The Fine Ladys Airs | Page 7

o'
_Covent-Garden_, till I seize on some skittish dapper Doxie, whose
pretty black Eyes, dimpling Cheeks, heaving Breasts, and soft Caresses,
wou'd melt a Man--for half a Guinea.
Knap. How I long too, to wheedle in with some Buxom Widow, that
keeps a Victualling-House, to provide me with Meat, Drink, Washing
and Lodging--to find out some delicious Chamber-Maid, that will pawn
her best Mohair-Gown, sell even her Silver-Thimble, and rob her
Mistress to shew how truly she loves me; or intrigue with some
Heroick Sempstress, that will call me her Artaxerxes, her Agamemnon,
and give me six new Shirts.
Sir Har. And now the tedious Summer is elaps'd, and Winter ushers in
neglected Joys; Armies march home victorious from the Field, Ladies
from Parks and Plains that mourn'd their absence; a Croud of Pleasures
glut the varying Appetite, and Friends long absent meet with gayest
Transports.
Col. Ay, Winter is the gay, the happy Season: I hate a Solitary Rural
Life, as if one were at variance with the World; to walk with Arms
a-cross, admire Nature's Works in Woods and Groves, talk to the
Streams, and tell the Trees our Passion, while Eccho's make a Mock at
all we say-- Give me the shining Town, the glittering Theatres; there
Nature best is seen in Beauteous Boxes, where Beaus transported with
the Heavenly Sight, the little God sits pleas'd in ev'ry Eye, and Actors
dart new Vigour from the Stage, supported By the Spirit of full
Pay--But what great Fortunes buz about the Town; Red-Coats have
carry'd off good store of Heiresses, and that's the sure, tho' not the
sweetest Game; besides, Sir Harry, they talk of Peace, and we that have
nothing but the Sword to trust to, ought to provide against that dreadful
Day.
Knap. Really, Sir, I have had some Thoughts of Marriage too; there's

nothing like being settl'd, to have a House of one's own, and Attendants
about one; besides, I'm the last Male, of a very ancient Family, and
shou'd I die without Children, the _Knap-sacks_ wou'd be quite extinct.
Sir _Har._ The Talk, the Pride, and Envy of the Town is Lady
Rodomont, whose Wit surprizes, whose Beauty ravishes, and a clear
Estate of Six thousand a Year distracts the admiring Train; but the
Misfortune is, she has Travell'd, had Experience, well vers'd in
Gallantries of various Courts; she admits Coquets, and rallies each
Pretender, so resolutely fond of Liberty, she slights the most
accomplish'd of Mankind, there Collonel is a Siege to prove a Roman
or a Grecian Bravery.
_Col._ A Roman or a Grecian, say you, bold Britains laugh at all their
baubling Fights; and had Achilles, with his batt'ring Rams, felt half the
Fury of an English General, Troy had ne'er bully'd out a Ten Years
Siege--but Ladies are more craftily subdu'd; you mustn't storm a
Nymph with Sword and Pistol, pursue her as you wou'd a tatter'd
Frenchman, push her Attendants into the Danube, then seize her, and
clap her into a Coach--I'll baffle her at her own Argument, swear I'd not
wed a Phoenix of her Sex, and laugh at Dress and Beauty, Wit and
Fortune, when purchas'd only at the Price of Liberty--then sweeten her
again with ogling Smiles, look Babies in her Eyes, and vow she's
handsome; and when she thinks each artful Glance has caught me, that
now's the time to Conquer, and to Laugh, and with malicious Cunning
mentions Marriage, I'll start, and change, and beg her not to name it, for
'tis a Thought that rouses Madness in me, 'till out of Spight and Spleen,
and Woman's Curiosity, the Knot's abruptly ty'd, to prove my feign'd
Resolves, and boast her Power.
Sir _Har._ Tis well design'd, and may the Soldier animate the Lover:
For my part, I'm so devoted to my Pleasures, and so strangely bigotted
to a single Life, I have sold an Estate of Two thousand a Year, to buy
an Annuity of Four: I love to Rake and Rattle thro' the Town, and each
Amusement, as it happens, pleases. The Ladies call me Mad Sir Harry,
a Careless, Affable, Obliging Fellow, whom, when they want, they
send for. I wear good Cloaths to 'Squire'em up and down; have Wit

enough to Chat, and make'em Giggle, and Sense enough to keep their
Favours secret--But from Romantick Love, Good Heav'n defend me. A
Moment's Joy's not worth an Age's Courtship; and when the Nymph's
Demure, and Dull and Shy, and Foolish and Freakish, and Fickle, there
are Billiards at the Smyrna, Bowles at Marybone, and Dice at the
_Groom-Porter_'s--Are you for the Noon-Park.
_Col._ With all my Heart.
Sir _Har._ There the _Beau-Monde_ appear in all their
Splendour--Here, Shrimp, [_Enters._] entertain the _Collonel_'s
Servant--An Hour hence you'll hear of us at _White_'s. [_Exeunt._
_Shr._ Mr.