Plant. Why, I tell you, her very complexion——
Trudge. Rot her complexion—I'll tell you what, Mr. Fair-trader, if your head and heart were to change places, I've a notion you'd be as black in the face as an ink-bottle.
Plant. Pshaw! the fellow's a fool—a rude rascal—he ought to be sent back to the savages again. He's not fit to live among us christians.
[Exit Planter.
Trudge. Oh, here comes my master, at last.
Enter Inkle, and a second Planter.
Inkle. Nay, sir, I understand your customs well; your Indian markets are not unknown to me.
2d Plant. And, as you seem to understand business, I need not tell you, that dispatch is the soul of it. Her name you say is—
Inkle. Yarico: but urge this no more, I beg you; I must not listen to it: for, to speak freely, her anxious care of me demands, that here,—though here it may seem strange—I should avow my love for her.
Plant. Lord help you for a merchant!—It's the first time I ever heard a trader talk of love; except, indeed, the love of trade, and the love of the Sweet Molly, my ship.