Boy. Come, pray speak your own English.
Ma. Have boyes lost her itts and memories? [plesse] us aule.
Boy. I must be plain then, come, I know you are
Maria, this thin vail cannot obscure you:
I'll tell the world you live, I have not lost ye,
Since first with grief and shame to be surpriz'd,
A violent trance took away shew of life;
I could discover by what accident
You were convey'd away at midnight, in
Your coffin, could declare the place, and minute,
When you reviv'd, [and] what you have done since as perfectly—
Ma. Alas, I am betraid to new misfortunes.
Boy. You are not, for my knowledge, I'll be dumb
For ever, rather than be such a traitor;
Indeed I pity you, and bring no thoughts,
But full of peace, call home your modest blood,
Pale hath too long usurp'd upon your face;
Think upon love agen, and the possession
Of full blown joyes, now ready to salute you.
Ma. These words undo me more than my own griefs.
Boy. I see how fear would play the tyrant with you,
But I'll remove suspition; have you in
Your heart, an entertainment for his love
To whom your Virgin faith made the first promise?
Ma. If thou mean'st Hartlove, thou dost wound me still,
I have no life without his memory,
Nor with it any hope to keep it long:
Thou seest I walk in darkness like a thief,
That fears to see the world in his own shape,
My very shadow frights me, 'tis a death
To live thus, and not look day in the face,
Away, I know thee not.
Boy. You shall hereafter know, and thank me Lady,
I'll bring you a discharge at my next visit,
Of all your fears, be content, fair Maria,
'Tis worth your wonder.
Ma. Impossible.
Boy. Be wise and silent,
Dress your self, you shall be what you wish.