Con. He loves another, sir, he does!
I hate him. We were children, sir, together
For fifteen years and more; there never came
The day we did not quarrel, make it up,
Quarrel again, and make it up again:
Were never neighbours more like neighbours, sir.
Since he became a man, and I a woman,
It still has been the same; nor cared I ever
To give a frown to any other, sir.
And now to come and tell me he’s in love,
And ask me to be bridemaid to his bride!
How durst he do it, sir!—To fall in love!
Methinks at least he might have asked my leave,
Nor had I wondered had he asked myself, sir!
Wild. Then give thyself to me!
Con. How! what!
Wild. Be mine,
Thou art the only maid thy neighbour loves.
Con. Art serious, neighbour Wildrake?
Wild. In the church
I’ll answer thee, if thou wilt take me; though
I neither dress, nor walk, nor dance, nor know
“The Widow Jones” from an Italian, French,
Or German air.
Con. No more of that.—My hand.
Wild. Givest it as free as thou didst yesterday?
Con. [Affecting to strike him.] Nay!
Wild. I will thank it, give it how thou wilt.