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I wish somebody would court my mistress for me in the same manner: 'tis the only chance I have of winning her.

Liv. (in a feigned voice.) I'll do that for thee, gallant De Bertand; for I know faults enough of yours to acquaint her with, besides the greatest of all faults, concealing good talents under a bushel; every tittle of which I will tell her forthwith, and she'll marry you, no doubt, out of spite.

Ant. Thanks, pleasant stripling! May thy success be equal to thy zeal! (taking her hand.) Thy name, youth? thou hast a pretty gait in that warlike cloak of thine, but thy cap overshadows thee perversely.—Ha! this is not a boy's hand!—That ring—O Heavens! Liv. It is not a boy's hand, Baron de Bertrand: 'tis the hand of a weak foolish woman, which shall be given to a lover of hers who is not much wiser than herself, whenever he has courage to ask it.

Walt. (aside, jogging Ant.) That is thyself: dost thou not apprehend her, man?

Liv. (still looking at her hand.) Even so; whenever he has courage to ask it. That, I suppose, may happen in about five or six years from this present time.