_Madam._ Matam; you must laugh at him in all de place dat you meet him, and turn into de reticule all he say, and all he do. _Lady Fan._ Why, truly, Satire has ever been of wondrous use to reform Ill-manners. Besides, 'tis my particular Talent to ridicule Folks. I can be severe, strangely severe, when I will, _Madamoiselle_----Give me the Pen and Ink----I find myself whimsical----I'll write to him----Or I'll let it alone, and be severe upon him that way [_Sitting down to write, rising up again._]--Yet Active Severity is better than Passive. [_Sitting down._]----'Tis as good let it alone, too; for every Lash I give him, perhaps, he'll take for a Favour. [_Rising._]----Yet 'tis a thousand pities so much Satire should be lost. [_Sitting._]---- But if it shou'd have a wrong Effect upon him, 'twould distract me. [_Rising._]----Well, I must write, tho', after all, [_Sitting._]----Or I'll let it alone, which is the same thing. [_Rising._] Madam. _La voilà determinée._ [_Exeunt._ [Illustration] +ACT+ III. +SCENE+ _opens; Sir ~John~, Lady ~Brute~ and ~Belinda~ rising from the Table._ _Sir John._ Here, take away the Things; I expect Company. But first bring me a Pipe; I'll smoak. [_To a Servant._ _Lady Brute._ Lord, Sir _John_, I wonder you won't leave that nasty Custom. _Sir John._ Pr'ythee, don't be impertinent. _Bel._ [_To Lady ~Brute~._] I wonder who those People are he expects this Afternoon? _Lady Brute._ I'd give the World to know: Perhaps 'tis _Constant_--he comes here sometimes: if it does prove him, I'm resolv'd I'll share the Visit. _Bel._ We'll send for our Work, and sit here. _Lady Brute._ He'll choak us with his Tobacco. _Bel._ Nothing will choak us when we are doing what we have a mind to. _Lovewell!_ _Enter ~Lovewell~._ _Lov._ Madam. _Lady Brute._ Here; bring my Cousin's Work and mine hither. [_Exit ~Lov~. and re-enters with their Work._ _Sir John._ Whu! Pox, can't you work somewhere else? _Lady Brute._ We shall be careful not to disturb you, Sir. _Bel._ Your Pipe would make you too thoughtful, Uncle, if you were left alone; our Prittle-prattle will cure your Spleen. _Sir John._ Will it so, Mrs. Pert? Now I believe it will so increase it, [_Sitting and smoaking._] I shall take my own House for a Paper-mill. _Lady Brute._ [_To ~Bel~. aside._] Don't let's mind him; let him say what he will. _Sir John._ A Woman's Tongue a Cure for the Spleen!--Oons--[_Aside._] If a Man had got the Head-ach, they'd be for applying the same Remedy. _Lady Brute._ You have done a great deal, _Belinda_, since yesterday. _Bel._ Yes, I have work'd very hard; how do you like it? _Lady Brute._ O, 'tis the prettiest Fringe in the World. Well, Cousin, you have the happiest Fancy: Pr'ythee, advise me about altering my Crimson Petticoat.