_O. Book._[53] I sent for him from Oxford with that design. He came to town but yesterday; and, if a father can judge, he brings from a college the mien and air of a court. I love my son entirely, and hope, madam, you take my thoughts as to you, to be no want of respect to you. _Pen._ 'Twere want of sense, sir, to do that. _O. Book._ If I can remember my style to my mistress of old, I'll ease Tom's way, and raise her expectation of my son. [_Aside._]--Madam, had I my hat, my feather, pantaloons, and jerkin on, as when I wooed your humble servant's mother, I would deliver you his errand. I married her just such a young thing as you; her complexion was charming, but not indeed with all your sweetness. _Pen._ Oh! sir! _O. Book._ Her neck and bosom were the softest pillows; her shape was not of that nice sort. Some young women suffer in shapes of their mother's making, by spare diet, straight lacing, and constant chiding. But 'twas the work of nature, free, unconstrained, healthy, and----But her charms had not all that emanation which yours have. _Pen._ O fie! fie! _O. Book._ Not those thousand thousand graces, that soft army of loves and zephyrs, millions of airy beings that attend around you, and appear only to the second sight of lovers. _Pen._ O fie! Pray, good sir, you'll leave nothing for your son to say. _O. Book._ I did not think I had such a memory. I find the women are now certainly daughters of the women before 'em: Flattery still does it. [_Aside._]--Tom is my only son, and I extremely desire to have him settled. I own I think him of much merit. _Pen._ He would derogate from his birth were he not much a gentleman. But to receive a man in the character of a pretender at first sight---- _O. Book._ I'll walk him by and by before your window, where your own eyes shall judge. I think there's nothing above his pretences but yourself; but when one of so many excellent qualities bestows herself, it must be condescension. You shall not answer--Farewell, daughter; we are but too apt to believe what we wish. [_Exit_ OLD BOOK. _Pen._ 'Tis as you said, Lettice, Old Bookwit came to propose his son. _Lett._ I overheard the old gentleman talk of it last night. But, madam, you han't heard the song that was made on you. Oh! 'tis mighty pretty! The gentleman is dying for you, he says it. Pure, pure verses. _Pen,_ Whoever writ 'em, he's not the first poet I have made. They may talk, and say nature makes a poet, but I say love makes a poet. Don't you see elder brothers, who are by nature born above wit, shall fall in love, and write verses: nay, and pretty good ones, considering they can tag 'em to settlements. But let's see. [_Reading._] "TO CELIA'S SPINET. "Thou soft machine that dost her hand obey, Tell her my grief in thy harmonious lay." Poor man! "To shun my moan to thee she'll fly; To her touch be sure reply, And, if she removes it, die." The device is just and truly poetical. "Know thy bliss--"