Lor. There's one Lionel, an ingenious witty gentleman.
Æmi. Ay, that he is, as ever breathed, husband, upon my knowledge.
Lor. Well, he is so, and we two have cast to requite it upon him. The plot, as he informs me, is already in agitation, and afterwards, sans delay, I'll bestow her upon you.
Luc. But you may be deceived. [Aside.
Moc. Still you engage me more and more your debtor.
Lor. If I can bring both these to success, as they are happily intended, I may sit down, and, with the poet, cry, Jamque opus exegi.
Moc. Would I could say so too; I wish as much, but 'tis you must confirm it, fair mistress: one bare word of your consent, and 'tis done. The sweetness of your looks encourage me, that you will join pity with your beauty; there shall be nothing wanting in me to demerit it; and then, I hope, although I am base,
Base in respect of you divine and pure,
Dutiful service may your love procure.
Lor. How now, Signor! What, love and poetry, have they two found you out? Nay, then you must conquer. Consider this, daughter; show thy obedience to Phœbus and god Cupid: make an humble professor of thyself; 'twill be the more acceptable, and advance thy deserts.
Æmi. Do, chicken, speak the word, and make him happy in a minute.