Theo. Your master an astrologer?
Mask. A most profound one.
Bel. Why, you dog, you do not consider what an improbable lie this is; which, you know, I can never make good! Disgorge it, you cormorant! or I'll pinch your throat out.——
[Takes him by the throat.
Mask. 'Tis all in vain, sir! you are, and shall be an astrologer, whatever I suffer; you know all things; see into all things; foretell all things; and if you pinch more truth out of me, I will confess you are a conjurer.
Bel. How, sirrah! a conjurer?
Mask. I mean, sir, the devil is in your fingers: Own it—you had best, sir, and do not provoke me farther. [While he is speaking, Bellamy stops his mouth by fits.] What! did not I see you an hour ago turning over a great folio, with strange figures in it, and then muttering to yourself, like any poet; and then naming Theodosia, and then staring up in the sky, and then poring upon the ground; so that, betwixt God and the devil, madam, he came to know your love.
Bel. Madam, if ever I knew the least term in astrology, I am the arrantest son of a whore breathing.
Beat. O, sir, for that matter, you shall excuse my lady: Nay, hide your talents if you can, sir.
Theo. The more you pretend ignorance, the more we are resolved to believe you skilful.
Bel. You'll hold your tongue yet.
[To Mask.