_Geo._ Ha, she spoke in passing by that gay thing--What means it, but I’ll trace the Mystery. Sir _Row._ The young People are lazy, and here’s nothing but gaping and peeping in one another’s Vizards; come, Madam, let you and I shame ‘em into Action. [Sir _Rowland_ and Lady _Youthly_ dance. After the Dance, _Olivia_ enters with a Letter, and gives it to _Welborn_. _Wel._ Ha! what’s this, Sir, a Challenge? _Oliv._ A soft one, Sir. _Wel._ A Billet--whoever the Lady be, [Reads. She merits something for but believing I am worth her Mirth. _Oliv._ I know not, Sir, how great a Jest you may make of it; but I assure you the Lady is in earnest, and if you be at leisure to hear Reason from her-- _Wel._ Fair and softly, my dear Love-Messenger, I am for no hasty Bargains; not but I shou’d be glad to hear Reason from any of the Sex--But I have been so damnably jilted--Is she of Quality? _Oliv._ Yes. _Wel._ Then I’ll not hear any thing from her: they are troublesome, and insolent; and if she have a Husband, to hide her Intrigues she has recourse to all the little Arts and Cunnings of her Sex; and she that jilts her Husband, will her Lover. _Oliv._ She is not troubled with a Husband, Sir. _Wel._ What, she’s parted from the Fool! then she’s expensive, and for want of Alimony, jilts all the believing Block-heads that she meets with. _Oliv._ But this is a Maid, Sir. _Wel._ Worse still! At every turn she’s raving on her Honour; then if she have a Kinsman, or a Brother, I must be challeng’d. _Oliv._ Sir, you mistake, my Lady is for Matrimony. _Wel._ How! _Oliv._ You have not forsworn it, I hope. _Wel._ Not so--but-- _Oliv._ If a Lady, young and handsom, and Ten Thousand Pounds-- _Wel._ Nay, I am not positive-- Enter Sir _Morgan_, and Sir _Merlin_, drunk, singing. _Wise Coxcombs be damn’d, here’s a health to the Man, That since Life is but short, lives as long as he can._ Sir _Morg._ Where is my Lady _Mirtilla_, Rogues? Sir _Mer._ And my Mistress, Rascals? For we are resolv’d to shew our selves in Triumph to our Wives and Mistresses. L. _Youth._ Your Mistress, Sir _Merlin_? mistake not your Mark. Sir _Mer._ Ha! Art thou there, old Cathedral? Why, thou look’st as magnificiently as old Queen _Bess_ in the _Westminster_-Cupboard. Sir _Morg._ Lookye as de see, when _Adam_ wore a Beard, she was in her Prime, or so, de see. [Sings. L. _Youth._ Sir, you are a saucy _Jack_, and your Father shall correct you. Sir _Mer._ My Father! my Father’s an old Toast, de see; and I hope to see him hang’d. Sir _Row._ Here’s a Heathen-Christian! see his Father hang’d! Sir _Mer._ Ay, hang’d, and all the old Fathers in _Christendom_. Why, what a Pox shou’d Fathers trouble the World for? when I come to reign in Parliament, I will enact it Felony, for any Father to have so little Grace to live, that has a Son at Years of Discretion. Sir _Row._ A damn’d Rogue, I’ll disinherit him immediately.