Sir Morg. Southern Winds—ha, ha, lookye, d’ye see, Boy, thy Master’s mad, or so, d’ye see—why, what a Pox, d’ye think I never kiss my Wife, or so, d’ye see.
Prince. Thy Wife!—
Mir. He will betray his Passion to these Fools: Alas, he’s mad—and will undo my Hopes. Aside.
Prince. Thou mayst as well claim Kindred to the Gods; she’s mine, a Kingdom shall not buy her from me.
Sir Morg. Hay day, my Wife yours! look ye, as d’ye see, what, is it Midsummer-moon with you, Sir, or so, d’ye see?
Mir. In pity give him way, he’s madder than a Storm.
Prince. Thou know’st thou art, and thy dear Eyes confess it—a numerous Train attended our Nuptials, witness the Priest, witness the sacred Altar where we kneel’d—when the blest silent Ceremony was perform’d.
Mir. Alas! he’s mad, past all recovery mad.
Sir Mer. Mad, say, poor Soul—Friend, how long has your Master been thus intoxicated?
Page. He’s mad indeed to make this Discovery. Aside.