Bea. I would fain see him again! O my tortured mind!
Freevill is more than dead, he is unkind!
[Exeunt Beatrice, Crispinella, and Nurse.
Sir Hub. Convey her in, and so, sir, as you said, Set a strong watch.
Sir Lio. Ay, sir, and so pass along with this same common woman; you must make it good. 80
Fra. Ick sall, or let me pay for his mine bloud.
Sir Hub. Come, then, along all, with quiet speed.
Sir Lio. O fate!
Tyse. O sir, be wisely sorry, but not passionate.
[Exeunt all but Young Freevill.
Free. I will go and reveal myself! stay, no, no;
Grief endears love. Heaven! to have such a wife
Is happiness to breed pale envy in the saints.
Thou worthy dove-like virgin without gall,
Cannot (that woman’s evil) jealousy,