_Miss Ogle._ Come, Lady Frances! don't hesitate!--the minutes are precious. _Lady Fran._ I could find in my heart!--and yet I won't give up neither.--If I should in this instance, he'll expect it for ever. [_Exeunt Lady_ Frances, _and Mrs._ Racket. _Miss Ogle._ Now you act like a Woman of Spirit. [_Exeunt Miss_ Ogle, _and Mrs._ Racket. _Flut._ A fair tug, by Jupiter--between Duty and Pleasure!--Pleasure beats, and off we go, _Iö triumphe_! [_Exit_ Flutter. _Scene changes to an Auction Room.--Busts, Pictures, &c. &c._ _Enter_ Silvertongue _with three Puffers_. _Silv._ Very well,--very well.--This morning will be devoted to curiosity; my sale begins to-morrow at eleven. But, Mrs. Fagg, if you do no better than you did in Lord Fillagree's sale, I shall discharge you.--You want a knack terribly: and this dress--why, nobody can mistake you for a Gentlewoman. _Fag._ Very true, Mr. Silvertongue; but I can't dress like a Lady upon Half-a-crown a day, as the saying is.--If you want me to dress like a Lady, you must double my pay.----Double or quits, Mr. Silvertongue. _Silv._----_Five Shillings_ a day! what a demand! Why, Woman, there are a thousand Parsons in the town, who don't make Five Shillings a day; though they preach, pray, christen, marry, and bury, for the Good of the Community.--Five Shillings a day!--why, 'tis the pay of a Lieutenant in a marching Regiment, who keeps a Servant, a Mistress, a Horse; fights, dresses, ogles, makes love, and dies upon Five Shillings a day. _Fag._ Oh, as to that, all that's very right. A Soldier should not be too fond of life; and forcing him to do all these things upon Five Shillings a day, is the readiest way to make him tir'd on't. _Silv._ Well, Mask, have you been looking into the Antiquaries?--have you got all the terms of art in a string--aye? _Mask._ Yes, I have: I know the Age of a Coin by the taste; and can fix the Birth-day of a Medal, _Anno Mundi_ or _Anno Domini_, though the green rust should have eaten up every character. But you know, the brown suit and the wig I wear when I personate the Antiquary, are in Limbo. _Silv._ Those you have on, may do. _Mask._ These!--Why, in these I am a young travell'd _Cognoscento_: Mr. Glib bought them of Sir Tom Totter's Valet; and I am going there directly. You know his Picture-Sale comes on to-day; and I have got my head full of Parmegiano, Sal Rosa, Metzu, Tarbaek, and Vandermeer. I talk of the relief of Woovermans, the spirit of Teniers, the colouring of the Venetian School, and the correctness of the Roman. I distinguish Claude by his Sleep, and Ruysdael by his Water. The rapidity of Tintoret's pencil strikes me at the first glance; whilst the harmony of Vandyk, and the glow of Correggio, point out their Masters. _Enter Company._ _1st Lady._ Hey-day, Mr. Silvertongue! what, nobody here!