_Dor._ In the country! nay, that's to fall beneath the town, for they live upon our offals here. Their entertainment of wit is only the remembrance of what they had when they were last in town;--they live this year upon the last year's knowledge, as their cattle do all night, by chewing the cud of what they eat in the afternoon. _Mel._ And they tell, for news, such unlikely stories! A letter from one of us is such a present to them, that the poor souls wait for the carrier's-day with such devotion, that they cannot sleep the night before. _Arte._ No more than I can, the night before I am to go a journey. _Dor._ Or I, before I am to try on a new gown. _Mel._ A song, that's stale here, will be new there a twelvemonth hence; and if a man of the town by chance come amongst them, he's reverenced for teaching them the tune. _Dor._ A friend of mine, who makes songs sometimes, came lately out of the west, and vowed he was so put out of countenance with a song of his; for, at the first country gentleman's he visited, he saw three tailors cross legged upon the table in the hall, who were tearing out as loud as ever they could sing, --After the pangs of a desperate lover, &c. And that all day he heard of nothing else, but the daughters of the house, and the maids, humming it over in every corner, and the father whistling it. _Arte._ Indeed, I have observed of myself, that when I am out of town but a fortnight, I am so humble, that I would receive a letter from my tailor or mercer for a favour. _Mel._ When I have been at grass in the summer, and am new come up again, methinks I'm to be turned into ridicule by all that see me; but when I have been once or twice at court, I begin to value myself again, and to despise my country acquaintance. _Arte._ There are places where all people may be adored, and we ought to know ourselves so well as to choose them. _Dor._ That's very true; your little courtier's wife, who speaks to the king but once a month, need but go to a town lady, and there she may vapour and cry,--"The king and I," at every word. Your town lady, who is laughed at in the circle, takes her coach into the city, and there she's called Your honour, and has a banquet from the merchant's wife, whom she laughs at for her kindness. And, as for my finical cit, she removes but to her country house, and there insults over the country gentlewoman that never comes up, who treats her with furmity and custard, and opens her dear bottle of _mirabilis_ beside, for a gill-glass of it at parting. _Arte._ At last, I see, we shall leave Melantha where we found her; for, by your description of the town and country, they are become more dreadful to her than the court, where she was affronted. But you forget we are to wait on the princess Amalthea. Come, Doralice. _Dor._ Farewell, Melantha. _Mel._ Adieu, my dear. _Arte._ You are out of charity with her, and therefore I shall not give your service.