Britton, haste thee, and get my Equipage in order; a handsome Coach, rich Liveries, and more Footmen: for ’tis Appearance only passes in the World—And d’ye hear, take care none know me by any other Name than that of Lejere.
Britt. I shall, Sir. Exit.
Geo. I came not from Paris into England, as my old Father thinks, to reform into a dull wretched Life in Wales. No, I’ll rather trust my kind Mistress Fortune, that has still kept me like her Darling, than purchase a younger Brother’s narrow Stipend, at the expence of my Pleasure and Happiness.
Enter Olivia in a Page’s Habit. She runs and embraces George.
Oliv. My ever charming Brother!
Geo. My best, my dear Olivia!
Oliv. The same lovely Man still! Thy Gallantry and Beauty’s all thy own; Paris could add no Graces to thy Air; nor yet pervert it into Affectation.
Geo. Spare me, and tell me how Mirtilla fares.
Oliv. I think, Brother, I writ you word to Paris, of a Marriage concluded betwixt me and Welborn?
Geo. That Letter I receiv’d: but from the dear Mirtilla, not one soft word; not one tender Line has blest my Eyes, has eas’d my panting Heart this tedious three Months space; and thou with whom I left the weighty Charge of her dear Heart, to watch her lovely Eyes, to give me notice when my Rivals press’d, and when she waver’d in her Faith to me, even thou wert silent to me, cruel Sister.