L. _Rod_. You talk of Love with an unusual Warmth, you seem to feel it too, and talk with Pleasure; and yet strange wand'ring Notions teaze your Fancy, whose vain Allurements tantalize your Reason, and force you from the Happiness you wish for. He that loves truly, loves without reserve; the Object is the Centre of his Wishes, but your wild Sex that hurry after Pleasure, whose headstrong Passions kindle ev'ry moment, admire each Nymph, and eager to possess, you burn, you rage, and talk in tragick Strains: But when the easy Maid believes, and blesses, when once you ha' rifl'd, ravish'd and enjoy'd, ungratefully you slight the yielding Charmer; your Love boil'd o'er descends to cold Indifference, and a regardless Look rewards her Favours; were I inclin'd to wave my Resolutions, and yield my self a Victim to Love's Pow'r, were I to chuse a Man by Fortune slighted, and raise him to a more than common Affluence; such is the Temper of your graceless Sex, there's not a Cottage Swain that proves sincere. _Coll_. Cou'd you then, Madam, condescend to love, and cou'd a Lover manifest his Passion, by constant waiting, vigilant Observance, by sacerdotal Plights, and Faith inviolate, wou'd you prove kind, and take him to your Arms. L. _Rod_. Of things impossible we lightly talk; if such a Man were found, perhaps, I might. _Coll_. Cherish that Thought; believe there is that Man; believe you see him now; observe him well. L. _Rod_. Ha! _Coll_. Read from his Eyes his passionate Concern, his flattering Hopes, his anxious killing Fears; examine ev'ry Symptom, feel his Tremblings, search to his Heart, and there find Truth unblemish'd; approve his Flame, and nourish it with Favours. L. _Rod_. Have I caught you, Collonel; is this the Sum of all your Self-sufficiency, your Matrimonial Hate, and boasted Liberty. [_Aside_.] His Merits probably may vie with any, but sure he last shou'd hope a Lady's Graces, who saucily arraigns her Sex's Pow'r. _Enter_ Nicknack. Mr. _Nicknack_, I have a Miracle to tell you, the Collonel from a blustering, ranting Heroe is dwindl'd to a panting, pining Lover; talks in blank Verse, and Sighs in mournful postures: He the fam'd _Pyramus_, and I bright _Thisbe_. _Nic_. I thought, Madam, the Collonel had been a profess'd Marriage-hater. L. _Rod_. Mr. _Nicknack_, we'll divert our selves at Picquet. When you recover, Collonel, from this Lethargy, you'll play a Pool with us; Ladies admit all sorts to lose their Mony. [_Exit Lady_ Rod. _and_ Nick. _Coll_. I have plaid a fine Card truly, now shall I be number'd with those doating Fools, her Pride encourages, then Jilts, and laughs at. She's fair, but, oh! the Treachery of her Sex. _Enter Sir_ Harry.