Cel. Lord, who could love that walking steeple! She's so high, that every time she sings to me, I am looking up for the bell that tolls to church.—Ha! give me my little fifth-rate, that lies so snug. She! hang her, a Dutch-built bottom: She's so tall, there's no boarding her. But we lose time—madam, let me seal my love upon your mouth. [Kiss] Soft and sweet, by heaven! sure you wear rose-leaves between your lips.
Sab. Lord, Lord, what's the matter with me! my breath grows so short, I can scarce speak to you.
Cel. No matter, give me thy lips again, and I'll speak for thee.
Sab. You don't love me—
Cel. I warrant thee; sit down by me, and kiss again,—She warms faster than Pygmalion's image. [Aside]—[Kiss.]—Ay marry, sir, this was the original use of lips; talking, eating, and drinking came in by and by.
Sab. Nay, pray be civil; will you be at quiet?
Cel. What, would you have me sit still, and look upon you, like a little puppy-dog, that's taught to beg with his fore-leg up?
Enter FLORIMEL.
Flo. Celadon the faithful! in good time, sir,—
Cel. In very good time, Florimel; for heaven's sake, help me quickly.