Med. You know I have a natural indulgence for fools, and need not this caution, sir.

Enter Sir Fopling Flutter, with his Page after him.

Sir Fop. Page, wait without. Madam [To Lady Townley.], I kiss your hands. I see yesterday was nothing of chance; the belles assemblées form themselves here every day. Lady [To Emilia.], your servant. Dorimant, let me embrace thee; without lying, I have not met with any of my acquaintance who retain so much of Paris as thou dost—the very air thou hadst when the marquis mistook thee i’ th’ Tuileries, and cried, He! Chevalier! and then begged thy pardon.

Dor. I would fain wear in fashion as long as I can, sir; ’tis a thing to be valued in men as well as baubles.

Sir Fop. Thou art a man of wit, and understandest the town; prithee let thee and I be intimate, there is no living without making some good man the confidant of our pleasures.

Dor. ’Tis true! but there is no man so improper for such a business as I am.

Sir Fop. Prithee, why hast thou so modest an opinion of thyself?

Dor. Why, first, I could never keep a secret in my life, and then there is no charm so infallibly makes me fall in love with a woman as my knowing a friend loves her. I deal honestly with you.

Sir Fop. Thy humour’s very gallant, or let me perish; I knew a French count so like thee.

Lady Town. Wit, I perceive, has more power over you than beauty, Sir Fopling, else you would not have let this lady stand so long neglected.

Sir Fop. [to Emilia]. A thousand pardons, madam; some civilities due, of course, upon the meeting a long absent friend. The éclat of so much beauty, I confess, ought to have charmed me sooner.

Emil. The brilliant of so much good language, sir, has much more power than the little beauty I can boast.

Sir Fop. I never saw anything prettier than this high work on your point d’Espagne.

Emil. ’Tis not so rich as point de Venise.—

Sir Fop. Not altogether, but looks cooler, and is more proper for the season. Dorimant, is not that Medley?

Dor. The same, sir.

Sir Fop. Forgive me, sir; in this embarras of civilities I could not come to have you in my arms sooner. You understand an equipage the best of any man in town. I hear.

Med. By my own you would not guess it.

Sir Fop. There are critics who do not write, sir.

Med. Our peevish poets will scarce allow it.

Sir Fop. Damn ’em, they’ll allow no man wit who does not play the fool like themselves, and show it! Have you taken notice of the calèche I brought over?

Med. Oh, yes! It has quite another air than the English makes.

Sir Fop. ’Tis as easily known from an English tumbril as an Inns of Court man is from one of us.