Doubt nothing that gives promise of a care.
Right handsome dames there are in Lancashire,
Whence called their women, witches!--witching things!
I know a dozen families in which
You'd meet a courtesy worthy of a bow.
I'll give you letters to them.
True. Will you?
Wild. Yes.
True. The worth of a disinterested friend!
Wild. O Master Trueworth, deeply I'm your debtor
I own I die for love of neighbour Constance!
And thou to give her up for me! Kind friend!
What won't I do for thee?--Don't pine to death;
I'll find thee fifty ways to cure thy passion,
And make thee heart-whole, if thou'rt so resolved.
Thou shalt be master of my sporting stud,
And go a hunting. If that likes thee not,
Take up thy quarters at my shooting-lodge;
There is a cellar to 't--make free with it.
I'll thank thee if thou emptiest it. The song
Gives out that wine feeds love--It drowns it, man!
If thou wilt neither hunt nor shoot, try games;
Play at loggats, bowls, fives, dominoes, draughts, cribbage,
Backgammon--special recipes for love!
And you believe, for all the hate she shows,
That neighbour Constance loves me?
True. 'Tis my thought.
Wild. How shall I find it out?
True. Affect to love
Another. Say your passion thrives; the day
Is fixed; and pray her undertake the part
Of bridemaid to your bride.
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