The. Hear, my lord, you'd die ere mine should be there!
Phil. Surely 'tis no offence to call you fair.
The. Beauty lives not upon your commendation,
Nor with your silence dies. Spare me, my lord,
The cymbal clap of words that add no jot
To fairness.
Phil. Pardon me, dear girl. I was
Your father's friend——
The. I strive not to forget it.
Phil. And could I have your love——