_Oliv._ Most excellent Trifles all! As for my out-side, I leave to the Discretion of the Chafferer; but I have a rare Device, call’d an Invention, that can do many Feats; a Courage that wou’d stock a Coward; and a pretty Implement, call’d a Heart, that will strike fire with any convenient force: I have eight thousand Pounds to let out on any able Security, but not a Groat unless I like the Man. _Ter._ Thus furnish’d, we shall ruin all the _Jews_, and undo the _India_ Houses--But where shall we show? where meet with the Love-Merchants? _Oliv._ What think you of the Gallery at the Play in Masks? _Ter._ Shu, a State-Trick, first taken up by Women of Quality, and now run into Ridicule, by all the little common Devils of the Town; and is only a Trap for a Termer, a small new rais’d Officer, or a City Cully, where they baul out their eighteen Pence in Baudy, and filthy Nonsense, to the disturbance of the whole House, and the King’s Peace: the Men of Quality have forsaken it. _Oliv._ What think you of the _Mall_? _Ter._ As too publick to end an Intrigue; our Affairs require a Conquest as sudden as that of _Cæsar_, who came, saw and overcame. _Oliv._ ‘Tis true, besides there’s so many Cruisers, we shall never board a Prize. What think you of the Church? _Ter._ An hypocritical Shift; of all Masks I hate that of Religion; and it shou’d be the last place I’d wish to meet a Lover in, unless to marry him. _Oliv._ And, Faith, that’s the last thing a Lover shou’d do, but we are compell’d to haste, ‘tis our last Refuge; if we cou’d but see and like our Men, the business were soon dispatcht.--Let me see--Faith, e’en put on Breeches too, and thus disguis’d seek our Fortune--I am within these three days to be fetch’d from _Hackney School_, where my Father believes me still to be, and thou in that time to be marry’d to the old Gentleman; Faith, resolve--and let’s in and dress thee--away, here’s my Lady-- [They run out. SCENE II. A Chamber. Enter _Mirtilla_ and Mrs. _Manage_. _Mir._ Ah, let me have that Song again. A Song by Mr. _Gildon_. I. _No, _Delia_, no: What Man can range From such Seraphic Pleasure? ‘Tis want of Charms that make us change, To grasp the Fury, Treasure. What Man of Sense wou’d quit a certain Bliss, For Hopes and empty Possibilities?_ II. _Vain Fools! that sure Possessions spend, In hopes of Chymic Treasure, But for their fancy’d Riches find Both want of Gold and Pleasure. Rich in my Delia, I can wish no more; The Wanderer, like the Chymist, must be poor._ _Man._ Not see him, Madam--I protest he’s handsomer, and handsomer, _Paris_ has given him such an Air:--Lord, he’s all over Monsieur--Not see him, Madam--Why? I hope you do not, like the foolish sort of Wives, design a strict Obedience to your Husband.