_Con_. He is in love! Wildrake's in love! 'Tis that keeps him in town, Turns him from sportsman to town-gentleman. I never dreamed that he could be in love! In love with whom?--I'll find the vixen out! What right has she to set her cap at him? I warrant me, a forward, artful minx; I hate him worse than ever. I'll do all I can to spoil the match. He'll never marry-- Sure he will never marry! He will have More sense than that! My back doth ope and shut-- My temples throb and shoot--I am cold and hot! Were he to marry, there would be an end To neighbour Constance--neighbour Wildrake--why, I should not know myself! [Enter TRUEWORTH.] Dear Master Trueworth, What think you!--neighbour Wildrake is in love! In love! Would you believe it, Master Trueworth? Ne'er heed my dress and looks, but answer me. Knowest thou of any lady he has seen That's like to cozen him? _True_. I am not sure-- We talked to-day about the Widow Green! _Con_. Her that my father fancies. Let him wed her! Marry her to-morrow--if he will, to-night. I can't spare neighbour Wildrake--neighbour Wildrake! Although I would not marry him myself, I could not hear that other married him! Go to my father--'tis a proper match! He has my leave! He's welcome to bring home The Widow Green. I'll give up house and all! She would be mad to marry neighbour Wildrake; He would wear out her patience--plague her to death, As he does me. She must not marry him! [They go out.] ACT III. SCENE I.--A Room in Widow Green's. [Enter MASTER WALLER, following LYDIA.] _Wal_. But thou shalt hear me, gentle Lydia. Sweet maiden, thou art frightened at thyself! Thy own perfections 'tis that talk to thee. Thy beauty rich!--thy richer grace!--thy mind, More rich again than that, though richest each! Except for these, I had no tongue for thee, Eyes for thee!--ears!--had never followed thee!-- Had never loved thee, Lydia! Hear me!-- _Lydia_. Love Should seek its match. No match am I for thee. _Wal_. Right! Love should seek its match; and that is, love Or nothing! Station--fortune--find their match In things resembling them. They are not love! Comes love (that subtle essence, without which Life were but leaden dulness!--weariness! A plodding trudger on a heavy road!) Comes it of title-deeds which fools may boast? Or coffers vilest hands may hold the keys of? Or that ethereal lamp that lights the eyes To shed the sparkling lustre o'er the face, Gives to the velvet skin its blushing glow, And burns as bright beneath the peasant's roof As roof of palaced prince? Yes, Love should seek Its match--then give my love its match in thine, Its match which in thy gentle breast doth lodge So rich--so earthly, heavenly fair and rich, As monarchs have no thought of on their thrones, Which kingdoms do bear up. _Lydia_. Wast thou a monarch, Me wouldst thou make thy queen? _Wal_. I would. _Lydia_. What! Pass A princess by for me? _Wal_. I would.