Lat. "These accidents in which I have been involved, I should not dare to tell you how alternately joys, raptures, ecstasies, miseries, doubts, and anxieties do attack a breast devoted to you."
Whither shall injured virtue fly for shelter,
When love and honour suffer thus in me?
Oh! I could rage, call elements about me, spout cataracts—
Must I be drubbed with broom-staves? [Exit. Lat.
Pen. Come in, my dear, again. The night is cold. [Exeunt.
SCENE III.—Covent Garden.
Enter Lovemore and Frederick.
Love. It is so pleasant a night that I will see you over the Garden to your lodgings.
Fred. That compliment won't pass upon me. Your reason for sauntering this way is that 'tis near Penelope's.
Love. I come for her sake! No; should she write, beseech, kneel to me, I think I ne'er should value her more. No, I'll be no longer her tool, her jest; she shall not dally with a passion she deserves not.
Fred. 'Twere very well were this resolution in your power; but believe me, friend, one smile, one glance that were but doubtful whether favourable, would conquer all your indignation.