I’m weary of conjectures.—Bring me my jewels.
(To her maid.)
Thus am I doubly arm’d; jewels and gold,
My purse and casket, now are both before me:
This, in a moment, may perchance be lost;
But this insures me credit for a week.
My heart elate, depending on good fortune,
Smiles at Sans prendre, and defies Codille.
The stars shall fade away, the tapers waste,
Morning appear, my husband wake alone;