Rover. Oh, my charming cousin, how agree you and Rosalind? Are you almost perfect? "Eh, what, all a-mort, old Clytus?" "Why, you're like an angry fiend broke in among the laughing gods."—Come, come, I'll have nothing here, but "Quips and cranks, and wreathed smiles, such as dwell on Hebe's cheek."
[Looking at Lady Amaranth.
Lady Am. He says we mustn't have this amusement.
Rover. "But I'm a voice potential, double as the Duke's, and I say we must."
Eph. Nay.
Rover. Yea: "By Jupiter, I swear, aye." [Music without.
Eph. I must shut my ears. The man of sin rubbeth the hair of the horse to the bowels of the cat.
Enter Lamp, with a Violin.
Lamp. Now, if agreeable to your ladyship, we'll go over your song.
Eph. I will go over it.