Spark. Ay.
Har. Whose love can no more be equalled in the world, than that heavenly form of yours.
Spark. No.
Har. Who could no more suffer a rival, than your absence, and yet could no more suspect your virtue, than his own constancy in his love to you.
Spark. No.
Har. Who, in fine, loves you better than his eyes, that first made him love you.
Spark. Ay—Nay, madam, faith, you shan't go till—
Alith. Have a care, lest you make me stay too long.
Spark. But till he has saluted you; that I may be assured you are friends, after his honest advice and declaration. Come, pray, madam, be friends with him.
Re-enter Pinchwife and Mrs. Pinchwife.