the plum?

_Diggory._ There. [_Pointing at her._]

_Betsey._ You silly fellow! yesterday I was a peach; the day before
strawberries and cream; the day before that a rose; and last week a
dove--marry, I don't coo for you! Can I be all these things at once
and still be Betsey Tomkins?

_Diggory._ O, Betsey, thou art all the world to me!

_Betsey._ O, Diggory, thou art a great fool to me! Why, man, thy
head is as soft as a pat of butter; I could take it between my
paddles, like this, and mold it into any shape I chose.

_Diggory._ So you may, Betsey; so you may. And, Betsey, for the love
of mercy, mold it into the head of thy future husband.

_Betsey._ 'Twould take a pair of shears to do that.

_Diggory._ Wouldst thou marry me, Betsey, if I should lose my pretty
locks?

_Betsey._ I would not marry you with them, that's flat.

_Diggory._ Shall I shave my head or only clip it close?

_Betsey._ Cut it off, Diggory, cut it off.

_Diggory._ Kiss me but once, Betsey, and I'll cut my head off; 'tis
of little use to me now, and if thou dost marry me--well, thy head
shall rest upon my shoulder, like this, and one head is enough for
any pair of shoulders.

_Betsey._ _In Summer-tide, sweet Summer-tide,
O, what can a maiden do_, etc. [_Exeunt._

SCENE III.--_The same as in Scene I of this act. Dimsdell asleep
upon a garden bench, half reclining. Enter ROGER PRYNNE, called
Chillingworth._

_Roger._ To kill were easy; aye, but--to stretch his life
As on a rack--were that not better still?
Dead, I'd bury with him my revenge;
But while he lives the old account will stand
At daily usury.
I'll tent his agony, prolong it here,
Even here where I may feed upon it;
Not send him hence beyond my reach. Aye!
I'll fight with death to keep him for mine own.
But, now--
O, I must calm myself or miss my aim!
For, like a hunter when first he sees the buck,
My nerves are all unstrung. This weakling trick
Of overearnestness betrays the fool
In me; and yet we know it, though we profit not,
The eager hand doth ever spill the cup
That lifted carefully would quench our thirst.
I must assume a wise placidity;
As he puts on--Ah! damned hypocrite!--
The air of purity. (_Approaches Dimsdell._)
I'll drink dissimulation at the source;
I'll study him.--Thus might an angel look
When, wearied with the music of the spheres,
He laid him down upon a roseate bank