Vizard. You, colonel, have been very lavish in the beauty and virtue of your mistress; and Sir Harry here has been no less eloquent in the praise of his. Now will I lay you both ten guineas a-piece, that neither of them is so pretty, so witty, or so virtuous, as mine.
Colonel S. 'Tis done.
Sir H. I'll double the stakes – But, gentlemen, now I think on't, how shall we be resolved? For I know not where my mistress may be found; she left Paris about a month before me, and I had an account —
Colonel S. How, sir! left Paris about a month before you?
Sir H. Yes, sir, and I had an account that she lodged somewhere in St. James's.
Vizard. How! somewhere in St. James's say you?
Sir H. Ay, sir, but I know not where, and perhaps may'nt find her this fortnight.
Colonel S. Her name, pray, Sir Harry?
Vizard. Ay, ay, her name; perhaps we know her.
Sir H. Her name! Ay, she has the softest, whitest hand that ever was made of flesh and blood; her lips so balmy sweet —
Colonel S. But her name, sir?
Sir H. Then her neck and —
Vizard. But her name, sir? her quality?
Sir H. Then her shape, colonel?
Colonel S. But her name I want, sir.
Sir H. Then her eyes, Vizard!
Colonel S. Pshaw, Sir Harry! her name, or nothing!
Sir H. Then if you must have it, she's called the Lady – But then her foot, gentlemen! she dances to a miracle. Vizard, you have certainly lost your wager.
Vizard. Why, you have certainly lost your senses; we shall never discover the picture, unless you subscribe the name.
Sir H. Then her name is Lurewell.
Colonel S. 'Sdeath! my mistress! [Aside.
Vizard. My mistress, by Jupiter! [Aside.
Sir H. Do you know her, gentlemen?
Colonel S. I have seen her, sir.
Sir H. Canst tell where she lodges? Tell me, dear colonel.
Colonel S. Your humble servant, sir. [Exit.
Sir H. Nay, hold, colonel; I'll follow you, and will know. [Runs out.
Vizard. The Lady Lurewell his mistress! He loves her: but she loves me. – But he's a baronet, and I plain Vizard; he has a coach, and I walk on foot; I was bred in London, and he in Paris. – That very circumstance has murdered me – Then some stratagem must be laid to divert his pretensions.
Sir H. Pr'ythee, Dick, what makes the colonel so out of humour?
Vizard. Because he's out of pay, I suppose.
Sir H. 'Slife, that's true! I was beginning to mistrust some rivalship in the case.
Vizard. And suppose there were, you know the colonel can fight, Sir Harry.
Sir H. Fight! Pshaw – but he cannot dance, ha! – We contend for a woman, Vizard. 'Slife, man, if ladies were to be gained by sword and pistol only, what the devil should all we beaux do?
Vizard. I'll try him farther. [Aside.] But would not you, Sir Harry, fight for this woman you so much admire?
Sir H. Fight! Let me consider. I love her – that's true; – but then I love honest Sir Harry Wildair better. The Lady Lurewell is divinely charming – right – but then a thrust i' the guts, or a Middlesex jury, is as ugly as the devil.
Vizard. Ay, Sir Harry, 'twere a dangerous cast for a beau baronet to be tried by a parcel of greasy, grumbling, bartering boobies, who would hang you, purely because you're a gentleman.
Sir H. Ay, but on t'other hand, I have money enough to bribe the rogues with: so, upon mature deliberation, I would fight for her. But no more of her. Pr'ythee, Vizard, cannot you recommend a friend to a pretty mistress by the bye, till I can find my own? You have store, I'm sure; you cunning poaching dogs make surer game, than we that hunt open and fair. Pr'ythee now, good Vizard.
Vizard. Let me consider a little. – Now love and revenge inspire my politics! [Aside.
Sir H. Pshaw! thou'rt longer studying for a new mistress, than a waiter would be in drawing fifty corks.
Vizard. I design you good wine; you'll therefore bear a little expectation.
Sir H. Ha! say'st thou, dear Vizard?
Vizard. A girl of nineteen, Sir Harry.
Sir H. Now nineteen thousand blessings light on thee.
Vizard. Pretty and witty.
Sir H. Ay, ay, but her name, Vizard!
Vizard. Her name! yes – she has the softest, whitest hand that e'er was made of flesh and blood; her lips so balmy sweet —
Sir H. Well, well, but where shall I find her, man?
Vizard. Find her! – but then her foot, Sir Harry! she dances to a miracle.
Sir H. Pr'ythee, don't distract me.
Vizard. Well then, you must know, that this lady is the greatest beauty in town; her name's Angelica: she that passes for her mother is a private bawd, and called the Lady Darling: she goes for a baronet's lady, (no disparagement to your honour, Sir Harry) I assure you.
Sir H. Pshaw, hang my honour! but what street, what house?
Vizard. Not so fast, Sir Harry; you must have my passport for your admittance, and you'll find my recommendation in a line or two will procure you very civil entertainment; I suppose twenty or thirty pieces handsomely placed, will gain the point.
Sir H. Thou dearest friend to a man in necessity! Here, sirrah, order my carriage about to St. James's; I'll walk across the park. [To his Servant.
Clinch. Here, sirrah, order my coach about to St. James's, I'll walk across the park too – Mr. Vizard, your most devoted – Sir, [To Wildair.] I admire the mode of your shoulder-knot; methinks it hangs very emphatically, and carries an air of travel in it: your sword-knot too is most ornamentally modish, and bears a foreign mien. Gentlemen, my brother is just arrived in town; so that, being upon the wing to kiss his hands, I hope you'll pardon this abrupt departure of, gentlemen, your most devoted, and most faithful humble servant. [Exit.
Sir H. Pr'ythee, dost know him?
Vizard. Know him! why, it is Clincher, who was apprentice to my uncle Smuggler, the merchant in the city.
Sir H. What makes him so gay?
Vizard. Why, he's in mourning.
Sir H. In mourning?
Vizard. Yes, for his father. The kind old man in Hertfordshire t'other day broke his neck a fox-hunting; the son, upon the news, has broke his indentures; whipped from behind the counter into the side-box. He keeps his coach and liveries, brace of geldings, leash of mistresses, talks of nothing but wines, intrigues, plays, fashions, and going to the jubilee.
Sir H. Ha! ha! ha! how many pounds of pulvil must the fellow use in sweetening himself from the smell of hops and tobacco? Faugh! – I' my conscience methought, like Olivia's lover, he stunk of Thames-Street. But now for Angelica, that's her name: we'll to the prince's chocolate-house, where you shall write my passport.