'Twill bring her out.
Wild. You think she'll own her passion?
True. If she loves.
Wild. I thank thee! I will try it! Master Trueworth,
What shall I say to thee, to give her up,
And love her so?
True. Say nothing.
Wild. Noble friend!
Kind friend! Instruct another man the way
To win thy mistress! Thou'lt not break my heart?
Take my advice, thou shalt not be in love
A month! Frequent the playhouse!--walk the Park!
I'll think of fifty ladies that I know,
Yet can't remember now--enchanting ones!
And then there's Lancashire!--and I have friends
In Berkshire and in Wiltshire, that have swarms
Of daughters! Then my shooting-lodge and stud!
I'll cure thee in a fortnight of thy love!
And now to neighbour Constance--yet almost
I fear accosting her--a hundred times
Have I essayed to break my mind to her,
But still she stops my mouth with restless scorn!
Howe'er, thy scheme I'll try, and may it thrive!
For I am sick for love of neighbour Constance.
Farewell, dear Master Trueworth! Take my counsel -
Conquer thy passion! Do so! Be a man!
[Goes out.]
True. Feat easy done that does not tax ourselves!
[Enter Phoebe.]
Phoebe. A letter, sir.
[Goes out.]
True. Good sooth, a roaming one,
And yet slow traveller.
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