_Lady Brute._ Because we have Intrigues of our own, that make us more Sport, Child. And so let's in and consider of 'em. [_Exeunt._ +SCENE+, _A Dressing-Room_. _Enter Lady ~Fancyfull~, ~Madamoiselle~, and ~Cornet~._ _Lady Fan._ How do I look this Morning? _Cor._ Your Ladyship looks very ill, truly. _Lady Fan._ Lard, how ill-natur'd thou art, _Cornet_, to tell me so, tho' the thing shou'd be true! Don't you know that I have Humility enough to be but too easily out of Conceit with myself? Hold the Glass; I dare swear that will have more Manners than you have. _Madamoiselle_, let me have your Opinion too. _Madam._ My opinion pe, Matam, dat your Latyship never look so well in your Life. _Lady Fan._ Well, the _French_ are the prettiest, obliging People; they say the most acceptable, well-manner'd things--and never flatter. _Madam._ Your Latyship say great Justice inteed. _Lady Fan._ Nay, every thing's just in my House but _Cornet_. The very Looking-Glass gives her the _Dementi_. But I'm almost afraid it flatters me, it makes me look so very engaging. [_Looking affectedly in the Glass._ _Madam._ Inteed, Matam, your face pe handsomer den all de Looking-Glass in de World, _croyez moy_. _Lady Fan._ But is it possible my Eyes can be so languishing--and so very full of Fire? _Madam._ Matam, if de Glass was Burning-Glass, I believe your Eyes set de Fire in de House. _Lady Fan._ You may take that Night-gown, _Madamoiselle_; get out of the Room, _Cornet_; I can't endure you. This Wench, methinks, does look so unsufferably ugly. _Madam._ Every ting look ugly, Matam, dat stand by your Latyship. _Lady Fan._ No really, _Madamoiselle_, methinks you look mighty pretty. _Madam._ Ah Matam! de Moon have no Eclat ven de Sun appear. _Lady Fan._ O pretty Expression! Have you ever been in Love, _Madamoiselle_? Madam. _Ouy_, Matame. [_Sighing._ _Lady Fan._ And were you belov'd again? Madam. _Non_, Matame. _Lady Fan._ O ye Gods! What an unfortunate Creature shou'd I be in such a Case! But Nature has made me nice, for my own Defence: I'm nice, strangely nice, _Madamoiselle_; I believe were the Merit of whole Mankind bestow'd upon one single Person, I shou'd still think the Fellow wanted something to make it worth my while to take notice of him; and yet I could love; nay, fondly love, were it possible to have a thing made on purpose for me: For I'm not cruel, _Madamoiselle_; I'm only nice. _Madam._ Ah Matam, I wish I was fine Gentleman for your sake. I do all de ting in de World to get leetel way into your Heart. I make Song, I make Verse, I give you de Serenade, I give great many Present to _Madamoiselle_; I no eat, I no sleep, I be lean, I be mad, I hang myself, I drown myself. _Ah ma chere Dame, que je vous aimerois!_