a, my gloves. If Master Waller calls,
I shall be in at three; and say the same
To old Sir William Fondlove. Tarry yet!--
What progress, think you, make I in the heart
Of fair young Master Waller? Gods, my girl,
It is a heart to win and man as well!
How speed I, think you? Didst, as I desired,
Detain him in my absence when he called,
And, without seeming, sound him touching me?

_Lydia_. Yes.

_W. Green_. And effects he me, or not? How guess you?
What said he of me? Looked he balked, or not,
To find me not at home? Inquired he when
I would be back, as much he longed to see me?
What did he--said he? Come!--Is he in love,
Or like to fall into it? Goes well my game,
Or shall I have my labour for my pains?

_Lydia_. I think he is in love.--O poor evasion!
O to love truth, and yet not dare to speak it! [Aside.]

_W. Green_. You think he is in love--I'm sure of it.
As well have asked you has he eyes and ears,
And brain and heart to use them? Maids do throw
Trick after trick away, but widows know
To play their cards! How am I looking, Lydia?

_Lydia_. E'en as you ever look.

_W. Green_. Handsome, my girl?
Eh? Clear in my complexion? Eh?--brimful
Of spirits? not too much of me, nor yet
Too little?--Eh?--A woman worth a man?
Look at me, Lydia! Would you credit, girl,
I was a scarecrow before marriage?

_Lydia_. Nay!--

_W. Green_. Girl, but I tell thee "yea." That gown of thine--
And thou art slender--would have hung about me!
There's something of me now! good sooth, enough!
Lydia, I'm quite contented with myself;
I'm just the thing, methinks, a widow should be.
So, Master Waller, you believe, affects me?
But, Lydia, not enough to hook the fish;
To prove the angler's skill, it must be caught;
And lovers, Lydia, like the angler's prey--
Which, when he draws it near the landing-place,
Takes warning and runs out the slender line,
And with a spring perchance jerks off the hold
When we do fish for them, and hook, and think
They are all but in the creel, will make the dart
That sets them free to roam the flood again!

_Lydia_. Is't so?

_W. Green_. Thou'lt find it so, or better luck
Than many another maid! Now mark me, Lydia:
Sir William Fondlove fancies me. 'Tis well!
I do not fancy him! What should I do
With an old man?--Attend upon the gout,
Or the rheumatics! Wrap me in the cloud
Of a darkened chamber--'stead of shining out,
The sun of balls, and routs, and gala-days!
But h