San. Madam, what mean you?
Cle. O, anything, but to divert from love:
Another word of courtship, and I swoon.
Brow. My ancestors were giants, madam; giants,
Pure Spanish, who disdain'd to mingle with
The blood of Goth or Moor. Their mighty actions,
In a small letter, nature printed on
Your little servant.
Cle. How so very little?
Brow. By the decay of time, and being forc'd
From fertile pastures to the barren hills
Of Biscay: even in trees you may observe
The wonder which, transplanted to a soil
Less happy, lose in growth. Is not the once
Huge body of the Roman empire now
A very pigmy?
Cle. But why change you not
That so gigantic name of Browfildora?
Brow. Spite of malignant nature, I'll preserve
The memory of my forefathers: they shall live
In me contracted.
San. Madam, let's return
To the love we last discours'd on.
Cle. This, my lord,
Is much more serious. What coarse thing is that?