Dor. Pray spare your seconds; for my part I am but a weak brother.
Pala. Now,—to the truest of turtles! that is your wife, Rhodophil, that lies sick at home, in the bed of honour.
Rho. Now let us have one common health, and so have done.
Dor. Then, for once, I'll begin it. Here's to him that has the fairest lady of Sicily in masquerade to night.
Pala. This is such an obliging health, I'll kiss thee, dear rogue, for thy invention.
[Kisses her.
Rho. He, who has this lady, is a happy man, without dispute,—I'm most concerned in this, I am sure.
[Aside.
Pala. Was it not well found out, Rhodophil?
Mel. Ay, this was bien trouvée indeed.
Dor. [to Melantha.] I suppose I shall do you a kindness, to enquire if you have not been in France, sir?
Mel. To do you service, sir.