Con. With me you mean.
Wild. I mean it not.
Con. You do!
I’ll give you fifty reasons for’t—and first,
Where you go, neighbour, I’ll go!
[They go out—Wildrake, pettishly—Constance laughing.]
Sir Wil. Do you mark?
Much love is there!
True. Indeed, a heap, or none!
I’d wager on the heap!
Sir Wil. Ay!—Do you think
These discords, as in the musicians’ art,
Are subtle servitors to harmony?
That all this war’s for peace? This wrangling but
A masquerade where love his roguish face
Conceals beneath an ugly visor!—Well?
True. Your guess and my conceit are not a mile
Apart. Unlike to other common flowers,
The flower of love shews various in the bud;
’Twill look a thistle, and ’twill blow a rose!
And with your leave I’ll put it to the test;
Affect myself, for thy fair daughter, love—
Make him my confidant—dilate to him
Upon the graces of her heart and mind,
Feature and form—that well may comment bear—
Till—like the practised connoisseur, who finds
A gem of heart out in a household picture
The unskilled owner held so cheap he grudged
Renewal of the chipped and tarnished frame,
But values now as priceless—I arouse him
Into a quick sense of the worth of that
Whose merit hitherto, from lack of skill,
Or dulling habit of acquaintanceship,
He has not been awake to.
Con. [Without.] Neighbour Wildrake!
Sir Wil. Hither they come. I fancy well thy game!
O to be free to marry Widow Green!
I’ll call her hence anon—then ply him well.