Is. What Death! what Danger! make me understand you.
Mar. Ay, Poor Lady! she's unwilling Amorous shou'd dye too.
L. Whim. Your Husband loudly proclaims you an Adultress, and means to make War on that fair work of Heav'n, your Face; And Noseless send you back to your own Father.
Amo. Oh, horrid! hasten, Madam, from the brutal Tyrant.
Isa. I must consult my Immortal Honour; that's a Beauty to me, more valued than Nature's Out-work's, a Face. Let me consider, tis my Husband's Father; to retire till I am justifi'd, cannot be a Crime, Sir. I have resolv'd to go.
My Innocence is white as Alpine Snow,
By these Tears, which never cease to flow.
Mar. Your pardon, Mrs. give me leave to instruct you in a moving Cry. Oh! there's a great deal of Art in crying: Hold your Handkerchief thus; let it meet your Eyes, thus; your Head declin'd, thus; now, in a perfect whine, crying out these words,
By these Tears, which never cease to Flow.
Is not that right my Lord?
L. Whim. Oh gad! feelingly Passionate, Madam; were your Ladyship to do it, the whole House wou'd catch the Infection; and as in France they are all in a Tune, they'd here be all in Tears.