L. Ha. Mrs. Fardingale, Mrs. Fardingale, what, must we lose you? [Going after her.
Campley runs to the door, takes the key out, and locks her in.
What means this insolence? a plot upon me—Do you know who I am?
Cam. Yes, madam, you're my Lady Harriot Lovely, with ten thousand pounds in your pocket; and I am Mr. Campley, with two thousand a year, of quality enough to pretend to you. And I do design, before I leave this room, to hear you talk like a reasonable woman, as nature has made you. Nay, 'tis in vain to flounce, and discompose yourself and your dress.
L. Ha. If there are swords, if they are men of honour, and not all dastards, cowards that pretend to this injured person——[Running round the room.
Cam. Ay, ay, madam, let 'em come. That's putting me in my way, fighting's my trade; but you've used all mankind too ill to expect so much service. In short, madam, were you a fool I should not desire to expostulate with you. [Seizing her hand.] But——
L. Ha. Unhand me, ravisher. [Pulls her hand from him, chases round the room, Campley after her.
Cam. But madam, madam, madam, why madam!
Prithee Cynthia look behind you, [Sings.
Age and wrinkles will o'ertake you.