Har. Not d’Ambois, sir, but Rabutin—he who writ The Loves of France.

Sir Fop. That may be madam: many gentlemen do things that are below ’em. Damn your authors, Courtage; women are the prettiest things we can fool away our time with.

Har. I hope ye have wearied yourself to-night at Court sir, and will not think of fooling with anybody here.

Sir Fop. I cannot complain of my fortune there, madam— Dorimant—

Dor. Again!

Sir Fop. Courtage, a pox on’t! I have something to tell thee. When I had made my court within, I came out and flung myself upon the mat under the State i’ th’ outward room i’ th’ midst of half a dozen beauties who were withdrawn to jeer among themselves, as they called it.

Dor. Did you know ’em?

Sir Fop. Not one of ’em by heavens! not I. But they were all your friends.

Dor. How are you sure of that?

Sir Fop. Why we laughed at all the town; spared nobody but yourself; they found me a man for their purpose.

Dor. I know you are malicious to your power.

Sir Fop. And faith I had occasion to show it for I never saw more gaping fools at a ball or on a Birthday.

Dor. You learned who the women were?

Sir Fop. No matter; they frequent the drawing-room.

Dor. And entertain themselves pleasantly at the expense of all the fops who come there.

Sir Fop. That’s their business; faith, I sifted ’em, and find they have a sort of wit among them—Ah! filthy.

[Pinches a tallow candle.

Dor. Look, he has been pinching the tallow candle.

Sir Fop. How can you breathe in a room where there’s grease frying? Dorimant, thou art intimate with my lady, advise her for her own sake, and the good company that comes hither, to burn wax lights.

Har. What are these masquerades who stand so obsequiously at a distance?

Sir Fop. A set of balladins whom I picked out of the best in France, and brought over with a flutes douces or two, my servants; they shall entertain you.

Har. I had rather see you dance yourself, Sir Fopling.

Sir Fop. And I had rather do it—all the company knows it —but, madam—

Med. Come, come, no excuses, Sir Fopling.

Sir Fop. By heavens, Medley!

Med. Like a woman, I find you must be struggled with before one brings you to what you desire.