Tin. No, sir; look to the clime
Where you inhabit; there's the torrid zone.
Til. Yea, there goes the hare[137] away!
[Aside.
Sir Reu. Can you not love?
Tin. Not one that loves so many.
Sir Reu. 'Las, pretty peat!
[Offers to touch her.
Tin. Pray, sir, hold off your hand;
Truck with your low-pric'd traders; I must tell you
Mine honour's higher rated.
Sir Reu. Be it so;
I wish you would disclaim your alimony
With that indiff'rent touch as you do love,
You should not need a dispensation, madam;
It should be granted unpetitioned!
Tin. I'm confident it would; nor shall the coolness
Of your affection bring me to an ebb
Of favour with myself. Plant where you please,
I'll henceforth scorn to hug my own disease.