Hip. O my wound pains me.
Mir. I am come to ease you. [She unwraps the sword.
Hip. Alas! I feel the cold air come to me; My wound shoots worse than ever. [She wipes, and anoints the sword.
Mir. Does it still grieve you?
Hip. Now methinks, there's something Laid just upon it.
Mir. Do you find no ease?
Hip. Yes, yes, upon the sudden, all the pain Is leaving me: Sweet heaven, how I am eased!
Enter Ferdinand and Dorinda to them.
Ferd. [to Dor.] Madam, I must confess my life is yours, I owe it to your generosity.