—Hear me, Ungrate; I swear by all that’s good,
I’ll wash away my Mischief with thy Blood.
Isab. Antonio hears you not, Sir, for he’s departed.
Ism. Is Antonio gone? She looks pertly up, who before lay half dead.
Alb. How’s this, has she but feign’d?
Ism. [Know it was] but feign’d; I hope this proof
Of what I’ve promis’d you, does not displease you.
Alb. Am I thus fortunate, thus strangely happy?
Ism. Time will confirm it to you—go, do not
Now thank me for’t, but seek Antonio out;