Aria. Have a care of giving me the ascendent over ye, for fear I make ye marry me.
Will. Hold, I bar that cast, Child; no, I’m none of those Spirits that can be conjur’d into a Wedding-ring, and dance in the dull matrimonial Circle all my Days.
Aria. But what think you of a hundred thousand Crowns, and a Beauty of sixteen?
Will. As of most admirable Blessings: but harkye, Child, I am plaguily afraid thou’rt some scurvy honest thing of Quality by these odd Questions of thine, and hast some wicked Design upon my Body.
Aria. What, to have and to hold I’ll warrant.—No Faith, Sir, Maids of my Quality expect better Jointures than a Buff-coat, Scarf and Feather: such Portions as mine are better Ornaments in a Family than a Captain and his Commission.
Will. Why well said, now thou hast explain’d thy self like a Woman of Honour—Come, come, let’s away.
Aria. Explain my self! How mean ye?
Will. —Thou say’st I am not fit to marry thee—and I believe this Assignation was not made to tell me so, nor yet to hear me [whistle to the Birds].
Aria. Faith no, I saw you, lik’d ye, and had a mind to ye.
Will. Ay, Child—