Wel. Were she an Angel, I must love this Woman.
Geo. Then thou shall have her—Haste, and get a Licence—no more—trust my Friendship—Go. Exit Welborn.
Enter Olivia.
Olivia, where did you lie last Night?—Nay do not blush, for you may yet be virtuous.
Oliv. Virtuous! Not the young Roses in the bud secur’d, nor breaking Morn ungaz’d at by the Sun, nor falling Snow has more of Purity.
Geo. I do believe you; but your dangerous Frolicks will make the World talk shamefully.
Oliv. Let [him] talk on, I will not humour Fools.
Geo. No more—here’s Manage—Contrive an Assignation with Mirtilla; but do not hide again where none may find you. This done, I’ll tell you more, and make you happy. How now, Manage, is the Prince stirring?
Man. He’s in his Dressing-Room, Sir.—This from my Lady, Sir. Slides the Letter into Olivia’s Hand as she passes out.
Geo. What have you there, Olivia? Takes the Billet.