Geo. Yes, doubtless, Sir—she’s prodigal of Vows, and I dare swear, by all she’s sworn by, she’ll break ’em all: She has less Faith than all the fickle Sex, uncertain and more wanton than the Winds, that spare no Births of Nature in their wild course, from the tall Cedar to the Flowers beneath, but [ruffle, ravish, and ruin] all.
Prince. I speak of my Mirtilla.
Geo. Why, so do I—of yours, of mine, or any Man’s Mirtilla.
Prince. Away, she that with force of Love can sigh and weep—
Geo. This very she, has all the while dissembled! Such Love she deals to every gaudy Coxcomb, how will she practice then upon a Hero?
Prince. Away, it cannot be.
Geo. By all your Friendship to me, Sir, ’tis truth.
Prince. [Racks] and Tortures!—let her have made of me a mere Example, by whom the cozen’d World might have grown wise: No matter, then I had been pleas’d, though cullyed—Why hast thou ruined my Repose with Truths that carry more Damnation than a Lye? But Oh—thou art my Friend, and I forgive thee.
Geo. Sir, I have done, and humbly ask your Pardon. Offers to go.
Prince. Stay, stay, Lejere,—if she be false, thou’rt all the World has left me; and I believe—but canst thou prove this to me?