Gip. Ay, but if the parties should meet, doctor?

Foi. Vel den—the parties must be responsible. Do you be gone after putting the Count into the closhet; and leave the shins wid themselves. I will come with the Count to instruct you in your chamber.

Gip. Well, doctor, your religion is so pure! Methinks I’m so easy after an absolution, and can sin afresh with so much security, that I’m resolved to die a martyr to’t. Here’s the key of the garden door, come in the back way when ’tis late, I’ll be ready to receive you; but don’t so much as whisper, only take hold of my hand; I’ll lead you, and do you lead the Count, and follow me.

[Exeunt.

Scrub [coming forward]. What witchcraft now have these two imps of the devil been a-hatching here? “There’s twenty louis-d’ors”; I heard that, and saw the purse.—But I must give room to my betters.

[Exit.

Re-enter Aimwell, leading Dorinda, and making love in

dumb show; Mrs. Sullen and Archer following.

Mrs. Sul. [to Archer]. Pray, sir, how d’ye like that piece?

Arch. Oh, ’tis Leda! You find, madam, how Jupiter comes disguised to make love—

Mrs. Sul. But what think you there of Alexander’s battles?

Arch. We only want a Le Brun, madam, to draw greater battles, and a greater general of our own. The Danube, madam, would make a greater figure in a picture than the Granicus; and we have our Ramillies to match their Arbela.

Mrs. Sul. Pray, sir, what head is that in the corner there?

Arch. O madam, ’tis poor Ovid in his exile.

Mrs. Sul. What was he banished for?

Arch. His ambitious love, madam.—[Bowing.] His misfortune touches me.

Mrs. Sul. Was he successful in his amours?

Arch. There he has left us in the dark. He was too much a gentleman to tell.

Mrs. Sul. If he were secret, I pity him.

Arch. And if he were successful, I envy him.

Mrs. Sul. How d’ye like that Venus over the chimney?

Arch. Venus! I protest, madam, I took it for your picture; but now I look again, ’tis not handsome enough.

Mrs. Sul. Oh, what a charm is flattery! If you would see my picture, there it is over that cabinet. How d’ye like it?

Arch. I must admire anything, madam, that has the least resemblance of you. But, methinks, madam—[He looks at the picture and Mrs. Sullen three or four times, by turns.] Pray, madam, who drew it?