W. Green. Sir William Fondlove!
Wal. Thank
My lucky stars! [Aside.]
W. Green. I would he had the gout,
And kept his room! [Aside.]—You’re welcome, dear Sir William!
’Tis very, very kind of you to call.
Sir William Fondlove—Master Waller. Pray
Be seated, gentlemen.—He shall requite me
For his untimely visit. Though the nail
Be driven home, it may want clinching yet
To make the hold complete! For that, I’ll use him.—[Aside.]
You’re looking monstrous well, Sir William! and
No wonder. You’re a mine of happy spirits!
Some women talk of such and such a style
Of features in a man. Give me good humour;
That lights the homeliest visage up with beauty,
And makes the face, where beauty is already,
Quite irresistible!
Sir Wil. That’s hitting hard. [Aside.]
Dear Widow Green, don’t say so! On my life
You flatter me. You almost make me blush.
W. Green. I durst not turn to Master Waller now,
Nor need I. I can fancy how he looks!
I warrant me he scowls on poor Sir William,
As he could eat him up. I must improve
His discontent, and so make sure of him.—[Aside.]
I flatter you, Sir William! O, you men!
You men, that talk so meek, and all the while
Do know so well your power! Who would think
You had a marriageable daughter! You
Did marry very young.
Sir Wil. A boy!—a boy!
Who knew not his own mind.
W. Green. Your daughter’s twenty.
Come, you at least were twenty when you married;
That makes you forty.
Sir Wil. O dear! Widow Green.
W. Green. Not forty?
Sir Wil. You do quite embarrass me!
I own I have the feelings of a boy,
The freshness and the glow of spring-time, yet,—
The relish yet for my young schooldays’ sports;
Could whip a top—could shoot at taw—could play
At prison-bars and leapfrog—so I might—
Not with a limb, perhaps, as supple, but
With quite as supple will. Yet I confess
To more than forty!