Aim. Consider! Do you doubt my honour, or my love?
Dor. Neither—I do believe you equally just as brave; and were your whole sex drawn out for me to chuse, I should not cast a look upon the multitude, if you were absent.—But, my lord, I'm a woman; colours, concealments, may hide a thousand faults in me—therefore, know me better first; I hardly dare affirm, I know myself in any thing, except my love.
Aim. Such goodness who could injure! I find myself unequal to the task of villain; she has gained my soul, and made it honest like her own—I cannot hurt her. [Aside.] Doctor, retire. [Exit Foigard.] Madam, behold your lover, and your proselyte, and judge of my passion by my conversion.—I'm all a lie, nor dare I give a fiction to your arms;—I am all a counterfeit, except my passion.
Dor. Forbid it, Heaven!—A counterfeit!
Aim. I am no lord, but a poor, needy man, come with a mean, a scandalous design, to prey upon your fortune:—But the beauties of your mind and person, have so won me from myself, that, like a trusty servant, I prefer the interest of my mistress to my own.
Dor. Pray, sir, who are you?
Aim. Brother to the man, whose title I usurped, but stranger to his honour or his fortune.
Dor. Matchless honesty!—Once I was proud, sir, of your wealth and title, but now am prouder that you want it: now I can show, that my love was justly levelled, and had no aim but love.—Doctor, come in.
Enter Foigard, at one Door, Gipsey at another,
who whispers Dorinda.
Your pardon, sir; we shan't want you now, sir. You must excuse me—I'll wait on you presently.