Belinda challenges the Baron and Plume to a popular card game, “Ombre.” The game is enacted by dancers, who form into three armies, and hurl themselves across the stage,  occasionally descending  into a restrained suggestiveness. 

Such courtly airs and motions no lady can survive,

Be thou Man or Fop - at Ombre we'll decide!

Behold, four Kings in Majesty rever'd,

With hoary Whiskers and a forky Beard;

And four fair Queens whose hands sustain a Flow'r,                   

Th'expressive Emblem of their softer Pow'r;                            

Four Knaves  in Garbs succinct, a trusty Band,

Caps on their heads, and Halberds in their hand;

And Particolour'd Troops, a shining Train,

Draw forth to combat on the Velvet Plain.

Let Spades be Trumps!         

Now move to War her Sable Matadores,         

In Show like Leaders of the swarthy Moors.

Spadillio first, unconquerable Lord!

Led off two captive Trumps, and swept the Board.

As many more Manillio forc'd to yield,

And march'd a Victor from the verdant Field.

Him Basto followed, but his fate more hard,

Gained but one Trump and one Plebeian Card.

With his broad Sabre next, a Chief in Years,

The hoary Majesty of Spades appears;

The Rebel-Knave, who dares his Prince engage,

Proves the just Victim of his Royal Rage.

    Thus far both Armies to Belinda  yield;   

Now to the Baron Fate inclines the Field.

His warlike Amazon her Host invades,

Th'Imperial Consort of the Crown of Spades.

The Club's black Tyrant first her Victim dy'd,

Spite of his haughty Mien, and barb'rous Pride:

    The Baron now his Diamonds pours apace;

Th'embroider'd King who shows but half his Face,

And his refulgent Queen, with Pow'rs combin'd,

Of broken Troops an easie Conquest find.

Clubs,  Diamonds,  Hearts,  in wild Disorder seen,

With Throngs promiscuous strow the level Green.                            

The pierc'd Battalions dis-united fall,          

In Heaps on Heaps; one Fate o'erwhelms them all.           

The Knave of Diamonds tries his wily Arts,                                    

And wins (oh shameful Chance!) the Queen of Hearts.  

At this, the Blood the Virgin's Cheek forsook,               

A livid Paleness spreads o'er all her Look;        

She sees, and trembles at th'approaching Ill,

Just in the Jaws of Ruin, and Codille.

An Ace of Hearts steps forth: The King unseen

Lurk'd in her Hand, and mourn'd his captive Queen.

He springs to Vengeance with an eager pace,

And falls like Thunder on the prostrate Ace.