[Enter Widow Green, unnoticed by Sir Waller, who continues abstracted.]
W. Green. What! Master Waller, and contemplative!
Presumptive proof of love! Of me he thinks!
Revolves the point “to be or not to be!”
“To be!” by all the triumphs of my sex!
There was a sigh! My life upon’t, that sigh,
If construed, would translate “Dear Widow Green!”
Wal. Enchanting woman!
W. Green. That is I!—most deep
Abstraction, sure concomitant of love.
Now, could I see his busy fancy’s painting,
How should I blush to gaze upon myself.
Wal. The matchless form of woman! The choice calling
Of the aspiring artist, whose ambition
Robs Nature to outdo her—the perfections
Of her rare various workmanship combines
To aggrandise his art at Nature’s cost,
And make a paragon!
W. Green. Gods! how he draws me!
Soon as he sees me, at my feet he falls!—
Good Master Waller!
Wal. Ha! The Widow Green!
W. Green. He is confounded! So am I. O dear!
How catching is emotion. He can’t speak!
O beautiful confusion! Amiable
Excess of modesty with passion struggling!
Now comes he to declare himself, but wants
The courage. I must help him.—Master Waller!
[Enter Sir William Fondlove.]
Sir Wil. Dear Widow Green!