Sir Cred. Why, there’s it:—therefore prithee, dear Lodwick, tell me a few of thy Sister’s Humors, and if I fail,—then hang me, Ladies, at your Door, as the Song says.
Lod. Why, faith, she has many odd Humors hard enough to hit.
Sir Cred. Zoz, let ’em be as hard as Hercules his Labors in the Vale of Basse, I’ll not be frighted from attempting her.
Lod. Why, she’s one of those fantastick Creatures that must be courted her own way.
Sir Cred. Why, let’s hear her way.
Lod. She must be surpriz’d with strange Extravagancies wholly out of the Road and Method of common Courtship.
Sir Cred. Shaw, is that all? Zoz, I’m the best in Christendom at your out-of-the-way bus’nesses.—Now do I find the Reason of all my ill Success; for I us’d one and the same method to all I courted, whatever their Humors were; hark ye, prithee give me a hint or two, and let me alone to manage Matters.
Lod. I have just now thought of a way that cannot but take—
Sir Cred. Zoz, out with it, Man.
Lod. Why, what if you should represent a dumb Ambassador from the Blind God of Love.