Ber. Nor ever heretofore
In private with you, when you feign'd a sickness,
To keep your Husband absent?
Cal. Never, Sir, to a dishonest end.
Ber. Was not this Woman
Your instrument? her silence does confess it:
Here lyes Cleander dead, and here the sword
Of false Lisander, too long cover'd with
A masque of seeming truth.
Dor. And is this all
The proof you can alledge? Lisander guilty,
Or my poor Daughter an Adulteress?
Suppose that she had chang'd discourse with one
To whom she ow'd much more?
Cal. Thou hast thy ends, wicked Clarinda. [She falls.
Oli. Help, the Lady sinks, malice hath kill'd her.
Dor. I would have her live,
Since I dare swear she's innocent: 'tis no time
Or place to argue now: this cause must be
Decided by the Judge; and though a Father,
I will deliver her into the hands
Of Justice. If she prove true gold when try'd,
She's mine: if not, with curses I'le disclaim her:
Take up your part of sorrow, mine shall be
Ready to answer with her life the fact
That she is charg'd with.
Ber. Sir, I look upon you as on a Father.
Dor. With the eyes of sorrow
I see you as a Brother: let your witnesses
Be ready.
Ber. 'Tis my care.