Phor. O my sweet lady! be merciful, like the gods you resemble. They have as often pardon in their hands as thunder; and the truth is, if they will not forgive this fault of inconstancy, they must live alone, or at least without men. This was the last gasp of his dying friendship to her; and now he is entirely yours.
Ire. He has not wronged me.
Phor. Fie! say not so; that's as great an injury as not pardoning him: he has, and shall come naked to receive his punishment. See, he dares not look for comfort; let him take it in at his ears.
Ire. Pray content yourself with the time you have made me lose, and let me go.
Phor. Never, till you pardon him.
Ire. I will do anything for my release; if he has offended me, let him learn hereafter to speak truer than he swears; and in time he may get credit.
Phor. 'Tis enough.
Erg. Is she gone?
Phor. Yes.