Dor. Courage, pluck up your Spirits: Well, now what's the matter?
Euph. The matter! Thou shalt hear. Know that—that Cheat—Esop——
Dor. Like enough; speak: What has he done! That ugly ill-boding Cyclops—
Euph. Why, instead of keeping his Promise, and speaking for Oronces, he has not said one Word, but what has been for himself. And by my Father's Order, before to-morrow Noon he's to marry me.
Dor. He marry you!
Euph. Am I in the wrong to be in this Despair? Tell me, Doris, if I am to blame.
Dor. To blame? No, by my troth. That ugly, old, treacherous piece of Vermin—that melancholy Mixture of Impotence and Desire—does his Mouth stand to a young Partridge? Ah the old Goat! And your Father! He downright doats at last, then.
Euph. Ah, Doris, what a Husband does he give me! And what a Lover does he rob me of! Thou know'st 'em both; think of Oronces, and think of Esop.
Dor. [Spitting.] A foul Monster! And yet, now I think on't, I'm almost as angry at t'other too: Methinks he makes but a slow Voyage on't, for a Man in Love: 'Tis now above two Months since he went to Lesbos, to pack up the old Bones of his dead Father; sure he might have made a little more Haste.
Enter Oronces.