Enter Lucretia, followed by Sir Credulous.
Lucr. Marry’d to morrow! and leave my Mother the possession of Leander! I’ll die a thousand Deaths first.—How the Fool haunts me! Aside.
Sir Cred. Nay, delicious Lady, you may say your Pleasure; but I will justify the Serenade to be as high a piece of Gallantry as was ever practised in our Age, though not comparable to your Charms and celestial Graces, which shou’d I praise as I ought, ’twou’d require more time than the Sun employs in his natural Motion between the Tropicks; that is to say, a whole Year, (for by the way, I am no Copernican) for, Dear Madam, you must know, my Rhetorick Master,—I say, my Rhetorick Master, who was—
Lucr. As great a Coxcomb as your self;—pray leave me, I am serious—I must go seek out Lodwick.
Sir Cred. Leave ye! I thank you for that, i’faith, before I have spoke out my Speech; therefore I say, Divine Lady—because my Rhetorick Master commanded the frequent use of [Hypallages], Allegories, and the richest Figures of that beauteous Art,—because my Rhetorick—
Lucr. I must leave the Fool, follow if you dare, for I have no leisure to attend your Nonsense. Goes out.
Enter Lady Knowell.
L. Kno. What, alone, Sir Credulous? I left you with Lucretia.
Sir Cred. Lucretia! I’m sure she makes a very Tarquinius Sextus of me, and all about this Serenade,—I protest and vow, incomparable Lady, I had begun the sweetest Speech to her—though I say’t, such Flowers of Rhetorick—’twou’d have been the very Nosegay of Eloquence, so it wou’d; and like an ungrateful illiterate Woman as she is, she left me in the very middle on’t, so snuffy I’ll warrant.
L. Kno. Be not discourag’d, Sir, I’ll adapt her to a reconciliation: Lovers must sometimes expect these little [Belli fugaces]; the Grecians therefore truly named Love Glucupicros Eros.