Cam. Ay, my lord, with t'other sister—with t'other sister.
Ld. H. What a dunce was I, not to know which, without your naming her! Why, thou art the only man breathing fit to deal with her. But my Lady Sharlot, there's a woman—so easily virtuous! So agreeably severe! Her motion so unaffected, yet so composed! Her lips breathe nothing but truth, good sense, and flowing wit.
Cam. Lady Harriot! there's the woman; such life, such spirit, such warmth in her eyes; such a lively commanding air in her glances; so spritely a mien, that carries in it the triumph of conscious beauty; her lips are made of gum and balm. There's something in that dear girl that fires my blood above—above—above——
Ld. H. Above what?
Cam. A grenadier's march.
Ld. H. A soft simile, I must confess! but oh that Sharlot! to recline this aching head, full of care, on that tender, snowy—faithful bosom!
Cam. O that Harriot! to embrace that beauteous[20]——
Ld. H. Ay, Tom; but methinks your head runs too much on the wedding night only, to make your happiness lasting; mine is fixed on the married state. I expect my felicity from Lady Sharlot, in her friendship, her constancy, her piety, her household cares, her maternal tenderness. You think not of any excellence of your mistress that is more than skin-deep——
Cam. When I know her further than skin-deep I'll tell you more of my mind.
Ld. H. O fie, Tom, how can you talk so lightly of a woman you love with honour.—But tell me, I wonder how you make your approaches in besieging such a sort of creature—she that loves addresses, gallantry, fiddles; that reigns and delights in a crowd of admirers. If I know her, she is one of those you may easily have a general acquaintance with, but hard to make particular.