Fri All, Is it not enough? To see my Reputation, (the Lifes Blood of my Soul)
Nay all that’s Dear, in Danger to be lost.
Bon. Not while thy Bonvile lives and wears a Sword:
May all things frown that I wou’d have to smile,
May I live Poor, and Dye despised by all,
If I out live the ruine of thy Honour!
Tell me the time my Friend?
Fri. Oh, spare me that, for, if once known the time,
You’l Cancel this your promise, and recall
Your Friendly proffer.
Bon. Away with these Excuses, come the time.
Fri. At Seven this Evening.
Bon. The place?
Fri. Barn-Elms:
Oh the fatal place! Where I too well foresee,
The certain fall and Ruine of my Honour!
Bon. No, Thou shalt not stay to forfeit thy lov'd Honour,
Come I’m ready to assist my Friend; and will along with you.
Fri. Alas. What mean you?
Of all my Friends on you I ne’re Relied;
But sure I Dream, I Rave, by Heav’ns I’m Mad!
My Bonvile leave his Wife? And on his Wedding Day?
His Bride whom he perhaps may ne’re Enjoy?
And all for me? O most unhappy Man!
Bon. Pleasure before my Friend I’ll ne’re prefer,
Nor is it lost, thô for a while, delay’d.