_Will._ Young woman! I doubt not your attachment,
nor wonder at your love; but it cannot be returned.
Principle forbids; and this heart is blighted.

_Barb._ Plighted, or not, I want none of it. What
nonsense the man talks!

_Will._ This beard--what think you of it?

_Barb._ That it is red.

_Will._ Yet 'tis not for you.

_Barb._ I would humbly desire so.

_Will._ Do you know, lively rustic, that the beard
of Mars, the god of war, is auburnly inclined? It is
much affected by the ladies of the south.

_Barb._ I would they had it then, for it is an abhorr'd
thing here.

_Will._ What a rank prude is woman, thus to
disguise her inclination. They call thee
Barbara--Bab! restrain not thy fancy. Come, hang round my neck
and love me. What! wouldst thou be an exception
to thy sex?

_Barb._ [_Strikes him._] Take that, thou coxcomb!