Dor. A ruelle is a pretty cage for a singing fop, indeed. YOUNG BELLAIR reads the song.

Sir Fop. Sing it, sing it, man; it goes to a pretty new tune, which I am confident was made by Baptiste.

Med. Sing it yourself, Sir Fopling; he does not know the tune.

Sir Fop. I’ll venture.

[Sir FOPLING sings.

Dor. Ay, marry, now ’tis something. I shall not flatter you, Sir Fopling; there is not much thought in’t, but ’tis passionate, and well turned.

Med. After the French way.

Sir Fop. That I aimed at. Does it not give you a lively image of the thing? Slap down goes the glass, and thus we are at it.

Dor. It does indeed. I perceive, Sir Fopling, you’ll be the very head of the sparks who are lucky in compositions of this nature.

Enter Sir FOPLING’S Footman.

Sir Fop. La Tour, is the bath ready?

Footman. Yes, sir.

Sir Fop. Adieu donc, mes chers.

[Exit Sir FOPLING.

Med. When have you your revenge on Loveit, Dorimant?

Dor. I will but change my linen, and about it.

Med. The powerful considerations which hindered have been removed then?

Dor. Most luckily this morning; you must along with me, my reputation lies at stake there.

Med. I am engaged to Bellair.

Dor. What’s your business?

Med. Ma-tri-mony, an’t like you.

Dor. It does not, sir.

Y. Bell. It may in time, Dorimant; what think you of Mrs. Harriet?

Dor. What does she think of me?

Y. Bell. I am confident she loves you.

Dor. How does it appear?