_Sir H._ Fight! Pshaw--but he cannot dance, ha!--We contend for a woman, Vizard. 'Slife, man, if ladies were to be gained by sword and pistol only, what the devil should all we beaux do?

_Vizard._ I'll try him farther. [_Aside._] But would not you, Sir Harry, fight for this woman you so much admire?

_Sir H._ Fight! Let me consider. I love her----that's true;----but then I love honest Sir Harry Wildair better. The Lady Lurewell is divinely charming----right----but then a thrust i' the guts, or a Middles.e.x jury, is as ugly as the devil.

_Vizard._ Ay, Sir Harry, 'twere a dangerous cast for a beau baronet to be tried by a parcel of greasy, grumbling, bartering b.o.o.bies, who would hang you, purely because you're a gentleman.

_Sir H._ Ay, but on t'other hand, I have money enough to bribe the rogues with: so, upon mature deliberation, I would fight for her. But no more of her. Pr'ythee, Vizard, cannot you recommend a friend to a pretty mistress by the bye, till I can find my own? You have store, I'm sure; you cunning poaching dogs make surer game, than we that hunt open and fair. Pr'ythee now, good Vizard.

_Vizard._ Let me consider a little.--Now love and revenge inspire my politics! [_Aside._

[_Pauses whilst_ SIR HARRY _walks, singing_.

_Sir H._ Pshaw! thou'rt longer studying for a new mistress, than a waiter would be in drawing fifty corks.

_Vizard._ I design you good wine; you'll therefore bear a little expectation.

_Sir H._ Ha! say'st thou, dear Vizard?

_Vizard._ A girl of nineteen, Sir Harry.

_Sir H._ Now nineteen thousand blessings light on thee.

_Vizard._ Pretty and witty.

_Sir H._ Ay, ay, but her name, Vizard!

_Vizard._ Her name! yes--she has the softest, whitest hand that e'er was made of flesh and blood; her lips so balmy sweet----

_Sir H._ Well, well, but where shall I find her, man?

_Vizard._ Find her!--but then her foot, Sir Harry! she dances to a miracle.

_Sir H._ Pr'ythee, don't distract me.

_Vizard._ Well then, you must know, that this lady is the greatest beauty in town; her name's Angelica: she that pa.s.ses for her mother is a private bawd, and called the Lady Darling: she goes for a baronet's lady, (no disparagement to your honour, Sir Harry) I a.s.sure you.

_Sir H._ Pshaw, hang my honour! but what street, what house?

_Vizard._ Not so fast, Sir Harry; you must have my pa.s.sport for your admittance, and you'll find my recommendation in a line or two will procure you very civil entertainment; I suppose twenty or thirty pieces handsomely placed, will gain the point.

_Sir H._ Thou dearest friend to a man in necessity! Here, sirrah, order my carriage about to St. James's; I'll walk across the park.

[_To his_ SERVANT.

_Enter_ CLINCHER SENIOR.

_Clinch._ Here, sirrah, order my coach about to St. James's, I'll walk across the park too--Mr. Vizard, your most devoted--Sir, [_To_ WILDAIR.]

I admire the mode of your shoulder-knot; methinks it hangs very emphatically, and carries an air of travel in it: your sword-knot too is most ornamentally modish, and bears a foreign mien. Gentlemen, my brother is just arrived in town; so that, being upon the wing to kiss his hands, I hope you'll pardon this abrupt departure of, gentlemen, your most devoted, and most faithful humble servant. [_Exit._

_Sir H._ Pr'ythee, dost know him?

_Vizard._ Know him! why, it is Clincher, who was apprentice to my uncle Smuggler, the merchant in the city.

_Sir H._ What makes him so gay?

_Vizard._ Why, he's in mourning.

_Sir H._ In mourning?

_Vizard._ Yes, for his father. The kind old man in Hertfordshire t'other day broke his neck a fox-hunting; the son, upon the news, has broke his indentures; whipped from behind the counter into the side-box. He keeps his coach and liveries, brace of geldings, leash of mistresses, talks of nothing but wines, intrigues, plays, fashions, and going to the jubilee.

_Sir H._ Ha! ha! ha! how many pounds of pulvil must the fellow use in sweetening himself from the smell of hops and tobacco? Faugh!--I' my conscience methought, like Olivia's lover, he stunk of Thames-Street.

But now for Angelica, that's her name: we'll to the prince's chocolate-house, where you shall write my pa.s.sport. _Allons._ [_Exeunt._

SCENE II.

LADY LUREWELL'S _Lodgings_.

_Enter_ LADY LUREWELL, _and her Maid_ PARLY.

_Lady L._ Parly, my pocket-book--let me see--Madrid, Paris, Venice, London!--Ay, London! They may talk what they will of the hot countries, but I find love most fruitful under this climate----In a month's s.p.a.ce have I gained--let me see, imprimis, Colonel Standard.

_Parly._ And how will your ladyship manage him?

_Lady L._ As all soldiers should be managed; he shall serve me till I gain my ends, then I'll disband him.

_Parly._ But he loves you, madam.

_Lady L._ Therefore I scorn him; I hate all that don't love me, and slight all that do; 'Would his whole deluding s.e.x admir'd me, Thus would I slight them all.

My virgin and unwary innocence Was wrong'd by faithless man; But now, glance eyes, plot brain, dissemble face, Lie tongue, and Plague the treacherous kind.---- Let me survey my captives.---- The colonel leads the van; next, Mr. Vizard, He courts me out of the "Practice of Piety,"

Therefore is a hypocrite; Then Clincher, he adores me with orangerie, And is consequently a fool; Then my old merchant, Alderman Smuggler, He's a compound of both;--out of which medley of lovers, if I don't make good diversion----What d'ye think, Parly?

_Parly._ I think, madam, I'm like to be very virtuous in your service, if you teach me all those tricks that you use to your lovers.

_Lady L._ You're a fool, child; observe this, that though a woman swear, forswear, lie, dissemble, backbite, be proud, vain, malicious, any thing, if she secures the main chance, she's still virtuous; that's a maxim.

_Parly._ I can't be persuaded, though, madam, but that you really loved Sir Harry Wildair in Paris.

_Lady L._ Of all the lovers I ever had, he was my greatest plague, for I could never make him uneasy: I left him involved in a duel upon my account: I long to know whether the fop be killed or not.

_Enter_ COLONEL STANDARD.

Oh lord! no sooner talk of killing, but the soldier is conjured up.

You're upon hard duty, colonel, to serve your king, your country, and a mistress too.

_Colonel S._ The latter, I must confess, is the hardest; for in war, madam, we can be relieved in our duty; but in love, he, who would take our post, is our enemy; emulation in glory is transporting, but rivals here intolerable.