low 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.

_Enter_ WILDAIR.

_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._

[_Pauses whilst_ SIR HARRY _walks, singing_.

_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