Alon. Faith, I think she has too much Wit to dissemble, and too much Beauty to need that Art.
Lov. Then you must marry her.
Alon. Not if I can avoid it.
Lov. I know this Lady, Sir, and know her to be worth your Love: I have it in my Power too, to serve you, if you proceed suddenly, which you must do, or lose her; for this Flandrian Boor your Rival is already arriv’d, and designs to morrow to make his first Address to Euphemia.
Alon. Oh, he must not, shall not see her.
Lov. How will you hinder him?
Alon. With this. [To his Sword.] Where is this Rival? tell me: Conduct me to him strait; I find my Love above the common rate, and cannot brook this Rival.
Lov. So, this blows the flame—His Life will be no hindrance to you in this Affair, if you design to love on.
Alon. Do’st know him?
Lov. Yes, he is a pleasant Original for you to be copy’d by: It is the same Fop, I told you was to marry my Sister, and who came along with me to Madrid.