Asca. A curse on’t! here comes my lord, and Lucretia.  We might have

accomplished all, and been repenting by this time; yet who the devil would have thought they should have come so soon—­Ah!
                                                    [Sets his teeth.

Hip. Who the devil would have put it to the venture?  This is always

the fault of you raw pages:  You, that are too young, never use an opportunity; and we, that are elder, can seldom get one.—­Ah!
                                                    [Sets her teeth.

Enter FREDERICK and LUCRETIA.

Luc. I believe, indeed, it troubled you to lose that letter.

Fred. So much, madam, that I can never forgive myself that negligence.

Luc. Call it not so, ’twas but a casuality, though, I confess, the consequence is dangerous; and therefore have not both of us reason to defy love, when we see a little gallantry is able to produce so much mischief?

Fred. [Aside.] Now cannot I, for my heart, bring out one word against this love.

Luc. Come, you are mute upon a subject, that is both easy and pleasant.  A man in love is so ridiculous a creature—­

Fred. Especially to those that are not.

Luc. True; for to those that are, he cannot be so:  They are like the citizens of Bethlehem, who never find out one another’s madness, because they are all tainted.  But for such ancient fops, as, with reverence, your father is, what reason can they have to be in love?

Fred. Nay, your old fop’s unpardonable, that’s certain.  But—­

Luc. But what?  Come, laugh at him.

Fred. But I consider he is my father, I can’t laugh at him.

Luc. But, if it were another, we should see how you would insult over him.

Fred. Ay, if it were another—­And yet I don’t know neither, ’tis no part of good nature to insult:  A man may be overtaken with a passion, or so; I know it by myself.

Luc. How, by yourself!  You are not in love, I hope?—­Oh that he would confess first now! [Aside.

Fred. But, if I were, I should be loth to be laughed at.

Luc. Since you are not in love, you may the better counsel me:  What shall we do with this same troublesome father of yours?

Fred. Any thing, but love him.

Luc. But you know he has me at a bay; my letter is in his possession, and he may produce it to my ruin:  Therefore, if I did allow him some little favour, to mollify him—­

Fred. How, madam?  Would you allow him favours?  I can never consent to it:  Not the least look or smile; they are all too precious, though they were to save his life.

Luc. What, not your father?  Oh that he would confess he loved me first! [Aside.