Plume. No; I think myself above administering to the pride of any woman, were she worth twelve thousand a-year; and I ha'n't the vanity to believe I shall gain a lady worth twelve hundred. The generous, goodnatured Sylvia, in her smock, I admire; but the haughty and scornful Sylvia, with her fortune, I despise.—What! sneak out of town, and not so much as a word, a line, a compliment!—'Sdeath! how far off does she live? I'll go and break her windows.
Wor. Ha! ha! ha! ay, and the window-bars too, to come at her. Come, come, friend, no more of your rough military airs.
Enter Kite.
Kite. Captain! captain! Sir, look yonder; she's a-coming this way. 'Tis the prettiest, cleanest, little tit!
Plume. Now, Worthy, to show you how much I'm in love—here she comes. But, Kite, what is that great country fellow with her?
Kite. I can't tell, sir.
Enter Rose, followed by her Brother Bullock, with
Chickens on her Arm, in a Basket.
Rose. Buy chickens, young and tender chickens, young and tender chickens.
Plume. Here, you chickens.
Rose. Who calls?