Aust. Never.
Count. Just now, her coldness to my son,
You said, bespoke her heart preoccupied.
The frail and fair make you their oracles;
Pent in your close confessionals you sit,
Bending your reverend ears to amorous secrets.
Aust. Scoffer, no more! stop thy licentious tongue;
Turn inward to thy bosom, and reflect—
Count. That is, be fool'd. Yet will I grant his life,
On one condition.