Hip. But, dear Dorinda, What is become of him who fought with me?
Dor. O! I can tell you joyful news of him; My father means to make him die to-day, For what he did to you.
Hip. That must not be, My dear Dorinda; go, and beg your father, He may not die; it was my fault he hurt me, I urged him to it first.
Dor. But if he live, he'll never leave killing you.
Hip. O no! I just remember when I fell asleep, I heard him calling me a great way off, And crying over me as you would do; Besides, we have no cause of quarrel now.
Dor. Pray, how began your difference first?
Hip. I fought with him, for all the women in the world.
Dor. That hurt you had, was justly sent from heaven, For wishing to have any more but me.
Hip. Indeed I think it was, but I repent it; The fault was only in my blood, for now 'Tis gone, I find I do not love so many.
Dor. In confidence of this, I'll beg my father That he may live; I'm glad the naughty blood, That made you love so many, is gone out.