me, Sir, I am sorry for it--another time,
Sir: I have earnest business. Now, I am sure nothing worth seeing can
belong to this litter of Fools.

L. _Blun._ My Daughter is a Person of Quality, I assure you, Sir.

_Prince._ I doubt it not, Madam--If she be of the same Piece--Send me a
fair Deliverance.
[Sir _Morgan_ leads him to _Mirtilla_, he starts.
--Ha! What bright Vision's that?

_Mir._ Heav'n! 'Tis the lovely Prince I saw in _Flanders_. [Aside.

Sir _Mer._ Look how he stares--why, what the Devil ails he?

Sir _Morg._ To her, Sir, or so, d'ye see, what a Pox, are you afraid of
her?

L. _Blun._ He's in Admiration of her Beauty, Child.

_Prince._ By Heav'n, the very Woman I adore! [Aside.

Sir _Morg._ How d'ye, see, Sir, how do ye, ha, ha, ha?

_Prince._ I cannot be mistaken; for Heav'n made nothing but young Angels
like her!

Sir _Morg._ Look ye, Page, is your Master in his right Wits?

Sir _Mer._ Sure he's in love, and Love's a devilish thing.

Sir _Morg._ Sa, ho, ho, ho, where are you, Sir, where are you?

_Prince._ In Heav'n! [Puts him away.
Oh! do not rouse me from this charming Slumber, lest I shou'd wake,
and find it but a Dream.

Sir _Mer._ A plaguy dull Fellow this, that can sleep in so good Company
as we are.

Sir _Morg._ Dream--A Fiddle-stick; to her, Man, to her, and kiss her
soundly, or so, d'ye see.

Sir _Mer._ Ay, ay; kiss her, Sir, kiss her--ha, ha, ha, he's very
simple.

_Prince._ Kiss her,--there's universal Ruin in her Lips.

_Mir._ I never knew 'em guilty of such Mischiefs.

Sir _Morg._ No, I'll be sworn, I have kist 'em twenty times, and they
never did me harm.

_Prince._ Thou kiss those Lips? impossible, and false; they ne'er were
prest but by soft _Southern_ Winds.

Sir _Morg._ _Southern_ Winds--ha, ha, lookye, d'ye see, Boy, thy
Master's mad, or so, d'ye see--why, what a Pox, d'ye think I never kiss
my Wife, or so, d'ye see.

_Prince._ Thy Wife!--

_Mir._ He will betray his Passion to these Fools: Alas, he's mad--and
will undo my Hopes.
[Aside.

_Prince._ Thou mayst as well claim Kindred to the Gods; she's mine,
a Kingdom shall not buy her from me.

Sir _Morg._ Hay day, my Wife yours! look ye, as d'ye see, what, is it
_Midsummer-moon_ with you, Sir, or so, d'ye see?

_Mir._ In pity give him way, he's madder than a Storm.

_Prince._ Thou know'st thou art, and thy dear Eyes confess
it--a numerous Train attended our Nuptials, witness the Pr