourquoy?_

_Madam._ Because my Nature make me merry, my Reason make me mad.

Lady Fan. _Ah la mechante Françoise!_

Madam. _Ah la belle Angloise!_

[_Forcing her Lady off._

+ACT+ II.

+SCENE+, _St. ~James~'s Park_.

_Enter Lady ~Fancyfull and Madamoiselle~._

_Lady Fan._ Well, I vow, _Madamoiselle_, I'm strangely impatient to know who this confident Fellow is.

_Enter ~Heartfree~._

Look, there's _Heartfree_. But sure it can't be him; he's a profess'd Woman-hater. Yet who knows what my wicked Eyes may have done?

Madam. _Il nous approche, Madame._

_Lady Fan._ Yes, 'tis he: now will he be most intolerably cavalier, tho' he should be in love with me.

_Heart._ Madam, I'm your humble Servant; I perceive you have more Humility and Good-Nature than I thought you had.

_Lady Fan._ What you attribute to Humility and Good-Nature, Sir, may perhaps be only due to Curiosity. I had a mind to know who 'twas had ill manners enough to write that Letter.

[_Throwing him his Letter._

_Heart._ Well, and now I hope you are satisfy'd.

_Lady Fan._ I am so, Sir: Good by t'ye.

_Heart._ Nay, hold there; tho' you have done your Business, I han't done mine: By your Ladyship's leave, we must have one Moment's Prattle together. Have you a mind to be the prettiest Woman about Town, or not? How she stares upon me! What! this passes for an impertinent Question with you now, because you think you are so already?

_Lady Fan._ Pray, Sir, let me ask you a Question in my Turn: By what Right do you pretend to examine me?

_Heart._ By the same Right that the strong govern the weak, because I have you in my power; for you cannot get so quickly to your Coach, but I shall have time enough to make you hear every thing I have to say to you.

_Lady Fan._ These are strange Liberties you take, Mr. _Heartfree_.

_Heart._ They are so, Madam, but there's no help for it; for know that I have a Design upon you.

_Lady Fan._ Upon me, Sir!

_Heart._ Yes; and one that will turn to your Glory, and my Comfort, if you will but be a little wiser than you use to be.

_Lady Fan._ Very well, Sir.

_Heart._ Let me see----Your Vanity, Madam, I take to be about some eight Degrees higher than any Woman's in the Town, let t'other be who she will; and my Indifference is naturally about the same Pitch. Now, could you find the way to turn this Indifference into Fire and Flames, methinks your Vanity ought to be satisfy'd; and this, perhaps, you might bring about upon pretty reasonable Terms.

_Lady Fan._ And pray at what rate would this Indifference be bought off, if one shou'd have so depraved an Appetite to desire it?

_Heart._ Why, Madam, to drive a Quaker's Bargain, and make but one word with you, if I do part with it--you must lay me down--your Affectation.

_Lady Fan._ My Affectation, Sir!

_Heart._ Why, I ask you nothing but what you may very well spare.

_Lady Fan._ You grow rude, Sir. Come, _Madamoiselle_, 'tis high time to be gone.

Madam. _Allons, allons, allons._

_Heart._ [_Stopping them._] Nay, you may as well stand still; for hear me you shall, walk which way you please.

_Lady Fan._ What mean you, Sir?

_Heart._ I mean to tell you, that you are the most ungrateful Woman upon Earth.

_Lady Fan._ Ungrateful! To whom?

_Heart._ To Nature.

_Lady Fan._ Why, what has Nature done for me?

_Heart._ What you have undone by Art! It made you handsome; it gave you Beauty to a Miracle, a Shape without a Fault, Wit enough to make them relish, and so turn'd you loose to your own Discretion; which has made such work with you, that you are become the Pity of our Sex, and the Jest of your own. There is not a Feature in your Face, but you have found the way to teach it some affected Convulsion; your Feet, your Hands, your very Fingers Ends are directed never to move without some ridiculous Air or other; and your Language is a suitable Trumpet, to draw people's Eyes upon the Raree-show.

_Madam._ [aside] _Est ce qu'on fait l'amour en Angleterre comme ça?_

_Lady Fan._ [_Aside._] Now cou'd I cry for Madness, but that I know he'd laugh at me for it.

_Heart._ Now do you hate me for telling you the Truth, but that's because you don't believe it is so; for were you once convinc'd of that, you'd reform for your own sake. But 'tis as hard to persuade a Woman to quit any thing that makes her ridiculous, as 'tis to prevail with a Poet to see a Fault in his own Play.

_Lady Fan._ Every Circumstance of nice Breeding must needs appear ridiculous to one who has so natural an Antipathy to Good-manners.

_Heart._ But suppose I could find the means to convince you, that the whole World is of my Opinion, and that those who flatter and commend you, do it to no other Intent, but to make you persevere in your Folly, that they may continue in their Mirth.

_Lady Fan._ Sir, tho' you and all that World you talk of shou'd be so impertinently officious, as to think to persuade me I don't know how to behave myself; I shou'd still have Charity enough for my own Understanding, to believe myself in the right, and all you in the wrong.

Madam. _Le voila mort._

[_Exeunt Lady ~Fancyfull~ and ~Madamoiselle~._

_Heart._ [_Gazing after her._] There her single Clapper has publish'd the Sense of the whole Sex. Well, this once I have endeavour'd to wash the Blackamoor white, but henceforward I'll sooner undertake to teach Sincerity to a Courtier, Generosity to an Usurer, Honesty to a Lawyer, nay, Humility to a Divine, than Discretion to a Woman I see has once set her Heart upon playing the Fool.

_Enter ~Constant~._

'Morrow, _Constant_.

_Const._ Good-morrow, _Jack_! What are you doing here this Morning?

_Heart._ Doing! Guess, if thou canst.----Why I have been endeavouring to persuade my Lady _Fancyfull_, that she's the foolishest Woman about Town.

_Const._ A pretty Endeavour, truly!

_Heart._ I have told her in as plain _English_ as I could speak, both what the Town says of her, and what I think of her. In short, I have us'd her as an absolute King would do _Magna Charta_.

_Const._ And how does she take it?

_Heart._ As Children do Pills; bite them, but can't swallow them.

_Const._ But, pr'ythee, what has put it into your Head, of all Mankind, to turn Reformer?

_Heart._ Why one thing was, the Morning hung upon my Hands, I did not know what to do with myself; and another was, that as little as I care for Women, I cou'd not see with Patience one that Heaven had taken such wondrous Pains about, be so very industrious to make herself the Jack-pudding of the Creation.

_Const._ Well, now could I almost wish to see my cruel Mistress make the self-same Use of what Heaven has done for her, that so I might be cur'd of a Disease that makes me so very uneasy; for Love, Love is the Devil, _Heartfree_.

_Heart._ And why do you let the Devil govern you?

_Const._ Because I have more Flesh and Blood than Grace and Self-denial. My dear, dear Mistress! 'S death! that so genteel a Woman should be a Saint, when Religion's out of Fashion!

_Heart._ Nay, she's much in the wrong, truly; but who knows how far Time and good Example may prevail?

_Const._ O! they have play'd their Parts in vain already: 'Tis now two Years since that damned Fellow her Husband invited me to his Wedding; and there was the first time I saw that charming Woman, whom I have lov'd ever since, more than e'er a Martyr did his Soul; but she is cold, my Friend, still cold as the Northern Star.

_Heart._ So are all Women by Nature, which makes them so willing to be warm'd.

_Const._ O don't prophane the Sex! Pr'ythee, think them all Angels for her sake; for she's virtuous even to a Fault.

_Heart._ A Lover's Head is a good accountable Thing truly; he adores his Mistress for being virtuous, and yet is very angry with her because she won't be lewd.

_Const._ Well, the only Relief I expect in my Misery, is to see thee some Day or other as deeply engag'd as myself, which will force me to be merry in the midst of all my Misfortunes.

_Heart._ That Day will never come, be assur'd, _Ned_. Not but that I can pass a Night with a Woman, and for the time, perhaps; make myself as good Sport as you can do. Nay, I can court a Woman too, call her Nymph, Angel, Goddess, what you please: But here's the Difference 'twixt you and I; I persuade a Woman she's an Angel, and she persuades you she's one. Pr'ythee, let me tell you how I avoid falling in Love; that which serves me for Prevention, may chance to serve you for a Cure.

_Const._ Well, use the Ladies moderately then, and I'll hear you.

_Heart._ That using them moderately undoes us all; but I'll use them justly, and that you ought to be satisfied with. I always consider a Woman, not as the Taylor, the Shoemaker, the Tire-woman, the Sempstress, and (which is more than all that) the Poet makes her; but I consider her as pure Nature has contrived her, and that more strictly than I shou'd have done our old Grandmother _Eve_, had I seen her naked in the Garden; for I consider her turn'd inside out. Her Heart well examin'd, I find there Pride, Vanity, Covetousness, Indiscretion, but above all things, Malice; plots eternally a-forging to destroy one another's Reputations, and as honestly to charge the Levity of Men's Tongues with the Scandal; hourly Debates how to make poor Gentlemen in love with them, with no other Intent but to use them like Dogs when they have done; a constant Desire of doing more Mischief, and an everlasting War wag'd against Truth and Good-Nature.

_Const._ Very well, Sir! An admirable Composition, truly!

_Heart._ Then for her Outside, I consider it merely as an Outside; she has a thin Tiffany Covering over just such Stuff as you and I are made on. As for her Motion, her Mien, her Airs, and all those Tricks, I know they affect you mightily. If you should see your Mistress at a Coronation dragging her Peacock's Train, with all her State and Insolence about her, 'twou'd strike you with all the awful Thoughts that Heav'n itself could pretend to from you; whereas I turn the whole Matter into a Jest, and suppose her strutting in the self-same stately Manner, with nothing on her but her Stays and her under scanty quilted Petticoat.

_Const._ Hold thy profane Tongue; for I'll hear no more.

_Heart._ What, you'll love on, then?

_Const._ Yes, to Eternity.

_Heart._ Yet you have no hopes at all?

_Const._ None.

_Heart._ Nay, the Resolution may be discreet enough; perhaps you have found out some new Philosophy, that Love, like Virtue, is its own Reward: So you and your Mistress will be as well content at a Distance, as others that have less Learning are in coming together.

_Const._ No; but if she should prove kind at last, my dear _Heartfree_--

[_Embracing him_.

_Heart._ Nay, pr'ythee, don't take me for your Mistress; for Lovers are very troublesome.

_Const._ Well; who knows what Time may do?

_Heart._ And just now he was sure Time could do nothing.

_Const._ Yet not one kind Glance in two Years, is somewhat strange.

_Heart._ Not strange at all; she don't like you, that's all the Business.

_Const._ Pr'ythee, don't distract me.

_Heart._ Nay, you are a good handsome young Fellow, she might use you better: Come, will you go see her? Perhaps she may have chang'd her Mind; there's some Hopes as long as she's a Woman.

_Const._ O, 'tis in vain to visit her! Sometimes to get a Sight of her, I visit that Beast her Husband; but she certainly finds some Pretence to quit the Room as soon as I enter.

_Heart._ 'Tis much she don't tell him you have made Love to her too; for that's another good-natur'd thing usual amongst Women, in which they have several Ends. Sometimes 'tis to recommend their Virtue, that they may be lewd with the greater Security. Sometimes 'tis to make their Husbands fight, in hopes they may be kill'd, when their Affairs require it should be so: but most commonly 'tis to engage two Men in a Quarrel, that they may have the Credit of being fought for; and if the Lover's kill'd in the Business, they cry, _Poor Fellow, he had ill Luck_----and so they go to Cards.

_Const._ Thy Injuries to Women are not to be forgiven. Look to't, if ever thou dost fall into their Hands----

_Heart._ They can't use me worse than they do you, that speak well of 'em. O ho! here comes the Knight.

_Enter Sir ~John Brute~._

_Heart._ Your humble Servant, Sir _John_.

_Sir John._ Servant, Sir.

_Heart._ How does all your Family?

_Sir John._ Pox o' my Family!

_Const._ How does your Lady? I han't seen her abroad a good while.

_Sir John._ Do! I don't know how she does, not I; she was well enough Yesterday; I han't been at home to-night.

_Const._ What, were you out of Town?

_Sir John._ Out of Town! No, I was drinking.

_Const._ You are a true _Englishman_; don't know your own Happiness. If I were married to such a Woman, I would not be from her a Night for all the Wine in _France_.

_Sir John._ Not from her!----'Oons----what a time should a Man have of that!

_Heart._ Why, there's no Division, I hope.

_Sir John._ No; but there's a Conjunction, and that's worse; a Pox of the Parson----Why the plague don't you two marry? I fancy I look like the Devil to you.

_Heart._ Why, you don't think you have Horns, do you?

_Sir John._ No, I believe my Wife's Religion will keep her honest.

_Heart._ And what will make her keep her Religion?

_Sir John._ Persecution; and therefore she shall have it.

_Heart._ Have a care, Knight! Women are tender things.

_Sir John._ And yet, methinks, 'tis a hard Matter to break their Hearts.

_Const._ Fy, fy! You have one of the best Wives in the World, and yet you seem the most uneasy Husband.

_Sir John._ Best Wives! The Woman's well enough; she has no Vice that I know of, but she's a Wife, and--damn a Wife! If I were married to a Hogshead of Claret, Matrimony would make me hate it.

_Heart._ Why did you marry, then? You were old enough to know your own Mind.

_Sir John._ Why did I marry? I married because I had a mind to lie with her, and she would not let me.

_Heart._ Why did you not ravish her?

_Sir John._ Yes, and so have hedg'd myself into forty Quarrels with her Relations, besides buying my pardon: But more than all that, you must know, I was afraid of being damn'd in those days: For I kept sneaking, cowardly Company, Fellows that went to Church, said Grace to their Meat, and had not the least Tincture of Quality about them.

_Heart._ But I think you are got into a better Gang now?

_Sir John._ Zoons, Sir, my Lord _Rake_ and I are Hand and Glove: I believe we may get our Bones broke together to-night; have you a mind to share a Frolick?

_Const._ Not I, truly; my Talent lies to softer Exercises.

_Sir John._ What, a Down-Bed and a Strumpet? A pox of Venery, I say. Will you come and drink with me this Afternoon?

_Const._ I can't drink to-day, but we'll come and sit an Hour with you, if you will.

_Sir John._ Phugh, Pox, sit an Hour! Why can't you drink?

_Const._ Because I'm to see my Mistress.

_Sir John._ Who's that?

_Const._ Why, do you use to tell?

_Sir John._ Yes.

_Const._ So won't I.

_Sir John._ Why?

_Const._ Because 'tis a Secret.

_Sir John._ Would my Wife knew it, 'twould be no Secret long.

_Const._ Why, do you think she can't keep a Secret?

_Sir John._ No more than she can keep _Lent_.

_Heart._ Pr'ythee, tell it her to try, _Constant_.

_Sir John._ No, pr'ythee, don't, that I mayn't be plagu'd with it.

_Const._ I'll hold you a Guinea you don't make her tell it you.

_Sir John._ I'll hold you a Guinea I do.

_Const._ Which way?

_Sir John._ Why, I'll beg her not to tell it me.

_Heart._ Nay, if any thing does it, that will.

_Const._ But do you think, Sir----

_Sir John._ Oons, Sir, I think a Woman and a Secret are the two impertinentest Themes in the Universe: Therefore pray let's hear no more of my Wife, nor your Mistress. Damn 'em both with all my heart, and every thing else that daggles a Petticoat, except four generous Whores, with _Betty Sands_ at the Head of 'em, who are drunk with my Lord _Rake_ and I ten times in a Fortnight.

[_Exit ~Sir John~._

_Const._ Here's a dainty Fellow for you! And the veriest Coward too. But his Usage of his Wife makes me ready to stab the Villain.

_Heart._ Lovers are short-sighted: All their Senses run into that of Feeling. This Proceeding of his is the only thing on Earth can make your Fortune. If any thing can prevail with her to accept of a Gallant, 'tis his ill Usage of her; for Women will do more for Revenge, than they'll do for the Gospel. Pr'ythee, take heart, I have great hopes for you: And since I can't bring you quite off of her, I'll endeavour to bring you quite on; for a whining Lover is the damn'dest Companion upon Earth.

_Const._ My dear Friend, flatter me a little more with these Hopes; for whilst they prevail, I have Heaven within me, and could melt with Joy.

_Heart._ Pray, no melting yet; let things go farther first. This afternoon, perhaps, we shall make some advance. In the mean while, let's go dine at _Locket_'s, and let Hope get you a Stomach.

[_Exeunt._

+SCENE+, _Lady_ Fancyfull's _House_.

_Enter Lady ~Fancyfull~ and ~Madamoiselle~._

_Lady Fan._ Did you ever see any thing so _importune, Madamoiselle_?

_Madam._ Inteed, Matam, to say de trute, he want leetel Good-breeding.

_Lady Fan._ Good-breeding! He wants to be caned, _Madamoiselle_: an insolent Fellow! And yet let me expose my Weakness, 'tis the only Man on Earth I cou'd resolve to dispense my Favours on, were he but a fine Gentleman. Well! did Men but know how deep an Impression a fine Gentleman makes in a Lady's Heart, they would reduce all their Studies to that of Good-breeding alone.

_Enter ~Cornet~._

_Cor._ Madam, here's Mr. _Treble_. He has brought home the Verses your Ladyship made, and gave him to set.

_Lady Fan._ O let him come in by all means. Now _Madamoiselle_, am I going to be unspeakably happy.

_Enter ~Treble~._

So, Mr. _Treble_, you have set my little Dialogue?

_Treb._ Yes, Madam, and I hope your Ladyship will be pleased with it.

_Lady Fan._ O, no doubt on't; for really, Mr. _Treble_, you set all things to a wonder: But your Musick is in particular heavenly, when you have my Words to clothe in't.

_Treb._ Your Words themselves, Madam, have so much Musick in 'em, they inspire me.

_Lady Fan._ Nay, now you make me blush, Mr. _Treble_; but pray let's hear what you have done.

_Treb._ You shall, Madam.

A SONG, to be sung between a Man and a Woman.

M. _Ah lovely Nymph, the World's on fire;
Veil, veil those cruel Eyes_:

W. _The World may then in Flames expire,
And boast that so it dies_.

M. _But when all Mortals are destroy'd,
Who then shall sing your Praise?_

W. _Those who are fit to be employ'd:
The Gods shall Altars raise_.

_Treb._ How does your Ladyship like it, Madam?

_Lady Fan._ Rapture, Rapture, Mr. _Treble_! I'm all Rapture! O Wit and Art, what Power have you when join'd! I must needs tell you the Birth of this little Dialogue, Mr. _Treble_. Its Father was a Dream, and its Mother was the Moon. I dream'd that by an unanimous Vote, I was chosen Queen of that pale World; and that the first time I appear'd upon my Throne----all my Subjects fell in love with me. Just then I wak'd, and seeing Pen, Ink and Paper lie idle upon the Table, I slid into my Morning-Gown, and writ this _impromptu_.

_Treb._ So I guess the Dialogue, Madam, is suppos'd to be between your Majesty and your first Minister of State.

_Lady Fan._ Just: He, as Minister, advises me to trouble my Head about the Welfare of my Subjects; which I, as Sovereign, find a very impertinent Proposal. But is the Town so dull, Mr. _Treble_, it affords us never another new Song?

_Treb._ Madam, I have one in my Pocket, came out but Yesterday, if your Ladyship pleases to let Mrs. _Pipe_ sing it.

_Lady Fan._ By all means. Here, _Pipe_, make what Musick you can of this Song, here.

SONG.

I.

_Not an Angel dwells above,
Half so fair as her I love.
Heaven knows, how she'll receive me;
If she smiles, I'm blest indeed;
If she frowns, I'm quickly freed;
Heaven knows she ne'er can grieve me._

II.

_None can love her more than I,
Yet she ne'er shall make me die.
If my Flame can never warm her,
Lasting Beauty I'll adore;
I shall never love her more,
Cruelty will so deform her._

_Lady Fan._ Very well: This is _Heartfree_'s Poetry without question.

_Treb._ Won't your Ladyship please to sing yourself this Morning?

_Lady Fan._ O Lord, Mr. _Treble_, my Cold is still so barbarous to refuse me that Pleasure! He, he, hem.

_Treb._ I'm very sorry for it, Madam: Methinks all Mankind should turn Physicians for the Cure on't.

_Lady Fan._ Why, truly, to give Mankind their due, there's few that know me but have offer'd their Remedy.

_Treb._ They have reason, Madam; for I know no body sings so near a Cherubim as your Ladyship.

_Lady Fan._ What I do, I owe chiefly to your Skill and Care, Mr. _Treble_. People do flatter me, indeed, that I have a Voice, and a _Je-ne-sçai-quoy_ in the Conduct of it, that will make Musick of any thing. And truly I begin to believe so, since what happen'd t'other Night: Wou'd you think it, Mr. _Treble_? Walking pretty late in the Park, (for I often walk late in the Park, Mr _Treble_) a Whim took me to sing _Chevy Chase_; and, wou'd you believe it? next Morning I had three Copies of Verses, and six Billet-doux at my Levée upon it.

_Treb._ And without all dispute you deserv'd as many more, Madam. Are there any further Commands for your Ladyship's humble Servant?

_Lady Fan._ Nothing more at this Time, Mr. _Treble_. But I shall expect you here every Morning for this Month, to sing my little Matter there to me. I'll reward you for your Pains.

_Treb._ O Lord, Madam----

_Lady Fan._ Good-morrow, sweet Mr. _Treble_.

_Treb._ Your Ladyship's most obedient Servant.

[_Exit ~Treb~._

_Enter Servant._

_Serv._ Will your Ladyship please to dine yet?

_Lady Fan._ Yes, let 'em serve. [_Exit Servant._] Sure this _Heartfree_ has bewitch'd me, _Madamoiselle_. You can't imagine how oddly he mixt himself in my Thoughts during my Rapture e'en now. I vow 'tis a thousand Pities he is not more polish'd: Don't you think so?

_Madam._ Matam, I tink it so great pity, dat if I was in your Ladyship place, I take him home in my House, I lock him up in my Closet, and I never let him go till I teach him every ting dat fine Laty expect from fine Gentelman.

_Lady Fan._ Why, truly, I believe I shou'd soon subdue his Brutality; for without doubt, he has a strange _Penchant_ to grow fond of me, in spite of his Aversion to the Sex, else he wou'd ne'er have taken so much Pains about me. Lord, how proud wou'd some poor Creatures be of such a Conquest! But I, alas! I don't know how to receive as a Favour what I take to be so infinitely my Due. But what shall I do to new-mould him, _Madamoiselle_? for till then he's my utter Aversion.

_Madam._ Matam; you must laugh at him in all de place dat you meet him, and turn into de reticule all he say, and all he do.

_Lady Fan._ Why, truly, Satire has ever been of wondrous use to reform Ill-manners. Besides, 'tis my particular Talent to ridicule Folks. I can be severe, strangely severe, when I will, _Madamoiselle_----Give me the Pen and Ink----I find myself whimsical----I'll write to him----Or I'll let it alone, and be severe upon him that way [_Sitting down to write, rising up again._]--Yet Active Severity is better than Passive. [_Sitting down._]----'Tis as good let it alone, too; for every Lash I give him, perhaps, he'll take for a Favour. [_Rising._]----Yet 'tis a thousand pities so much Satire should be lost. [_Sitting._]---- But if it shou'd have a wrong Effect upon him, 'twould distract me. [_Rising._]----Well, I must write, tho', after all, [_Sitting._]----Or I'll let it alone, which is the same thing. [_Rising._]

Madam. _La voilà determinée._

[_Exeunt._

+ACT+ III.

+SCENE+ _opens; Sir ~John~, Lady ~Brute~ and ~Belinda~ rising from the Table._

_Sir John._ Here, take away the Things; I expect Company. But first bring me a Pipe; I'll smoak.

[_To a Servant._

_Lady Brute._ Lord, Sir _John_, I wonder you won't leave that nasty Custom.

_Sir John._ Pr'ythee, don't be impertinent.

_Bel._ [_To Lady ~Brute~._] I wonder who those People are he expects this Afternoon?

_Lady Brute._ I'd give the World to know: Perhaps 'tis _Constant_--he comes here sometimes: if it does prove him, I'm resolv'd I'll share the Visit.

_Bel._ We'll send for our Work, and sit here.

_Lady Brute._ He'll choak us with his Tobacco.

_Bel._ Nothing will choak us when we are doing what we have a mind to. _Lovewell!_

_Enter ~Lovewell~._

_Lov._ Madam.

_Lady Brute._ Here; bring my Cousin's Work and mine hither.

[_Exit ~Lov~. and re-enters with their Work._

_Sir John._ Whu! Pox, can't you work somewhere else?

_Lady Brute._ We shall be careful not to disturb you, Sir.

_Bel._ Your Pipe would make you too thoughtful, Uncle, if you were left alone; our Prittle-prattle will cure your Spleen.

_Sir John._ Will it so, Mrs. Pert? Now I believe it will so increase it, [_Sitting and smoaking._] I shall take my own House for a Paper-mill.

_Lady Brute._ [_To ~Bel~. aside._] Don't let's mind him; let him say what he will.

_Sir John._ A Woman's Tongue a Cure for the Spleen!--Oons--[_Aside._] If a Man had got the Head-ach, they'd be for applying the same Remedy.

_Lady Brute._ You have done a great deal, _Belinda_, since yesterday.

_Bel._ Yes, I have work'd very hard; how do you like it?

_Lady Brute._ O, 'tis the prettiest Fringe in the World. Well, Cousin, you have the happiest Fancy: Pr'ythee, advise me about altering my Crimson Petticoat.

_Sir John._ A Pox o' your Petticoat! Here's such a Prating, a Man can't digest his own Thoughts for you.

_Lady Brute._ Don't answer him. [_Aside._] Well, what do you advise me?

_Bel._ Why, really, I would not alter it at all. Methinks 'tis very pretty as it is.

_Lady Brute._ Ay, that's, true: But you know one grows weary of the prettiest things in the World, when one has had 'em long.

_Sir John._ Yes, I have taught her that.

_Bel._ Shall we provoke him a little?

_Lady Brute._ With all my Heart. _Belinda_, don't you long to be marry'd?

_Bel._ Why, there are some things in it I could like well enough.

_Lady Brute._ What do you think you shou'd dislike?

_Bel._ My Husband, a hundred to one else.

_Lady Brute._ O ye wicked Wretch! Sure you don't speak as you think?

_Bel._ Yes, I do: especially if he smoak'd Tobacco.

[_He looks earnestly at 'em._

_Lady Brute._ Why, that many times takes off worse Smells.

_Bel._ Then he must smell very ill indeed.