un 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 _Caesar_, 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.

_Mir._ Away, a Husband!--when Absence, that sure Remedy of Love, had
heal'd the bleeding Wound _Lejere_ had made, by Heaven, I thought I
ne'er shou'd love again--but since _Endymion_ has inspir'd my Soul, and
for that Youth I burn, I pine, I languish.

Enter _George_ richly drest, stands at a