O. Bell. Out a pise—adod, what does she say? Hit her a pat for me there.

[Exit OLD BELLAIR.

Med. You have charms for the whole family.

Dor. You’ll spoil all with some unseasonable jest, Medley.

Med. You see I confine my tongue and am content to be a bare spectator, much contrary to my nature.

Emil. Methinks, Mr. Dorimant, my Lady Woodvil is a little fond of you.

Dor. Would her daughter were!

Med. It may be you may find her so; try her, you have an opportunity.

Dor. And I will not lose it. Bellair, here’s a lady has something to say to you.

Y. Bell. I wait upon her. Mr. Medley, we have both business with you.

Dor. Get you all together then. [To HARRIET.] That demure curtsey is not amiss in jest, but do not think in earnest it becomes you.

Har. Affectation is catching, I find; from your grave bow I got it.

Dor. Where had you all that scorn and coldness in your look?

Har. From nature, sir; pardon my want of art: I have not learnt those softnesses and languishings which now in faces are so much in fashion.

Dor. You need ’em not; you have a sweetness of your own, if you would but calm your frowns and let it settle.

Har. My eyes are wild and wandering like my passions, and cannot yet be tied to rules of charming.

Dor. Women, indeed, have commonly a method of managing those messengers of love; now they will look as if they would kill, and anon they will look as if they were dying. They point and rebate their glances the better to invite us.

Har. I like this variety well enough, but hate the set face that always looks as it would say, Come, love me—a woman who at plays makes the doux yeux to a whole audience and at home cannot forbear ’em to her monkey.

Dor. Put on a gentle smile, and let me see how well it will become you.

Har. I am sorry my face does not please you as it is, but I shall not be complaisant and change it.

Dor. Though you are obstinate, I know’tis capable of improvement, and shall do you justice, madam, if I chance to be at Court when the critics of the circle pass their judgment; for thither you must come.

Har. And expect to be taken in pieces, have all my features examined, every motion censured, and on the whole be condemned to be but pretty, or a beauty of the lowest rate. What think you?

Dor. The women, nay, the very lovers who belong to the drawing-room, will maliciously allow you more than that; they always grant what is apparent that they may the better be believed when they name concealed faults they cannot easily be disproved in.