Fri. Why shou’d you seek to iterate my Guilt, by a Rehearsal of that dreadful Name? Too sure, alas! It was: Bonvile’s the Friend I’ve kill’d.
Cla. Curs’d be the Tongue that spoke it, but doubly curs’d the Hand that did the barbarous Fact.
Fri. Why Madam, was it not your Command to kill my Friend; nay more, my best of Friends?
Cla. Yes, and I thought my self your best of Friends.
Fri. I hope you wou’d not have had me murder’d you?
Cla. No, Monster, no.
Fri. These are Riddles.
Cla. Fool, our whole Sex is made of nothing else: Thou mayst sooner untie the Gordian Knot, expound the Problems of the monstrous Sphynx, and read what is decreed in the mysterious Book of Fate, than unfold a Woman’s sly malitious Meaning.
Fri. Very well; she first set me on to do this most accurs’d of Deeds, and now upbraids me; nay wou’d hang me for ’t: These are the Tricks of all her damning Sex. O Woman, Woman, Woman, dear devilish Woman, farewel.
[Offers to go.
Cla. Stay Friendly, all I have said was only to try your Constancy; and whether you’d repent of what you’ve done. But tell me truly, is Bonvile surely dead?