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effects on it, indeed! by hanging upon every young fellow's neck, that does but ask her the question.
Frank. Whatever faults Charlotte may have, madam, I never knew her take pleasure in exposing those of other people.
Lady W. What do you mean, sir?
Frank. I mean, madam, that as she does not read Aristotle, Plato, Plutarch, or Seneca, she is neither romantic or vain of her pedantry; and as her learning never went bigher than the Tatler, her manners are consequently, natural, modest, and agreeable. Sir G. Ah! well said, Frankly.
[Aside. Lady W. Since I am told you were once in love with her, I shall say no more, but leave her own immediate behaviour to confirın your good opinion of her virtues. Ha, ha!
[Eait. Soph. I don't know any man alive, that looks upon the degeneracy of mankind with so discerning an eye as Mr. Grauger; but I ain afraid it will therefore draw him into iny misfortune, of being as odious to the illiterate of bis sex, as I am lo those of mine.
Gran. If that were as just a reason, madam, for your having a favourable opinion of me, as it is for my per: fect admiration of you, we should each of us have still as inany friends as any wise man or woman ought to desire. Frank. Do you mind that, sir?
[Apart. Sir G. A sly rogue! he knows how to tickle her up,
[Apart. Soph. And yet the rude world will say, perhaps, that our mutual enmity to them has reduced us to a friendship for one another. Gran. That's a reproach can never reach
you, madam; so much beauty cannot but have its choice of friends and admirers: a form so bright and perfect, like a comet in the hemisphere, wherever it comes, must set mankind a gazing.
Soph. Fie! Mr. Granger!
Sir G. What, a dickens! will she swallow that blazing star now?
Frank. Ay, as he has dress'd it, and drink after it
[Apurt. Soph. I mind not multitudes,
Gran. Pardon me, I know you have a soul above them; and I really think it the misfortune of your person, to bave been so exquisitely fair, thal where your virtue would preserve, your eyes destroy; they give involontary love; where'er you pass, in spite of all your innocence, they wound—Juvenumque prodis publicu cura.
Soph. Alas! my eyes are turned upon myself. What charms, then, can you suppose, I could have for a world, that has so few for me? Beside, at most, the men of modern gallantry gaze apon a woman of real virlue, only as atheists look into a fine church, from curiosity, not devotion.
Gran. All men are not infidels; of me, at least, you have a convert: and though the sensual practice of the world had made me long despair of such perfection in a mortal mould; yet when ihe rays of truth celestial broke in upon my sense, my conscious beart at once confessed the deity; I prostrate fell a proselyte to virtue; and now its chasle desires enlarge my soul, and raise me to seraphic joy. Soph. Harmonious sounds, celestial transports !
[ Aside. Sir G. Oh, dear! Ob, dear! was ever such a wicked thief! Odsheart, he'll make her go to prayers with bim, presently!
[Aside. Soph. No more; we are observed. These heavenborn emanations of the soul desire not vulgar ears. Some filter time may offer-till whenGran. Till then, be hush'd our joys. [Granger leaves her and joins the Men, while
Sophronia walks apart, musing: Soph. Our joys, indeed! sach was, in Paradise, our first parents' joy, before they fell from innocence to sbame.
Frank. [To Granger] Why did you not go on will
her? We thonght you were in a fine way. Sir Gilbert and I were just going to steal off.
Gran. Soft and fair, sir. A lady of her delicacy must be carried, like a taper new-lighted, gently forward; if yon burry her, out she goes.
Sir G. You're right, you're right. Now you shall see me manage her a little. I'll speak a good word for you-a-hum
Gran. Hush! not for the world, sir-Death, you'll spoil all! Don't you see she is in contemplation ?
Sir G. What if she be, man? We must not humour her till she is stark mad, neither. Sophronia, how dost thou do, child? Soph. [Repeating]
Disporting Sir G. Very pretty, I protest; very pretty. These amorous scraps of fancy in thy head, make me hope that love is not far from thy heart, Sophy.
Soph. Love, sir, was ever, in my heart; but such a love, as the blind Homer of this British isle, in rhymeless harmony, sublimely sings
Sir G. Well, and, pr’ythee, what does he say of it? Soph.
Love refines The thought, and heart enlarges; has his seat] In reason, and is judicious; is the scale, By which to heavenly love thou may'st ascend. Sir G. Very good again ; and troth, I'm glad to hear thou art so heartily reconciled to it. Soph. Easier than air with air, if spirits embrace,
Total they mix, union of pure with pure
Desiring SirG. Ab! there, I doubt, we are a little crazy. [Aside. Soph. This iron age, so fraudulent and bold,
Touch'd with this love, would be an age of gold. Sir G. Oh, lud! Oh, lud ! this will never do. Aside.
Gran. So, she has given the old gentleman his bellyfull, I see. Well, sir, how do you find her?
Sir G. Ah, poor soul, piteous bad! all upon the tantivy again! You must e'en undertake her yourself; for I can do no good upon her. But fiere comes love of another kind. Enter CHARLOTTE, WITLING, and LADY WRANGLE.
Char: Ob, sister! here's Mr. Willing has writ the prettiest cantala, sure, that ever made music enchanting:
Soph. I am glad, sister, you are reconciled to any of his performances.
Wit. Ob, fie, madam, she only rallies—A mere trifle.
Frank. That I dare swear it is.
Wit. Ha, ha! no doubt on't; if you could like it, it must be an extraordinary piece, indeed, Tom. You see, my little rogue, we have soured him already.
[Aside to Charlotte. Lady W. Mr. Frankly is a mere modern critic, that makes personal inclination the rule of his judgment; but lo condemn what one never saw, is making short work, indeed.
Frank. With submission, madam, I can see no great rashness in presuming that a magpie can't sing like a nightingale.
Wit. No, nor an owl look like a peacock, neither. Ha, ha!
Lady W. and Char. Ha, ha, ha!
Frank. Much good may do you with your canarybird, madam.
[To Charlotte. Char. Oh, sir, I am sorry you are exhausted! but when wit is upon the lee, no wonder it runs into rade
Mr. Witling, the cantata. Lady W. Oh, by all means! Come, dear sir, no more apologies.
Gran. See, sir, Mr. Willling is going to enterlain us. Sir G. Ay, that must be rare stuff indeed.
Wit. But, madam, if I sing, you shall promise ine to dance, then.
Char. Ol, any composition! I'll do it with all my heart.
Lady W. But the words.
Wit. You must know, then, this cantata is of a dirferent species from the passion generally expressed in our modern
operas; for there you see your lover usually approaches the fair lady with sighs, tears, torments, and dying. Now, here I show you the way of making love like a pretly fellow; that is, like a man of sense, all life, and gaiety As for exampple
Char. Pray, mind.
Tbus to a pensive swain,
Of gaining hearts
From cold disdain,
To his despairing friend imparts.
Would you woo her