Pounce. Raptures! Raptures!
Cler. How can it, so insensibly to itself, lead us through cares it knows not, through such a wilderness of hopes, fears, joys, sorrows, desires, despairs, ecstasies and torments, with so sweet, yet so anxious vicissitude!
Pounce. Why, I thought you had never seen her?
Cler. No more I han't.
Pounce. Who told you then of her inviting lips, her soft sleepy eyes?
Cler. You yourself.
Pounce. Sure you rave, I never spoke of her afore to you.
Cler. Why, you won't face me down—Did you not just now say she had ten thousand pounds in money, five in jewels, and a thousand a year?
Pounce. I confess my own stupidity and her charms. Why, if you were to meet, you would certainly please her, you have the cant of loving; but pray, may we be free—that young gentleman.