Cur. Here’s Gold for thee; I will be secret too.
Guil. Oh, Sir, the poor Maid you speak of is dead.
Cur. Dead! where dy’d she? and how?
Guil. Now am I put to my wits; this ’tis to begin
In Sin, as our Curate said: I must go on: Aside.
—Why, Sir, she came into the Wood—and hard by a
River-side—she sigh’d, and she wept full sore;
And cry’d two or three times out upon Curtius,
—And—then— Howls.
Cur. Poor Cloris, thy Fate was too severe.