Sir H. What makes him so gay?
Vizard. Why, he's in mourning.
Sir H. In mourning?
Vizard. Yes, for his father. The kind old man in Hertfordshire t'other day broke his neck a fox-hunting; the son, upon the news, has broke his indentures; whipped from behind the counter into the side-box. He keeps his coach and liveries, brace of geldings, leash of mistresses, talks of nothing but wines, intrigues, plays, fashions, and going to the jubilee.
Sir H. Ha! ha! ha! how many pounds of pulvil must the fellow use in sweetening himself from the smell of hops and tobacco? Faugh!—I' my conscience methought, like Olivia's lover, he stunk of Thames-Street. But now for Angelica, that's her name: we'll to the prince's chocolate-house, where you shall write my passport. Allons. [Exeunt.
SCENE II.
Lady Lurewell's Lodgings.
Enter Lady Lurewell, and her Maid Parly.
Lady L. Parly, my pocket-book—let me see—Madrid, Paris, Venice, London!—Ay, London! They may talk what they will of the hot countries, but I find love most fruitful under this climate——In a month's space have I gained—let me see, imprimis, Colonel Standard.
Parly. And how will your ladyship manage him?
Lady L. As all soldiers should be managed; he shall serve me till I gain my ends, then I'll disband him.