Lady Town. He’s a very necessary man among us women; he’s not scandalous i’ the least, perpetually contriving to bring good company together, and always ready to stop up a gap at ombre; then he knows all the little news o’ the town.

Emil. I love to hear him talk o’ the intrigues; let ’em be never so dull in themselves, he’ll make ’em pleasant i’ the relation.

Lady Town. But he improves things so much one can take no measure of the truth from him. Mr. Dorimant swears a flea or a maggot is not made more monstrous by a magnifying glass than a story is by his telling it.

Emil. Hold, here he comes.

Enter Medley.

Lady Town. Mr. Medley.

Med. Your servant, madam.

Lady Town. You have made yourself a stranger of late.

Emil. I believe you took a surfeit of ombre last time you were here.

Med. Indeed I had my bellyful of that termagant lady-dealer; there never was so insatiable a carder, an old gleeker never loved to sit to’t like her; I have played with her now at least a dozen times till she’s worn out all her fine complexion, and her tour would keep in curl no longer.

Lady Town. Blame her not, poor woman; she loves nothing so well as a black ace.

Med. The pleasure I have seen her in when she has had hope in drawing for a matadore!

Emil. ’Tis as pretty sport to her as persuading masks off is to you to make discoveries.

Lady Town. Pray, where’s your friend Mr. Dorimant?

Med. Soliciting his affairs; he’s a man of great employment, has more mistresses now depending than the most eminent lawyer in England has causes.

Emil. Here has been Mrs. Loveit, so uneasy and out of humour these two days.

Lady Town. How strangely love and jealousy rage in that poor woman!

Med. She could not have picked out a devil upon earth so proper to torment her; he has made her break a dozen or two of fans already, tear half a score points in pieces, and destroy hoods and knots without number.

Lady Town. We heard of a pleasant serenade he gave her t’other night.

Med. A Danish serenade, with kettledrums and trumpets.

Emil. Oh, barbarous!

Med. What, you are of the number of the ladies whose ears are grown so delicate since our operas, you can be charmed with nothing but flutes douces and French hautboys.

Emil. Leave your raillery, and tell us is there any new wit come forth, songs or novels?