Cour. Neither.
Sir Jol. Sophronia?
Cour. You must guess again, I assure you.
Sir Jol. Sylvia?
Cour. Ay, ay, Sir Jolly, that's the fatal name; Sylvia the fair, the witty, the ill-natured; do you know her, my friend?
Sir Jol. Know her! why, she is my daughter, and I have adopted her these seven years. Sylvia! let me look. [Reads.] "Light brown hair, her face oval, and nose Roman, quick sparkling eyes, plump, pregnant, ruby lips, with a mole on her breast, and the perfect likeness of a heart-cherry on her left knee." Ah, villain! ah, sly-cap! have I caught you? are you there, i'faith? well, and what says she? Is she coming? do her eyes betray her? does her heart beat, and her bubbies rise, when you talk to her, ha?
Beau. Look you, Sir Jolly, all things considered, it may make a shift to come to a marriage in time.
Sir Jol. I'll have nothing to do in it; I won't be seen in the business of matrimony. Make me a match-maker, a filthy marriage-broker! sir, I scorn it, I know better things. Look you, friend, to carry her a letter from you or so, upon good terms, though it be in a church, I'll deliver it; or when the business is come to an issue, if I may bring you handsomely together, and so forth, I'll serve thee with all my soul, and thank thee into the bargain; thank thee heartily, dear rogue; I will, you little cock-sparrow, faith and troth, I will: but no matrimony, friend, I'll have nothing to do with matrimony; 'tis a damned invention, worse than a monopoly, and a destroyer of civil correspondence.
Re-enter Drawer.
Draw. Gentlemen, your room is ready, your wine and ice upon the table; will your honours please to walk in?