[_Gives her a hearty Kiss._ Madam. _A ça_----I hide myself in one cunning Place, where I hear all, and see all. First, dy drunken Master come _mal a propos_; but de Sot no know his own dear Wife, so he leave her to her Sport--Den de Game begin. De Lover say soft ting: De Lady look upon de Ground. [_As she speaks, ~Rasor~ still acts the Man, and she the Woman._] He take her by de Hand: She turn her Head on oder Way. Den he squeeze very hard: Den she pull----very softly. Den he take her in his Arm: Den she give him leetel pat. Den he kiss her Tettons. Den she say--Pish, nay see. Den he tremble: Den she--sigh. Den he pull her into de Arbour: Den she pinch him. _Rasor._ Aye, but not so hard, you Baggage, you. _Madam._ Den he grow bold: She grow weak, he tro her down, _il tombe dessu, le Diable assiste, il emport tout_. [_~Rasor~ struggles with her, as if he would throw her down._] Stand off, Sirrah! _Rasor._ You have set me a-fire, you Jade, you. _Madam._ Den go to de River, and quench dy self. _Rasor._ What an unnatural Harlot 'tis! _Madam._ _Rasor._ [_Looking languishingly on him._ _Rasor._ _Madamoiselle._ _Madam._ Dou no love me. _Rasor._ Not love thee?--More than a _Frenchman_ does Soup. _Madam._ Den dou will refuse nothing dat I bid dee? _Rasor._ Don't bid me be damn'd, then. _Madam._ No, only tell dy Master all I have tell dee of dy Laty. _Rasor._ Why, you little, malicious Strumpet, you, shou'd you like to be serv'd so? _Madam._ Dou dispute den?--Adieu. _Rasor._ Hold--But why wilt thou make me such a Rogue, my Dear? Madam. _Voila un vrai Anglois! Il est amoureux, et cependant il veut raisonner. Va t'en au Diable._ _Rasor._ Hold once more: In hopes thou'lt give me up thy Body, I resign thee my Soul. Madam. _Bon, ecoute donc_;----If dou fail me----I never see de more----If dou obey me----_Je m'abandonne a toy._ [_She takes him about the Neck, and gives him a smacking Kiss._] [_Exit ~Madamoiselle~._ _Rasor._ [_Licking his Lips._] Not be a Rogue?----_Amor vincit Omnia._ [_Exit ~Rasor~._ _Enter Lady ~Fancyfull~ and ~Madamoiselle~._ _Lady Fan._ Marry, say ye? Will the two Things marry? Madam. _On le va faire, Madame._ _Lady Fan._ Look you, _Madamoiselle_--In short, I can't bear it----No; I find I can't--If once I see 'em a-bed together, I shall have ten thousand Thoughts in my Head will make me run distracted. Therefore run and call _Rasor_ back immediately; for something must be done to stop this impertinent Wedding. If I can but defer it four-and-twenty Hours, I'll make such Work about Town, with that little pert Slut's Reputation, he shall as soon marry a Witch. Madam. [_Aside._] _La voilà bien intentionnée._ [Exeunt.