Aria. None that I fear, that Stranger’s not such a fool to give his Heart to a common Woman; and she that’s concern’d where her Lover bestows his Body, were I the Man, I should think she had a mind to’t her self. Luc. And reason, Madam: in a lawful way ’tis your due. Aria. What all? unconscionable _Lucia!_ I am more merciful; but be he what he will, I’ll to this cunning Man, to know whether ever any part of him shall be mine. Luc. Lord, Madam, sure he’s a Conjurer. 150 Aria. Let him be the Devil, I’ll try his Skill, and to that end will put on a Suit of my Cousin _Endymion_; there are two or three very pretty ones of his in the Wardrobe, go carry ’em to my Chamber, and we’ll fit our selves and away—Go haste whilst I undress. [Ex. _Lucia_. [_Ariadne_ undressing before the Glass. Enter _Beaumond_ tricking himself, and looks on himself. Beau. Now for my charming Beauty, fair _La Nuche_—hah—Ariadne—damn the dull Property, how shall I free my self? [She turns, sees him, and walks from the Glass, he takes no notice of her, but tricks himself in the Glass, humming a Song. Aria. _Beaumond!_ What Devil brought him hither to prevent me? I hate the formal matrimonial Fop. [He walks about and sings. Sommes nous pas trop heureux, Belle Irise, que nous ensemble. A Devil on him, he may chance to plague me till night, and hinder my dear Assignation. [Sings again. La Nuit et le Sombre voiles Coverie nos desires ardentes; Et l’Amour et les Etoiles Sont nos secrets confidents. Beau. Pox on’t, how dull am I at an excuse? [Sets his Wig in the Glass, and sings. A Pox of Love and Woman-kind, And all the Fops adore ’em. [Puts on his Hat, cocks it, and goes to her. How is’t, Cuz? Aria. So, here’s the saucy freedom of a Husband Lover—a blest Invention this of marrying, whoe’er first found it out. Beau. Damn this _English_ Dog of a Perriwig-maker, 151 what an ungainly Air it gives the Face, and for a Wedding Perriwig too—how dost thou like it, _Ariadne?_ [Uneasy. Aria. As ill as the Man—I perceive you have taken more care for your Perriwig than your Bride. Beau. And with reason, _Ariadne_, the Bride was never the care of the Lover, but the business of the Parents; ’tis a serious Affair, and ought to be manag’d by the grave and wise: Thy Mother and my Uncle have agreed the Matter, and would it not look very sillily in me now to whine a tedious Tale of Love in your Ear, when the business is at an end? ’tis like saying a Grace when a Man should give Thanks. Aria. Why did you not begin sooner then? Beau. Faith, _Ariadne_, because I know nothing of the Design in hand; had I had civil warning, thou shouldst have had as pretty smart Speeches from me, as any Coxcomb Lover of ’em all could have made thee. Aria. I shall never marry like a _Jew_ in my own Tribe; I’ll rather be possest by honest old doating Age, than by saucy conceited Youth, whose Inconstancy never leaves a Woman safe or quiet.