_Esop._ Only that I might wait upon your Husband, to wish him Joy. _Hort._ When People of my Composition would marry, they first find something of their own Species to join with; I never could resolve to take a Thing of common Fabric to my Bed, lest, when his brutish Inclinations prompt him, he shou'd make me Mother to a Form like his own. _Esop._ Methinks, a Lady so extremely nice should be much at a Loss who to converse with. _Hort._ I keep my Chamber, and converse with myself; 'tis better being alone, than to mis-ally one's Conversation: Men are scandalous, and Women are insipid: Discourse without Figure makes me sick at my Soul: O the Charms of a Metaphor! What Harmony there is in the Words of Erudition! The Musick of them is inimaginable. _Esop._ Will you hear a Fable, Lady? _Hort._ Willingly, Sir; the Apologue pleases me, when the Application of it is just. _Esop._ It is, I'll answer for it. _Once on a Time a Nightingale, To Changes prone, Unconstant, fickle, whimsical, (A Female one) Who sung like others of her kind, Hearing a well-taught Linnet's Airs, Had other Matters in her Mind. To imitate him she prepares; Her Fancy strait was on the Wing: I fly, quoth she, As well as he; I don't know why I should not try As well as he to sing. From that Day forth she chang'd her Note, She spoil'd her Voice, she strain'd her Throat: She did, as learned Women do, Till every Thing That heard her sing Wou'd run away from her----as I from you._ [_~Exit~ Esop ~running~._ _~Hortensia~ sola._ How grossly does this poor World suffer itself to be impos'd upon!----_Esop_, a Man of Sense----Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! Alas, poor Wretch! I shou'd not have known him but by his Deformity; his Soul's as nauseous to my Understanding, as his odious Body to my Sense of Feeling. Well, _'Mongst all the Wits that are allow'd to shine, Methinks there's nothing yet approaches mine: Sure I was sent the homely Age t'adorn; } What Star, I know not, rul'd when I was born, } But every Thing besides myself's my Scorn._ } [Exit. [Illustration] +ACT+ II. _Enter ~Euphronia~ and ~Doris~._ _Dor._ What, in the Name of _Jove_, 's the matter with you? Speak, for Heaven's sake! _Euph._ Oh! what shall I do? _Doris_, I'm undone. _Dor._ What, ravish'd? _Euph._ No, ten times worse! Ten times worse! Unlace me, or I shall swoon. _Dor._ Unlace you? Why, you are not thereabouts, I hope? _Euph._ No no, worse still; worse than all that. _Dor._ Nay, then 'tis bad, indeed. [_~Doris~ unlaces her._ There: How d'ye do now? _Euph._ So; 'tis going over.