_Prince._ No, wondrous glad of it. You're mighty gay, _Mirtilla_, much in Glory.
_Mir._ Can he, who lays his Fortune at my Feet, think me too glorious for his Arms and Eyes?
_Geo._ Fifty to one the Gipsy jilts him yet. [Aside.
_Prince._ Pray Heaven she lyes but handsomly-- [Aside.
--for mine, _Mirtilla_! Ha--ha--
_Mir._ Am I not yours? You cannot doubt my Vows.
_Geo._ She'll do't, and make me love her anew for her rare dexterity at dissembling.
_Prince._ I left you wearied, going to your Bed, but find you at your Toylet gayly dress'd, as if some Conquest you design'd e'er morning.
_Mir._ _Manage_, Sir, from the Fire, secur'd these Trifles, and I was trying several Dresses on; that this slight Beauty that you say has charm'd you, might, when you saw it next, complete the Conquest.
_Geo._ And that thou wilt, if Flattery can do't.
_Prince._ Now, were she guilty, as I'm sure she's not, this Softness would undo me, and appease me.
_Mir._ You seem as if you doubted what I say.
[This while, _Olivia_ gets off unseen.
By all the Powers--
_Prince._ Hold, I scorn to need an Oath to fix my Faith; Oh! thou art all divine, and canst not err.
[Embraces her.
Curs'd be the Tongue that dares profane thy Virtue, and curs'd the listning Fool that dares believe it.
_Geo._ What a poor, wretched, baffled thing is Man, by feebler Woman aw'd and made a Coxcomb!
_Mir._ Durst any one traduce my Virtue, Sir, and is it possible that you could hear it?--Then perish all the Beauties you have flatter'd.
[Tears her Head-things.
_Prince._ Come to my Arms, thou Charmer of my Soul! and if one spark of Jealousy remain, one of those precious Tears shall quench the Crime--Oh, come, and let me lead thee to thy Bed, and breathe new Vows into thy panting Bosom.
[Leads her off, she looks back on _George_ and smiles.
_Geo._ Now all the Plagues of injur'd Lovers wreck thee; 'Sdeath, where has she hid _Olivia_? or how am I deceiv'd?--'Tis Day, and with it new Invention rise to damn this Woman to the sin of Shame; break all the Chains that hold the princely Youth, and sink her with her fancy'd Power and Vanity.
[Exit.
SCENE III. Changes to Lady _Youthly's_.
Enter Sir _Rowland_ half dress'd, Lady _Blunder_ in an Undress, Lady _Youthly_ in her morning-dress, _Teresia_ and Mr. _Twang_.
Sir _Row._ Morrow, my Lady _Youthly_, and thank you for my Night's Lodging--You are as early up as if it had been your Wedding-day.
L. _Youth._ Truly, Sir _Rowland_, that I intend.
Sir _Row._ But where's the Bride-groom, Madam?
Enter _Roger_.
How now, _Roger_, what, no news yet of _George_?
_Rog._ Alas! none, Sir, none, till the Rubbish be removed.
Sir _Row._ Rubbish--What--what, is _George_ become the Rubbish of the World then?
[Weeps.
_Twang._ Why, Man is but Dust, as a Man may say, Sir.
L. _Blun._ But are you sure, _Roger_, my Jewel, my Sir _Moggy_ escap'd?
_Rog._ The Watch drew him out of the Cellar-window, Madam.
L. _Youth._ How, Mr. _Twang_, the young Gentleman burnt--Oh-- [Falls in a Chair.
_Ter._ Alas! my Grandmother faints with your ill News.--Good Sir _Rowland_, comfort her, and dry your Eyes.
Sir _Row._ Burnt, Madam! No, no, only the House fell on him, or so-- [Feigns Chearfulness, and speaks to Lady _Youthly_.
L. _Youth._ How! the House fell on him--Oh!
Sir _Row._ Ah, Madam, that's all; why, the young Rogue has a Back like an Elephant--'twill bear a Castle, Madam.
L. _Youth._ Alas, good Man: What a Mercy 'tis, Mr. _Twang_, to have a Back like an Elephant!
L. _Blun._ Of what wonderful Use it is upon occasion--
Sir _Row._ Ay--but--but I shall never see him more, Back nor Breast.
[Weeps.
_Twang._ Good Sir, discomfort not my Lady--Consider Man's a Flower--
Sir _Row._ Ay, but _George_ was such a Flower! He was, Mr. _Twang_, he was the very Pink of Prentices. Ah! what a rare rampant Lord Mayor he wou'd have made! And what a swinging Sheriff-- [Cries.
_Ter._ What, cry, so near your Wedding-day, Sir Rowland?
Sir _Row._ Well, if he be gone--Peace be with him: and, 'Ifaks, Sweet-heart, we'll marry, and beget new Sons and Daughters--but--but I shall ne'er beget another _George_.
[Cries.
_Ter._ This is but a Scurvy Tune for your hymenical Song, Sir.
Sir _Row._ Alas! Mrs. _Teresia_, my Instrument is untun'd, and good for nothing now but to be hung upon the Willows.
_Cry within._ Murder, Murder, Murder!
Enter Footman. Sir _Merlin_ with his Sword drawn, and Sir _Morgan_.