Const. Away with him, away with him to Newgate, straight.
Clinch. sen. I shall go to the Jubilee now, indeed.
Enter Sir. H. Wildair and Colonel Standard.
Sir H. In short, colonel, 'tis all nonsense—fight for a woman! Hard by is the lady's house, if you please, we'll wait on her together: you shall draw your sword—I'll draw my snuff-box: you shall produce your wounds received in war—I'll relate mine by Cupid's dart: you shall swear—I'll sigh: you shall sa, sa, and I'll coupée; and if she flies not to my arms, like a hawk to its perch, my dancing-master deserves to be damned.
Colonel S. With the generality of women, I grant you, these arts may prevail.
Sir H. Generality of women! Why there again, you're out. They're all alike, sir: I never heard of any one that was particular, but one.
Colonel S. Who was she, pray?
Sir H. Penelope, I think she's called, and that's a poetical story too. When will you find a poet in our age make a woman so chaste?
Colonel S. Well, Sir Harry, your facetious humour can disguise falsehood, and make calumny pass for satire; but you have promised me ocular demonstration that she favours you: make that good, and I shall then maintain faith and female to be as inconsistent as truth and falsehood.
Sir H. But will you be convinced, if our plot succeeds.