Moc. Thank you, signior: pray, of what age
Is your daughter?
Lor. But sixteen at the most.
Moc. But sixteen! Is she no more? She is too young, then.
Gas. You wish'd for a young one, did you not?
Moc. Not that I would have her in years.
Gas. I warrant you!
Moc. Well, mark what I say: when I come to her,
She'll ne'er be able to endure me.
Lor. I'll trust her.
Gas. I think your choice, sir, cannot be amended,
She is so virtuous and so amiable.
Moc. Is she so fair and amiable? I'll have her.
She may grow up to what she wants; and then
I shall enjoy such pleasure and delight,
Such infinite content in her embraces,
I may contend with love for happiness!
Yet one thing troubles me.