My soul pour'd out in endless gratitude,
For this unhoped, immeasurable blessing.
Count. Thus far, fond man! I have listen'd to the tale;
And think it, as it is, a gross contrivance—
A trick, devis'd to cheat my credulous reason,
And thaw me to a woman's milkiness.
Aust. And art thou so unskill'd in nature's language,
Still to mistrust us? Could our tongues deceive,
Credit, what ne'er was feign'd, the genuine heart: