Sir Morg. [Sa], ho, ho, ho, where are you, Sir, where are you?
Prince. In Heav’n! Puts him away.
Oh! do not rouse me from this charming Slumber, lest I shou’d wake, and find it but a Dream.
Sir Mer. A plaguy dull Fellow this, that can sleep in so good Company as we are.
Sir Morg. Dream—A Fiddle-stick; to her, Man, to her, and kiss her soundly, or so, d’ye see.
Sir Mer. Ay, ay; kiss her, Sir, kiss her—ha, ha, ha, he’s very simple.
Prince. Kiss her,—there’s universal Ruin in her Lips.
Mir. I never knew ’em guilty of such Mischiefs.
Sir Morg. No, I’ll be sworn, I have kist ’em twenty times, and [they] never did me harm.
Prince. Thou kiss those Lips? impossible, and false; they ne’er were prest but by soft Southern Winds.