Mel. You are mistaken, my dear.
Dor. What, before I speak?
Mel. But I know your meaning. You think, my dear, that I assumed something of fierté into my countenance, to rebute, him; but, quite contrary, I regarded him,—I know not how to express it in our dull Sicilian language,—d'un air enjoüé; and said nothing but ad autre, ad autre, and that it was all grimace, and would not pass upon me.
Enter Artemis: Melantha sees her, and runs away from Doralice.
[To Artemis.] My dear, I must beg your pardon, I was just making a loose from Doralice, to pay my respects to you. Let me die, if I ever pass time so agreeably as in your company, and if I would leave it for any lady's in Sicily.
Arte. The princess Amalthea is coming this way.
Enter Amalthea: Melantha runs to her.
Mel. O, dear madam! I have been at your lodging in my new galeche, so often, to tell you of a new amour, betwixt two persons whom you would little suspect for it, that, let me die if one of my coach-horses be not dead, and another quite tired, and sunk under the fatigue.
Amal. O, Melantha, I can tell you news; the prince is coming this way.
Mel. The prince? O sweet prince! He and I are to—and I forgot it.—Your pardon, sweet madam, for my abruptness.—Adieu, my dear servant,—Rhodophil.—Servant, servant, servant all.
[Exit running.