Fid. That of all things you are her aversion.
Man. How!
Fid. That she would sooner take a bedfellow out of an hospital, and diseases into her arms, than you.
Man. What?
Fid. That she would rather trust her honour with a dissolute debauched hector, nay worse, with a finical baffled coward, all over loathsome with affectation of the fine gentleman.
Man. What's all this you say?
Fid. Nay, that my offers of your love to her were more offensive, than when parents woo their virgin-daughters to the enjoyment of riches only; and that you were in all circumstances as nauseous to her as a husband on compulsion.
Man. Hold! I understand you not.
Fid. So, 'twill work, I see. [Aside.