Prais. Ay, and melting too, I Gad, wou'd I was the Picture for her sake.
Fas. What's this I hear?
Prais. Nay, no harm, Sir.
Mar. Fie! Mr. Praiseall! Let your ill-tim'd Jests alone.
Prais. I ha' done, I ha' done.
Mars. Mr. Powell, be pleas'd to go on.
Fas. What's this I hear?
Betty. Her own Picture, which sure she sees by Sympathy, you'll entertain by me, she prays you to accept.
[Gives the Picture.
Mar. Now, dear Mr. Powell, let me have the pleasure to hear you rave. Oh! Mr. Praiseall, this Speech, I die upon this Speech!