_Bram._ Thank you, Sir _Harry_, but tho' things don't go as I'd have them,
of all Countries, I like _England_ the best, for 'tis the only Kingdom in
the World that suffers Faction; where one may write Libels, affront the
Ministry, deride the Laws, and set the whole Nation together by the Ears--
but whilst I am idle, mighty Matters are at a stand; in short, my Business
here is to make my Addresses to Lady _Rodomont_, who having lately seen
_Italy_ and _France_, like a true Woman, is return'd with a most horrid
Contempt of her own Country, and may like my Principles better than the
flutt'ring Airs of you Town-Sparks--afterwards, Gentlemen, I shall be
proud of both your Companies to dine in the _Press-Yard_, in _Newgate_,
with sev'ral very ingenious Persons, that coin better than they do i'the
_Tower_. [_Exit._

_Col_. So, Lady _Rodomont_'s the Cry--How Divine a Creature is a Woman
that has Six thousand a Year; the Town's quite mad after her.

Sir _Har_. And such an Estate's enough to make her mad; Women are too
sanguine for such mighty Fortune; Ten thousand Pounds touches a Lady's
Brain, but when they prove great Heiresses, they're--

_Col_. Oh! stark Staring, Raving! and we ought to have the Custody of em.

Sir _Har_. Let's move towards the Court, _Collonel_, where we shall meet
her sailing down the _Mall_, and the Fops after her, with all the Pride of
a First-Rate Man of War, that's convoying a few petty Merchant-Ships to
the _West-Indies_.

_Enter_ Shrimp _with a Letter_.