Speak on, thou Messenger of sacred Love—speak on.
Franc. The fair Cleonte, Sir, whose Soul’s inflam’d
No less than yours; tho with a virgin Modesty
She would conceal it, pitying now your Pain,
Has thro my Intercession—
Silv. Oh quickly speak! What Happiness design’d me?
Franc. To admit you, Sir, this Night into her Chamber.
Mar. Death to my Soul! What’s this? [Aside.
Silv. Her Chamber? is that all? will that allay this Fever
In my Blood?—No, no, Francisca,