Dogget_.

WOMEN.

LADY TOUCHWOOD, in love with Mellefont,--_Mrs. Barry_.

CYNTHIA, daughter to Sir Paul by a former wife, promised to
Mellefont,--_Mrs. Bracegirdle_.

LADY FROTH, a great coquette; pretender to poetry, wit, and
learning,--_Mrs. Mountfort_.

LADY PLYANT, insolent to her husband, and easy to any pretender,--_Mrs.
Leigh_.

CHAPLAIN, BOY, FOOTMEN, AND ATTENDANTS.

THE SCENE: A gallery in the Lord Touchwood's house, with chambers
adjoining.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

_A gallery in the Lord Touchwood's home_, _with chambers adjoining_.

_Enter_ CARELESS, _crossing the stage_, _with his hat_, _gloves_, _and
sword in his hands_; _as just risen from table_: MELLEFONT _following
him_.

MEL. Ned, Ned, whither so fast? What, turned flincher! Why, you wo'
not leave us?

CARE. Where are the women? I'm weary of guzzling, and begin to think
them the better company.

MEL. Then thy reason staggers, and thou'rt almost drunk.

CARE. No, faith, but your fools grow noisy; and if a man must endure the
noise of words without sense, I think the women have more musical voices,
and become nonsense better.

MEL. Why, they are at the end of the gallery; retired to their tea and
scandal, according to their ancient custom, after dinner. But I made a
pretence to follow you, because I had something to say to you in private,
and I am not like to have many opportunities this evening.

CARE. And here's this coxcomb most critically come to interrupt you.

SCENE II.

[_To them_] BRISK.

BRISK. Boys, boys, lads, where are you? What, do you give ground?
Mortgage for a bottle, ha? Careless, this is your trick; you're always
spoiling company by leaving it.

CARE. And thou art always spoiling company by coming in o't.

BRISK. Pooh, ha, ha, ha, I know you envy me. Spite, proud spite, by the
gods! and burning envy. I'll be judged by Mellefont here, who gives and
takes raillery better than you or I. Pshaw, man, when I say you spoil
company by leaving it, I mean you leave nobody for the company to laugh
at. I think there I was with you. Ha, Mellefont?

MEL. O' my word, Brisk, that was a home thrust; you have silenced him.

BRISK. Oh, my dear Mellefont, let me perish if thou art not the soul of
conversation, the very essence of wit and spirit of wine. The deuce take
me if there were three good things said, or one understood, since thy
amputation from the body of our society. He, I