Will. By this Light I took her for an errant Harlot.
Belv. Damn your debaucht Opinion: tell me, Sot, hadst thou so much sense and light about thee to distinguish her to be a Woman, and could’st not see something about her Face and Person, to strike an awful Reverence into thy Soul?
Will. Faith no, I consider’d her as mere a Woman as I could wish.
Belv. ’Sdeath I have no patience—draw, or I’ll kill you.
Will. Let that alone till to morrow, and if I set not all right again, use your Pleasure.
Belv. To morrow, damn it.
The spiteful Light will lead me to no happiness.
To morrow is Antonio’s, and perhaps
Guides him to my undoing;—oh that I could meet
This Rival, this powerful Fortunate.