[He walks about and sings. Sommes nous pas trop heureux, Belle Irise,
que nous ensemble. A Devil on him, he may chance to plague me till
night, and hinder my dear Assignation. [Sings again. La Nuit et le
Sombre voiles Coverie nos desires ardentes; Et l' Amour et les Etoiles
Sont nos secrets confidents. Beau. Pox on't, how dull am I at an
excuse? [Sets his Wig in the Glass, and sings. A Pox of Love and
Woman-kind, And all the Fops adore 'em. [Puts on his Hat, cocks it,
and goes to her. How is't, Cuz? Aria. So, here's the saucy freedom of
a Husband Lover- a blest Invention this of marrying, whoe'er first
found it out. Beau. Damn this English Dog of a Perriwig-maker, what an
ungainly Air it gives the Face, and for a Wedding Perriwig too- how
dost thou like it, Ariadne? [Uneasy. Aria. As ill as the Man- I
perceive you have taken more care for your Perriwig than your Bride.
Beau. And with reason, Ariadne, the Bride was never the care of the
Lover, but the business of the Parents; 'tis a serious Affair, and
ought to be manag'd by the grave and wise: Thy Mother and my Uncle
have agreed the Matter, and would it not look very sillily in me now
to whine a tedious Tale of Love in your Ear, when the business is at
an end? 'tis like saying a Grace when a Man should give Thanks. Aria.
Why did you not begin sooner then? Beau.
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