La. Rod. O you malicious Creature! That Censure's from the Freedoms of the French: A Traveller shou'd humour Countries, Customs; in Spain, a modest Woman hides her Face; in France we shift our selves before our Valets; nay, shou'd much greater Freedoms there be practis'd, none but an English Clown suspects our Vertue—Collonel, you're welcome to England; you have distinguish'd your self nobly this Campaign; I hear at Audenard you acted Wonders.
Col. Madam, When Kings command their Subjects to the Field,
The Swords our Calling, and we fight for pay,
And lengthen out a War to raise Estates;
But when a Queen, whose matchless Virtue fires us,
And whose obliging Goodness courts our Valour,
We march with Pride, and unresisted Force,
To spread the Empire of so bright a Mistress.
La. Rod. I find, Collonel, an English Officer may be perfectly well-bred, but I attribute it to your success in War; you have taken most of the French Officers Prisoners, whose Conversation has refin'd your Manners.
Col. 'Tis granted, Madam, their Conversation's wondrous Degaugée— we'll take 'em to refine us ev'ry Year.
La. Rod. Sir Harry, what Diversions are a-foot; but England is so phlegmatick a Climate, no Carnivals, nor Midnight-Masquerades, but Two and fifty Days lost ev'ry Year for want of Balls and Operas on a Sunday.
Sir Har. Our Nation, Madam's so far gone in Parties,
That Faction's even carry'd to Diversions,
One Party strives for Sense, and t'other Sound;
The Major here, I think opposes both.
Bram. So I do—What signifies a Comedy of Fools; han't we the Courts of Westminster to divert us; and your Tragedies, where Kings and Emperors are murder'd; in a quarter of an Hour after they are at Buxton's Coffee-House, playing at All-Fours; then your Singing-Op'ras, I hate your Italian Squaling, like a Woman in Labour; and 'fore-gad, Madam, 'tis a most miraculous thing to me, that a Lady of your Experience, who has travers'd the World, and ought to know Nature in a wonderful Perfection, shou'd admire an Eunuch.
La. Rod. You shou'd have liv'd in former Ages, Major, when odious Tilts and Tournaments were in Vogue; our Pleasures are too curious for your Taste, I fancy the Bear-Garden suits your Genius mightily.
Bram. Ay, Madam, there's Celestial Sport and Pastime; the Musick of the Dogs, the Harmony o' the Butchers, to see, a Mastiff tear a Bull by the Throat, the Bull once wounded, goring o'er the Ground, cants a fat Woman higher than the Monument—I love Reality in my Diversions; but at a Play-House I never laugh'd but once, and that was at a most agreeable Noise the Footmen made in the Upper-Gall'ry.
La. Rod. Savage Creature!