HEART. Why, 'twas I sung and danced; I gave music to the voice,
and life to their measures. Look you here, Silvia, [pulling out a
purse and chinking it] here are songs and dances, poetry and music-
-hark! how sweetly one guinea rhymes to another--and how they dance
to the music of their own chink. This buys all t'other--and this
thou shalt have; this, and all that I am worth, for the purchase of
thy love. Say, is it mine then, ha? Speak, Syren--Oons, why do I
look on her! Yet I must. Speak, dear angel, devil, saint, witch;
do not rack me with suspense.

SILV. Nay, don't stare at me so. You make me blush--I cannot
look.

HEART. O manhood, where art thou? What am I come to? A woman's
toy, at these years! Death, a bearded baby for a girl to dandle.
O dotage, dotage! That ever that noble passion, lust, should ebb
to this degree. No reflux of vigorous blood: but milky love
supplies the empty channels; and prompts me to the softness of a
child--a mere infant and would suck. Can you love me, Silvia?
Speak.

SILV. I dare not speak until I believe you, and indeed I'm afraid
to believe you yet.

HEART. Death, how her innocence torments and pleases me! Lying,
child, is indeed the art of love, and men are generally masters in
it: but I'm so newly entered, you cannot distrust me of any skill
in the treacherous mystery. Now, by my soul, I cannot lie, though
it were to serve a friend or gain a mistress.