+Luc.+ 'Tis strange you'll not believe me, unless I lay My imperfection open. I have a nature Ambitious beyond thought, quite giv'n over To entertainments and expense: no bravery That's fashionable can escape me; and then, Unless you are of a most settled temper, Quite without passion, I shall make you Horn-mad with jealousy. +Moc.+ Come, come, I know Thou'rt virtuous, and speakest this but to try me. You will not be so adverse to your fortune And all obedience, to contradict What your father has set down. +Luc.+ These are my faults I cannot help, if you'll be so good As to dispense with them. +Moc.+ With all my heart. I forgive thee before thou offend'st. +Luc.+ Then I am mighty stubborn and self-will'd, And shall sometimes e'en long to abuse you: And for my tongue, 'tis like a stone thrown down, Of an impetuous motion, not to be still'd. +Moc.+ All these cannot dismay me; for, considering How they are passions proper to your sex, In a degree they are virtues. +Luc.+ O my fate! He will not be terrified. Then, not to feed you With further hopes, or pump for more excuses, Take it in brief, though I am loth to speak, But you compel me to it--I cannot love you. +Lor.+ How do you speed, sir? Is she tractable? Do you approve of her replies? +Moc.+ I know not; Guess you: she said she cannot love me; and 'tis The least thing I should have mistrusted; I durst Have sworn she would ne'er have made scruple on't. +Lor.+ Not love you! Come, she must and shall. Do you hear, housewife? No more of this, as you affect my friendship. What, shall I bring here a right worshipful prætor Unto my house, in hope you'll be rul'd, And you prove recreant to my commands? But, my vex'd soul, thou hast done a deed were able, In the mere questioning of what I bid, Were not I a pious and indulgent father, To thrust thee, as a stranger, from my blood. +Moc.+ Be not too rash, sir: women are not won With force, but fair entreaty. Have I been vers'd Thus long i' th' school of love; know all their arts, Their practices, their ways, and subtleties, In all my encounters still return'd a victor, And have not left a stratagem at last To work on her affection, let me suffer. +Lor.+ Nay, and you have that confidence, I'll leave you. +Moc.+ Lady, a word in private with you. [_Whisper._ +Æmi.+ Pray, sweetheart, What pretty youth is that? +Lor.+ Who, this same chicken? He is the son of a great nobleman, And my especial friend. His father's gone Into the country to survey his lands, And let new leases, and left him in charge With me till his return.