And then live happy ever after. What d’ye say?
Ber. Why, most emphatically, nay!
I call this treatment shameful, sinful, flagrant—
Rod. Come, come Berlinda, let me have no vague rant;
You wander in your speech. What is’t you need?
Ber. My breakfast! oh, I’m dying for a feed.
Rod. I would I were a bird, and then I might your favour win;
Alas, I can but offer you some scrapings from my violin.
Berlinda bursts into a passionate flood of tears, and Roderigo
plays pathetically “Home, sweet home.” By-and-by the sound
of voices and the tramp of feet are heard in the distance.
Ber. O! Roderigo, we’re pursued! they’re armed! what shall we do?