Oni. This is abrupt.
San. What most politic flea
Is got into his Donship's ear?
Oni. Now must
The Junto sit till midnight, till they rack
Some strange design from this intelligence.
Enter Cleantha, and offers to go out.
San. Nay! on my honour, madam!
Cle. Good my lord!
San. Benight us not so soon! That short-liv'd day
That gives the Russian in the winter hope
Of heat, yet fails him, not so suddenly
Forsakes the firmament. Stay, fairest madam,
That we may look on you and live.
Cle. My lord, I fear you two were serious.
San. Never I, upon my conscience, madam.
Oni. No, I'll swear;
Nor none of the whole form of you at court,
Unless the stratagem be for a mistress,
A fashion, or some cheating-match at tennis.