Char. Old men are not immortal, as I take it; is it you look for, youth and handsomness?  I do confess my Brother’s a handsome Gentleman, but he shall give me leave to lead the way, Lady.  Can you love for love, and make that the reward?  The old man shall not love his heaps of Gold with a more doting superstition, than I’le love you.  The young man his delights, the Merchant, when he ploughs the angry Sea up and sees the mountain billows falling on him, as if all the Elements, and all their angers, were turn’d into one vow’d destruction; shall not with greater joy embrace his safety.  We’ll live together like two wanton Vines, circling our souls and loves in one another, we’ll spring together, and we’ll bear one fruit; one joy shall make us smile, and one grief mourn; one age go with us, and one hour of death shall shut our eyes, and one grave make us happy.

Ang. And one hand seal the Match, I’m yours for ever.

Lew. Nay, stay, stay, stay.

Ang. Nay certainly, ’tis done, Sir.

Bri. There was a contract.

Ang. Only conditional, that if he had the Land, he had my love too; this Gentleman’s the Heir, and he’ll maintain it.  Pray be not angry, Sir, at what I say; or if you be, ’tis at your own adventure.  You have the out-side of a pretty Gentleman, but by my troth your inside is but barren; ’tis not a face I only am in love with, nor will I say your face is excellent, a reasonable hunting face to court the wind with; nor they’re not words, unless they be well plac’d too, nor your sweet Dam-mes, nor your hired Verses, nor telling me of Clothes, nor Coach and Horses, no nor your visits each day in new Suits, nor your black Patches you wear variously, some cut like Stars, some in Half-moons, some Lozenges, (all which but shew you still a younger Brother.)

Mir. Gramercy, Wench, thou hast a noble Soul too.

Ang. Nor your long travels, nor your little knowledge, can make me doat upon you.  Faith go study, and glean some goodness, that you may shew manly; your Brother at my suit I’m sure will teach you; or only study how to get a Wife, Sir.  Y’are cast far behind, ’tis good you should be melancholy, it shews like a Gamester that had lost his mony; and ’tis the fashion to wear your arm in a skarf, Sir, for [you] have had a shrewd cut o’er the fingers.

Lew. But are y’in earnest?

Ang. Yes, believe me, Father, you shall ne’er choose for me; y’are old and dim, Sir, and th’ shadow of the earth Eclips’d your judgment.  Y’have had your time without control, dear Father, and you must give me leave to take mine now, Sir.

Bri. This is the last time of asking, will you set your hand to?

Cha. This is the last time of answering, I will never.

Bri. Out of my doors.

Char. Most willingly.

Mir. He shall, Jew, thou of the Tribe of Man-y-asses, Coxcomb, and never trouble thee more till thy chops be cold, fool.