Hort. That was a Woman, Sir, a very Woman;
Her Cogitations all were on the outward Man:
But I strike deeper; 'tis the Mind I view.
The Soul's the worthy Object of my Care;
The Soul, that Sample of Divinity, that glorious
Ray of heavenly Light. The Soul, that awful
Throne of Thought, that sacred Seat of Contemplation.
The Soul, that noble Source of Wisdom,
That Fountain of Comfort,
That Spring of Joy, that happy Token of eternal
Life. The Soul, that——
Esop. Pray, Lady, are you married?
Hort. Why that Question, Sir?
Esop. Only that I might wait upon your Husband, to wish him Joy.
Hort. When People of my Composition would marry, they first find something of their own Species to join with; I never could resolve to take a Thing of common Fabric to my Bed, lest, when his brutish Inclinations prompt him, he shou'd make me Mother to a Form like his own.
Esop. Methinks, a Lady so extremely nice should be much at a Loss who to converse with.
Hort. I keep my Chamber, and converse with myself; 'tis better being alone, than to mis-ally one's Conversation: Men are scandalous, and Women are insipid: Discourse without Figure makes me sick at my Soul: O the Charms of a Metaphor! What Harmony there is in the Words of Erudition! The Musick of them is inimaginable.
Esop. Will you hear a Fable, Lady?
Hort. Willingly, Sir; the Apologue pleases me, when the Application of it is just.
Esop. It is, I'll answer for it.