Wild. Yes.
True. The worth of a disinterested friend!
Wild. O Master Trueworth, deeply I’m your debtor!
I own I die for love of neighbour Constance!
And thou to give her up for me! Kind friend!
What won’t I do for thee?—Don’t pine to death;
I’ll find thee fifty ways to cure thy passion,
And make thee heart-whole, if thou’rt so resolved.
Thou shalt be master of my sporting stud,
And go a hunting. If that likes thee not,
Take up thy quarters at my shooting-lodge;
There is a cellar to ’t—make free with it.
I’ll thank thee if thou emptiest it. The song
Gives out that wine feeds love—It drowns it, man!
If thou wilt neither hunt nor shoot, try games;
Play at loggats, bowls, fives, dominoes, draughts, cribbage,
Backgammon—special recipes for love!
And you believe, for all the hate she shows,
That neighbour Constance loves me?
True. ’Tis my thought.
Wild. How shall I find it out?
True. Affect to love
Another. Say your passion thrives; the day
Is fixed; and pray her undertake the part
Of bridemaid to your bride. ’Twill bring her out.
Wild. You think she’ll own her passion?
True. If she loves.
Wild. I thank thee! I will try it! Master Trueworth,
What shall I say to thee, to give her up,
And love her so?
True. Say nothing.