La Nu. Your Love grows rude, and saucily demands it. [Flings away.
Will. Love knows no Ceremony, no respect when once approacht so near the happy minute.
La Nu. What desperate easiness have you seen in me, or what mistaken merit in your self, should make you so ridiculously vain, to think I’d give myself to such a Wretch, one fal’n even to the last degree of Poverty, whilst all the World is prostrate at my Feet, whence I might chuse the Brave, the Great, the Rich? [He stands spitefully gazing at her.
—Still as he fires, I find my Pride augment, and when he cools I burn. [Aside.
Will. Death, thou’rt a—vain, conceited, taudry Jilt, [who wou’st] draw me in as Rooks their Cullies do, to make me venture all my stock of Love, and then you [turn me out despis’d] and poor— [Offers to go.
La Nu. You think you’re gone now—
Will. Not all thy Arts nor [Charms shall hold] me longer.
La Nu. I must submit—and can you part thus from me?— [Pulls him.
Will. I can—nay, by Heaven, I will not turn, nor look at thee. No, when I do, or trust that faithless Tongue again—may I be—
La Nu. Oh do not swear—