Theo. I know not Sir.
Phil. Where's Leocadia?
Theo. I do not know.
Phil. Leocadia,
This Tumult made the streets as dead as night,
A man may talk as freely: what's become
Of Leocadia?
Theo. She's run away.
Phil. Begone, and let us never more behold
Each others face, till we may, both together,
Fasten our eyes on her: accursed be
Those tender cozening names of charity,
And natural affection, they have lost
Me only by observing them, what cost
Travel, and fruitless wishes may in vain
Search through the world, but never find again.
Theo. Good Sir be patient, I have done no fault
Worthy this banishment.
Phil. Yes Leocadia,
The Lady so distress'd, who was content
To lay her story, and to lay her heart
As open as her story to your self,
Who was content, that I should know her Sex,
Before dissembl'd and to put her self
Into my conduct, whom I undertook
Safely to guard, is in this Tumult lost.
Theo. And can I help it Sir?
Phil. No, would thou couldst,
You might have done, but for that zeald religion
You women bear to swownings, you do pick
Your times to faint when some body is by:
Bound or by nature, or by love, or service
To raise you from that well dissembled death:
Inform me but of one that has been found
Dead in her private chamber by her self,
Where sickness would no more forbear, than here,
And I will quit the rest for her.