But you don't consider, Sylvia, how long I have lived in it; for I can assure you that to a lady the least nice in her constitution – no air can be good above half a year. Change of air I take to be the most agreeable of any variety in life.
Syl. As you say, cousin Melinda, there are several sorts of airs.
Mel. Psha! I talk only of the air we breathe, or more properly of that we taste – Have not you, Sylvia, found a vast difference in the taste of airs?
Syl. Pray, cousin, are not vapours a sort of air? Taste air! you might as well tell me I may feed upon air! but pr'ythee, my dear Melinda! don't put on such an air to me. Your education and mine were just the same, and I remember the time when we never troubled our heads about air, but when the sharp air from the Welsh mountains made our fingers ache in a cold morning, at the boarding-school.
Mel. Our education, cousin, was the same, but our temperaments had nothing alike; you have the constitution of an horse.
Syl. So far as to be troubled neither with spleen, cholic, nor vapours. I need no salts for my stomach, no hartshorn for my head, nor wash for my complexion; I can gallop all the morning after the hunting-horn, and all the evening after a fiddle. In short, I can do every thing with my father, but drink and shoot flying; and I am sure I can do every thing my mother could, were I put to the trial.
Mel. You are in a fair way of being put to't, for I am told your captain is come to town.
Syl. Ay, Melinda, he is come, and I'll take care he shan't go without a companion.
Mel. You are certainly mad, cousin!
Syl. "And there's a pleasure in being mad,
Which none but madmen know".
Mel. Thou poor romantic Quixote! – hast thou the vanity to imagine that a young sprightly officer, that rambles o'er half the globe in half a year, can confine his thoughts to the little daughter of a country justice, in an obscure part of the world?
Syl. Psha! what care I for his thoughts; I should not like a man with confined thoughts; it shows a narrowness of soul. In short, Melinda, I think a petticoat a mighty simple thing, and I am heartily tired of my sex.
Mel. That is, you are tired of an appendix to our sex, that you can't so handsomely get rid of in petticoats as if you were in breeches. – O'my conscience, Sylvia, hadst thou been a man, thou hadst been the greatest rake in Christendom.
Syl. I should have endeavoured to know the world, which a man can never do thoroughly without half a hundred friendships, and as many amours. But now I think on't, how stands your affair with Mr. Worthy?
Mel. He's my aversion.
Syl. Vapours!
Mel. What do you say, madam?
Syl. I say, that you should not use that honest fellow so inhumanly: he's a gentleman of parts and fortune, and besides that, he's my Plume's friend; and by all that's sacred, if you don't use him better, I shall expect satisfaction.
Mel. Satisfaction! you begin to fancy yourself in breeches in good earnest – But, to be plain with you, I like Worthy the worse for being so intimate with your captain; for I take him to be a loose, idle, unmannerly coxcomb.
Syl. Oh, Madam! you never saw him, perhaps, since you were mistress of twenty thousand pounds: you only knew him when you were capitulating with Worthy for a settlement, which perhaps might encourage him to be a little loose and unmannerly with you.
Mel. What do you mean, madam?
Syl. My meaning needs no interpretation, madam.
Mel. Better it had, madam; for methinks you are too plain.
Syl. If you mean the plainness of my person, I think your ladyship's as plain as me to the full.
Mel. Were I sure of that, I would be glad to take up with a rakehelly officer, as you do.
Syl. Again! lookye, madam, you are in your own house.
Mel. And if you had kept in yours, I should have excused you.
Syl. Don't be troubled, madam; I shan't desire to have my visit returned.
Mel. The sooner, therefore, you make an end of this, the better.
Syl. I am easily persuaded to follow my inclinations; and so, madam, your humble servant.
Mel. Saucy thing!
Lucy. What's the matter, madam?
Mel. Did not you see the proud nothing, how she swelled upon the arrival of her fellow?
Lucy. Her fellow has not been long enough arrived, to occasion any great swelling, madam; I don't believe she has seen him yet.
Mel. Nor shan't, if I can help it. – Let me see – I have it; bring me pen and ink – Hold, I'll go write in my closet.
Lucy. An answer to this letter, I hope, madam?
Mel. Who sent it?
Lucy. Your captain, madam.
Mel. He's a fool, and I'm tired of him: send it back unopened.
Lucy. The messenger's gone, madam.
Mel. Then how should I send an answer? Call him back immediately, while I go write.
ACT THE SECOND
SCENE I
Bal. Lookye, captain, give us but blood for our money, and you shan't want men. Ad's my life, captain, get us but another marshal of France, and I'll go myself for a soldier.
Plume. Pray, Mr. Balance, how does your fair daughter?
Bal. Ah, captain! what is my daughter to a marshal of France? we're upon a nobler subject; I want to have a particular description of the last battle.
Plume. The battle, sir, was a very pretty battle as any one should desire to see; but we were all so intent upon victory, that we never minded the battle: all that I know of the matter is, our general commanded us to beat the French, and we did so; and, if he pleases but to say the word, we'll do it again. But pray, sir, how does Mrs. Sylvia?
Bal. Still upon Sylvia! for shame, captain! you are engaged already – wedded to the war: victory is your mistress, and 'tis below a soldier to think of any other.
Plume. As a mistress, I confess – but as a friend, Mr. Balance —
Bal. Come, come, captain, never mince the matter; would not you seduce my daughter, if you could?
Plume. How, sir? I hope she is not to be seduced.
