Sir Har.  And now the tedious Summer is elaps’d, and Winter ushers in neglected Joys; Armies march home victorious from the Field, Ladies from Parks and Plains that mourn’d their absence; a Croud of Pleasures glut the varying Appetite, and Friends long absent meet with gayest Transports.

Col.  Ay, Winter is the gay, the happy Season:  I hate a Solitary Rural Life, as if one were at variance with the World; to walk with Arms a-cross, admire Nature’s Works in Woods and Groves, talk to the Streams, and tell the Trees our Passion, while Eccho’s make a Mock at all we say—­ Give me the shining Town, the glittering Theatres; there Nature best is seen in Beauteous Boxes, where Beaus transported with the Heavenly Sight, the little God sits pleas’d in ev’ry Eye, and Actors dart new Vigour from the Stage, supported By the Spirit of full Pay—­But what great Fortunes buz about the Town; Red-Coats have carry’d off good store of Heiresses, and that’s the sure, tho’ not the sweetest Game; besides, Sir Harry, they talk of Peace, and we that have nothing but the Sword to trust to, ought to provide against that dreadful Day.

Knap.  Really, Sir, I have had some Thoughts of Marriage too; there’s nothing like being settl’d, to have a House of one’s own, and Attendants about one; besides, I’m the last Male, of a very ancient Family, and shou’d I die without Children, the Knap-sacks wou’d be quite extinct.

Sir Har. The Talk, the Pride, and Envy of the Town is Lady Rodomont, whose Wit surprizes, whose Beauty ravishes, and a clear Estate of Six thousand a Year distracts the admiring Train; but the Misfortune is, she has Travell’d, had Experience, well vers’d in Gallantries of various Courts; she admits Coquets, and rallies each Pretender, so resolutely fond of Liberty, she slights the most accomplish’d of Mankind, there Collonel is a Siege to prove a Roman or a Grecian Bravery.

Col. A Roman or a Grecian, say you, bold Britains laugh at all their baubling Fights; and had Achilles, with his batt’ring Rams, felt half the Fury of an English General, Troy had ne’er bully’d out a Ten Years Siege—­but Ladies are more craftily subdu’d; you mustn’t storm a Nymph with Sword and Pistol, pursue her as you wou’d a tatter’d Frenchman, push her Attendants into the Danube, then seize her, and clap her into a Coach—­I’ll baffle her at her own Argument, swear I’d not wed a Phoenix of her Sex, and laugh at Dress and Beauty, Wit and Fortune, when purchas’d only at the Price of Liberty—­then sweeten her again with ogling Smiles, look Babies in her Eyes, and vow she’s handsome; and when she thinks each artful Glance has caught me, that now’s the time to Conquer, and to Laugh, and with malicious Cunning mentions Marriage, I’ll start, and change, and beg her not to name it, for ’tis a Thought that rouses Madness in me, ’till out of Spight and Spleen, and Woman’s Curiosity, the Knot’s abruptly ty’d, to prove my feign’d Resolves, and boast her Power.