Succeed or fail, still victory is my lot; If I subdue his heart, ’tis well—if not, I will subdue my conscience to my plot. [_Exeunt_.] ACT II. SCENE I.—LOVELESS’S _Lodgings_. _Enter_ LOVELESS _and_ AMANDA. LOVELESS. How do you like these lodgings, my dear? For my part, I am so pleased with them, I shall hardly remove whilst we stay here, if you are satisfied. AMANDA. I am satisfied with everything that pleases you, else I had not come to Scarborough at all. LOVELESS. Oh, a little of the noise and folly of this place will sweeten the pleasures of our retreat; we shall find the charms of our retirement doubled when we return to it. AMANDA. That pleasing prospect will be my chiefest entertainment, whilst, much against my will, I engage in those empty pleasures which ’tis so much the fashion to be fond of. LOVELESS. I own most of them are, indeed, but empty; yet there are delights of which a private life is destitute, which may divert an honest man, and be a harmless entertainment to a virtuous woman: good music is one; and truly (with some small allowance) the plays, I think, may be esteemed another. AMANDA. Plays, I must confess, have some small charms. What do you think of that you saw last night? LOVELESS. To say truth, I did not mind it much—my attention was for some time taken off to admire the workmanship of Nature in the face of a young lady who sat at some distance from me, she was so exquisitely handsome. AMANDA. So exquisitely handsome! LOVELESS. Why do you repeat my words, my dear? AMANDA. Because you seemed to speak them with such pleasure, I thought I might oblige you with their echo. LOVELESS. Then you are alarmed, Amanda? AMANDA. It is my duty to be so when you are in danger. LOVELESS. You are too quick in apprehending for me. I viewed her with a world of admiration, but not one glance of love. AMANDA. Take heed of trusting to such nice distinctions. But were your eyes the only things that were inquisitive? Had I been in your place, my tongue, I fancy, had been curious too. I should have asked her where she lived—yet still without design—who was she, pray? LOVELESS. Indeed I cannot tell. AMANDA. You will not tell. LOVELESS. Upon my honour, then, I did not ask. AMANDA. Nor do you know what company was with her? LOVELESS. I do not. But why are you so earnest? AMANDA. I thought I had cause. LOVELESS. But you thought wrong, Amanda; for turn the case, and let it be your story: should you come home and tell me you had seen a handsome man, should I grow jealous because you had eyes? AMANDA. But should I tell you he was exquisitely so, and that I had gazed on him with admiration, should you not think ’twere possible I might go one step further, and inquire his name?