Sir Fop. I sat near one of ’em at a play to-day, and was almost poisoned with a pair of cordovan gloves he wears.

Lov. Oh! filthy cordovan, how I hate the smell!

[Laughs in a loud affected way.

Sir Fop. Did you observe, madam, how their cravats hung loose an inch from their neck, and what a frightful air it gave’em?

Lov. Oh! I took particular notice of one that is always spruced up with a deal of dirty sky-coloured ribbon.

Bel. That’s one of the walking flageolets who haunt the Mall o’ nights.

Lov. Oh! I remember him; he’s a hollow tooth enough to spoil the sweetness of an evening.

Sir Fop. I have seen the tallest walk the streets with a dainty pair of boxes neatly buckled on.

Lov. And a little footboy at his heels pocket-high, with a flat cap—a dirty face.

Sir Fop. And a snotty nose.

Lov. Oh—odious! there’s many of my own sex with that Holborn equipage trip to Gray’s Inn Walks, and now and then travel hither on a Sunday.

Med. She takes no notice of you.

Dor. Damn her! I am jealous of a counterplot!

Lov. Your liveries are the finest, Sir Fopling.—Oh, that page! that page is the prettily’st dressed—They are all Frenchmen?

Sir Fop. There’s one damned English blockhead among’em, you may know him by his mien.

Lov. Oh! that’s he, that’s he! what do you call him?

Sir Fop. Hey!—I know not what to call him.—

Lov. What’s your name?

Footman. John Trott, madam!

Sir Fop. Oh, unsufferable! Trott, Trott, Trott! there’s nothing so barbarous as the names of our English servants. What countryman are you, sirrah?

Footman. Hampshire, sir.

Sir Fop. Then Hampshire be your name. Hey, Hampshire!

Lov. Oh, that sound! that sound becomes the mouth of a man of quality!

Med. Dorimant, you look a little bashful on the matter.

Dor. She dissembles better than I thought she could have done.

Med. You have tempted her with too luscious a bait: she bites at the coxcomb.

Dor. She cannot fall from loving me to that?