Heart. No, Harriet, I can never have done Loving you.
Har. Why I don't desire you to have done loving me; I only bid you have done telling me so—if you would please me, love me more and tell me less.
Heart. Dear kind Creature! (Kissing her Hand) Pray what's become of my Lady?
Har. Apropos, do you know that the Irish Beau that we laughed at so immoderately the other Night at the Opera, came into our Box and set there all the Play?
Heart. Who, Sir Patrick Bashfull?
Har. The same. The Rogue has plagued me to Death with his Civilities, his Compliments and his Blunders; he is the most fulsome Fellow sure that ever pretended to Politeness.
Heart. Yes but the best Jest is that the Rogue is ashamed of his Country and says he was born in France.
Har. Well after sighing and making doux yeux at me all play time, he would hand me to the Coach; but the Fellow squeezed me so as we went along, that I was obliged to cry out and pull my hand away; when we were in the Coach, I thought we had got rid of him, but the Instant the Footman knocked at our Door, to our great Surprize who should we find at the Coach side ready to hand us out but our Irish Gallant. We could not avoid asking him in; he made a Million of Apologies for his Assurance, but his chief one was that he observed two suspicious Fellows dogging the Coach, so he followed us home to prevent our being insulted.
Heart. Ha, ha, ha, I think it was a good Irish Excuse; and pray where is he now?
Har. I left him below with my Lady overwhelming her with Civilities—See here they both come.