_Love._ I think I have seen him. He was, I've heard, a man of honesty, but of something a disagreeable make. _Pen._ Oh, sir, you never saw him if you think so----His person was as free as his mind was honest, nor had he imperfection, but his love of me. [_Weeps._ _Love._ [_To_ FRED.] I tremble I shall disoblige her too much. _Fred._ [_To_ LOVE.] You shan't discover yourself, you shall go through her soul, now 'tis moved on our side. Win her now, or see my face no more; I'll not have my wine spoiled every night with your recitals of love, and asking advice, though you never mean to take it, like a true lover. _Pen._ When did that best of men expire, good Mr. Frederick? _Fred._ This morning. But should I speak the manner? With a faint, dying voice he called me to him. I went in tenderness to take my long farewell. He, in a last effort of nature, pressed me to his breast, and, with the softest accent, sighed in death--"Penelope." _Pen._ Oh, the too generous man! Ungrateful I! Curses on him first flattered with his tongue, On her that first dissembled in her silence---- What miseries have they entailed on life To bring in fraud and diffidence of love! Simplicity's the dress of honest passion, Then why our arts, why to a man enamoured, That at her feet effuses all his soul, Must woman cold appear, false to herself and him? _Fred._ [_To_ LOVE.] Do you see there? You'd have spoke before she considered that. _Pen._ Oh, could I see him now, to press his livid lips, And call him back to life with my complaints, His eyes would glare upon my guilt with horror, That used to gloat and melt in love before me. Let mine for ever then be shut to joy, To all that's bright and valuable in man! I'll to his sacred ashes be a wife, And to his memory devote my life. [_Exit._ _Love._ This is worth dying for indeed. I'll follow her. _Fred._ No, you shan't; let her go in, throw herself upon her bed, and hug, and call her pillow "Lovemore." 'Tis but what you've done a thousand times for her. _Love._ That's true too. _Fred._ Let her contemplate on the mischief of her vanity. She shall lament till her glass is of our side--till its pretty eyes be all blubbered; its heart must heave and pant with perfect anguish before 'twill feel the sorrow of another's. Don't you know, pride, scorn, affectation, and a whole train of ills must be sobbed away before a great beauty's mortified to purpose? _Enter_ SERVANT. _Serv._ Old Mr. Bookwit enquires for you here, Mr. Frederick. _Fred._ Pray, let him come up. _Enter_ OLD BOOKWIT. _Love._ What's the matter? You seem more discomposed than you were at Mr. Frederick's. Something still new?