Rho. O sweet Doralice! [Embracing each other.
Arte. [Aside.] Nay, I am resolved, I'll never interrupt lovers: I'll leave them as happy as I found them.
[Steals away.
Rho. What, is she gone? [Looking up.
Dor. Yes; and without taking leave.
Rho. Then there's enough for this time. [Parting from her.
Dor. Yes, sure, the scene is done, I take it.
They walk contrary ways on the stage; he, with his hands in his pockets, whistling; she singing a dull melancholy tune.
Rho. Pox o'your dull tune, a man can't think for you.
Dor. Pox o'your damned whistling; you can neither be company to me yourself, nor leave me to the freedom of my own fancy.
Rho. Well, thou art the most provoking wife!