Rho. He, who has this lady, is a happy man, without dispute,—­I’m most concerned in this, I am sure. [Aside.

Pala. Was it not well found out, Rhodophil?

Mel. Ay, this was bien trouvee indeed.

Dor. [to MELANTHA.] I suppose I shall do you a kindness, to enquire if you have not been in France, sir?

Mel. To do you service, sir.

Dor. O, monsieur, votre valet bien humble. [Saluting her.

Mel. Votre esclave, monsieur, de tout mon coeur.
                                              [Returning the salute.

Dor. I suppose, sweet sir, you are the hope and joy of some thriving citizen, who has pinched him self at home, to breed you abroad, where you have learned your exercises, as it appears, most awkwardly, and are returned, with the addition of a new-laced bosom and a clap, to your good old father, who looks at you with his mouth, while you spout French with your man monsieur.

Pala. Let me kiss thee again for that, dear rogue.

Mel. And you, I imagine, are my young master, whom your mother durst not trust upon salt-water, but left you to be your own tutor at fourteen, to be very brisk and entreprenant, to endeavour to be debauched ere you have learned the knack of it, to value yourself upon a clap before you can get it, and to make it the height of your ambition to get a player for your mistress.

Rho. [embracing MELANTHA.] O dear young bully thou hast tickled him with a repartee, i’faith.

Mel. You are one of those that applaud our country plays, where drums, and trumpets, and blood, and wounds, are wit.

Rho. Again, my boy?  Let me kiss thee most abundantly.

Dor. You are an admirer of the dull French poetry, which is so thin, that it is the very leaf-gold of wit, the very wafers and whip’d cream of sense, for which a man opens his mouth, and gapes, to swallow nothing:  And to be an admirer of such profound dulness, one must be endowed with a great perfection of impudence and ignorance.

Pala. Let me embrace thee most vehemently.

Mel. I’ll sacrifice my life for French poetry. [Advancing.

Dor. I’ll die upon the spot for our country wit.

Rho. [to MELANTHA.] Hold, hold, young Mars!  Palamede, draw back your hero.

Pala. ’Tis time; I shall be drawn in for a second else at the wrong weapon.

Mel. O that I were a man, for thy sake!

Dor. You’ll be a man as soon as I shall.

  Enter a Messenger to RHODOPHIL.

Mess. Sir, the king has instant business with you; I saw the guard drawn up by your lieutenant, Before the palace-gate, ready to march.