Dem. 'Tis Celias sound sure: The sweetness of that tongue draws all hearts to it; There stands the shape too.
Le[o]. How he stares upon her!
Dem. Ha? do mine eyes abuse me? 'Tis she, the living Celia: your hand Lady?
Cel. What should this mean?
Dem. The very self same Celia.
Cel. How do ye Sir?
Dem. Only turn'd brave. I heard you were dead my dear one, compleat, She is wondrous brave, a wondrous gallant Courtier.
Cel. How he surveyes me round? here has been foul play.
Dem. How came she thus?
Cel. It was a kind of death Sir, I suffered in your absence, mew'd up here, And kept conceal'd I know not how.