Madem. Turn me out of doors!-turn your-f self out of doors, and go see what de gentleman have to say to you-Tenez. Voilà [giving her her things hastily.] votre esharpe, voilà votre coife, voilà votre masque, voilà 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, matam; depechez vous donc. Mon Dieu, quelles scrupules!

Lady Fan. Well, for once, mademoiselle, 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.

Madem. Belle chose vrayment que la delicatesse, lors qu'il s'agit de se divertirVous voilà équipée. Partons--Hé bien ?---qu'avez vous donc?

Lady Fan. J'ai peur.

Madem. Je n'en point moi.

Lady Fan. I dare not go.

Madem. Demeurex donc.

Lady Fan. Je suis poltrone.

[Forcing her lady off.

SCENE I.--St. James's Park.

Enter LADY FANCYFUL and MADEMOISELLE. Lady Fan. WELL, I vow, mademoiselle, 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 professed woman-hater. Yet who knows what my wicked eyes may have done !

Madem. Il nous approche, matam.

Lady Fan. Yes, 'tis he: Now he will be most intolerably cavalier, though 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 satisfied. Lady Fun. I am so, sir: Good-by t'ye. Heart. Nay, hold there; though 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 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 Heart free.

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 satisfied; and this, perhaps, you might bring about upon pretty reasonable terms.

Lady Fun. And pray, at what rate would this indifference be bought off, if one should have so depraved an appetite as 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 well spare.

may very

Lady Fan. You grow rude, sir. Come, mademoiselle, 'tis high time to be gone.

Madem. 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 to 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 turned 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 finger 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. Madem. [aside.] Est ce qu'on fait l'amour en Angleterre comme ça ?

Lady Fan. [aside.] Now could 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 'tis so; for, were you once convinced of that, you'd reform for your own sake.

Lady Fan. Every circumstance of nice breed- | ing must needs appear ridiculous to one, who has so natural an antipathy to good mauners.

Heart. But suppose I could find the means to convince you, that the whole world is of my opinion?

Lady Fan. Sir, though you, and all the world you talk of, should be so impertinently officious, as to think to persuade me I don't know how to behave myself; I should still have charity enough for my own understanding, to believe myself in the right, and all you in the wrong.

Madem. Le voilà mort. [Exeunt Lady FANCIFUL, and MADEMOISELLE.] Heart, [gazing after her.] There her single clapper has published the sense of the whole sex. Well, this once I have endeavoured to wash the black-moor white, but henceforward I'll sooner undertake to teach sincerity to a courtier, generosity to an usurer, honesty to a lawyer, than discretion to a woman, I see has once set her heart upon playing the fool.

Enter CONSTANT.

'Morrow, Constant.

Con. 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 used her as an absolute king would do Magna Charta. Con. And how does she take it?

Heart. As children do pills; bite them, but can't swallow them.

Con. But, prithee, 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 could 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.

Con. 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 cured of the same disease, that makes me so very uneasy; for love, love is the devil, Heartfree.

Heart. And why do you let the devil govern you?

Con. Because I have more flesh and blood than grace and self-denial. My dear, dear mistress-'sdeath! 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?

Con. O! they have played their parts in vain already: Tis now two years since the damned fellow her husband invited me to his wedding; and that was the first time I saw that charming woman, whom I have loved ever since; 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 warmed.

Con. O don't profane the sex! prithee 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.

Con. Well, the only relief I expect in my misery is to see thee, some day or other, as deeply engaged as myself, which will force me to be merry in the midst of all my misfor

tunes.

here's the difference between you and I; I persuade a woman she's an angel, and she persuades you she's one. Prithee, let me tell you how I avoid falling in love; that, which serves me for prevention, may chance to serve you for a

cure.

Con. 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 should have done our old grandmother Eve, had I seen her naked in the garden; for I consider her turned inside out. Her heart well examined, I find there pride, vanity, covetousness, indiscretion; but, above all things, malice: plots eternally forging to destroy one another's reputations, and as honestly to charge the levity of mens' 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 waged against truth and good-nature.

Con. 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 of. 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, 'twould strike you with all the awful thoughts, that heaven 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 but her stays, and her under scanty quilted petticoat.

Con. Hold thy profane tongue; for I'll hear

no more.

Heart. What, you'll love on then?

Con. Yes, to eternity.

Heart. Yet you have no hopes at all?
Con. 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.

Con. No; but if she should prove kind at last, my dear Heart free! [Embracing him. Heart. Nay, prithee don't take me for your mistress; for lovers are very troublesome.

Con. Well, who knows what time may do?
VOL. II.

Heart. It's much she don't tell him you have made love to her, too; for that's another goodnatured thing usual amongst women, in which they have several ends. Sometimes 'tis to recommend their virtue, that they may sin with the greater security. Sometimes 'tis to make their husbands fight, in hopes they may be killed, 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 killed in the business, they cry, Poor fellow! he had ill luck-and so they go to cards.

Con. Thy injuries to women are not to be forgiven. Look to it, if ever you fall into their hands

Heart. They can't use me worse than they do you, that speak well of them. O ho! here comes the knight.

Enter SIR JOHN BRUTE.
Your humble servant, sir John.
Sir John. Servant, sir.

Heart. How does all your family?
Sir John. Pox on my family!

Con. 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.

Con. What, were you out of town?

Sir John. Out of town! No, I was drinking. Con. 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?

2 C

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.

Con. 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 ravish her?

Sir John. Yes, and so have hedged myself into forty quarrels with her relations, besides buying my pardon: but, more than all that, you must know I was afraid of my soul 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 frolic?

Con. Not I, truly; my talent lies to softer

Con. I'll hold you a guinea you don't make her tell it you.

Sir John. I'll hold you a guinea I do.
Con. Which way?

Sir John. Why, I'll beg her not to tell it me.
Heart. Nay, if any thing does it, that will.
Con. 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 them both, with all my heart, and every thing else, that daggles a petticoat, except four generous whores, who are drunk with my lord Rake and I, ten times in a fortnight.

[Exit SIR JOHN.

Con. 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. Prithee, take heart, I have great hopes for you: and, since I can't bring you quite off her, I'll endeavour to bring you quite on; for a whining lover is the damned'st companion upon earth.

Con. 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 II.-LADY FANCIFUL's house. Enter LADY FANCIFUL, and MADEMOISELle. Lady Fan. Did you ever see any thing so importune, mademoiselle?

Madem. Inteed, matam, to say de trute, he want leetel good-breeding.

Lady Fan. Good-breeding! He wants to be caned,ˇˇmademoiselle: an insolent fellow and yet, let me expose my weakness, 'tis the only man on earth I could 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 Servant.

Serv. Will your ladyship please to dine yet? Lady Fan. Yes, let them serve. [Exit Servant.] Sure this Heartfree has bewitched me, Mademoiselle. You can't imagine how oddly he mixt himself in my thoughts, during my rapture, even now. I vow 'tis a thousand pities he is not more polished; don't you think so?

Madem. Matam, I tink it so great pity, dat if I was in your ladyship's 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 gentelinan.

Lady Fan. Why, truly, I believe I should 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 would ne'er have taken so much pains about me. Lord, how proud would 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, mademoiselle? for, till then, he is my utter aver

sion.

Madem. 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, mademoiselle. 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 dawn.] 'Tis as good to let it alone, too; for every lash I give him, perhaps he'll take for a favour. Yet, 'tis a thousand pities so much satire should be lost. [Sitting.] But, if it should have a wrong effect upon him, 'twould distract ne.[Rising.] Well, I must write though, after all. [Sitting] Or, I'll let it alone, which is the same thing. [Rising.]

Madem. La voilà determinée.

[Exeunt.

SCENE I.

Lady Brute. Here; bring my cousin's work and mine hither.

[Exit LOVEWELL, and re-enters with their work. Sir John. Why, 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 smoking.] shall take my own house for a paper-mill.

Lady Brute. [To BELINDA 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-ache, they would be for applying the same remedy.

Lady Brute. You have done a great deal, Beiinda, since yesterday.

Bel. Yes, I have worked very hard; how do you like it?

Lady Brute. Oh, 'tis the prettiest fringe in the world! Well, cousin, you have the happiest fancy prithee, 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. Aye, that's true: but, you know, one grows weary of the prettiest things in the world, when one has had them 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 married?"

Bel. Why, there are some things in it which I could like well enough.

Lady Brute. What do you think you should 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 smoked tobacco? [He looks earnestly at them. Lady Brute. Why, that many times takes off worse smells.

Bel. Then he must smell very ill indeed. Lady Brute. So some men will, to keep their wives from coming near them.