Ran. I thought you had meant something else, Sir. In huff.
Dar. Nay—as for that—I suppose there is no great difficulty.
Ran. ’Sdeath, Sir, you lye—and you are a Son of a Whore. Draws and fences with him, and he runs back round the Stage.
Dar. Hold—hold, Virago—dear Widow, hold, and give me thy hand.
Ran. Widow!
Dar. ’Sdeath, I knew thee by instinct, Widow, though I seemed not to do so, in Revenge for the Trick you put on me in telling me a Lady dy’d for me.
Ran. Why, such an one there is, perhaps she may dwindle forty or fifty years—or so—but will never be her own Woman again, that’s certain.
Sure. This we are all ready to testify, we know her.
Chris. Upon my Life, ’tis true.
Dar. Widow, I have a shreud Suspicion, that you your self may be this dying Lady.