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Show 28 Sir Harry Wildair 5 being Lure. A y , Sir Harry, I begin to hate that old thing cail'd Love ; they fay 'tis clear out in France. Wild. Clear out, clear out, no body wears it: And here too, Honefty went out with the flafh'd Doublets, and Love with the cloic-body'd Gowns. Love! Tis fo obfolete, fo mean, and out of Fafhion, that I can compare it 'to nothing but the miferablc Picture of Patient Grille at the Head of an old Ballad Faugh ! Lure. Ha, ha, ha. -The beft Emblem in the World. Come, Sir Harry, faith we'll run it down.- Love ! Ay, methinks I fee the mournful Melpomene with her Handkerchief at her Eye, her Heart full of Fire, her Eyes full of Water, her Head full of Madnefs, and her Mouth full of Nonfenfc Oh ! Hang it. Wild. Ay, Madam. Then the daleful Ditties, piteous Plaints, the Daggers, the Poyfons!' Lure. O h the Vapours! Wild. Then a M a n muft kneel, and a M a n muft fwear.- There is a Repofe, I fee, in the next Room. (Afide. Lure. Unnatural Stuff! Wild. Oh, Madam, the moft unnatural thing in the World; as fulfome as a Sack-Poffet, [Pulling her towards the Door.] uu-genteel as a Wedding-Ring, and as impudent as the naked Statue was in the Park. (P»lh her again. Lure. Ay, Sir Harry; I hate Love that's impudent. Thele Poets dre'fs it up fo in their Tragedies that no medeft W o man can bear it. Your way is much tpe more tolerable, I muft confefs. Wild. Ay, ay, M a d a m ; I hate your rude Whining and Sighipg ; it puts a Lad/ out of Countenance. (Pulling her. Lure. Truly fo it does. Hang .their Impudence.- . But where are we going ? Wild. Only to rail at Love, Madam. (Pulls her in. Enter Banter. Pan. Hey 1 Who's here ? (Lurewell comes back. Lwc Pfhaw, prevented!'Bv a Stranger too!-Had rt been m y Husband now. Pfhaw 1--Very familiar, Sir. (Banter takes upWi\da\i's flat, that was dropt in the Room. Ban. Madam, you have dropi your Hat, Lure. Difcover'd too by a Suai'gcrl What fhall I do? Wild. [From within.] --. Madam, you have got the moft confounded Pens here! Can't you get the Colonel to write the Superfcriotions of your Letter Tor you? Lure. Blefs me, Sir Harry! Don't you know that the Colonel can't write French? Your tunc is fo precious! Wild, |