Mer. Why let him marry, and that way rise again.
Uncle. It's most impossible, he will not look with any handsomeness upon a Woman.
Mer. Is he so strange to Women?
Uncle. I know not what it is, a foolish glory he has got, I know not where, to balk those benefits, and yet he will converse and flatter 'em, make 'em, or fair, or foul, rugged, or smooth, as his impression serves, for he affirms, they are only lumps, and undigested pieces, lickt over to a form by our affections, and then they show. The Lovers let 'em pass.
Enter Fountain, Bellamore, Hairbrain.
Mer. He might be one, he carries as much promise; they are wondrous merry.
Uncle. O their hopes are high, Sir.
Fount. Is Valentine come to Town?
Bella. Last night, I heard.
Fount. We miss him monstrously in our directions, for this Widow is as stately, and as crafty, and stands I warrant you—