[_Enter Page._ _Page._ Sir. _Lord Fop._ Sir! Pray, Sir, do me the Favour to teach your Tongue the Title the King has thought fit to honour me with. _Page._ I ask your Lordship's Pardon, my Lord. _Lord Fop._ O, you can pronounce the Word then----I thought it would have choak'd you----D'ye hear? _Page._ My Lord. _Lord Fop._ Call La Varole, I wou'd dress-- [_Exit Page._ _Solus._ Well, 'tis an unspeakable Pleasure to be a Man of Quality----Strike me dumb----My Lord----Your Lordship----My Lord _Foppington_--_Ah! c'est quelque chose de beau, que le Diable m'emporte_---- Why the Ladies were ready to puke at me, whilst I had nothing but Sir _Novelty_ to recommend me to 'em----Sure whilst I was but a Knight, I was a very nauseous Fellow----Well, 'tis Ten Thousand Pawnd well given----stap my Vitals---- _Enter ~La Varole~._ Me Lord, de Shoemaker, de Taylor, de Hosier, de Sempstress, de Peru, be all ready, if your Lordship please to dress. _Lord Fop._ 'Tis well, admit 'em. _La Var._ Hey, Messieurs, entrez. _Enter ~Taylor~, ~&c.~_ _Lord Fop._ So, Gentlemen, I hope you have all taken pains to shew yourselves Masters in your Professions. _Tayl._ I think I may presume to say, Sir---- _La Var._ My Lord----you Clawn you. _Tayl._ Why, is he made a Lord?----My Lord, I ask your Lordship's Pardon; my Lord, I hope, my Lord, your Lordship will please to own, I have brought your Lordship as accomplish'd a Suit of Clothes, as ever Peer of _England_ trode the Stage in, my Lord: Will your Lordship please to try 'em now? _Lord Fop._ Ay, but let my People dispose the Glasses so, that I may see myself before and behind; for I love to see myself all raund---- [_Whilst he puts on his Clothes, enter ~Young Fashion~ and ~Lory~._ _Young Fash._ Hey-dey, what the Devil have we here? Sure my Gentleman's grown a Favourite at Court, he has got so many People at his Levee. _Lo._ Sir, these People come in order to make him a Favourite at Court, they are to establish him with the Ladies. _Young Fash._ Good God! to what an Ebb of Taste are Women fallen, that it shou'd be in the power of a lac'd Coat to recommend a Gallant to 'em---- _Lo._ Sir, Taylors and Perriwig-makers are now become the Bawds of the Nation, 'tis they debauch all the Women. _Young Fash._ Thou sayest true; for there's that Fop now, has not by Nature wherewithal to move a Cook-maid, and by that time these Fellows have done with him, I'gad he shall melt down a Countess----But now for my Reception, I engage it shall be as cold a one, as a Courtier's to his Friend, who comes to put him in mind of his Promise. _Lord Fop._ _to his Taylor._] Death and eternal Tartures! Sir, I say the Packet's too high by a Foot.