Violet.
Why, thou art a sportive knight, indeed. Oh, thou art a deep dissembler! But, no, thou art a gallant knight! This is some stratagem of words and dress, invented by my good uncle for my diversion. If thou wilt keep a secret, I will tell it thee.
Whetstone.
I’ll keep it. But, oh, how I’d like a kiss!
Violet.
Kissing is an idle fashion but lightly spoken of by our best authors, and well missed by young misses. But to my secret. This morn my uncle told me in the orchard that he had chosen for me a lover,—a most substantial gentleman, a very merchant prince—
[Pauses.
Whetstone.
Go on; give me all your secret.