Enter Captain Clerimont and Pounce.
Cler. A perfect Quixote in petticoats! I tell thee, Pounce, she governs herself wholly by romance—it has got into her very blood. She starts by rule, and blushes by example. Could I but have produced one instance of a lady's complying at first sight, I should have gained her promise on the spot. How am I bound to curse the cold constitutions of the Philocleas and Statiras? I am undone for want of precedents.
Pounce. I am sure I laboured hard to favour your conference, and plied the old woman all the while with something that tickled either her vanity or her covetousness; I considered all the stocks, Old and New Company, her own complexion and youth, partners for sword-blades, Chamber of London, banks for charity, and mine adventures, till she told me I had the repute of the most facetious man that ever came to Garraway's[91]—For you must know public knaves and stock-jobbers pass for wits at her end of the town, as common cheats and gamesters do at yours.
Cler. I pity the drudgery you have gone through; but what's next to be done towards getting my pretty heroine?
Pounce. What should next be done in ordinary method of things? You have seen her; the next regular approach is that you cannot subsist a moment without sending forth musical complaints of your misfortune by way of serenade.
Cler. I can nick you there, sir. I have a scribbling army friend that has writ a triumphant, rare, noisy song in honour of the late victory, that will hit the nymph's fantasque to a hair. I'll get everything ready as fast as possible.
Pounce. While you are playing upon the fort, I'll be within and observe what execution you do, and give you intelligence accordingly.
Cler. You must have an eye upon Mr. Humphry while I feed the vanity of Parthenissa; for I am so experienced in these matters that I know none but coxcombs think to win a woman by any desert of their own—No, it must be done rather by complying with some prevailing humour of your mistress, than exerting any good quality in yourself.
'Tis not the lover's merit wins the field,
But to themselves alone the beauteous yield.