Moc. Be not too rash, sir: women are not won
With force, but fair entreaty. Have I been vers'd
Thus long i' th' school of love; know all their arts,
Their practices, their ways, and subtleties,
In all my encounters still return'd a victor,
And have not left a stratagem at last
To work on her affection, let me suffer.
Lor. Nay, and you have that confidence, I'll leave you.
Moc. Lady, a word in private with you. [Whisper.
Æmi. Pray, sweetheart,
What pretty youth is that?
Lor. Who, this same chicken?
He is the son of a great nobleman,
And my especial friend. His father's gone
Into the country to survey his lands,
And let new leases, and left him in charge
With me till his return.
Æmi. Now, as I live,
'Tis a well-favour'd lad, and his years promise
He should have an ability to do,
And wit to conceal. When I take him single,
I'll try his disposition. [Aside.
Moc. This, for your sake,
I'll undertake and execute.
Luc. For my sake!
You shall not draw me to the fellowship
Of such a sin.
Moc. I know 'tis pleasing to thee,
And therefore am resolv'd.
Luc. I may prevent you.