Lady Ara. And can you think it a wise thing (to talk your own way now) to go to bed at eleven, when you know I am likely to disturb you by coming there at three?
Lord Love. Well, the manner of womens living of late is insupportable, and some way or other——
Lady Ara. It's to be mended, I suppose—Pray, my Lord, one word of fair argument: You complain of my late hours; I of your early ones; so far we are even, you'll allow; but which gives us the best figure in the eye of the polite world? my two o'clock speaks life, activity, spirit, and vigour; your eleven has a dull, drowsy, stupid, good-for-nothing sound with it. It favours much of a mechanic, who must get to bed betimes, that he may rise early to open his shop. Faugh!
Lord Love. I thought to go to bed early and rise so, was ever esteem'd a right practice for all people.
Lady Ara. Beasts do it.
Lord Love. Fy, fy, Madam, fy; but 'tis not your ill hours alone disturb me; but the ill company who occasion those ill hours.
Lady Ara. And pray what ill company may those be?
Lord Love. Why, women that lose their money, and men that win it: especially when 'tis to be paid out of their husband's estate; or if that fail, and the creditor be a little pressing, the lady will, perhaps, be oblig'd to try if the gentleman instead of gold will accept of a trinket.
Lady Ara. My Lord, you grow scurrilous, and you'll make me hate you. I'll have you to know, I keep company with the politest people in the town, and the assemblies I frequent are full of such.