’Tis grown too high for amorous Parleys only;
Her Arms, her charming Bosom, and her Bed,
Must now receive me; or I die, Francisca.
Franc. I mean no other, Sir; why, can you think
A Maid in love as much as you can be,
Assisted with the silence of the Night,
(Which veils her Blushes too) can say—I dare not?
Or if she do, she’ll speak it faintly o’er,
And even whilst she so denies will yield.
Go, go prepare your self for this Encounter,