Love. Nay, if you make a secret of your meeting, there's all that I suspect in it. Another? Young Bookwit is another——
Pen. I never saw his face. Young Bookwit?
Love. What! not though he solicited a glance, with symphonies of charming note, with sumptuous dishes? Not when the flying meteors from the earth made a new day? Not see him? Oh, that was hard; that was unkind! Not one look for all this gallantry?—But love is blind. You can be all night with the son, all day with the father, and never see either. His father was here this morning.—Seek not to excuse: I find your arts, and see their aim too. Go, go, take your Bookwit; forget your lover, as he now must you. [Going.
Pen. Hear but three words.
Love. What shall they be?
Pen. Prithee hear me.
Love. No, no, your father's coming down.
Pen. He's not coming, nor can he overhear us. There's time and privacy enough to disabuse you.
Love. I'll hear nothing unless you will be married; unless you give me, as a present earnest of yourself, three kisses, and your word for ever.
Pen. To give way to my satisfaction, then, and be friends again, you would, Mr. Lovemore, have three kisses——