Sylv. But I find only yourself the prisoner all this while.
L. Dunce. At present indeed I am so; but fortune I hope will smile, wouldst thou but be my friend, Sylvia.
Sylv. In any mischievous design, with all my heart.
L. Dunce. The conclusion, madam, may turn to your satisfaction. But you have no thoughts of Courtine?
Sylv. Not I, I'll assure you, cousin.
L. Dunce. You don't think him well shaped, straight, and proportionable?
Sylv. Considering he eats but once a week, the man is well enough.
L. Dunce. And then he wears his clothes, you know, filthily, and like a horrid sloven.
Sylv. Filthily enough of all conscience, with a threadbare red coat, which his tailor duns him for to this day, over which a great, broad, greasy, buff-belt, enough to turn any one's stomach but a disbanded soldier; a peruke tied up in a knot, to excuse its want of combing; and then, because he has been a man at arms, he must wear two tuffles of a beard, forsooth, to lodge a dunghill of snuff upon, to keep his nose in good humour.
L. Dunce. Nay, now I am sure that thou lovest him.