Fri. Neither, Sir, but in as perfect Health as when he left you.
Mer. Strange! sure thou art all o’re a Mystery, and form’st these Riddles to try my Wit.
Fri. No, Sir, for all I have said, you in effect will surely find I told you he was wounded, did I not?
Mer. Yes, you did.
Fri. And so he is.
Mer. But where, whereabout, I ask you once again?
Fri. I see you force the unwilling Secret from me—Why, he’s wounded.
Mer. He’s wounded, he’s wounded, but where, where is he wounded?
Fri. In his Fame, Honour and Reputation, more mortal than a thousand fleshy Wounds.
For such slight Baubles, Cures are oft obtain’d;
But injur’d Honour ne’re can be regain’d.