Phor. Do; and if I do not dispossess you of all your opinions, let me be——
Erg. You must deal by enchantment then; for I am resolved to stick to my conclusions.
Phor. 'Tis the best holdfast your foolish devil has; but strong reasons shall be your exorcism. Tell me first, what is she you love?
Erg. Would I could.
Phor. Then, for all thy jesting, there's some hope thou art yet in thy wits.
Erg. You mistake me; I mean I could not tell, because no tongue can speak her to her merit.
Phor. Heyday! if the ballad of the rose and honeycomb do not do it more than she deserves, or almost any woman, let me be condemned to sing the funerals of parrots.
Cle. Would the ladies heard you!
Phor. They would believe me, though they would be sorry your honours should. But what, this love—has it transformed us all? Cleon, you can tell who 'tis he thus admires?
Cle. Yes, and will; 'tis Hermione, Pindarus his heir.