Arch. That's my dear little scholar, kiss me again.—And why should love, that's a child, govern a man?
Cher. Because that a child is the end of love.
Arch. And so ends love's catechism——And now, my dear, we'll go in, and make my master's bed.
Cher. Hold, hold, Mr. Martin——You have taken a great deal of pains to instruct me, and what d'ye think I have learned by it?
Arch. What?
Cher. That your discourse and your habit are contradictions, and it would be nonsense in me to believe you a footman any longer.
Arch. 'Oons, what a witch it is!
Cher. Depend upon this, sir, nothing in that garb shall ever tempt me; for, though I was born to servitude, I hate it:—Own your condition, swear you love me, and then——
Arch. And then we shall go make my master's bed?
Cher. Yes.