[The Scene changes] to a Garden, La Nuche in it, to her Beau. who takes hold of her sleeve.
La Nu. Heavens, where am I?
Beau. Hah—a Woman! and by these Jewels—should be Ariadne. [feels.] ’Tis so!] Death, are all Women false? [She struggles to get away, he holds her.
—Oh,’tis in vain thou fly’st, thy Infamy will stay behind thee still.
La Nu. Hah, ’tis Beaumond’s Voice!—Now for an Art to turn the trick upon him; I must not lose his Friendship. [Aside.
Enter Willmore softly, peeping behind.
Will. What a Devil have we here, more Mischief yet;—hah—my Woman with a Man—I shall spoil all—[I ever had] an excellent knack of doing so.
Beau. Oh Modesty, where art thou? Is this the effect of all your put on Jealousy, that Mask to hide your own new falshood in? New!—by Heaven, I believe thou’rt old in cunning, that couldst contrive, so near thy Wedding-night, this, to deprive me of the Rites of Love.
La Nu. Hah, what says he? [Aside.
Will. How, a Maid, and young, and to be marry’d too! a rare Wench this to contrive Matters so conveniently: Oh, for some Mischief now to send him neatly off. [Aside.