Bel. [aside]. If she should make him jealous, that may make him fond of her again: I must dissuade her from it. Lord! my dear, this will certainly make him hate you.

Lov. ’Twill make him uneasy, though he does not care for me; I know the effects of jealousy on men of his proud temper.

Bel. ’Tis a fantastic remedy, its operations are dangerous and uncertain.

Lov. ’Tis the strongest cordial we can give to dying love, it often brings it back when there’s no sign of life remaining. But I design not so much the reviving his, as my revenge.

Enter Sir FOPLING and his Equipage.

Sir Fop. Hey! bid the coachman send home four of his horses, and bring the coach to Whitehall; I’ll walk over the Park— Madam, the honour of kissing your fair hands is a happiness I missed this afternoon at my Lady Townley’s.

Lov. You were very obliging, Sir Fopling, the last time I saw you there.

Sir Fop. The preference was due to your wit and beauty. Madam, your servant; there never was so sweet an evening.

Bel. ’T has drawn all the rabble of the town hither.

Sir Fop. ’Tis pity there’s not an order made that none but the beau monde should walk here.

Lov. ’Twould add much to the beauty of the place. See what a sort of nasty fellows are coming.

Enter three ill-fashioned Fellows, singing,

’Tis not for kisses alone, etc.

Lov. Of! Their periwigs are scented with tobacco so strong—

Sir Fop. It overcomes our pulvillio —Methinks I smell the coffee-house they came from. 1 Man. Dorimant’s convenient, Madam Loveit. 2 Man. I like the oily buttock with her. 3 Man. What spruce prig is that? 1 Man. A caravan lately come from Paris. 2 Man. Peace, they smoke.

There’s something else to be done, etc.

[All of them coughing; exeunt, singing.

Enter DORIMANT and MEDLEY.

Dor. They’re engaged.

Med. She entertains him as if she liked him.

Dor. Let us go forward; seem earnest in discourse, and show ourselves. Then you shall see how she’ll use him.

Bel. Yonder’s Dorimant, my dear.

Lov. [aside]. I see him, he comes insulting; but I will disappoint him in his expectation. [To Sir FOPLING.] I like this pretty nice humour of yours, Sir Fopling. With what a loathing eye he looked upon those fellows!