Job. Why?
Mary. Because, when you came to talk, I should sink with shame, if he said any thing to you that might——that——
Job. Might what?
Mary. [Sighing, and hanging down her Head.] Make you blush for your daughter.
Job. I won't have you waiting, like a petitioner, in this hall, when you come to be righted. No, no!
Mary. You wouldn't have refused me any thing once;—but I know I have lost your esteem, now.
Job. Lost!—forgive is forgive, all the world over. You know, Mary, I have forgiven you: and, making it up by halves, is making myself a brass teakettle—warm one minute, cold the next; smooth without, and hollow within.
Mary. Then, pray, don't deny me!—I'm sure you wouldn't, if you knew half I am suffering.
Job. Do as you like, Mary; only never tell me again you have lost my esteem. It looks like suspicion o' both sides.—Never say that, and I can deny you nothing in reason,—or, perhaps, a little beyond it.—
Enter Simon.