Enter Old Bookwit, Penelope, and Lettice.
Old Book. Mistress Penelope, I have your father's leave to wait upon you, madam, and talk to you this morning; nay, to talk to you of marriage.
Pen. To talk to me of marriage, sir?
O. Book. Yes, madam, in behalf of my son, Tom Bookwit.
Pen. Nay, there may perhaps be something said to that. [Aside.
O. Book.[53] I sent for him from Oxford with that design. He came to town but yesterday; and, if a father can judge, he brings from a college the mien and air of a court. I love my son entirely, and hope, madam, you take my thoughts as to you, to be no want of respect to you.
Pen. 'Twere want of sense, sir, to do that.
O. Book. If I can remember my style to my mistress of old, I'll ease Tom's way, and raise her expectation of my son. [Aside.]—Madam, had I my hat, my feather, pantaloons, and jerkin on, as when I wooed your humble servant's mother, I would deliver you his errand. I married her just such a young thing as you; her complexion was charming, but not indeed with all your sweetness.
Pen. Oh! sir!
O. Book. Her neck and bosom were the softest pillows; her shape was not of that nice sort. Some young women suffer in shapes of their mother's making, by spare diet, straight lacing, and constant chiding. But 'twas the work of nature, free, unconstrained, healthy, and——But her charms had not all that emanation which yours have.