Phil. How dare you talk to me at this rate?
Sir Tim. Talk to thee—by Fortune, I’ll play the Tarquin with thee, if thou yieldest not quickly—for thou hast set me all on fire.
Phil. Defend me, Heaven, from such a Man.
Sir Tim. Then it must defend you from all the Sex; for all Mankind are like me, nay, and all Womankind are, or wou’d be, what I must make thee.
Phil. What’s that, a Wench?
Sir Tim. Fie, fie, that’s a gross Name; no, a Miss, that’s the Word— a Lady of Delight, a Person of Pleasure and the rest; I’ll keep thee, not a Woman of Quality shall be half so fine—Come, dear Phillis, yield. Oh, I am mad for the happy hour—come, say the word, ‘tis but inclining thy Head a little thus, thy pretty Eyes down, and thy Cheeks all Blushes, and fetching a long Sigh—thus—with—do—what you please —at the end on’t—and I shall take it for granted.
Phil. That, Sir, you’ll never hear me say to any thing but a Husband, if I must say it then.
Sir Tim. A Husband! it is enough to spoil a Man’s Appetite, the very naming on’t—By Fortune, thou hast been bred with thy great Grand-mother, some old Queen Elizabeth Lady, that us’d to preach Warnings to young Maidens; but had she liv’d in this Age, she wou’d have repented her Error, especially had she seen the Sum that I offer thee—Come, let’s in, by Fortune, I’m so vigorous, I shall ravish else.
Phil. Unhand me, or I’ll call out. I assure you, this is not the way to gain me.
Sir Tim. I know there is a way to gain all mortal Womankind; but how to hit the critical Minute of the Berjere—