the Stage._

Sir _Geo._ Madam, whether you will Excuse or Blame my Love, the Author
of this rash Proceeding depends upon your Pleasure, as also the Life of
your Admirer; your sparkling Eyes speak a Heart susceptible of Love;
your Vivacity a Soul too delicate to admit the Embraces of decay'd
Mortality.

_Miran._ (_Aside._) Oh, that I durst speak--

Sir _Geo._ Shake off this Tyrant _Guardian_'s Yoke, assume your self,
and dash his bold aspiring Hopes; the Deity of his Desires, is Avarice;
a Heretick in Love, and ought to be banish'd by the Queen of Beauty.
See, Madam, a faithful Servant kneels and begs to be admitted in the
Number of your Slaves.
(Miranda _gives him her Hand to Raise him._

Sir _Fran._ I wish I cou'd hear what he says now. (_Running up._) Hold,
hold, hold, no Palming, that's contrary to Articles--

Sir _Geo._ Death, Sir, Keep your Distance, or I'll write another Article
in your Guts.
(_Lays his Hand to his Sword._

Sir _Fran._ (_Going back._) A Bloody-minded Fellow!--

Sir _Geo._ Not Answer me! Perhaps she thinks my Address too Grave: I'll
be more free--Can you be so Unconscionable, Madam, to let me say all
these fine things to you without one single Compliment in Return? View
me well, am I not a proper Handsome Fellow, ha? Can you prefer that old,