Bev. Jun. But, madam, we grow grave, methinks. Let's find some other subject—Pray how did you like the opera last night?
Ind. First give me leave to thank you for my tickets.
Bey. Jun. Oh! your servant, madam. But pray tell me, you now, who are never partial to the fashion, I fancy must be the properest judge of a mighty dispute among the ladies, that is, whether Crispo or Griselda[128] is the more agreeable entertainment.
Ind. With submission now, I cannot be a proper judge of this question.
Bev. How so, madam?
Ind. Because I find I have a partiality for one of them.
Bev. Jun. Pray which is that?
Ind. I do not know; there's something in that rural cottage of Griselda, her forlorn condition, her poverty, her solitude, her resignation, her innocent slumbers, and that lulling dolce sogno that's sung over her; it had an effect upon me that—in short I never was so well deceived, at any of them.
Bev. Jun. Oh! Now then, I can account for the dispute. Griselda, it seems, is the distress of an injured innocent woman, Crispo, that only of a man in the same condition; therefore the men are mostly concerned for Crispo, and, by a natural indulgence, both sexes for Griselda.
Ind. So that judgment, you think, ought to be for one, though fancy and complaisance have got ground for the other. Well! I believe you will never give me leave to dispute with you on any subject; for I own, Crispo has its charms for me too. Though in the main, all the pleasure the best opera gives us is but mere sensation. Methinks it's pity the mind can't have a little more share in the entertainment. The music's certainly fine, but, in my thoughts, there's none of your composers come up to old Shakespeare and Otway.