Bra. Perhaps, Madam, my Lady never had an Offer worth her serious Notice, the Fops a course chatter and teaze the Women, but when great Statesmen condescend to Love, and while they Court, Affairs of State stand still; a Lady shou’d be proud of such an Offer; what Woman wou’d not think her self most highly honour’d to have an amorous Judge approach her with his Tipstaff.

Mrs. Lov. Ay, Major, to have the State stand still, as if a Woman were of mightier Moment wou’d sooth a Lady’s Pride, ’twou’d be so pretty to adjourn the Parliament when their Mistresses send for ’em to Picquet; and were my Lady sensible how vast an Honour you design her, she certainly wou’d own an equal Passion.

Bra. [Aside] I profess a very ingenious Woman, and cou’d I but be satisfy’d, she were entirely in the French Int’rest, I I wou’d prefer her to Madam Maintenon’s Cabinet Council, to consult about the next Invasion.

    Enter Nicknack.

Nic. Oh!  Mrs. Lovejoy, I have been hurry’d quite out of my Senses, three more Ships are sail’d in upon me this Morning; the Atlas Merchant Man, Captain Sunburnt Commander from the East Indies, the Dighton Gally from the musty Islands, and the Hankerchief Frigot from Smirna.

Mrs. Lov. Pray, Mr. Nicknack, when’s the Sale?

Nic. Now, now, Madam, and the fat India Women from all Parts o’the Town do croud and scold like a Parcel of Fish-Wives at a Mackrel-Boat—­Mrs. Trapes in Leadenhall Street is hawling away the Umbrellas for the walking Gentry, Mrs. Kanister in Hatton Garden, buys up all the course Bohee-Tea for the Holborn Ladies Breakfasts, and Mrs. Furnish at St. James’s has order’d Lots of Fans, and China, and India Pictures to be set by for her, ’till she can borrow Mony to pay for ’em.——­But, Madam, I ha’ brought you a couple of the prettiest Parrokeets, and the charming’st Monkey for my Lady that ever was seen; a Coster-monger’s Wife kiss’d it, burst into Tears, and said, ’Twas so like an only Child she had just bury’d.  I thought the poor Woman wou’d ha’ swoon’d away.

Mrs. Lov.  Thank you good Mr. Nicknack.

Nick.  But, Madam, have you told my Lady, what a violent Inflammation I have about her?

Mrs. Lov.  She’s now at Cards with the Collonel, and next to the new Monkey you’ll be the welcom’st Creature alive to her.—­Sweet Major excuse me, for I must run to my dear Parrokeets. [Exit.

Bra.  Prithee, Friend, what Beau-maggot has thy Pericranium lately bred to give thee pretensions to Lady Rodomont?

Nick.  And pray, Major; what prejudice have the Ladies done you, that you shou’d revenge it by offering ’em your disagreeable self?  For he that murmus at so good a Queen, must certainly be disaffected to the whole Sex.