The period is that of Cromwell—sixteen something.
The costumes are, as far as possible, of the same period.
Mistress Dorothy Farthingale is seated in the middle of the stage, reading a letter and occasionally sighing.
Enter My Lord Carey.
Carey. Mistress Dorothy alone! Truly Fortune smiles upon me.
Dorothy (hiding the letter quickly). An she smiles, my lord, I needs must frown.
Carey (used to this sort of thing and no longer put off by it). Nay, give me but one smile, sweet mistress. (She sighs heavily.) You sigh! Is't for me?
Dorothy (feeling that the sooner he and the audience understand the situation the better). I sigh for another, my lord, who is absent.
Carey (annoyed). Zounds, and zounds again! A pest upon the fellow! (He strides up and down the room, keeping out of the way of his sword as much as possible.) Would that I might pink the pesky knave!
Dorothy (turning upon him a look of hate). Would that you might have the chance, my lord, so it were in fair fighting. Methinks Roger's sword-arm will not have lost its cunning in the wars.