SIR JO. Ay, ay, so were you too; no matter, ’tis past. BLUFF. By the immortal thunder of great guns, ’tis false—he sucks not vital air who dares affirm it to this face. [_Looks big_.] SIR JO. To that face I grant you, Captain. No, no, I grant you—not to that face, by the Lord Harry. If you had put on your fighting face before, you had done his business—he durst as soon have kissed you, as kicked you to your face. But a man can no more help what’s done behind his back than what’s said—Come, we’ll think no more of what’s past. BLUFF. I’ll call a council of war within to consider of my revenge to come. SCENE X. HEARTWELL, SILVIA. _Silvia’s apartment_. SONG. As Amoret and Thyrsis lay Melting the hours in gentle play, Joining faces, mingling kisses, And exchanging harmless blisses: He trembling cried, with eager haste, O let me feed as well as taste, I die, if I’m not wholly blest. [_After the song a dance of antics_.] SILV. Indeed it is very fine. I could look upon ’em all day. HEART. Well has this prevailed for me, and will you look upon me? SILV. If you could sing and dance so, I should love to look upon you too. HEART. Why, ’twas I sung and danced; I gave music to the voice, and life to their measures. Look you here, Silvia, [_pulling out a purse and chinking it_] here are songs and dances, poetry and music—hark! how sweetly one guinea rhymes to another—and how they dance to the music of their own chink. This buys all t’other—and this thou shalt have; this, and all that I am worth, for the purchase of thy love. Say, is it mine then, ha? Speak, Syren—Oons, why do I look on her! Yet I must. Speak, dear angel, devil, saint, witch; do not rack me with suspense. SILV. Nay, don’t stare at me so. You make me blush—I cannot look. HEART. O manhood, where art thou? What am I come to? A woman’s toy, at these years! Death, a bearded baby for a girl to dandle. O dotage, dotage! That ever that noble passion, lust, should ebb to this degree. No reflux of vigorous blood: but milky love supplies the empty channels; and prompts me to the softness of a child—a mere infant and would suck. Can you love me, Silvia? Speak. SILV. I dare not speak until I believe you, and indeed I’m afraid to believe you yet. HEART. Death, how her innocence torments and pleases me! Lying, child, is indeed the art of love, and men are generally masters in it: but I’m so newly entered, you cannot distrust me of any skill in the treacherous mystery. Now, by my soul, I cannot lie, though it were to serve a friend or gain a mistress. SILV. Must you lie, then, if you say you love me? HEART. No, no, dear ignorance, thou beauteous changeling—I tell thee I do love thee, and tell it for a truth, a naked truth, which I’m ashamed to discover.