San. I can't tell that; thou hast a damnable kind of leer, that would provoke me to somewhat—I say not what.
Dal. Beat me with my own hand, if I deserve it; there 'tis for you.
[Gives him her hand, and squeezes his.
San. If I should beat thee now, as thou hast deserved richly, I could make thee satisfaction.
Dal. Indeed they say an old man should never beat a young woman, because he cannot make her satisfaction.
San. Abominable chuck! if I did not hate thee mortally, I could be content to love thee for a quarter of an hour or so.—Why, what's here to do? you are at your old tricks again. Pr'ythee, sweet devil, do not ogle me, nor squeeze my palm so feelingly; thou dear infernal, do not.
Dal. Why, do I hurt you?
San. No, but thou ticklest me to the very heart-strings, most wickedly.
Dal. You command me then to leave you? [Seems to be going.