Lord Fop. Ay, but let my People dispose the Glasses so, that I may see myself before and behind; for I love to see myself all raund——
[Whilst he puts on his Clothes, enter Young Fashion and Lory.
Young Fash. Hey-dey, what the Devil have we here? Sure my Gentleman's grown a Favourite at Court, he has got so many People at his Levee.
Lo. Sir, these People come in order to make him a Favourite at Court, they are to establish him with the Ladies.
Young Fash. Good God! to what an Ebb of Taste are Women fallen, that it shou'd be in the power of a lac'd Coat to recommend a Gallant to 'em——
Lo. Sir, Taylors and Perriwig-makers are now become the Bawds of the Nation, 'tis they debauch all the Women.
Young Fash. Thou sayest true; for there's that Fop now, has not by Nature wherewithal to move a Cook-maid, and by that time these Fellows have done with him, I'gad he shall melt down a Countess——But now for my Reception, I engage it shall be as cold a one, as a Courtier's to his Friend, who comes to put him in mind of his Promise.
Lord Fop. to his Taylor.] Death and eternal Tartures! Sir, I say the Packet's too high by a Foot.
Tayl. My Lord, if it had been an Inch lower, it would not have held your Lordship's Pocket-Handkerchief.
Lord Fop. Rat my Packet-Handkerchief! Have not I a Page to carry it? You may make him a Packet up to his Chin a purpose for it; but I will not have mine come so near my Face.