L. Sh. Well, simpleton, if I am at first so silly, as to be a little taken with myself, I know it a fault, and take pains to correct it.
L. Ha. Pshaw! pshaw! talk this musty tale to old Mrs. Fardingale, 'tis too soon for me to think at that rate.
L. Sh. They that think it too soon to understand themselves, will very soon find it too late. But tell me honestly, don't you like Campley?
L. Ha. The fellow is not to be abhorred, if the forward thing did not think of getting me so easily. Oh! I hate a heart I can't break when I please. What makes the value of dear china, but that 'tis so brittle? Were it not for that, you might as well have stone mugs in your closet.
L. Sh. Hist, hist, here's Fardingale.
Enter Fardingale.
Far. Lady Harriot, Lady Sharlot! I'll entertain you now, I've a new song just come hot out of the poet's brain. Lady Sharlot, my cousin Campley writ it, and 'tis set to a pretty air, I warrant you.
L. Ha. 'Tis like to be pretty indeed, of his writing. [Flings away.
Far. Come, come, this is not one of your tringham trangham witty things, that your poor poets write; no, 'tis well known my cousin Campley has two thousand pounds a year. But this is all dissimulation in you.