Mon. Whatever are my thoughts, my lord, I've learnt
By your example to correct their ills,
And morn and evening give up the account.
Acast. Your pardon, sweet one; I upbraid you not;
Or, if I would, you are so good I could not;
Though I'm deceived, or you're more fair to-day;
For beauty's heightened in your cheeks, and all
Your charms seem up and ready in your eyes.
Mon. The little share I have's so very mean
That it may easily admit addition;
Though you, my lord, should most of all beware
To give it too much praise, and make me proud.
Acast. Proud of an old man's praises! No, Monimia!
But if my prayers can do you any good,
Thou shalt not want the largest share of them.
Heard you no noise to-night?
Mon. Noise, my good lord!
Acast. Ay, about midnight?
Mon. Indeed, my lord, I don't remember any.
Acast. You must, sure! Went you early to your rest?
Mon. About the wonted hour.—Why this inquiry? [Aside.
Acast. And went your maid to bed too?