_Cler._ This young gentleman, ladies, is a particular acquaintance of mine, and much about my age and stature (look me full in the face, madam); he accidentally met the young lady, who had in her all the perfections of her sex (hold up your head, madam, that's right); she let him know that his person and discourse were not altogether disagreeable to her. The difficulty was how to gain a second interview (your eyes full upon mine, madam); for never was there such a sigher in all the valleys of Arcadia as that unfortunate youth, during the absence of her he loved. _Aunt._ Alack-a-day! poor young gentleman! _Niece._ It must be he--what a charming amour is this! [_Aside._ _Cler._ At length, ladies, he bethought himself of an expedient; he dressed himself just as I am now, and came to draw her picture (your eyes full upon mine, pray, madam). _Hump._ A subtle dog, I warrant him. _Cler._ And by that means found an opportunity of carrying her off, and marrying her. _Aunt._ Indeed, your friend was a very vicious young man. _Niece._ Yet perhaps the young lady was not displeased at what he had done. _Cler._ But, madam, what were the transports of the lover when she made him that confession? _Niece._ I daresay she thought herself very happy when she got out of her guardian's hands. _Aunt._ 'Tis very true, niece; there are abundance of those headstrong young baggages about town. _Cler._ The gentleman has often told me, he was strangely struck at first sight, but when she sat to him for her picture, and assumed all those graces that are proper for the occasion, his torment was so exquisite, his passion so violent, that he could not have lived a day, had he not found means to make the charmer of his heart his own. _Hump._ 'Tis certainly the foolishest thing in the world to stand shilly-shally about a woman, when one has a mind to marry her. _Cler._ The young painter turned poet on the subject; I believe I have the words by heart. _Niece._ A sonnet! pray repeat it.[98] I. While gentle Parthenissa walks, And sweetly smiles, and gaily talks, A thousand shafts around her fly, A thousand swains unheeded die. II. If then she labours to be seen, With all her killing air and mien; From so much beauty, so much art, What mortal can secure his heart? _Hump._ I fancy if 'twas sung, 'twould make a very pretty catch. _Cler._ My servant has a voice; you shall hear it. [_Here it is sung._ _Aunt._ Why this is pretty! I think a painter should never be without a good singer, it brightens the features strangely--I profess I'm mightily pleased. I'll but just step in, and give some orders, and be with you presently. [_Exit._ _Niece._ Was not this adventurous painter called Clerimont?