Sir Wil. Do you mark?
Much love is there!

True. Indeed, a heap, or none!
I'd wager on the heap!

Sir Wil. Ay!--Do you think
These discords, as in the musicians' 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,