Aim. A marksman! who so blind could be as not discern a swan among the ravens?
Arch. Well, but harkye, Aimwell——
Aim. Aimwell! call me Oroondates, Cesario, Amadis, all that romance can in a lover paint, and then I'll answer. O, Archer, I read her thousands in her looks! she looked like Ceres in her harvest; corn, wine, and oil, milk and honey; gardens, groves, and purling streams, played on her plenteous face.
Arch. Her face!—her pocket, you mean. The corn, wine, and oil, lies there. In short, she has twenty thousand pounds, that's the English on't.
Aim. Her eyes——
Arch. Are demicannons, to be sure; so I won't stand their battery. [Going.
Aim. Pray excuse me; my passion must have vent.
Arch. Passion! what a plague, d'ye think these romantic airs will do your business? Were my temper as extravagant as yours, my adventures have something more romantic by half.
Aim. Your adventures!
Arch. Yes—