If Love be catching, Sir, by Looks and Touches, let us at distance parley—or rather let me fly, for within view is too near— Aside.
Bac. Ah! she retires—displeas’d I fear with my presumptuous Love,—Oh, pardon, fairest Creature. Kneels.
Queen. I’ll talk no more, our Words exchange our Souls, and every Look fades all my blooming Honour, like Sun-beams on unguarded Roses—Take all our Kingdoms —make our People Slaves, and let me fall beneath your conquering Sword: but never let me hear you talk again, or gaze upon your Eyes.— Goes out.
Bac. She loves! by Heaven, she loves! and has not Art enough to hide her Flame, though she have cruel Honour to suppress it. However, I’ll pursue her to the Banquet.
Exit.
[ Scene II.] The Widow Ranter’s Hall.
Enter Surelove fan’d by two Negroes, followed by Hazard.
Sure. This Madam Ranter is so prodigious a Treater —oh! I hate a Room that smells of a great Dinner, and what’s worse, a desert of Punch and Tobacco—what! are you taking leave so soon, Cousin?
Haz. Yes, Madam, but ’tis not fit I should let you know with what regret I go,—but Business will be obey’d.
Sure. Some Letters to dispatch to English Ladies you have left behind—come, Cousin, confess.