_Dor_. I have it--this fellow has a world of simplicity, and some cunning, the first hides the latter by abundance.--Scrub! _Scrub_. Madam! _Dor_. We have a great mind to know who this gentleman is, only for our satisfaction. _Scrub_. Yes, madam, it would be a satisfaction, no doubt. _Dor_. You must go and get acquainted with his footman, and invite him hither to drink a bottle of your ale because you 're butler to-day. {95} _Scrub_. Yes, madam, I am butler every Sunday. _Mrs. Sul_. O' brave! sister, o' my conscience, you understand the mathematics already. 'Tis the best plot in the world: your mother, you know, will be gone to church, my spouse will be got to the ale-house with his scoundrels, and the house will be our own--so we drop in by accident, and ask the fellow some questions ourselves. In the country, you know, any stranger is company, and we're glad to take up with the butler in a country-dance, and happy if he 'll do us the favour. {106} _Scrub_. O madam, you wrong me! I never refused your ladyship the favour in my life. _Enter Gipsy_. _Gip_. Ladies, dinner's upon table. _Dor_. Scrub, we'll excuse your waiting--go where we ordered you. _Scrub_. I shall. [_Exeunt_. ACT III., SCENE II _A Room in Bonifaces Inn_. _Enter Aimwell and Archer_. _Arch_. Well, Tom, I find you 're a marksman. _Aim_. A marksman! who so blind could be, as not discern a swan among the ravens? _Arch_. Well, but hark'ee, Aimwell! _Aim_. Aimwell! call me Oroondates, Cesario, Amadis, all that romance can in a lover paint, and then I 'll answer. O Archer! I read her thousands in her looks, she looked like Ceres in her harvest: corn, wine and oil, milk and honey, gardens, groves, and purling streams played on her plenteous face. {10} _Arch_. Her face! her pocket, you mean; the corn, wine and oil, lies there. In short, she has ten thousand pounds, that's the English on't. _Aim_. Her eyes------ _Arch_. Are demi-cannons, to be sure; so I won't stand their battery. [_Going_. _Aim_.-Pray excuse me, my passion must have vent. _Arch_. Passion! what a plague, d' ye think these romantic airs will do our business? Were my temper as extravagant as yours, my adventures have something more romantic by half. {21} _Aim_. Your adventures! _Arch_. Yes, The nymph that with her twice ten hundred pounds, With brazen engine hot, and quoif clear-starched, Can fire the guest in warming of the bed---- There's a touch of sublime Milton for you, and the subject but an innkeeper's daughter! I can play with a girl as an angler does with his fish; he keeps it at the end of his line, runs it up the stream, and down the stream, till at last he brings it to hand, tickles the trout, and so whips it into his basket. _Enter Boniface_.