Isa. 'Tis past one.
Chris. It cannot be!
Isa. I thought that time had only stolen from happy lovers:—the disconsolate have nothing to do but to tell the clock.
Chris. I can only keep account with my misfortunes.
Isa. I am glad they are not innumerable.
Chris. And, truly, my undergoing so often your impertinency is not the least of them.
Isa. I am then more glad, madam, for then they cannot be great; and it is in my power, it seems, to make you in part happy, if I could but hold this villainous tongue of mine: but then let the people of the town hold their tongues if they will, for I cannot but tell you what they say.
Chris. What do they say?
Isa. Faith, madam, I am afraid to tell you, now I think on't.
Chris. Is it so ill?