Cam. 'Twill over, I hope, immediately.
L. Sh. Your cousin Fardingale has shown us some of your poetry; there's the spinet, Mr. Campley, I know you're musical.
Cam. She should not have called it my poetry.
Far. No—who waits there—pray bring my lute out of the next room.
Enter Servant with a Lute.
You must know I conned this song before I came in, and find it will go to an excellent air of old Mr. Lawes's[24], who was my mother's intimate acquaintance; my mother's, what do I talk of? I mean my grandmother's. Oh, here's the lute; cousin Campley, hold the song upon your hat.—[Aside to him] 'Tis a pretty gallantry to a relation.
[Sings and Squalls.]
Let not love, &c.
Oh! I have left off these things many a day.
Cam. No; I profess, madam, you do it admirably, but are not assured enough. Take it higher [in her own squall]. Thus—I know your voice will bear it.