_Euph._ Tell him that _Oronces_ (for that is his dear Name) has all the Virtues that compose a perfect Hero. _Dor._ And tell him, that _Pigmy_ has all the Vices that go to equip an Attorney. _Euph._ That to one I cou'd be true to the last Moment of my Life. _Dor._ That for t'other, she'd cuckold him the very Day of her Marriage. This, Sir, in few Words, is the Theme you are desir'd to preach upon. _Esop._ I never yet had one that furnish'd me with more Matter. _Enter Servant._ _Ser._ My Lord, there's a Lady below desires to speak with your Honour. _Esop._ What Lady? _Ser._ 'Tis my Lady--my Lady--[_To ~Doris~._] The Lady there, the wise-Lady, the great Scholar, that Nobody can understand. _Dor._ O ho, is it she? Pray let's withdraw, and oblige her, Madam; she's ready to swoon at the insipid Sight of one of her own Sex. _Euph._ You'll excuse us, Sir; we leave you to wiser Company. [_Exeunt ~Euph~. and ~Dor~._ _Enter ~Hortensia~._ _Hort._ The Deess, who from _Atropos_'s Breast preserves the Names of Heroes and their Actions, proclaims your Fame throughout this mighty Orb, and---- _Esop._ [_Aside._] Shield me, my Stars! What have you sent me here? For Pity's Sake, good Lady, be more humane: My Capacity is too heavy, to mount to your Style: If you wou'd have me know what you mean, please to come down to my Understanding. _Hort._ I've something in my Nature soars too high For vulgar Flight, I own; But _Esop_'s Sphere must needs be within Call; _Esop_ and I may sure converse together: I know he's modest, but I likewise know His Intellects are categorical. _Esop._ Now, by my Faith, Lady, I don't know what _Intellect_ is; and methinks, _categorical_ sounds as if you call'd me Names. Pray, speak that you may be understood: Language was design'd for it; indeed it was. _Hort._ Of vulgar Things in vulgar Phrase we talk; But when of _Esop_ we must speak, The Theme's too lofty for an humble Style: _Esop_ is sure no common Character. _Esop._ No, truly; I am something particular. Yet if I am not mistaken, what I have extraordinary about me, may be describ'd in very homely Language. Here was a young Gentlewoman but just now pencil'd me out to a Hair, I thought; and yet, I vow to God, the learned'st Word I heard her make use of, was Monster. _Hort._ That was a Woman, Sir, a very Woman; Her Cogitations all were on the outward Man: But I strike deeper; 'tis the Mind I view. The Soul's the worthy Object of my Care; The Soul, that Sample of Divinity, that glorious Ray of heavenly Light. The Soul, that awful Throne of Thought, that sacred Seat of Contemplation. The Soul, that noble Source of Wisdom, That Fountain of Comfort, That Spring of Joy, that happy Token of eternal Life. The Soul, that---- _Esop._ Pray, Lady, are you married? _Hort._ Why that Question, Sir?