Yonder they are, and this way they must come. If clothes
and a _bon mien_ will take them, I shall do it.--Save you,
Monsieur Florimel! Faith, me thinks you are a very janty fellow,
_poudre et ajuste_, as well as the best of 'em. I can manage
the little comb; set my hat, shake my garniture, toss about my empty
noddle, walk with a courant slur, and at every step peck down my
head: If I should be mistaken for some courtier now, pray where's the
difference?
_Enter, to her,_ CELADON, OLINDA, _and_ SABINA.
_Olin_. Never mince the matter!
_Sab_. You have left your heart behind with Florimel; we know it.
_Cel_. You know you wrong me: when I am with Florimel, 'tis still
your prisoner, it only draws a longer chain after it.
_Flo_. Is it e'en so! then farewell, poor Florimel! thy
maidenhead is condemned to die with thee.
_Cel_. But let's leave this discourse; 'tis all digression, that
does not speak of your beauties.
_Flo_. Now for me, in the name of impudence!--[_Comes
forward_.] They are the greatest beauties, I confess, that ever I
beheld--
_Cel_. How now, what's the meaning of this young fellow?
_Flo_. And therefore I cannot wonder that this gentleman, who has
the honour to be known to you, should admire you, since I, that am a
stranger--
_Cel_.
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