Love. Away, unworthy, false, ungrateful! with what brow dar'st thou come again into my sight, knowing how unworthy you have been, and how false to love?
Jolly. No, 'tis you are unworthy, and deserve not those truths of love I have paid here; else you would not believe every report that envy brings, and condemn, without hearing me, whom you have so often tried and found faithful.
Love. Yes, till I, too credulous, had pity on your tears; till I had mercy, you durst not be false.
Jolly. Nor am not yet.
Love. What dost thou call false? Is there a treachery beyond what thou hast done? When I had given my fame, my fortune, myself, and my husband's honour, all in one obligation, a sacrifice to that passion which thou seem'dst to labour with despair of, to tell and brag of a conquest o'er a woman, fooled by her passion, and lost in her love to thee? unworthy——
[She turns away her head.
Jolly. By this day, 'tis as false as he that said it. Hang him, son of a bachelor! a slave that, envying my fortune in such a happiness as your love and chaste embraces, took this way to ruin it. Come, dry your eyes, and let the guilty weep: if I were guilty, I durst as soon approach a constable drunk, as come here. You know I am your slave.
Love. You swore so, and honour made me leave to triumph over your miseries.
Jolly. Do you repent that I am happy? if you do, command my death.
Love. Nay, never weep, or sit sadly: I am friends, so you will only talk and discourse; for 'tis your company I only covet.