Parentage are pretty equal. And last of all, that
which is the chief Thing in Friendship, your Temper seems to agree very
well with mine. There are some Things that may be very good in
themselves that may not agree with others. How acceptable my Temper may
be to yours, I don't know. These are the Auguries, my Dear, that make me
prognosticate that a Marriage between you and me would be happy,
lasting, comfortable and pleasant, unless you shall prevent it by a
Denial.

_Ma._ What would you have me say?

_Pa._ I will sing _I am thine_ first, and you shall sing _I am thine_
after me.

_Ma._ That indeed is but a short Song, but it has a long Chorus.

_Pa._ What signifies it how long it is, so it be a merry one.

_Ma._ I have that Respect for you, I would not have you do what you
should repent of when done.

_Pa._ Leave off teasing me.

_Ma._ Perhaps I shall not appear so amiable in your Eye, when Age or
Sickness have spoil'd my Beauty.

_Pa._ No more, my Dear, shall I myself be always so young and lusty. I
don't only look at that blooming, lovely Body of yours, but it is your
Guest within it I am most in Love with.

_Ma._ What Guest do you mean?

_Pa._ This Soul of yours, whose Beauty will grow as Years increase.

_Ma._ In Truth you have a very penetrating Sight, if you can see that
through so many Coverings.

_Pa._ It is with the Eyes of my Mind that I see your Mind, and then
besides we shall be ever and anon renewing our Age by our Children.

_Ma._ But then I shall lose my Maidenhead.

_Pa._ Right enough; but prithee tell me, if you had a fine Orchard,
would you rather chuse never to have nothing but Blossoms on the Trees;
or would you rather, that the Blossoms should fall off, and see the
Boughs laden with ripe Apples?

_Ma._ Oh, how cunningly you can argue!

_Pa._ Answer me but this one Question, which is the finest Sight, a Vine
lying along upon the Ground and rotting, or twining round a Stake or an
Elm-Tree, loaden with ripe Grapes of a curious purple Colour?

_Ma._ And pray do you answer me this Question; which is the most
pleasant Sight, a Rose fresh and fair upon the Tree, or one gathered and
withering in the Hand?

_Pa._ I look upon that the happier Rose that dies in a Man's Hand; there
delighting the Sight and Smell, than that which withers away upon the
Bush, for it would die there, if it were let alone. As that Wine has the
most Honour done it; that is drank before it grows dead: Though th