Dor. A ruelle is a pretty cage for a singing fop, indeed. Y
Ah, that she were as willing
To ease my wounded heart of care,
And make her eyes less killing!
I sigh! I sigh! I languish now,
And love will not let me rest;
I drive about the Park, and bow
Still as I meet my dearest
Sir Fop. Sing it, sing it, man; it goes to a pretty new tune, which I am confident was made by Baptiste.
Med. Sing it yourself, Sir Fopling; he does not know the tune.
Sir Fop. I’ll venture.
[Sir F
Dor. Ay, marry, now ’tis something. I shall not flatter you, Sir Fopling; there is not much thought in’t, but ’tis passionate, and well turned.
Med. After the French way.
Sir Fop. That I aimed at. Does it not give you a lively image of the thing? Slap down goes the glass, and thus we are at it.
Dor. It does indeed. I perceive, Sir Fopling, you’ll be the very head of the sparks who are lucky in compositions of this nature.
Enter Sir F
Sir Fop. La Tour, is the bath ready?
Footman. Yes, sir.
Sir Fop. Adieu donc, mes chers.
[Exit Sir F
Med. When have you your revenge on Loveit, Dorimant?
Dor. I will but change my linen, and about it.
Med. The powerful considerations which hindered have been removed then?
Dor. Most luckily this morning; you must along with me, my reputation lies at stake there.
Med. I am engaged to Bellair.
Dor. What’s your business?
Med. Ma-tri-mony, an’t like you.
Dor. It does not, sir.
Y. Bell. It may in time, Dorimant; what think you of Mrs. Harriet?
Dor. What does she think of me?
Y. Bell. I am confident she loves you.
Dor. How does it appear?