Sir Sig. Finding my self pursu’d as I was groping my way through the
Hall, and not being able to find the Door, I made towards the stairs
again, at the foot of which I was saluted with a great Gun—a pox of the
Courtesy.
Gal. [Without.] Where are ye, Knight, Buffoon, Dog of Egypt?
Sir Sig. Thunder and Lightning! ‘tis Gallaird’s Voice.
Phil. Here, step behind this Hanging—there’s a Chimney which may shelter ye till the Storm be over,—if you be not smother’d before. [Puts him behind the Arras.
Enter Gal. as before, and Corn, at the other door.
Cor. Heavens! What rude noise is this?
Gal. Where have you hid this Fool, this lucky Fool?
He whom blind Chance, and more ill-judging Woman,
Has rais’d to that Degree of Happiness,
That witty Men must sigh and toil in vain for?
Cor. What Fool, what Happiness?
Gal. Cease, cunning false one, to excuse thy self, See here the Trophies of your shameful Choice, And of my Ruin, cruel—fair Deceiver!
Cor. Deceiver, Sir, of whom? in what despairing minute did I swear to be a constant Mistress? to what dull whining Lover did I vow, and had the heart to break it?