_Polly_. I am sorry, Madam, my Health will not allow me to accept of your Offer.—I should not have left you in the rude manner I did when we met last, Madam, had not my Papa haul’d me away so unexpectedly—I was indeed somewhat provok’d, and perhaps might use some Expressions that were disrespectful.—But really, Madam, the Captain treated me with so much Contempt and Cruelty, that I deserv’d your Pity, rather than your Resentment. _Lucy_. But since his Escape, no doubt all Matters are made up again.—Ah _Polly_! _Polly_! ’tis I am the unhappy Wife; and he loves you as if you were only his Mistress. _Polly_. Sure, Madam, you cannot think me so happy as to be the object of your Jealousy.—A Man is always afraid of a Woman who loves him too well—so that I must expect to be neglected and avoided. _Lucy_. Then our Cases, my dear _Polly_, are exactly alike. Both of us indeed have been too fond. AIR XLVIII. O _Bessy Bell_. Polly. _A Curse attend that Woman’s Love_, _Who always would be pleasing_. Lucy. _The Pertness of the billing Dove_, _Like Tickling_, _is but teazing_. Polly. _What then in Love can Woman do_: Lucy. _If we grow fond they shun us_. Polly. _And when we fly them_, _they pursue_: Lucy. _But leave us when they’ve won us_. _Lucy_. Love is so very whimsical in both Sexes, that it is impossible to be lasting.—But my Heart is particular, and contradicts my own Observation. _Polly_. But really, Mistress _Lucy_, by his last Behaviour, I think I ought to envy you.—When I was forc’d from him, he did not shew the least Tenderness.—But perhaps, he hath a Heart not capable of it. AIR XLIX. Would Fate to me _Belinda_ give. _Among the Men_, _Coquettes we find_, _Who court by turns all Woman-kind_; _And we grant all their Hearts desir’d_, _When they are flatter’d_, _and admir’d_. The Coquettes of both Sexes are Self-lovers, and that is a Love no other whatever can dispossess. I hear, my dear _Lucy_, our Husband is one of those. _Lucy_. Away with these melancholy Reflections,—indeed, my dear _Polly_, we are both of us a Cup too low—Let me prevail upon you to accept of my Offer. AIR L. Come, sweet Lass. _Come_, _sweet Lass_, _Let’s banish Sorrow_ _’Till To-morrow_; _Come_, _sweet Lass_, _Let’s take a chirping Glass_. _Wine can clear_ _The Vapours of Despair_ _And make us light as Air_; _Then drink_, _and banish Care_. I can’t bear, Child, to see you in such low Spirits.—And I must persuade you to what I know will do you good. [_Aside_.] I shall now soon be even with the hypocrytical Strumpet. [_Exit_.