Arte. At last, I see, we shall leave Melantha where we found her; for, by your description of the town and country, they are become more dreadful to her than the court, where she was affronted. But you forget we are to wait on the princess Amalthea. Come, Doralice.
Dor. Farewell, Melantha.
Mel. Adieu, my dear.
Arte. You are out of charity with her, and therefore I shall not give your service.
Mel. Do not omit it, I beseech you; for I have such a tendre for the court, that I love it even from the drawing-room to the lobby, and can never be rebutée by any usage. But hark you, my dears; one thing I had forgot, of great concernment.
Dor. Quickly then, we are in haste.
Mel. Do not call it my service, that's too vulgar; but do my baise mains to the princess Amalthea; that is spirituelle!
Dor. To do you service, then, we will prendre the carosse to court, and do your baise mains to the princess Amalthea, in your phrase spirituelle.
[Exeunt Artemis and Doralice.
Enter Philotis, with a paper in her hand.
Mel. O, are you there, minion? And, well, are not you a most precious damsel, to retard all my visits for want of language, when you know you are paid so well for furnishing me with new words for my daily conversation? Let me die, if I have not run the risque already to speak like one of the vulgar, and if I have one phrase left in all my store, that is not thread-bare et usé, and fit for nothing but to be thrown to peasants.