Vict. Heavens, 'tis my husband!
Oliv. Your husband! Is that Don Carlos?
Vict. It is indeed.
Oliv. Why, really, now I see the man, I don't wonder that you are in no hurry for your weeds. He is moving towards us.
Vict. I cannot speak to him, and yet my soul flies to meet him.
Car. Pray, lady, what occasioned that pretty scream? I shrewdly suspect it was a trap.
Oliv. A trap! ha! ha! ha!—a trap for you!
Car. Why not, madam? Zounds, a man near six feet high, and three flasks of burgundy in his head, is worth laying a trap for.
Oliv. Yes, unless he happens to be trapped before. 'Tis about two years since you was caught, I take it—do keep farther off!—Odious! a married man!
Car. The devil! is it posted under every saint in the street, that I am a married man?