A Room in Bonifaces Inn. Enter Aimwell and Archer.
Arch. Well, Tom, I find you 're a marksman.
Aim. A marksman! who so blind could be, as not discern a swan among the ravens?
Arch. Well, but hark'ee, 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. [10]
Arch. Her face! her pocket, you mean; the corn, wine and oil, lies there. In short, she has ten thousand pounds, that's the English on't.
Aim. Her eyes———
Arch. Are demi-cannons, 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 our business? Were my temper as extravagant as yours, my adventures have something more romantic by half. [21]