Sir Tim. Not yet—sure she has spoke her last—
Nur. The Gentleman’s good-natur’d, and has took pity on you, and will not trouble you, I think.
Sir Tim.—Hey day, here’s Wooing indeed—Will she never begin, trow? —This some would call an excellent Quality in her Sex—But a pox on’t, I do not like it—Well, I see I must break Silence at last—Madam—not answer me—’shaw, this is mere ill breeding—by Fortune—it can be nothing else—O’ my Conscience, if I should kiss her, she would bid me stand off—I’ll try—
Nur. Hold, Sir, you mistake your Mark.
Sir Tim. So I should, if I were to look in thy mouldy Chaps, good
Matron—Can your Lady speak?
Nur. Try, Sir.
Sir Tim. Which way?
Nur. Why, speak to her first.
Sir Tim. I never knew a Woman want a Cue for that; but all that I
Have met with were still before-hand with me in tittle tattle.
Nur. Likely those you have met with may, but this is no such Creature, Sir.