Lady Wood. To go this afternoon part of my way to Hartley.
O. Bell. Adod, you shall stay and dine first; come, we will all be good friends, and you shall give Mr. Dorimant leave to wait upon you and your daughter in the country.
Lady Wood. If his occasions bring him that way, I have now so good an opinion of him he shall be welcome.
Har. To a great rambling lone house that looks as it were not inhabited, the family’s so small; there you’ll find my mother, an old lame aunt, and myself, sir, perched up on chairs at a distance in a large parlour, sitting moping like three or four melancholy birds in a spacious volery. Does not this stagger your resolution?
Dor. Not at all, madam. The first time I saw you you left me with the pangs of love upon me, and this day my soul has quite given up her liberty.
Har. This is more dismal than the country, Emilia; pity me who am going to that sad place. Methinks I hear the hateful noise of rooks already—knaw, knaw, knaw. There’s music in the worst cry in London, My dill and cucumbers to pickle.
O. Bell. Sister, knowing of this matter, I hope you have provided us some good cheer.
Lady Town. I have, brother, and the fiddles too.
O. Bell. Let ’em strike up then; the young lady shall have a dance before she departs. [Dance.
[After the dance.] So, now we’ll in and make this an arrant wedding-day
[To the pit.]
Adod, the boy has made a happy choice.
[Exeunt omnes,
BY MR. DRYDEN
They seem’d not of heaven’s making, but their own.
Those nauseous harlequins in farce may pass,
But there goes more to a substantial ass;
Something of man must be exposed to view,
That, gallants, they may more resemble you:
Sir Fopling is a fool so nicely writ,
The ladies would mistake him for a wit,
And when he sings, talks loud, and cocks, would cry,
I vow, methinks he’s pretty company!
So brisk, so gay, so travell’d, so refined,
As he took pains to graft upon his kind.
True fops help nature’s work, and go to school
To file and finish God Almighty’s fool.
Yet none Sir Fopling him, or him, can call;
He’s knight o’ th’ shire, and represents ye all.
From each he meets he culls whate’er he can,
Legion’s his name, a people in a man:
His bulky folly gathers as it goes,
And, rolling o’er you, like a snowball grows.
His various modes from various fathers follow;
One taught the toss, and one the new French wallow
His sword-knot this, his cravat this design’d,
And this the yard-long snake he twirls behind.
From one the sacred periwig he gain’d,
Which wind ne’er blew, nor touch of hat profaned
Another’s diving bow he did adore,
Which with a shog casts all the hair before;
Till he, with full decorum, brings it back,
And rises with a water-spaniel shake.
As for his songs (the ladies’ dear delight)
Those sure he took from most of you who write.
Yet every man is safe from what he fear’d,
For no one fool is hunted from the herd.
No one man’s humour makes a part alone,
But scatter’d follies gather’d into one.
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