Wood. She can have none: There's not room enough for a thought to play in.
Trick. I think indeed I may safely trust you with 042 such charms; and you have pleased me with your description of her.
Wood. I wish you would give me leave to please you better. But you transact as gravely with me as a Spaniard; and are losing love, as he does Flanders: you consider and demur, when the monarch is up in arms, and at your gates[6].
Trick. But to yield upon the first summons, ere you have laid a formal siege—To-morrow may prove a luckier day to you.
Wood. Believe me, madam, lovers are not to trust to-morrow. Love may die upon our hands, or opportunity be wanting; 'tis best securing the present hour.
Trick. No, love's like fruit; it must have time to ripen on the tree; if it be green gathered, 'twill but wither afterwards.
Wood. Rather 'tis like gun powder; that which fires quickest, is commonly the strongest.—By this burning kiss—
Trick. You lovers are such froward children, ever crying for the breast; and, when you have once had it, fall fast asleep in the nurse's arms. And with what face should I look upon my keeper after it?
Wood. With the same face that all mistresses look upon theirs. Come, come.
Trick. But my reputation!