But for their fancy’d Riches find
Both want of Gold and Pleasure.
Rich in my Delia, I can wish no more;
The Wanderer, like the Chymist, must be poor.
Man. Not see him, Madam—I protest he’s handsomer, and handsomer, Paris has given him such an Air:—Lord, he’s all over Monsieur—Not see him, Madam—Why? I hope you do not, like the foolish sort of Wives, design a strict Obedience to your Husband.
Mir. Away, a Husband!—when Absence, that sure Remedy of Love, had heal’d the bleeding Wound Lejere had made, by Heaven, I thought I ne’er shou’d love again—but since Endymion has inspir’d my Soul, and for that Youth I burn, I pine, I languish.
Enter George richly drest, stands at a distance gazing on Mirtilla.
Man. See, Madam, there’s an Object may put out that Flame, and may revive the old one.
Mir. Shame and Confusion.—Lejere. Turns and walks away.
Geo. Yonder she is, that Mien and Shape I know, though the false Face be turn’d with shame away. Offers to advance, and stops.