Let. What! is she old?
Dor. No.
Let. Ugly?
Dor. No.
Let. What then?
Dor. Pho! don't talk about her; but shew me your face.
Let. My vanity forbids it;—'twould frighten you.
Dor. Impossible! Your Shape is graceful, your Air bewitching, your Bosom transparent, and your Chin would tempt me to kiss it, if I did not see a pouting red Lip above it, that demands——
Let. You grow too free.
Dor. Shew me your face then—only half a glance.