That Word has kill’d me, Oh I feel it drill
Through the deep Wound his Eyes have lately made:
’Twas much unkind to make me hope so long.
[She leans on Olinda, as if she swooned, who pulls off her Veil: he stands gazing at a Distance.
Olin. Sure she does but counterfeit, and now I’ll play my Part. Madam, Madam!
Alon. What wondrous thing is that! I should not look upon’t, it changes Nature in me.
Olin. Have you no pity, Sir? Come nearer pray.
Alon. Sure there’s Witchcraft in that Face, it never could have seiz’d me thus else, I have lov’d a thousand times, yet never felt such joyful Pains before.
Olin. She does it rarely. What mean you, Sir?
Alon. I never was a Captive to this Hour.