the same to them, when we have more reason to complain, that they are not the same to us. Because they cannot feed on one dish, therefore we must be starved. "Tis enough that they have a sufficient ordinary provided, and a table ready spread for them: If they cannot fall too, and eat heartily, the fault is theirs; and 'tis pity, methinks, that the good creature should be lost, when many a poor sinner would be glad on't.

Enter MELANTHA and ARTEMIS to her.

Mel. Dear, my dear, pity me, I am so chagrin to day, and have had the most signal affront at court! I went this afternoon to do my devoir to princess Amalthea, found her, conversed with her, and helped to make her court some half an hour; after which, she went to take the air, chose out two ladies to go with her, that came in after me, and left me most barbarously behind her.

Arte. You are the less to be pitied, Melantha, because you subject yourself to these affronts, by coming perpetually to court, where you have no business nor employment.

Mel. I declare, I had rather of the two be rallied, nay, mal traitée at court, than be deified in the town; for, assuredly, nothing can be so ridicule as a mere town lady.

Dor. Especially at court. How I have seen them crowd and sweat in the drawing-room on a holidaynight! For that's their time to swarm and invade the presence. O, how they catch at a bow, or any little salute from a courtier, to make show of their acquaintance! and, rather than be thought to be quite unknown, they court'sy to one another; but they take true pains to come near the circle, and press and peep upon the princess, to write letters into the country how she was dressed, while the

ladies, that stand about, make their court to her with abusing them.

Arte. These are sad truths, Melantha; and therefore I would e'en advise you to quit the court, and live either wholly in the town, or, if you like not that, in the country.

Dor. In the country! nay, that's to fall beneath the town, for they live upon our offals here. Their entertainment of wit is only the remembrance of what they had when they were last in town;-they live this year upon the last year's knowledge, as their cattle do all night, by chewing the cud of what they eat in the afternoon.

Mel. And they tell, for news, such unlikely stories! A letter from one of us is such a present to them, that the poor souls wait for the carrier's-day with such devotion, that they cannot sleep the night before.

Arte. No more than I can, the night before I am to go a journey.

Dor. Or I, before I am to try on a new gown. Mel. A song, that's stale here, will be new there a twelvemonth hence; and if a man of the town by chance come amongst them, he's reverenced for teaching them the tune.

Dor. A friend of mine, who makes songs sometimes, came lately out of the west, and vowed he was so put out of countenance with a song of his; for, at the first country gentleman's he visited, he saw three tailors cross legged upon the table in the hall, who were tearing out as loud as ever they could sing,

After the pangs of a desperate lover, &c.

And that all day he heard of nothing else, but the daughters of the house, and the maids, humming it over in every corner, and the father whistling it.

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Arte. Indeed, I have observed of myself, that when I am out of town but a fortnight, I am so humble, that I would receive a letter from my tailor or mercer for a favour.

Mel. When I have been at grass in the summer, and am new come up again, methinks I'm to be turned into ridicule by all that see me; but when I have been once or twice at court, I begin to value myself again, and to despise my country acquaint

ance.

Arte. There are places where all people may be adored, and we ought to know ourselves so well as to choose them.

Dor. That's very true; your little courtier's wife, who speaks to the king but once a month, need but go to a town lady, and there she may vapour and cry," The king and I," at every word. Your town lady, who is laughed at in the circle, takes her coach into the city, and there she's called Your honour, and has a banquet from the merchant's wife, whom she laughs at for her kindness. And, as for my finical cit, she removes but to her country house, and there insults over the country gentlewoman that never comes up, who treats her with furmity and custard, and opens her dear bottle of mirabilis beside, for a gill-glass of it at parting.

Arte. At last, I see, we shall leave Melantha where we found her; for, by your description of the town and country, they are become more dreadful to her than the court, where she was affronted. But you forget we are to wait on the princess Amalthea. Come, Doralice.

Dor. Farewell, Melantha.
Mel. Adieu, my dear.

Arte. You are out of charity with her, and therefore I shall not give your service.

Mel. Do not omit it, I beseech you; for I have

such a tendre for the court, that I love it even from the drawing-room to the lobby, and can never be rebutés by any usage. But hark you, my dears; one thing I had forgot, of great concernment.

Dor. Quickly then, we are in haste.

Mel. Do not call it my service, that's too vulgar; but do my baise mains to the princess Amalthea; that is spirituelle !

Dor. To do you service, then, we will prendre the carosse to court, and do your baise mains to the princess Amalthea, in your phrase spirituelle.

[Exeunt ARTEMIS and DORALICE.

Enter PHILOTIS, with a paper in her hand.

Mel. O, are you there, minion? And, well, are not you a most precious damsel, to retard all my visits for want of language, when you know you are paid so well for furnishing me with new words for my daily conversation? Let me die, if I have not run the risque already to speak like one of the vulgar, and if I have one phrase left in all my store, that is not thread-bare et usé, and fit for nothing but to be thrown to peasants.

Phil. Indeed, Madam, I have been very diligent in my vocation; but you have so drained all the French plays and romances, that they are not able to supply you with words for your daily expence.

Mel. Drained? What a word's there! Epuisée, you sot you. Come, produce your morning's work. Phil. Tis here, madam. [Shows the paper. Mel. O, my Venus! fourteen or fifteen words to serve me a whole day! Let me die, at this rate I cannot last till night. Come, read your works : Twenty to one, half of them will not pass muster neither.

Phil. Sottises.

[Reads.

Mel. Sottises: bon.. That's an excellent word to

begin withal; as, for example, he or she said a thousand sottises to me. Proceed.

Phil. Figure: As, what a figure of a man is there! Naive, and naiveté.

Mel. Naive! as how?

Phil. Speaking of a thing that was naturally said, it was so naive; or, such an innocent piece of simplicity, 'twas such a naiveté.

Mel. Truce with your interpretations. Make haste.

Phil. Foible, chagrin, grimace, embarrasse, double entendre, equivoque, ecclaircissement, suittè, beveue, façon, penchant, coup d'etourdy, and ridicule.

Mel. Hold, hold; how did they begin?

Phil. They began at sottises, and ended en ridicule.

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Mel. Now, give me your paper in my hand, and hold you my glass, while I practise my postures for the day. [MELANTHA laughs in the glass.] How does that laugh become my face?

Phil. Sovereignly well, madam.

Mel. Sovereignly? Let me die, that's not amiss. That word shall not be yours; I'll invent it, and bring it up myself: My new point gorget shall be yours upon't. Not a word of the word, I charge

you.

Phil. I am dumb, madam.

Mel. That glance, how suits it with my face? [Looking in the glass again.

Phil. "Tis so languissant! Mel. Languissant! that word shall be mine too, and my last Indian gown thine for't. That sigh? [Looks again.

Phil. 'Twill make a man sigh, madam. Tis a mere incendiary.

Mel. Take my guimp petticoat for that truth. If thou hast most of these phrases, let me die but