Sir _Geo._ Not if they were twice the Sum, Sir _Francis_: Therefore be brief, call in the Lady, and take your Post--if she's a Woman, and, not seduc'd by Witchcraft to this old Rogue, I'll make his Heart ake; for if she has but one Grain of Inclination about her, I'll vary a Thousand Shapes, but find it. (_Aside._ _Enter _Mirand_._ Sir _Fran._ Agreed--_Miranda._ There Sir _George_, try your Fortune, (_Takes out his Watch._) Sir _Geo._ So from the Eastern Chambers breaks the Sun, Dispels the Clouds, and gilds the Vales below. (_Salutes her._ Sir _Fran._ Hold, Sir, Kissing was not in our Agreement. Sir _Geo._ Oh! That's by way of Prologue:--Prithee, Old Mammon, to thy Post. Sir _Fran._ Well, young _Timon_, 'tis now 4 exactly; one Hour, remember is your utmost Limit, not a Minute more. (_Retires to the bottom of the Stage._ Sir _Geo._ Madam, whether you will Excuse or Blame my Love, the Author of this rash Proceeding depends upon your Pleasure, as also the Life of your Admirer; your sparkling Eyes speak a Heart susceptible of Love; your Vivacity a Soul too delicate to admit the Embraces of decay'd Mortality. _Miran._ (_Aside._) Oh, that I durst speak-- Sir _Geo._ Shake off this Tyrant _Guardian_'s Yoke, assume your self, and dash his bold aspiring Hopes; the Deity of his Desires, is Avarice; a Heretick in Love, and ought to be banish'd by the Queen of Beauty. See, Madam, a faithful Servant kneels and begs to be admitted in the Number of your Slaves. (Miranda _gives him her Hand to Raise him._ Sir _Fran._ I wish I cou'd hear what he says now. (_Running up._) Hold, hold, hold, no Palming, that's contrary to Articles-- Sir _Geo._ Death, Sir, Keep your Distance, or I'll write another Article in your Guts. (_Lays his Hand to his Sword._ Sir _Fran._ (_Going back._) A Bloody-minded Fellow!-- Sir _Geo._ Not Answer me! Perhaps she thinks my Address too Grave: I'll be more free--Can you be so Unconscionable, Madam, to let me say all these fine things to you without one single Compliment in Return? View me well, am I not a proper Handsome Fellow, ha? Can you prefer that old, dry, wither'd, sapless Log of Sixty-five, to the vigorous, gay, sprightly Love of Twenty-four? With Snoring only he'll awake thee, but I with Ravishing Delight wou'd make thy Senses Dance in Consort with the Joyful Minutes--ha? not yet, sure she is Dumb--Thus wou'd I steal and touch thy Beauteous Hand, (_Takes bold of her Hand_) till by degrees I reach'd thy snowy Breasts, then Ravish Kisses thus, (_Embraces her in Extasie._ _Miran._ (_Strugles and flings from him._) Oh Heavens! I shall not be able to contain my self. (_Aside._ Sir _Fran._ (_Running up with his Watch in his Hand._) Sure she did not speak to him--There's Three Quarters of the Hour gone, Sir _George_--Adod, I don't like those close Conferences-- Sir _Geo._ More Interruptions--You will have it, Sir. (_Lays his Hand to his Sword._