Enter Courtine and Sylvia.
Sylv. Take my word, sir, you had better give this business over. I tell you, there's nothing in the world turns my stomach so much as the man, that man that makes love to me. I never saw one of your sex in my life make love, but he looked so like an ass all the while, that I blushed for him.
Cour. I am afraid your ladyship then is one of those dangerous creatures they call she-wits, who are always so mightily taken with admiring themselves that nothing else is worth their notice.
Sylv. Oh, who can be so dull, not to be ravished with that roisterous mien of yours, that ruffling air in your gait, that seems to cry where'er you go, "Make room, here comes the captain!" that face which bids defiance to the weather? Bless us! if I were a poor farmer's wife in the country now, and you wanted quarters, how would it fright me! But as I am young, not very ugly, and one you never saw before, how lovingly it looks upon me!
Cour. Who can forbear to sigh, look pale, and languish, where beauty and wit unite both their forces to enslave a heart so tractable as mine is? First, for that modish swim of your body, the victorious motion of your arms and head, the toss of your fan, the glancing of the eyes—bless us! if I were a dainty fine-dressed coxcomb, with a great estate, and a little or no wit, vanity in abundance and good for nothing, how would they melt and soften me! but as I am a scandalous honest rascal, not fool enough to be your sport, nor rich enough to be your prey, how gloatingly they look upon me!
Sylv. Alas, alas! what pity 'tis your honesty should ever do you hurt, or your wit spoil your preferment!
Cour. Just as much, fair lady, as that your beauty should make you be envied at, or your virtue provoke scandal.
Sylv. Well, the more I look, the more I'm in love with you.
Cour. The more I look, the more I am out of love with you.