Mrs. Sul. Well enough! is he not a demigod, a Narcissus, a star, the man i' the moon? [21]
Dor. O sister, I'm extremely ill!
Mrs. Sul. Shall I send to your mother, child, for a little of her cephalic plaster to put to the soles of your feet, or shall I send to the gentleman for something for you? Come, unlace your stays, unbosom yourself. The man is perfectly a pretty fellow; I saw him when he first came into church.
Dor. I saw him too, sister, and with an air that shone, methought, like rays about his person. [30]
Mrs. Sul. Well said, up with it!
Dor. No forward coquette behaviour, no airs to set him off, no studied looks nor artful posture—but Nature did it all—
Mrs. Sul. Better and better!—one touch more—come!
Dor. But then his looks—did you observe his eyes?
Mrs. Sul. Yes, yes, I did.—His eyes, well, what of his eyes? [38]
Dor. Sprightly, but not wandering; they seemed to view, but never gazed on anything but me.—And then his looks so humble were, and yet so noble, that they aimed to tell me that he could with pride die at my feet, though he scorned slavery anywhere else.