Delawar. Nor like to be, poor wench, but to her grave,
If mourning for false lovers break maids' hearts.
Percy. Was she then true? O madman! idiot!
To let the feeble breath of empty rumour
Drive me from heavenly happiness!
Delawar. Poor girl!
She fain would have embark'd with me.
Percy. Ah, sir!
Why did she not?
Delawar. Marry, sir, I forbade her:
The rough voyage would have shook her slender health
To dissolution.
Geraldine. Pardon, sir; not so—
Delawar. How now, pert page?
Geraldine. For here she is, my lord.
And the rough voyage has giv'n her a new life.
Percy. My Geraldine!
Delawar. My niece! O brazenface!
Approach me not; fly from your uncle's anger;
Fly to your husband's arms for shelter, hussy!