THE LYING LOVER: OR, THE LADIES' FRIENDSHIP.
ACT THE FIRST.
SCENE I.—St. James's Park.
Enter Young Bookwit and Latine.
Latine. But have you utterly left Oxford?
Y. Book. For ever, sir, for ever; my father has given me leave to come to town, and I don't question but will let my return be in my own choice. But Jack, you know we were talking in Maudlen Walks last week of the necessity, in intrigues, of a faithful, yet a prating servant. We agreed, therefore, to cast lots who should be the other's footman for the present expedition. Fortune, that's always blind, gave me the superiority.
Lat. She shall be called no more so, for that one action. And I am, sir, in a literal sense, your very humble servant.
Y. Book. Begin, then, the duty of a useful valet, and flatter me egregiously. Has the fellow fitted me? How is my manner? my mien? Do I move freely? Have I kicked off the trammels of a gown? or does not the tail on't seem still tucked under my arm, where my hat is, with a pert jerk forward, and little hitch in my gait like a scholastic beau? This wig, I fear, looks like a cap.
Lat. No, faith, it looks like a cap and gown too; though at the same time you look as if you ne'er had worn either.