CYNTHIA, Lord F ROTH, Lady F ROT H, BRISK.

The

Lady FROTH.

HEN you think that Epifade between Sufan the Dairy-Maid, and our Coach-Man is not amifs; you know, I may fuppofe the Dairy in Town, as well as in the Country.

Brisk. Incomparable, let me perifh But then being an Heroick Poem, had not you better call him a Charioteer? Charioteer founds great; befides your Ladyfhips Coachman having a red Face, and you comparing him to the Sun- And you know

the Sun is call'd Heav'ns Charioteer.

L. Froth. Oh, infinitely better; I'm extreamly beholden to you for the Hint; ftay, we'll read over those half a Score Lines again. [Pulls out a Paper. Let me fee here, you know what goes before the Comparifon, you know. [ Reads]

For as the Sun fhines ev'ry Day,
So of our Coachman I may fay.

Brisk. I'm afraid that Simile won't do in wet Weather Because you say the Sun fhines ev'ry Day.

L. Froth. No, for the Sun it won't, but it will do for the Coach-man, for you know there's most Occafion for a Coach in wet Weather.

Brisk. Right, right, that faves all.

L. Froth. Then I don't say the Sun fhines all the

Day,

Day, but that he peeps now and then; yet he does fhine all the Day too, you know, tho' we don't

fee him.

Brisk. Right, but the Vulgar will never comprehend that.

L. Froth. Well, you shall hear Let me fee.

[Reads] For as the Sun fhines ev'ry Day,
So, of our Coach-man I may lay,
He fhows his drunken fiery Face,
Just as the Sun does, more or lefs.

Brisk. That's right, all's well, all's well. More or less.

[L. Froth reads] And when at Night his Labour's done ›

Then too, like Heav'ns Charioteer the Sun:

Ay, Charioteer does better.

Into the Dairy he defcends

And there his Whipping and his Driving
ends;

There he's fecare from Danger of a Bilk,
His Fare is paid him, and he fets in Milk.

For Sufan, you know, is Thetis, and fo Brisk. Incomparable well and proper, Igad But I have one Exception to make Don't you think Bilk (I know it's good Rhime) but don't you think Bilk and Fare too like a Hackney Coachman? L. Froth. Ifwear and vow I'm afraid fo yet out Jehu wasa Hackney Coach-man, when my Lord took him.

And

Brisk. Was he? I'm anfwer'd if Zebu was a Hackney Coach-man You may put that in the marginal Notes tho', to prevent Criticism-Only mark it with a small Afterifm, and say, -Zebu was formerly a Hackney Coach-man.

L.

L. Froth. I will; you'd oblige me extreamly to write Notes to the whole Poem.

Brisk. With all my Heart and Soul and proud of the vaft Honour, let me perish.

Ld. Froth. Hee, hee, hee, my Dear,

have

you

won't you join with us, we were laughing

done at my Lady Whifler, and Mr. Sneer. L. Froth. Ay my Dear Were you? Oh filthy Mr. Sneer; he's a naufeous Figure, a most fulfamick Fop, foh-He spent two Days together in going about Covent-Garden, to fuit the Lining of his Coach with his Complexion.

Ld. Froth. O filly! yet his Aunt is as fond of him, as if she had brought the Ape into the World her felf.

Brisk. Who, my Lady Toothless; O, fhe's amortifying Spectacle; he's always chewing the Cud like an old Yew.

Cynt. Fie, Mr. Brisk, 'tis Eringos for her Cough. L. Froth. I have feen her take 'em half chew'd out of her Mouth, to laugh, and then put 'em in again Foh.

Ld. Froth. Foh.

L. Froth. Then thes always ready to laugh when Sneer offers to speak. And fits in expectation of his no-Jeft, with her Gums bare, and her Mouth

open

Brisk. Like an Oyster at low Ebb Ha, ha, ha.

› l'gad --

Cynt. (Afide.) Well, I find there are no Fools fo inconfiderable in themselves, but they can render other People contemptible by expofing their Iafirmities.

L. Froth. Then that t'other great strapping Lady --I can't hit of her Name; the old fat Fool that paints fo exorbitantly.

Brisk. Iknow whom you mean

But duce také me

me I can't hit of her Name neither --- Paints d'ye fay? Why the lays it on with a Trowel.-- Then fhe has a great Beard that briftles through it, and makes her look as if he were plaifter'd with Lime and Hair, let me perish.

L. Froth. Oh you made a Song upon her Mr. Brisk.

Brisk. He egad, fol did --- My Lord can fing it.

Cynt. O good my Lord let's hear it.

Brisk. 'Tis not a Song neither--- It's a fort of an Epigram, or rather an Epigrammatick Sonnet I don't know what to call it, but it's Satire. - - - Sing it my Lord.

Brisk. Short, but there's Salt in't; my way of Writing I'gad.

L. Froth. Is Nurfe and the Child in it?
Foot. Yes, Madam.

L. Froth. O the dear Creature! Let's go fee it. Ld. Froth. Ilwear, my Dear, you'll spoil that Child, with fending it to and again fo often; this is the feventh time the Chair has gone for her to Day.

L. Froth. O-law, I fwear it's but the fixth-.and I han't seen her these two Hours --The poor dear Creature ---Ifwear, my Lord, you don't love poor little Sapho--- Come, my dear Cynthia, Mr. Brisk; we'll go fee Sapho, tho' my Lord won't. Cynt. I'll wait upon your Ladyhip.

Brisk. Pray, Madam, how old is Lady Sapho? L. Froth. Three Quarters, but I fwear the has a World of Wit, and can finga Tune already. My Lord, won't you go? Won't you; What not to fee Saph? Pray my Lord, come lee little Saph. I knew you cou'd not stay.

(562) ECE RE

SCENE

X I I.

CYNTHIA, alone.

Toto Joint in
IS not fo hard to counterfeit Joy in the Depth

pany of Fools

Why fhould I call 'em Fools? The World thinks better of 'em for these have Quality and Education, Wit and fine Converfation, are receiv'd and admir'd by the World - If not, they like and admire themfelves And why is not that true Wisdom? for 'tis Happiness: And for ought I know, we have mifapply'd the Name all this while, and mistaken the Thing.

If Hapinefs in Self-content is plac'd,

The Wife are Wretched, and Fools only Bless'd.

End of the Third Act:

E 2

ACT.