Mar. Now she begins.
Fas. By her own desire, she chooses Solitudes, and private Walks, flies these faithful Arms; or if she meets 'em, Cold and Clammy as the Damp of Death her Lips still joyn my Longings.
Betty. Cold Sweats, Privacies and lonely Hours, all Signs of strong Aversion: Oh had your Fate but thrown you on my Lady, her very Eyes had rais'd your Passion up to Madness.
Fas. Thou hast already kindled Madness here; Jealousie that unextinguish'd Fire, that with the smallest Fuel burns, is blazing round my Heart. Oh! Courteous Maid, go on! Inform me if my Love is false.
Betty. As yet, I cannot, the Office is ungrateful; but for your sake, I'll undertake it.
Fas. Do, and command me ever.
Betty. The Fair Clemene.
Fas. My Mother, do you mean?
Betty. Call her not so, unless you break her Heart: A Thousand tender Names all Day and Night she gives you, but you can never scape her Lips, her Curtains by me drawn wide, discover your goodly Figure, each Morn the Idol's brought, eagerly she prints the dead Colours, throws her tawny Arms abroad, and vainly hopes kisses so Divine, wou'd inspire the painted Nothing, and mould into Man.
Mar. Is not this moving, Mr. Powell?