ans' art,
Are subtle servitors to harmony?
That all this war's for peace? This wrangling but
A masquerade where love his roguish face
Conceals beneath an ugly visor!--Well?

_True_. Your guess and my conceit are not a mile
Apart. Unlike to other common flowers,
The flower of love shews various in the bud;
'Twill look a thistle, and 'twill blow a rose!
And with your leave I'll put it to the test;
Affect myself, for thy fair daughter, love--
Make him my confidant--dilate to him
Upon the graces of her heart and mind,
Feature and form--that well may comment bear--
Till--like the practised connoisseur, who finds
A gem of heart out in a household picture
The unskilled owner held so cheap he grudged
Renewal of the chipped and tarnished frame,
But values now as priceless--I arouse him
Into a quick sense of the worth of that
Whose merit hitherto, from lack of skill,
Or dulling habit of acquaintanceship,
He has not been awake to.

_Con_. [Without.] Neighbour Wildrake!

_Sir Wil_. Hither they come. I fancy well thy game!
O to be free to marry Widow Green!
I'll call her hence anon--then ply him well.

[SIR WILLIAM goes out.]

_Wild_. [Without.] Nay, neighbour Constance!

_True_. He is high in storm.

[Enter WILDRAKE and CONSTANCE.]

_Wild_. To Lincolnshire, I tell thee.

_Con_. Lincolnshire!
What, prithee, takes thee off to Lincolnshire?

_Wild_. Too great delight in thy fair company.

_True_. Nay, Master Wildrake, why away so soon?
You are scarce a day in town!--Extremes like this,
And starts of purpose, are the signs of love.
Though immatured as yet. [Aside.]

_Con_. He's long enough
In town! What should he here? He's lost in town:
No man is he for concerts, balls, or routs!
No game he knows at cards, save rare Pope Joan!
He ne'er could master dance beyond a jig;
And as for music, nothing to compare
To the melodious yelping of a hound,
Except the braying of his huntsman's horn!
Ask _him_ to stay in town!

_Sir Wil_. [Without.] Hoa, Constance!

_Con_. Sir!--
Neighbour, a pleasant ride to Lincolnshire!
Good-bye!

_Sir Wil_. [Without.] Why, Constance!

_Con_. Coming, sir. Shake hands!
Neighbour, good-bye! Don't look so woe-begone;
'Tis but a two-days' ride, and thou wilt see
Rover, and Spot, and Nettle, and the rest
Of thy dear country friends!

_Sir Wil_. [Without.] Constance! I say.

_Con_. Anon!--Commend me to the gentle souls,
And pat them for me!--Will you,