Pen. O fie! fie!
O. Book. Not those thousand thousand graces, that soft army of loves and zephyrs, millions of airy beings that attend around you, and appear only to the second sight of lovers.
Pen. O fie! Pray, good sir, you'll leave nothing for your son to say.
O. Book. I did not think I had such a memory. I find the women are now certainly daughters of the women before 'em: Flattery still does it. [Aside.]—Tom is my only son, and I extremely desire to have him settled. I own I think him of much merit.
Pen. He would derogate from his birth were he not much a gentleman. But to receive a man in the character of a pretender at first sight——
O. Book. I'll walk him by and by before your window, where your own eyes shall judge. I think there's nothing above his pretences but yourself; but when one of so many excellent qualities bestows herself, it must be condescension. You shall not answer—Farewell, daughter; we are but too apt to believe what we wish. [Exit Old Book.
Pen. 'Tis as you said, Lettice, Old Bookwit came to propose his son.
Lett. I overheard the old gentleman talk of it last night. But, madam, you han't heard the song that was made on you. Oh! 'tis mighty pretty! The gentleman is dying for you, he says it. Pure, pure verses.
Pen, Whoever writ 'em, he's not the first poet I have made. They may talk, and say nature makes a poet, but I say love makes a poet. Don't you see elder brothers, who are by nature born above wit, shall fall in love, and write verses: nay, and pretty good ones, considering they can tag 'em to settlements. But let's see.