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Show oo Love and a Bottle. Roeb. Yes, Madam, the bus'nefs of Mankind; to adoreyoi .-- M y Love, like m y Blood, circulates thro' m y Veins, ac at everv Pulfe of m y Heart, animates m e with a frefh Paffio . Wonder not, M a d a m , at the power of your Eyes, wh( painted Darts have ftruck on a young and tender Heart, whi they eafily pierced, and which, unaccuftom'd to fuch Wound^ finds the finart more painful. (Lean, peeps.) O h Tray tor 1 Juft fuch Words he fpoke to me,Luc. Heyday; I was never fo attack'd in all m y Life. In] love with me, Sir 1 Did you ever fee m e before ? Rocb. Never, by Jove. - (Afide.) O h , ten thoufand times, Madam. Your lovely Idea is always in m y view, either a-fleep or awake, eating or drinking, walking, fitting or (landing ; alone, or in company, m y fany wholly feeds upon your dear Image, and every Thought is you. Now have I told about fifteen Lies in a Breath. (AfifA Luc. 1 fuppofe, Sir, you are fome conceited young Scribler, who has got the Benefits of a Firft-Play in your Pocket, and are now going a Fortune-hunting. Roeb. But why a Scribler, M a d a m ? Are m y Cloaths fb coarfe, as if they were fpun by thofe lazy Spinfters the Mufesfl Does the parting of m y Fore-top fhew fo thin, as if it refemJ bled the two wither'd Tops of Parnaffus * D o you fee any thing peculiarly whimficalor ill-naturdin m y Face? Is my Countenance flrain'd, as if m y Head were diftorted by a Strangury of Thought ? Is there any thing proudly, flovenly, or affectedly carelels in m y Drefs ? D o my Hands look like Paper-moths? I think, M a d a m , 1 have nothing Poetica| about ine. Luc. Yes, Sir, you have W i t enough to talk like a Fool; and are Fool enough to talk like a Wit. Roeb. Y o u call'd m e Poet, M a d a m ; and I know no better way i f Revenge, than to convince you that I a m one bv my Impudence. (Offers to kifs her Hani. Luc. Then make m e a Copy of Verles upon that, Sir. (Hits him on the Ear, and Exit. Leanthe Entring. H o w d'ye like the ubject, Sir ? Tis a very copious one. - (Spitting.) - It has made my J oils i hime in m y Head. This it is to be thought a Poet; every Minx muft becafting his Profedion in his Teeth. What! Gone! and Reti^' ^ knows that making Verfes requires Solitude Roeb. She certainly was afraid I intended to beg leave to dedicate |