Gas. Well said, boy! thou art e'en mine own son; when I was young, 'twas just my humour.
Lio. You give yourself a plausible commends.
Pet. I can make a shift to love: but, having enjoyed, fruition kills my appetite: no, I must have several objects of beauty to keep my thoughts always in action, or I am nobody.
Gas. Still mine own flesh and blood?
Pet. Therefore I have chose honour for my mistress, upon whose wings I will mount up to the heavens; where I will fix myself a constellation, for all this under-world of mortals to wonder at me.
Gas. Nay, he is a mad wag, I assure you, and knows how to put a price upon his desert.
Pet. I can no longer stay to dilate on these vanities; therefore, gallants, I leave you. [Exit.
Lor. What, is he gone? Is your son gone?
Gas. So it seems. Well, gallants, where shall I see you anon?
Lor. You shall not part with us.