SILV. How, dear Lucy?
LUCY. You know Araminta’s dissembled coyness has won, and keeps him hers—
SILV. Could we persuade him that she loves another—
LUCY. No, you’re out; could we persuade him that she dotes on him, himself. Contrive a kind letter as from her, ’twould disgust his nicety, and take away his stomach.
SILV. Impossible; ’twill never take.
LUCY. Trouble not your head. Let me alone—I will inform myself of what passed between ’em to-day, and about it straight. Hold, I’m mistaken, or that’s Heartwell, who stands talking at the corner—’tis he—go get you in, madam, receive him pleasantly, dress up your face in innocence and smiles, and dissemble the very want of dissimulation. You know what will take him.
SILV. ’Tis as hard to counterfeit love as it is to conceal it: but I’ll do my weak endeavour, though I fear I have not art.
LUCY. Hang art, madam, and trust to nature for dissembling.
Man was by nature woman’s cully made:
We never are but by ourselves betrayed.