Vict. Offensive virtues, madam?
Pen. Yes, I don't know how—there's a sort of virtue, or prudence, or what you'll call it, that we can but just approve. That does not win us. Lovemore wants that fire, that conversation-spirit I would have. They say he's learned as well as discreet, but I'm no judge of that. I'm sure he's no woman's scholar; his wisdom he should turn into wit, and his learning into poetry or humour.
Vict. Well, I'm not so much of your mind; I like a sober passion.
Pen. A sober passion! you took me up just now when I said an offensive virtue.—Bless me! [Stumbling almost to a fall.
Y. Book.[45] [Catching her.] How much am I indebted to an accident, that favours me with an occasion of this small service! for 'tis to me an happiness beyond expression thus to kiss your hand.
Pen. The occasion, methinks, is not so obliging, nor the happiness you mention worth that name, sir.
Y. Book. 'Tis true, madam, I owe it all to fortune; neither your kindness nor my industry had any share in't. Thus am I still as wretched as I was, for this happiness I so much prize had doubtless been refused my want of merit.
Pen. It has very soon, you see, lost what you valued in it; but I find you and I, sir, have a different sense; for, in my opinion, we enjoy with most pleasure what we attain with least merit. Merit is a claim, and may pretend justly to favour; when without it what's conferred is more unexpected, and therefore more pleasing.
Y. Book. You talk very well, madam, of an happiness you can't possibly be acquainted with, the enjoying without desert. But indeed you have done me a very singular good office, in letting me know myself very much qualified for felicity.