Fid. Within; swearing as much as he did in the great storm, and cursing you, and sometimes sinks into calms and sighs, and talks of his Olivia.
Free. He would never trust me to see her.—Is she handsome?
Fid. No, if you'll take my word: but I am not a proper judge.
Free. What is she?
Fid. A gentlewoman, I suppose, but of as mean a fortune as beauty; but her relations would not suffer her to go with him to the Indies: and his aversion to this side of the world, together with the late opportunity of commanding the convoy, would not let him stay here longer, though to enjoy her.
Free. He loves her mightily then?
Fid. Yes, so well, that the remainder of his fortune (I hear about five or six thousand pounds) he has left her, in case he had died by the way, or before she could prevail with her friends to follow him; which he expected she should do, and has left behind him his great bosom friend to be her convoy to him.
Free. What charms has she for him, if she be not handsome?
Fid. He fancies her, I suppose, the only woman of truth and sincerity in the world.