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Ang. The Words, Ladies, are my own; pray, your Opinion.
Lady Dor. You are a Wit then.
Ang. O! we are all Wits. Pray, Madam, by what celebrated Wits are you visited? for there is no way to establish a Reputation like being a Patron to Men of Parts.
Lady Dor. I love Men of Parts mightily: A Man without Parts is a strange Monster. I have some that are pretty constant Visitants; for Example, the Translator's of Plutarch's Lives, Juvenal's Satyr.———
Ang. Foh, a Lady, and converse with Greek and Latin Wits. No, give me your Wits of the Town, who are above Learning; your Wits of Quality that can scarce Write or Read; your Lampoon-wits.
Phil. Bold Rogues, that spare nothing that's sacred, not even the Majesty of Kings; that can make Black, White; and White, Black. Take away the Reputation of the chastest Woman, and give it to the lewdest Prostitute. Call the Man of Sense, a Fool. And the Man of Honour, a Coward. Make Religion, Apostacy. And sanctify Rebellion and Parricide. Whose only Topicks are Scandal, Sedition, and Blasphemy. And all they contend for, but who shall be the greatest Rascal, and tell the most plausible Lye behind a Man's back.
Lady Dor. However, I know some certain Ladies, who think themselves neglected, to be left out of a Lampoon; and are proud to have their Names publish'd, and to be known, and enquir'd after by the whole Town.
Ang. to Lucind. Pray, Madam, did you never write?
Lucin. Who, I, Sir! 'tis not a Talent for a Woman.
Phil. And why not for a Woman, Madam? An Evenings Exercise at Crambo, to get the knack of Rhyming, is all that's necessary; 'tis no matter for Sense, who cares for Sense?
Ang. Besides there are no pains requir'd, as is plain, for when we take all the pains in the World, 'tis just the same thing, we write never the better.
Lady
