Enter Servant.
Ser. Here is Mr. Hartlove, Madam, come to see you.
La. Alas poor Gentleman, prethee admit him.
Enter Hartlove and Gent.
Ha. Madam, I am come to take my last leave.
La. How Sir?
Ha. Of all my home affections, and my friends,
For the interest you had once in Maria,
I would acquaint you when I leave the kingdom.
La. Would there were any thing in my poor power
That might divert your Will, and make you happy,
I am sure I have wrong'd her too, but let your pardon
Assure me you are charitable; she's dead
Which makes us both sad: What do you look on?
[1.] The likest face—
Ma. Plesse us awle, why does that sentilman make such unders and mazements at her, I know her not.