_Y. Mir._ France! A light, unseasoned country, nothing but feathers, foppery, and fashions.--There's nothing on this side the Alps worth my humble service t'ye--Ha, Roma la Santa!--Italy for my money!--their customs, gardens, buildings, paintings, music, policies, wine, and women! the paradise of the world!--not pestered with a parcel of precise, old, gouty fellows, that would debar their children every pleasure, that they themselves are past the sense of;--commend me to the Italian familiarity--"Here, son, there's fifty crowns, go, pay your girl her week's allowance." _Dur._ Ay, these are your fathers, for you, that understand the necessities of young men! not like our musty dads, who, because they cannot fish themselves, would muddy the water, and spoil the sport of them that can. But now you talk of the plump, what d'ye think of a Dutch woman? _Y. Mir._ A Dutch woman's too compact,--nay, every thing among them is so; a Dutch man is thick, a Dutch woman is squab, a Dutch horse is round, a Dutch dog is short, a Dutch ship is broad bottomed; and, in short, one would swear, that the whole product of the country were cast in the same mould with their cheeses. _Dur._ Ay, but Mirabel, you have forgot the English ladies. _Y. Mir._ The women of England were excellent, did they not take such unsufferable pains to ruin, what nature has made so incomparably well; they would be delicate creatures indeed, could they but thoroughly arrive at the French mien, or entirely let it alone; for they only spoil a very good air of their own, by an awkward imitation of ours. But come, Duretete, let us mind the business in hand; Mistresses we must have, and must take up with the manufacture of the place, and upon a competent diligence, we shall find those in Paris shall match the Italians from top to toe. _Dur._ Ay, Mirabel, you will do well enough, but what will become of your friend? you know, I am so plaguy bashful! so naturally an ass upon these occasions, that---- _Y. Mir._ Pshaw! you must be bolder, man! Travel three years, and bring home such a baby as bashfulness! A great lusty fellow, and a soldier; fie upon it! _Dur._ Lookye, sir, I can visit, and I can ogle a little,--as thus, or thus now. Then I can kiss abundantly--but if they chance to give me a forbidding look, as some women, you know, have a devilish cast with their eyes--or if they cry, "What do you mean? what d'ye take me for? Fie, sir, remember who I am, sir--A person of quality to be used at this rate!"--'Egad, I'm struck as flat as a fryingpan. _Y. Mir._ Words of course! never mind them: Turn you about upon your heel, with a jantée air; hum out the end of an old song; cut a cross caper, and at her again.