Har. [aside]. Can he dance?

Emil. And fence and sing too, if you’ll believe him.

Dor. He has no more excellence in his heels than in his head. He went to Paris a plain bashful English blockhead, and is returned a fine undertaking French fop.

Med. I cannot prevail.

Sir Fop. Do not think it want of complaisance, madam.

Har. You are too well bred to want that, Sir Fopling. I believe it want of power.

Sir Fop. By heavens! and so it is. I have sat up so damned late and drunk so cursed bard since I came to this lewd town, that I am fit for nothing but low dancing now, a corant, bourée, or a menuet; but St. André tells me, if I will but be regular, in one month I shall rise again. Pox on this debauchery!

[Endeavours at a caper.

Emil. I have heard your dancing much commended.

Sir Fop. It had the good fortune to please in Paris. I was judged to rise within an inch as high as the basque, in an entry I danced there.

Har. I am mightily taken with this fool; let us sit. Here’s a seat, Sir Fopling.

Sir Fop. At your feet, madam; I can be nowhere so much at ease: by your leave, gown.

Har. and Emil. Ah! you’ll spoil it.

Sir Fop. No matter, my clothes are my creatures; I make ’em to make my court to you ladies, hey—

[Dance.

Qu’on commence—to an English dancer English motions. I was forced to entertain this fellow, one of my set miscarrying— Oh, horrid! leave your damned manner of dancing, and put on the French air; have you not a pattern before you—pretty well! Imitation in time may bring him to something.

After the dance enter OLD BELLAIR, Lady WOODVIL, and Lady TOWNLEY.

O. Bell. Hey, adod! what have we here, a mumming?

Lady Wood. Where’s my daughter—Harriet?

Dor. Here, here, madam. I know not but under these disguises there may be dangerous sparks; I gave the young lady warning.

Lady Wood. Lord! I am so obliged to you, Mr. Courtage.

Har. Lord! how you admire this man.

Lady Wood. What have you to except against him?

Har. He’s a fop.

Lady Wood. He’s not a Dorimant, a wild extravagant fellow of the times.