Thus doom'd to wither on the tree,
Till age shall chide the thoughtless maid,
When all those blooming beauties fade.
Hey, who comes here? this is the smart little girl who seems so much attached to the beautiful novice—No harm to speak with her—
Enter Catilina.
So my pretty primrose!
Catil. How do you do, Mr—[Pert and familiar.] I don't know your name.
Don Fer. Not know my name! You must know who I am though, and my business here, child?
Catil. Lord, man, what signifies your going about to sift me, when the whole family knows you're Don Fernando's footman.