Dor. My mind's altered—I won't.
Arch. Eh!
Aim. I'm confounded!
Foig. Upon my shoul, and so is myshelf!
Arch. What's the matter now, madam?
Dor. Lookye, sir, one generous action deserves another.—This gentleman's honour obliged him to hide nothing from me; my justice engages me to conceal nothing from him. In short, sir, you are the person that you thought you counterfeited; you are the true Lord Viscount Aimwell, and I wish your lordship joy.—Now, priest, you may begone;—if my lord is now pleased with the match, let his lordship marry me in the face of the world.
Aim. Archer, what does she mean?
Dor. Here's a witness for my truth.
Enter Sir Charles, and Mrs. Sullen.
Sir C. My dear Lord Aimwell, I wish you joy!