enus _rave,
Spight her the more, the more her Charms inslave;
As 'mongst the Stars the Moon maintains her Place,
She Bridles in her Air, and Triumphs in her Face._

The End of the Second ACT.

ACT III. SCENE I.

_Enter Mrs_. Lovejoy.

Mrs. _Lov_. Here do I follow and caress my Lady, in hopes to steal a Spark
'mongst her Admirers; I have five hundred Pounds in the fourteen _per
Cent_, a Gentlewoman's Fortune in past Ages, but now 'twon't buy a
Haberdasher of small Ware. Sir _Harry_ offers me a genteel Settlement;
Time was, when a kept Madam elbow'd the whole Drawing-Room; but now we
have a virtuous Court agen, a Lord's Mistress is almost as despicable as a
Citizen's Wife.--Suppose I trick the Collonel into Marriage--To bridle at
a Review in _Hyde-Park_, have rich Plunder brought me from _Flanders_, and
boast in Company how much my Husband ballances the Pow'r of _Europe_; but
then comes Peace, and Half-pay, and the Brigadier's Lady must condescend
to dress Heads, make Mantoes, or vainly feed her Pride, by personating
what she really was on the most renown'd _Drury-Lane Theatre_.--Suppose I
rail at the Government, and so trap the rich Major; but then he's trapt in
a Plot, some poor Lord begs his Estate, and I'm to live upon the mighty
Comfort of having it again when the Pretender comes--Or what if I wheedle
in with Mr. _Nick-nack_--To have a fine House in _Billiter-Lane_,
prodigious great Dinners, and ready Cash for Play. And, faith, now-a-days,
a rich Merchant's Wife keeps as late Hours, Games as high, and makes as
bulky a Figure as e'er a Dutchess in the two united Kingdoms.

_Enter Sir_ Harry.

Sir _Har_. How kind this was, my dear, pretty Mrs. _Lovejoy_, to leave so
much good Company to meet me here alone.

Mrs. _Lov_. How kind you are to your self Sir _Harry_, in harbouring so
ridiculous a Notion.

Sir _Har_. Are you resolv'd then, Madam, to let this gay, this proper
well-set Person o' mine pine away like a green Sickness Girl, when I have
so generously offer'd you two hundred Pound a Year, only to be a little
whimsical with you.

Mrs. _Lov_. Two hundred a year! wou'd you make a Whore of me Sir _Harry_?

Sir _Har_. A Whore! have a care, Child, who you reflect upon, a Lady of
two hundred a Year, a Whore; Whores are Creatures that wear Pattens and
Straw-hats. I'd fain hear any body call a kept Mistress, Whore, while
there's Law to be had, if I were she, I'd make 'em se