Lord. 'Tis she herself:—My lady did not come to meet the madman.
Flor. By the lord, ma'am, you have ruined all.
Louisa. I know, sir, the consequences of this discovery, and I abide by them.—But what I have done, I can justify, and 'would to Heaven all here could do the same!
Flor. Indeed, I can't tell—I wish I was in Italy.
Lord. Mark me, madam,—nay, tears are in vain—to-morrow shall make you the wife of Willoughby; and he shall answer for your follies.—No reply, sir, [To Floriville, who is going to speak.] I wou'dn't hear the chancellor.
Lady. Now, who is to blame? Oh, virtue is ever sure to meet its reward!—Come to meet a mad poet, indeed!—My lord, I forgive you only on condition of your signing a contract to marry me to-morrow, and Louisa to Willoughby, at the same time.
Lord. I will, thou best of women!—draw it up immediately—and Neville shall starve for his treachery.
[Lady Waitfor't goes to the Table, and writes.
Louisa. [Falling at the feet of Lord Scratch.] Hear me, sir, not for myself, but for a wrong'd friend, I speak:—Mr Neville knows not of my concealment; on my honour, he is innocent:—if that lady's wrongs must be avenged, confine the punishment to me—I'll bear it, with patience bear it.
Lord. Let go!—let go, I say!—Lady Waitfor't, make haste with the contract.