Am. What is’t thou call’st so?
For I have hitherto given no denials,
Nor has he given me cause;
I have seen him wildly gaze upon me often,
And sometimes blush and smile, but seldom that;
And now and then found fault with my replies,
And wonder’d where the Devil lay that wit,
Which he believ’d no Judge of it could find.
Oli. Faith, Madam, that’s his way of making love.
Am. It will not take with me, I love a Man
Can kneel, and swear, and cry, and look submiss,
As if he meant indeed to die my Slave:
Thy Brother looks—but too much like a Conqueror. [Sighs.
Oli. How, Aminta, can you sigh in earnest?
Am. Yes, Olinda, and you shall know its meaning;
I love Alcander, and am not asham’d o’th’ secret,
But prithee do not tell him what I say.
—Oh, he’s a man made up of those Perfections,
Which I have often lik’d in several men;
And wish’d united to compleat some one,
Whom I might have the glory to o’ercome.
—His Mein and Person, but ‘bove all his Humour,
That surly Pride, though even to me addrest,
Does strangely well become him.
Oli. May I believe this?
Am. Not if you mean to speak on’t, But I shall soon enough betray my self.
Enter Falatius with a patch or two on his Face.
Falatius, welcome from the Wars; I’m glad to see y’ave scap’d the dangers of them.
Fal. Not so well scap’d neither, Madam, but I Have left still a few testimonies of their Severity to me. [Points to his face.