_Ran._ Will she not open? I am afraid my pretty miss is not stirring, and therefore will not admit us. Is she not gone her walk to Lamb's Conduit?[38] _Dap._ Fy, fy, a quibble next your stomach in a morning! What if she should hear us? would you lose a mistress for a quibble? that's more than I could do, let me perish!--She's within, I hear her. _Ran._ But she will not hear you; she's as deaf as if you were a dun or a constable. _Dap._ Pish! give her but leave to gape, rub her eyes, and put on her day pinner; the long patch under the left eye; awaken the roses on her cheeks with some Spanish wool, and warrant her breath with some lemon-peel; the doors fly off the hinges, and she into my arms. She knows there is as much artifice to keep a victory as to gain it; and 'tis a sign she values the conquest of my heart. _Ran._ I thought her beauty had not stood in need of art. _Dap._ Beauty's a coward still without the help of art, and may have the fortune of a conquest but cannot keep it. Beauty and art can no more be asunder than love and honour. _Ran._ Or, to speak more like yourself, wit and judgment. _Dap._ Don't you hear the door wag yet? _Ran._ Not a whit. _Dap._ Miss! miss! 'tis your slave that calls. Come, all this tricking for him!--Lend me your comb, Mr. Ranger. _Ran._ No, I am to be preferred to-day, you are to set me off. You are in possession, I will not lend you arms to keep me out. _Dap._ A pox! don't let me be ungrateful; if she has smugged herself up for me, let me prune and flounce my peruke a little for her. There's ne'er a young fellow in the town but will do as much for a mere stranger in the playhouse. _Ran._ A wit's wig has the privilege of being uncombed in the very playhouse, or in the presence. _Dap._ But not in the presence of his mistress; 'tis a greater neglect of her than himself. Pray lend me your comb. _Ran._ I would not have men of wit and courage make use of every fop's mean arts to keep or gain a mistress. _Dap._ But don't you see every day, though a man have never so much wit and courage, his mistress will revolt to those fops that wear and comb perukes well. I'll break off the bargain, and will not receive you my partner. _Ran._ Therefore you see I am setting up for myself. [_Combs his peruke._ _Dap._ She comes, she comes!--pray, your comb. [_Snatches_ RANGER'S _comb._ _Enter_ Mrs. CROSSBITE. _Mrs. Cros._ Bargain!--what, are you offering us to sale? _Dap._ A pox! is't she?--Here take your comb again, then. [_Returns the comb._ _Mrs. Cros._ Would you sell us? 'tis like you, y'fads. _Dap._ Sell thee!--where should we find a chapman? Go, prithee, mother, call out my dear Miss Lucy. _Mrs. Cros._ Your Miss Lucy! I do not wonder you have the conscience to bargain for us behind our backs, since you have the impudence to claim a propriety in us to my face. _Ran._ How's this, Dapperwit?