_Esop._ The Injury he wou'd have done to you was great indeed: But 'twas a Blessing he design'd for me. If, therefore, you can pardon him, I may. [_To ~Lear~._] Your injur'd Daughter, Sir, has on her Knees intreated for her cruel, barbarous Father; and by her Goodness has obtain'd her Suit. If, in the Remnant of your Days, you can find out some way to recompense her, do it, that Men and Gods may pardon you, as she and I have done. But, let me see, I have one Quarrel still to make up. Where's my old Friend _Doris_? _Dor._ She's here, Sir, at your Service; and as much your Friend as ever; true to her Principles, and firm to her Mistress. But she has a much better Opinion of you now than she had half an Hour ago. _Esop._ She has reason: For my Soul appear'd then as deform'd as my Body. But I hope now, one may so far mediate for t'other, that, provided I don't make Love, the Women won't quarrel with me; for they are worse Enemies even than they are Friends. Come, Gentlemen, I'll humour my Dress a little longer, and share with you in the Diversions these boon Companions have prepar'd us. Let's take our Places, and see how they can divert us. _~Esop~ leads the Bride to her Place. All being seated, there's a short Concert of Hautboys, Trumpets, &c. After which a Dance between an old Man and a young Woman, who shuns him still at he comes near her. At last he stops, and begins this Dialogue, which they sing together._ Old Man. _Why so cold, and why so coy? What I want in Youth and Fire, I have in Love and in Desire: To my Arms, my Love, my Joy! Why so cold, and why so coy?_ Woman. _'Tis Sympathy, perhaps, with you; You are cold, and I'm so too._. Old Man. _My Years alone have froze my Blood; Youthful Heat in Female Charms, Glowing in my aged Arms, Wou'd melt it down once more into a Flood._ Woman. _Women, alas, like Flints, ne'er burn alone; To make a Virgin know There's Fire within the Stone, Some manly Steel must boldly strike the Blow._ Old Man. _Assist me only with your Charms, You'll find I'm Man, and still am bold; You'll find I still can strike, tho' old: I only want your Aid to raise my Arms._ Enter a Youth, who seizes on the young Woman. Youth. _Who talks of Charms, who talks of Aid? I bring an Arm That wants no Charm, To rouze the Fire that's in a flinty Maid. Retire, old Age: ----Winter, begone: Behold the youthful Spring comes gayly on. Here, here's a Torch to light a Virgin's Fire! To my Arms, my Love, my Joy; When Women have what they desire, They're neither cold nor coy._ [She takes him in her Arms.