Dor. It may be,
Without the loss of credit too; he's not
Such a prodigious thing, so monstrous,
To fling from all society.
Mary. He's so much contrary
To my desires, such an antipathy
That I must sooner see my grave.
Dor. Dear friend,
He was not so before he went.
Mary. I grant it,
For then I daily hop'd his fair Conversion.
Alice. Come, do not mask your self, but see him freely,
Ye have a mind.
Mary. That mind I'll master then.
Dor. And is your hate so mortal?
Mary. Not to his person,
But to his qualities, his mad-cap follies,
Which still like Hydras heads grow thicker on him.
I have a credit, friend, and Maids of my sort,
Love where their modesties may live untainted.
Dor. I give up that hope then; 'pray for your friends sake,
If I have any interest within ye,
Do but this courtesie, accept this Letter.
Mary. From him?