Boy. There's all his reading.
[Aside.
Pen. A beauty of that pureness and delight,
That none is worthy of her but my lord,
My honourable lord.
C. Fred. But then her fortune,
Match'd with her beauty, makes her up a match.
Pen. By heaven, unmatchable!—for none fit but lords,
And yet for no lord fit but my good lord.
C. Fred. And that her sister, then, should love me too,
Is it not strange?
Pen. Strange? no, not strange at all.
By Cupid, there's no woman in the world
But must needs love you, doat, go mad for you.
If you vouchsafe reflection, 'tis a thing
That does it home: thus much reflection
Catches 'em up by dozens like wild fowl.
Boy. Now, ye shall taste the means, by which he eats.
[Aside.
Pen. Nature herself, having made you, fell sick
In love with her own work, and can no more
Make man so lovely, being diseas'd with love.
You are the world's minion, of a little man.
I'll say no more: I would not be a woman
For all has been got by them.
C. Fred. Why, man, why?