Har. [aside]. Can he dance?
Emil. And fence and sing too, if you’ll believe him.
Dor. He has no more excellence in his heels than in his head. He went to Paris a plain bashful English blockhead, and is returned a fine undertaking French fop.
Med. I cannot prevail.
Sir Fop. Do not think it want of complaisance, madam.
Har. You are too well bred to want that, Sir Fopling. I believe it want of power.
Sir Fop. By heavens! and so it is. I have sat up so damned late and drunk so cursed bard since I came to this lewd town, that I am fit for nothing but low dancing now, a corant, bourée, or a menuet; but St. André tells me, if I will but be regular, in one month I shall rise again. Pox on this debauchery!
[Endeavours at a caper.
Emil. I have heard your dancing much commended.
Sir Fop. It had the good fortune to please in Paris. I was judged to rise within an inch as high as the basque, in an entry I danced there.
Har. I am mightily taken with this fool; let us sit. Here’s a seat, Sir Fopling.
Sir Fop. At your feet, madam; I can be nowhere so much at ease: by your leave, gown.
Har. and Emil. Ah! you’ll spoil it.
Sir Fop. No matter, my clothes are my creatures; I make ’em to make my court to you ladies, hey—
[Dance.
Qu’on commence—to an English dancer English motions. I was forced to entertain this fellow, one of my set miscarrying— Oh, horrid! leave your damned manner of dancing, and put on the French air; have you not a pattern before you—pretty well! Imitation in time may bring him to something.
After the dance enter O
O. Bell. Hey, adod! what have we here, a mumming?
Lady Wood. Where’s my daughter—Harriet?
Dor. Here, here, madam. I know not but under these disguises there may be dangerous sparks; I gave the young lady warning.
Lady Wood. Lord! I am so obliged to you, Mr. Courtage.
Har. Lord! how you admire this man.
Lady Wood. What have you to except against him?
Har. He’s a fop.
Lady Wood. He’s not a Dorimant, a wild extravagant fellow of the times.