_Hardy._ Hang me, if I don't though. I foresee very clearly what will be the end of it, if I leave ye to yourselves; so, I'll e'en follow him to the Masquerade, and tell him all about it: Let me see.--What shall my dress be? A Great Mogul? No.--A Grenadier? No;--no, that, I foresee, would make a laugh. Hang me, if I don't send to my favourite little Quick, and borrow his Jew Isaac's dress:--I know the Dog likes a glass of good wine; so I'll give him a bottle of my Forty-eight, and he shall teach me. Aye, that's it--I'll be Cunning Little Isaac! If they complain of my want of wit, I'll tell 'em the cursed Duenna wears the breeches, and has spoilt my parts. [_Exit_ Hardy. SCENE II.----_Courtall_'s. _Enter_ Courtall, Saville, _and three others, from an Apartment in the back Scene_. (_The last three tipsey._) _Court._ You shan't go yet:--Another catch, and another bottle! _First Gent._ May I be a bottle, and an empty bottle, if you catch me at that!--Why, I am going to the Masquerade. Jack----, you know who I mean, is to meet me, and we are to have a leap at the new lustres. _Second Gent._ And I am going too--a Harlequin--(_hiccups_) Am not I in a pretty pickle to make Harlequinades?----And Tony, here--he is going in the disguise--in the disguise--of a Gentleman! _First Gent._ We are all very disguised; so bid them draw up--D'ye hear! [_Exeunt the three Gentlemen._ _Sav._ Thy skull, Courtall, is a Lady's thimble:--no, an egg-shell. _Court._ Nay, then you are gone too; you never aspire to similes, but in your cups. _Sav._ No, no; I am steady enough--but the fumes of the wine pass directly through thy egg-shell, and leave thy brain as cool as----Hey! I am quite sober; my similes fail me. _Court._ Then we'll sit down here, and have one sober bottle.--Bring a table and glasses. _Sav._ I'll not swallow another drop; no, though the juice should be the true Falernian. _Court._ By the bright eyes of her you love, you shall drink her health. _Sav._ Ah! (_sitting down_.) Her I loved is gone (_sighing._)--She's married! _Court._ Then bless your stars you are not her Husband! I would be Husband to no Woman in Europe, who was not dev'lish rich, and dev'lish ugly. _Sav._ Wherefore ugly? _Court._ Because she could not have the conscience to exact those attentions that a Pretty Wife expects; or, if she should, her resentments would be perfectly easy to me, nobody would undertake to revenge her cause. _Sav._ Thou art a most licentious fellow! _Court._ I should hate my own wife, that's certain; but I have a warm heart for those of other people; and so here's to the prettiest Wife in England--Lady Frances Touchwood. _Sav._ Lady Frances Touchwood! I rise to drink her. (_drinks_) How the devil came Lady Frances in your head? I never knew you give a Woman of Chastity before. _Court._ That's odd, for you have heard me give half the Women of Fashion in England.--But, pray now, what do you take a Woman of Chastity to be? (_sneeringly._)