LADY FROTH. Biddy, that’s all; just my own name.
BRISK. Biddy! I’gad, very pretty. Deuce take me if your ladyship has not the art of surprising the most naturally in the world. I hope you’ll make me happy in communicating the poem.
LADY FROTH. Oh, you must be my confidant, I must ask your advice.
BRISK. I’m your humble servant, let me perish. I presume your ladyship has read Bossu?
LADY FROTH. Oh yes, and Racine, and Dacier upon Aristotle and Horace. My lord, you must not be jealous, I’m communicating all to Mr. Brisk.
LORD FROTH. No, no, I’ll allow Mr. Brisk; have you nothing about you to shew him, my dear?
LADY FROTH. Yes, I believe I have. Mr. Brisk, come, will you go into the next room? and there I’ll shew you what I have.
LORD FROTH. I’ll walk a turn in the garden, and come to you.
SCENE III.
Mellefont, Cynthia.