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Show 12 The Beaux Stratagem. divert you; I cou'd wifh, indeed, that our Entertainment5 were a little more po!ife, or your Tafte a little lefs refin'd ; But, pray, Madam, how came the Poets and Philofophers, that labour'd fo much in hunting after Pleafure, to place it at laft in a Country Life ? Mrs. Sull. Becaufe they wanted Money, Child, to find out the Pleafures of the Town : Did you ever fee a Poet or Phi-lofopher worth Ten thoufand Pound ? If you can fhew me fuch a Man, I'll lay you Fifty Pound, you'll find him fome-where within the Weekly Bills. Not that I difapprove rural Pleafures, as the Poets have painted them ; in their Landfchape, every Phillis has her Coridon , every murmuring Stream , and every flowry Mead gives frefh Alarms to Love. Befides, you'll find, that their Couples were never marry'd : But yonder, I fee my Coridon, and a fvveet Swain it is, Heaven knows. •- Come, Dorinda, don't be angry* he's my Husband, and your Brother; and between both, is he not a fad Brute ? Dor. I have nothing to fay to your part of him, you're the beft Judge. Mrs. Sull. O Sifter, Sifter! if ever you marry, beware of a fullen, filent Sot, one that's always mufing, but never thinks: There's fome Diverfion in a Talking-Blockhead ; and fince a W o m a n muft wear Chains, I wou'd have the Pleafure of hearing em rattle a little. Now you fhall fee but take this by the way; He came home' this Morning at his ufual Hour of Four, waken'd me out of a fweet Dream of fomething elfe, by tumbling over the Tea-Table, which he broke all to pieces, after his Man and he had rowl'd about the Room, like fickPaffengers in a Storm, he comes flounce into Bed, dead as a Salmon into a Fifhmonger's Basket • his Feet cold as Ice, his Breath hot as a Furnace, and his Hands and his Face as greafie as his Fianel Night-Cap. Oh Matrimony ! • - • - He tones up the Cloaths with a barbarous fwingover his Shoulders, diibrders the whole Oeconomy of m y Bed, leaves me half naked, and m y whole Ni*lu'£ Comfort is the tuneable Serenade of that wakeful Nightingale, his Nofe. O the Pleafure of counting the melan-cholly Clock by a fnoring Husband! But now Sifter you fhall fee how handfbmcly, being a well-bred Man he* will beg my Pardon. Enter Sullen. Sull. Mv Head akes confumedly. Mrs. Sull. us this Morni nWgi?l lit y omua bye dpole ayfoeudr, H meya dD egoaord,< to drink. TSeulah w ith |