Honeyw. Nay, do not attempt to conceal an action that adds to your honour. Your looks, your air, your manner, all confess it.
Lofty. Confess it sir! Torture itself, sir, shall never bring me to confess it. Mr. Honeywood, I have admitted you upon terms of friendship. Don't let us fall out; make me happy, and let this be buried in oblivion. You know I hate ostentation; you know I do. Come come, Honeywood, you know I always loved to be a friend, and not a patron. I beg this may make no kind of distance between us. Come, come, you and I must be more familiar—indeed we must.
Honeyw. Heavens! Can I ever repay such friendship? Is there any way? Thou best of men, can I ever return the obligation?
Lofty. A bagatelle, a mere bagatelle. But I see your heart is labouring to be grateful. You shall be grateful. It would be cruel to disappoint you.
Honeyw. How! teach me the manner. Is there any way?
Lofty. From this moment you're mine. Yes, my friend you shall know it—I'm in love.
Honeyw. And can I assist you?
Lofty. Nobody so well.
Honeyw. In what manner? I'm all impatience.
Lofty. You shall make love for me.