Thou hast no lady-lover, but must live

In thine own pocket, as it were.—Let me have thee,

I’ll keep thee—may I not, Frederick?—a remembrance

Of better hopes. Come, Laura: doth your poet

Carry his portrait, too? He is distanced quite.

[Exit D. and L. with Flora.

F. By heaven, well saved!

R.What is’t? I understand not.

’Twas your own portrait?

F.Yes; but that I had