SCENE I.

_The Street before the Playhouse._

MIRABEL _and_ DURETETE, _as coming from the Play_.

_Dur._ How d'ye like this play?

_Y. Mir._ I liked the company;--the lady, the rich beauty, in the front box, had my attention: These impudent poets bring the ladies together to support them, and to kill every body else.

_For deaths upon the stage, the ladies cry,_ _But ne'er mind us, that in the audience die:_ _The poet's hero should not move their pain,_ _But they should weep for those their eyes have slain._

_Dur._ Hoyty, toyty! did Phillis inspire you with all this?

_Y. Mir._ Ten times more; the playhouse is the element of poetry, because the region of beauty; the ladies, methinks, have a more inspiring, triumphant air in the boxes than any where else--they sit, commanding on their thrones, with all their subject slaves about them;--Their best clothes, best looks, shining jewels, sparkling eyes; the treasure of the world in a ring.--I could wish that my whole life long, were the first night of a new play.

_Dur._ The fellow has quite forgot this journey;--have you bespoke post horses?

_Y. Mir._ Grant me but three days, dear Captain, one to discover the lady, one to unfold myself, and one to make me happy, and then I'm yours to the world's end.

_Dur._ Hast thou the impudence to promise thyself a lady of her figure and quality in so short a time?

_Y. Mir._ Yes, sir; I have a confident address, no disagreeable person, and five hundred Lewis d'ors in my pocket.

_Dur._ Five hundred Lewis d'ors! you an't mad!

_Y. Mir._ I tell you, she's worth five thousand; one of her black, brilliant eyes, is worth a diamond as big as her head.

_Dur._ But you have owned to me, that, abating Oriana's pretensions to marriage, you loved her passionately; then how can you wander at this rate?

_Y. Mir._ I longed for a partridge t'other day, off the king's plate, but d'ye think, because I could not have it, I must eat nothing?

_Enter_ ORIANA, _in Boy's Clothes, with a Letter_.

_Oriana._ Is your name Mirabel, sir?

_Y. Mir._ Yes, sir.

_Oriana._ A letter from your uncle, in Picardy. [_Gives the Letter._

_Y. Mir._ [_Reads._]

_The bearer is the son of a protestant gentleman, who, flying for his religion, left me the charge of this youth._--A pretty Boy!--_He's fond of some handsome service, that may afford him opportunity of improvement: your care of him will oblige, Yours._ Hast a mind to travel, child?

_Oriana._ 'Tis my desire, sir; I should be pleased to serve a traveller in any capacity.

_Y. Mir._ A hopeful inclination; you shall along with me into Italy, as my page.

_Dur._ [_Noise without._] Too handsome--The play's done, and some of the ladies come this way.

[LAMORCE _without, with her Train borne up by a_ PAGE.

_Y. Mir._ Duretete, the very dear, identical she!

_Dur._ And what then?

_Y. Mir._ Why, 'tis she!

_Dur._ And what then, sir?

_Y. Mir._ Then!--Why, lookye, sirrah, the first piece of service I put upon you, is to follow that lady's coach, and bring me word where she lives. [_To_ ORIANA.

_Oriana._ I don't know the town, sir, and am afraid of losing myself.

_Y. Mir._ Pshaw!

_Enter_ LAMORCE _and_ PAGE.

_Lam._ Page, what's become of all my people?

_Page._ I can't tell, madam; I can see no sign of your ladyship's coach.

_Lam._ That fellow has got into his old pranks, and fallen drunk somewhere;--none of the footmen there?

_Page._ Not one, madam.

_Lam._ These servants are the plague of our lives--what shall I do?

_Y. Mir._ By all my hopes, Fortune pimps for me! now, Duretete, for a piece of gallantry!

_Dur._ Why, you won't, sure?

_Y. Mir._ Won't, brute!--Let not your servants' neglect, madam, put your ladyship to any inconvenience; for you can't be disappointed of an equipage, whilst mine waits below: and, would you honour the master so far, he would be proud to pay his attendance.

_Dur._ Ay, to be sure! [_Aside._

_Lam._ Sir, I won't presume to be troublesome, for my habitation is a great way off.

_Dur._ Very true, madam, and he's a little engaged; besides, madam--a hackney coach will do as well, madam.

_Y. Mir._ Rude beast, be quiet! [_To_ DURETETE.] The farther from home, madam, the more occasion you have for a guard--pray, madam--

_Lam._ Lard, sir---- [_He seems to press, she to decline it, in dumb show._

_Dur._ Ah! The devil's in his impudence! now he wheedles, she smiles--he flatters, she simpers--he swears, she believes--he's a rogue, and she's a w---- in a moment.

_Y. Mir._ Without there! my coach! Duretete, wish me joy! [_Hands the Lady out._

_Dur._ Wish you a----! Here, you little Picard, go follow your master, and he'll lead you----

_Oriana._ Whither, sir?

_Dur._ To the Academy, child--'tis the fashion with men of quality, to teach their pages their exercises--go.

_Oriana._ Won't you go with him too, sir? That woman may do him some harm, I don't like her.

_Dur._ Why, how now, Mr. Page, do you start up, to give laws of a sudden? Do you pretend to rise at court, and disapprove the pleasure of your betters?--Lookye, sirrah, if ever you would rise by a great man, be sure to be with him in his little actions; and, as a step to your advancement, follow your master immediately, and make it your hope, that he goes to a bagnio.

_Oriana._ Heavens forbid! [_Exit._

_Dur._ Now would I sooner take a cart in company of the hangman, than a coach with that woman:--What a strange antipathy have I taken against these creatures! a woman to me, is aversion upon aversion! a cheese, a cat, a breast of mutton, the squalling of children, the grinding of knives, and the snuff of a candle.