Hip. 'Tis true, a good old mouser like you had taken it up, and run away with it presently.
Ger. Let me adore you, dearest miss, and give you—[Going to embrace her.
Hip. No, no embracing, good master! that ought to be the last lesson you are to teach me, I have heard.
Ger. Though an aftergame be the more tedious and dangerous, 'tis won, miss, with the more honour and pleasure: for all that, I repent we were put to't. The coming in of your father, as he did, was the most unlucky thing that ever befel me.
Hip. What then, you think I would have gone with you?
Ger. Yes; and you will go with me yet, I hope.—Courage, miss! we have yet an opportunity; and the gallery-window is yet open.
Hip. No, no; if I went, I would go for good and all: but now my father will soon come in again, and may quickly overtake us. Besides, now I think on't, you are a stranger to me; I know not where you live, nor whither you might carry me. For aught I know, you might be a spirit, and carry me to Barbadoes.
Ger. No, dear miss, I would carry you to court, the playhouses, and Hyde-park—
Hip. Nay, I know 'tis the trick of all you that spirit women away, to speak 'em mighty fair at first: but when you have got 'em in your clutches, you carry 'em into Yorkshire, Wales, or Cornwall, which is as bad as to Barbadoes; and rather than be served so, I would be a prisoner in London still as I am.