VAIN. To confirm what I have said, read this. [Gives a letter.]

SHARP. [Reads.] Hum, hum! And what then appeared a fault, upon
reflection seems only an effect of a too powerful passion. I'm
afraid I give too great a proof of my own at this time. I am in
disorder for what I have written. But something, I know not what,
forced me. I only beg a favourable censure of this and your
ARAMINTA.

SHARP. Lost! Pray heaven thou hast not lost thy wits. Here,
here, she's thy own, man, signed and sealed too. To her, man--a
delicious melon, pure and consenting ripe, and only waits thy
cutting up: she has been breeding love to thee all this while, and
just now she's delivered of it.

VAIN. 'Tis an untimely fruit, and she has miscarried of her love.

SHARP. Never leave this damned ill-natured whimsey, Frank? Thou
hast a sickly, peevish appetite; only chew love and cannot digest
it.

VAIN. Yes, when I feed myself. But I hate to be crammed. By
heaven, there's not a woman will give a man the pleasure of a
chase: my sport is always balked or cut short. I stumble over the
game I would pursue. 'Tis dull and unnatural to have a hare run
full in the hounds' mouth, and would distaste the keenest hunter.
I would have overtaken, not have met, my game.

SHARP. However, I hope you don't mean to forsake it; that will be