Wit. And might have still been so, hadst thou not basely rob’d me of my Interest.
Lod. Death, do you speak my Language? Ready to draw.
Wit. No, take a secret from my angry Heart, which all its Friendship to thee cou’d not make me utter;—it was my Mistress you surpriz’d last night.
Lod. Hah, my Lady Fancy his Mistress? Curse on my prating Tongue. Aside.
Sir Cred. What a Devil’s all this, hard Words, Heart-burnings, Resentments, and all that?
Lean. You are not quarrelling, I hope, my Friends?
Lod. All this, Sir, we suspected, and smok’d your borrowing Money last night; and what I said was to gain the mighty secret that had been so long kept from your Friends:—but thou hast done a baseness— Lays his Hand on his Sword.
Lean. Hold, what’s the matter?
Wit. Did you not rob me of the Victory then I’ve been so long a toiling for?
Lod. If I had, ’twould not have made her guilty, nor me a Criminal; she taking me for one she lov’d, and I her for one that had no Interest in my Friend: and who the Devil wou’d have refus’d so fine a Woman? Nor had I but that I was prevented by her Husband.—But Isabella, Sir, you must resign.