Will. This posture’s loose and negligent,
The sight on’t wou’d beget a warm desire
In Souls, whom Impotence and Age had chill’d.
—This must along with me.
Brav. What means this rudeness, Sir?—restore the Picture.
Ant. Ha! Rudeness committed to the fair Angelica!—Restore the Picture, Sir.
Will. Indeed I will not, Sir.
Ant. By Heav’n but you shall.
Will. Nay, do not shew your Sword; if you do, by this dear Beauty—I will shew mine too.
Ant. What right can you pretend to’t?