Dor. Truly, there is a bel-air in calèches as well as men.

Med. But there are few so delicate to observe it.

Sir Fop. The world is generally very grossier here, indeed.

Lady Town. He’s very fine.

Emil. Extreme proper.

Sir Fop. A slight suit I made to appear in at my first arrival, not worthy your consideration, ladies.

Dor. The pantaloon is very well mounted.

Sir Fop. The tassels are new and pretty.

Med. I never saw a coat better cut.

Sir Fop. It makes me show long-waisted, and, I think, slender.

Dor. That’s the shape our ladies dote on.

Med. Your breech, though, is a handful too high in my eye, Sir Fopling.

Sir Fop. Peace, Medley; I have wished it lower a thousand times, but a pox on’t, ’twill not be.

Lady Town. His gloves are well fringed, large and graceful.

Sir Fop. I was always eminent for being bien-gante.

Emil. He wears nothing but what are originals of the most famous hands in Paris.

Sir Fop. You are in the right, madam.

Lady Town. The suit?

Sir Fop. Barroy.

Emil. The garniture?

Sir Fop. Le Gras.

Med. The shoes?

Sir Fop. Piccat.

Dor. The periwig?

Sir Fop. Chedreux.

Lady Town. and Emil. The gloves?

Sir Fop. Orangerie: you know the smell, ladies. Dorimant, I could find in my heart for an amusement to have a gallantry with some of our English ladies.

Dor. ’Tis a thing no less necessary to confirm the reputation of your wit than a duel will be to satisfy the town of your courage.