_O'Con_. Oh, hang fortune,--let that take its chance; there is a
beauty in Lauretta's simplicity, so pure a bloom upon her charms.

_Rosy_. So there is, so there is. You are for beauty as nature
made her, hey! No artificial graces, no cosmetic varnish, no beauty in
grey, hey!

_O'Con_. Upon my word, doctor, you are right; the London ladies
were always too handsome for me; then they are so defended, such a
circumvallation of hoop, with a breastwork of whale-bone that would
turn a pistol-bullet, much less Cupid's arrows,--then turret on turret
on top, with stores of concealed weapons, under pretence of black
pins,--and above all, a standard of feathers that would do honour to a
knight of the Bath. Upon my conscience, I could as soon embrace an
Amazon, armed at all points.

_Rosy_. Right, right, my Alexander! my taste to a tittle.

_O'Con_. Then, doctor, though I admire modesty in women, I like
to see their faces. I am for the changeable rose; but with one of
these quality Amazons, if their midnight dissipations had left them
blood enough to raise a blush, they have not room enough in their
cheeks to show it. To be sure, bashfulness is a very pretty thing;
but, in my mind, there is nothing on earth so impudent as an
everlasting blush.

_Rosy_. My taste, my taste!--Well, Lauretta is none of these. Ah!
I never see her but she put me in mind of my poor dear wife.