Lucr. Yet these are the precious things our grave Parents still chuse out to make us happy with, and all for a filthy Jointure, the undeniable argument for our Slavery to Fools.
Isab. Custom is unkind to our Sex, not to allow us free Choice; but we above all Creatures must be forced to endure the formal Recommendations of a Parent, and the more insupportable Addresses of an odious Fop; whilst the Obedient Daughter stands—thus—with her Hands pinn’d before her, a set Look, few Words, and a Mein that cries—Come marry me: out upon’t.
Lucr. I perceive then, whatever your Father designs, you are resolv’d to love your own way.
Isab. Thou mayst lay thy Maidenhead upon’t, and be sure of the Misfortune to win.
Lucr. My Brother Lodwick’s like to be a happy Man then.
Isab. Faith, my dear Lodwick or no body in my heart, and I hope thou art as well resolv’d for my Cousin Leander.
Lucr. Here’s my Hand upon’t, I am; yet there’s something sticks upon my stomach, which you must know.
Isab. Spare the Relation, for I have observ’d of late your Mother to have order’d her Eyes with some softness, her Mouth endeavouring to sweeten it self into Smiles and Dimples, as if she meant to recal Fifteen again, and gave it all to Leander, for at him she throws her Darts.
Lucr. Is’t possible thou should’st have perceived it already?
Isab. Long since.