_L. Sh._ Hist, hist, here's Fardingale. _Enter_ FARDINGALE. _Far._ Lady Harriot, Lady Sharlot! I'll entertain you now, I've a new song just come hot out of the poet's brain. Lady Sharlot, my cousin Campley writ it, and 'tis set to a pretty air, I warrant you. _L. Ha._ 'Tis like to be pretty indeed, of his writing. [_Flings away._ _Far._ Come, come, this is not one of your tringham trangham witty things, that your poor poets write; no, 'tis well known my cousin Campley has two thousand pounds a year. But this is all dissimulation in you. _L. Sh._ 'Tis so, indeed, for your cousin's song is very pretty, Mrs. Fardingale. [_Reads._] Let not love on me bestow Soft distress and tender woe; I know none but substantial blisses, Eager glances, solid kisses; I know not what the lovers feign, Of finer pleasure mixed with pain. Then prithee give me, gentle boy, None of thy grief, but all thy joy.[23] But Harriot thinks that a little unreasonable, to expect one without enduring t'other. _Enter_ SERVANT. _Ser._ There's your cousin Campley to wait on you without. _Far._ Let him come in, we shall have the song now. _Enter_ CAMPLEY. _Cam._ Ladies, your most obedient servant; your servant, Lady Sharlot--servant Lady Harriot--[HARRIOT _looks grave upon him_] What's the matter, dear Lady Harriot, not well? I protest to you I'm mightily concerned [_Pulls out a bottle_]. This is a most excellent spirit, snuff it up, madam. _L. Ha._ Pish--the familiar coxcomb frets me heartily. _Cam._ 'Twill over, I hope, immediately. _L. Sh._ Your cousin Fardingale has shown us some of your poetry; there's the spinet, Mr. Campley, I know you're musical. _Cam._ She should not have called it my poetry. _Far._ No--who waits there--pray bring my lute out of the next room. _Enter_ SERVANT _with a Lute._ You must know I conned this song before I came in, and find it will go to an excellent air of old Mr. Lawes's[24], who was my mother's intimate acquaintance; my mother's, what do I talk of? I mean my grandmother's. Oh, here's the lute; cousin Campley, hold the song upon your hat.--[_Aside to him_] 'Tis a pretty gallantry to a relation. [_Sings and Squalls._] Let not love, &c. Oh! I have left off these things many a day. _Cam._ No; I profess, madam, you do it admirably, but are not assured enough. Take it higher [_in her own squall_]. Thus--I know your voice will bear it. _L. Ha._ O hideous! O the gross flatterer--I shall burst. Mrs. Fardingale, pray go on, the music fits the words most aptly. Take it higher, as your cousin advises. _Far._ Oh! dear madam, do you really like it? I do it purely to please you, for I can't sing, alas! _L. Sh._ We know it, good madam, we know it. But pray---- _Far._ "Let not love," and "substantial blisses," is lively enough, and ran accordingly in the tune. [_Curtsies to the company._] Now I took it higher.