_Euph._ How foppish, how impertinent, and how nauseous are old Men, when they pretend to be so too! _Esop._ How pert is Youth! _Euph._ How dull is Age! _Esop._ Why so sharp, young Lady? _Euph._ Why so blunt, old Gentleman? _Esop._ 'Tis enough; I'll to your Father, I know how to deal with him, though I don't know how to deal with you. Before to-morrow Noon, Damsel, Wife shall be written on your Brow. [_Exit ~Esop~._ _Euph._ Then before to-morrow Night, Statesman, Husband shall be stampt upon your Forehead. [_Exit ~Euph~._ [Illustration] +ACT+ IV. _Enter ~Oronces~ and ~Doris~._ _Dor._ Patience, I beseech you. _Oron._ Patience! What, and see that lovely Creature thrown into the Arms of that pedantick Monster! 'Sdeath, I'd rather see the World reduc'd to A'toms, Mankind turn'd into Crawfish, and myself an old Woman. _Dor._ So you think an old Woman a very unfortunate thing, I find; but you are mistaken, Sir; she may plague other Folks, but she's as entertaining to herself, as any one Part of the Creation. _Oron._ [_Walking to and fro._] She's the Devil----and I'm one of the damn'd, I think. But I'll make somebody howl for't; I will so. _Dor._ You'll e'en do as all the young Fellows in the Town do, spoil your own Sport: Ah----had young Mens Shoulders but old Courtiers Heads upon 'em, what a delicious Time wou'd they have on't! For shame, be wise; for your Mistress's sake at least use some Caution. _Oron._ For her sake I'll respect, even like a Deity, her Father. He shall strike me, he shall tread upon me, and find me humbler even than a crawling Worm, for I'll not turn again; but for _Esop_, that unfinish'd Lump, that Chaos of Humanity, I'll use him----nay, expect it, for I'll do it----the first Moment that I'll see him, I'll---- _Dor._ Not challenge him, I hope----'Twould be a pretty sight, truly, to see _Esop_ drawn up in Battalia! Fye for shame, be wise once in your Life; think of gaining Time, by putting off the Marriage for a Day or two, and not of waging War with a Pigmy. Yonder's the old Gentleman walking by himself in the Gallery; go and wheedle him, you know his weak side; he's good-natur'd in the bottom. Stir up his old fatherly Bowels a little, I'll warrant you'll move him at last: go, get you gone, and play your Part discreetly. _Oron._ Well, I'll try; but if Words won't do with one, Blows shall with t'other; by Heavens, they shall. [_Exit. ~Oron~._ _Doris ~sola~._