Cler. The pleasantest part of the history will be after marriage.
Niece. No! I never yet read of a knight that entered tilt or tournament after wedlock; 'tis not to be expected: when the husband begins, the hero ends; all that noble impulse to glory, all the generous passion for adventures, is consumed in the nuptial torch; I don't know how it is, but Mars and Hymen never hit it.
Hump. [Listening.] Consumed in the nuptial torch! Mars and Hymen! What can all this mean? I am very glad I can hardly read. They could never get these foolish fancies into my head, I had always a strong brain [Aside.]—Hark ye, cousin, is not this painter a comical dog?
Niece. I think he's very agreeable company.
Hump. Why then I tell you what: marry him—a painter's a very genteel calling. He's an ingenious fellow, and certainly poor. I fancy he'd be glad on't; I'll keep my aunt out of the room a minute or two, that's all the time you have to consider. [Exit.
Cler. Fortune points out to us this only occasion of our happiness: Love's of celestial origin, and needs no long acquaintance to be manifest. Lovers, like angels, speak by intuition; their souls are in their eyes.
Niece. Then I fear he sees mine. [Aside.]—But I can't think of abridging our amours, and cutting off all farther decoration of disguise, serenade, and adventure.
Cler. Nor would I willingly lose the merit of long services, midnight sighs, and plaintive solitudes, were there not a necessity.
Niece. Then to be seized by stealth!
Cler. Why, madam, you are a great fortune, and should not be married the common way. Indeed, madam, you ought to be stolen, nay, in strictness, I don't know but you ought to be ravished.