Cur. Was such a Maid, but now she’s none!
—The Slave upbraids my Griefs. Aside.
Guil. Yes, Sir, so I said.
Cur. So you said!
Guil. Why, yes, Sir, what, do you repeat?
Cur. What mean you, Sirrah? have you a mind to
Have your Throat cut? tell me where she is.
Guil. I dare as well be hang’d.
Now must I devise a lye, or never look Cloris
In the Face more. Aside.