Don O. You might have spar'd that question, madam: none
Knows so well as you, 'tis Porcia I adore.
Don A. Porcia's my wife! disloyal man, thou diest.
[Offers to make at Don Octavio.
Cam. Hold, sir! which is the Porcia you lay claim to?
Don A. Can you doubt of that? why, sure, you know too well
The conquest that you made so long ago[70]
Of my poor heart in Flanders.
Don C. Conquest! poor heart! Flanders! what can this mean?
Don H. New riddles every moment do arise,
And mysteries are born of mysteries.
Don C. Sure, 'tis the pastime of the destinies
To mock us for pretending to be wise.
Cam. Thanks be to heaven, our work draws near an end.
Cousin, it belongs to you to finish it.
Por. To free you from that labyrinth, Antonio,
In which a slight mistake, not rectifi'd,
Involv'd us all, know the suppos'd Porcia,
Whom you have lov'd, is the true Camilla.