Treb. Won't your Ladyship please to sing yourself this Morning?
Lady Fan. O Lord, Mr. Treble, my Cold is still so barbarous to refuse me that Pleasure! He, he, hem.
Treb. I'm very sorry for it, Madam: Methinks all Mankind should turn Physicians for the Cure on't.
Lady Fan. Why, truly, to give Mankind their due, there's few that know me but have offer'd their Remedy.
Treb. They have reason, Madam; for I know no body sings so near a Cherubim as your Ladyship.
Lady Fan. What I do, I owe chiefly to your Skill and Care, Mr. Treble. People do flatter me, indeed, that I have a Voice, and a Je-ne-sçai-quoy in the Conduct of it, that will make Musick of any thing. And truly I begin to believe so, since what happen'd t'other Night: Wou'd you think it, Mr. Treble? Walking pretty late in the Park, (for I often walk late in the Park, Mr Treble) a Whim took me to sing Chevy Chase; and, wou'd you believe it? next Morning I had three Copies of Verses, and six Billet-doux at my Levée upon it.
Treb. And without all dispute you deserv'd as many more, Madam. Are there any further Commands for your Ladyship's humble Servant?
Lady Fan. Nothing more at this Time, Mr. Treble. But I shall expect you here every Morning for this Month, to sing my little Matter there to me. I'll reward you for your Pains.
Treb. O Lord, Madam——