Lean. Do, triumph o’er a wretched Man, Lucretia.
Lucr. How! wretched in loving me so entirely, or that you cannot marry my Mother, and be Master of her mighty Fortune? ’Tis a Temptation indeed so between Love and Interest, hang me if ever I saw so simple a Look as you put on when my Mother made love to you.
Lean. You may easily guess the Confusion of a Man in my Circumstances, to be languishing for the lov’d Daughter, and pursu’d by the hated Mother, whom if I refuse will ruin all my hopes of thee.
Lucr. Refuse her! I hope you have more Wit.
Lean. Lucretia, cou’d she make a Monarch of me, I cou’d not marry her.
Lucr. And you wou’d be so wise to tell her so?
Lean. I wou’d no more abuse her, than I cou’d love her.
Lucr. Yet that last must be done.
Lean. How!
Lucr. Dost believe me so wicked to think I mean in earnest? No, tell her a fine Story of Love and Liking, gaze on her, kiss her Hands, and sigh, commend her Face and Shape, swear she’s the Miracle of the Age for Wit, cry up her Learning, vow you were an Ass not to be sensible of her Perfections all this while; what a Coxcomb, to doat upon the Daughter when such Charms were so visible in the Mother? Faith, she’ll believe all this.