_Alice._ Grant all that; Is he the first that has been giv'n a lost man, And yet come fairly home? he is young and tender, And fit for that impression your affections Shall stamp upon him, age brings on discretion, A year hence, these mad toys that now possess him Will shew like Bugbears to him, shapes to fright him; Marriage dissolves all these like mists. _Mary._ They are grounded Hereditary in him, from his father, And to his grave they will haunt him. _Alice._ 'Tis your fear Which is a wise part in you; yet your love However you may seem to lessen it With these dislikes, and choak it with these errors, Do what you can, will break out to excuse him, Ye have him in your heart, and planted, Cousin, From whence the power of reason, nor discretion Can ever root him. _Mary._ Planted in my heart, Aunt? Believe it no, I never was so liberal; What though he shew a so so comely fellow Which we call pretty? or say it may be handsom? What though his promises may stumble at The power of goodness in him, sometimes use too? _Al._ How willingly thy heart betrays thee, Cousin? Cozen thy self no more; thou hast no more power To leave off loving him than he that's thirsty Has to abstain from drink standing before him; His mind is not so monstrous for his shape, If I have Eyes, I have not seen his better. A handsome brown Complexion. _Mary._ Reasonable, Inclining to a tawney. _Alice._ Had I said so You would have wish'd my tongue out; then his making. _Mar._ Which may be mended; I have seen legs straighter, And cleaner made. _Alice._ A body too. _Mary._ Far neater, And better set together. _Alice._ God forgive thee, For against thy Conscience thou lyest stubbornly. _Mary._ I grant 'tis neat enough. _Alice._ 'Tis excellent, And where the outward parts are fair and lovely, (Which are but moulds o'th' mind) what must the soul be? Put case youth has his swinge, and fiery Nature Flames to mad uses many times. _Mary._ All this You only use to make me say I love him; I do confess I do, but that my fondness Should fling it self upon his desperate follies. _Alice._ I do not counsel that, see him reclaim'd first, Which will not prove a miracle, yet _Mary_, I am afraid 'twill vex thee horribly To stay so long. _Mary._ No, no Aunt, no, believe me. _Alice._ What was your dream to-night? for I observ'd ye Hugging of me, with good dear sweet _Tom_. _Mary._ Fye, Aunt, Upon my Conscience. _Alice._ On my word 'tis true, Wench; And then ye kiss'd me, _Mary_, more than once too, And sigh'd, and O sweet _Tom_ again; nay, do not blush, Ye have it at the heart, Wench. _Mary._ I'll be hang'd first, But you must have your way. _Enter_ Dorothea.