Tick. Is she come? Nay, then turn me loose to her.
Cor. My Cavalier! [Addressing to Sir Sig. Tick. pulls him by, and speaks.
Tick.—Lady—
Sir Sig. You, Sir! why, who the Devil made you a Cavalier? most Potentissima Signiora, I am the man of Title, by name Sir Signal Buffoon, sole Son and Heir to Eight Thousand Pound a year.—
Tick. Oh, Sir, are you the Man she looks for?
Sir Sig. I, Sir? no, Sir: I’d have ye know, Sir, I scorn any Woman, be she never so fair, unless her design be honest and honourable.
Cor. The Man of all the World I’ve chosen out, from all the Wits and Beauties I have seen,—to have most finely beaten. [Aside.
Sir Sig. How! In love with me already,—she’s damnable handsome too: now wou’d my Tutor were hang’d a little for an hour or two, out of the way. [Aside.
Cor. Why fly you not into my Arms, [She approaching, he shunning. These Arms that were design’d for soft Embraces?
Sir Sig. Ay, and if my Tutor were not here, the Devil take him that wou’d hinder ‘em—and I think that’s civil, egad.