Chap. Either he loves her, or he much has wronged her.
Cham. How, wronged her! have a care; for this may lay
A scene of mischief to undo us all.
But tell me—wronged her, saidst thou?
Chap. Ay, sir, wronged her.
Cham. This is a secret worth a monarch's fortune:
What shall I give thee for't? thou dear physician
Of sickly souls, unfold this riddle to me,
And comfort mine—
Chap. I would hide nothing from you willingly.
Cham. Nay, then again thou'rt honest. Wouldst thou tell me?
Chap. Yes, if I durst.
Cham. Why, what affrights thee?
Chap. You do,
Who are not to be trusted with the secret.
Cham. Why, I am no fool.