Re-enter Sir Davy Dunce from his closet.
L. Dunce. Ah! [Squeaks.
Beau. By this light, the cuckold! Presto, nay, then halloo! [Gets up, and runs away.
Sir Dav. O Lord, a man—a man in my wife's chamber! Murder! murder! Thieves! thieves! shut up my doors! Madam! madam! madam!
Sir Jol. Ay, ay! Thieves! thieves! Murder! murder! Where, neighbour, where, where?
L. Dunce. [Catches up Beaugard's sword, which he had left behind him in the hurry, and presents it to Sir Davy.] Pierce, pierce this wretched heart hard to the hilts; dye this in the deepest crimson of my blood; spare not a miserable woman's life, whom Heaven designed to be the unhappy object of the most horrid usage man e'er acted.
Sir Dav. What, in the name of Satan, does she mean now?
L. Dunce. Curse on my fatal beauty! blasted ever be these two baneful eyes, that could inspire a barbarous villain to attempt such crimes as all my blood's too little to atone for: nay, you shall hear me—
Sir Dav. Hear you, madam! No, I have seen too much, I thank you heartily; hear you, quoth-a!
L. Dunce. Yes, and before I die too, I'll be justified.