L. _Kno._ Ay, Mr. _Fancy_, in Consultation with the Antients.--Oh the delight of Books! when I was of their age, I always imploy’d my looser Hours in reading--if serious, ‘twas _Tacitus_, _Seneca_, _Plutarch’s Morals_, or some such useful Author; if in an Humour gay, I was for Poetry, _Virgil_, _Homer_ or _Tasso_. Oh that Love between _Renaldo_ and _Armida_, Mr. _Fancy_! Ah the Caresses that fair _Corcereis_ gave, and received from the young Warrior, ah how soft, delicate and tender! Upon my Honour I cannot read them in the Excellence of their Original Language, without I know not what Emotions. _Lean._ Methinks ‘tis very well in our Mother Tongue, Madam. L. _Kno._ O, Faugh, Mr. _Fancy_, what have you said, Mother Tongue! Can any thing that’s great or moving be express’d in filthy _English_?--I’ll give you an Energetical proof, Mr. _Fancy_; observe but divine _Homer_ in the _Grecian_ Language--_Ton d’ apamibominous prosiphe podas ochus Achilleus!_ Ah how it sounds! which English’t dwindles into the most grating stuff:--Then the swift-foot _Achilles_ made reply: oh, faugh. _Lucr._ So now my Mother’s in her right Sphere. L. _Kno._ Come, Mr. _Fancy_, we’ll pursue our first design of retiring into my Cabinet, and reading a leaf or two in _Martial_; I am a little dull, and wou’d fain laugh. _Lean._ Methinks, Madam, Discourse were much better with these young Ladies. Dear Lucretia, find some way to release me. [Aside. L. _Kno._ Oh, how I hate the impertinence of Women, who for the generality have no other knowledge than that of dressing; I am uneasy with the unthinking Creatures. _Lucr._ Indeed ‘tis much better to be entertaining a young Lover alone; but I’ll prevent her, if possible. [Aside. L. _Kno._ No, I am for the substantial pleasure of an Author. _Philosophemur!_ is my Motto,--I’m strangely fond of you, Mr. _Fancy_, for being a Scholar. _Lean._ Who, Madam, I a Scholar? the greatest Dunce in Nature--Malicious Creatures, will you leave me to her mercy? [To them aside. _Lucr._ Prithee assist him in his misery, for I am Mudd, and can do nothing towards it. [Aside. _Isab._ Who, my Cousin _Leander_ a Scholar, Madam? _Lucr._ Sure he’s too much a Gentleman to be a Scholar. _Isab._ I vow, Madam, he spells worse than a Country Farrier when he prescribes a Drench. _Lean._ Then, Madam, I write the leudest hand. _Isab._ Worse than a Politician or a States-man. _Lucr._ He cannot read it himself when he has done. _Lean._ Not a word on’t, Madam. _L. Kno._ This agreement to abuse him, I understand-- [Aside. --Well, then, Mr. _Fancy_, let’s to my Cabinet--your hand. _Lean._ Now shall I be teas’d unmercifully,--I’ll wait on you, Madam. [Exit Lady. --Find some means to redeem me, or I shall be mad. [Exit _Lean._ Enter _Lodwick_.