Oliv. That's kind.—But come, my soul, what make you here? Let us go in again; we may be surprised in this room, 'tis so near the stairs.
Fid. No, we shall hear the better here, if anybody should come up.
Oliv. Nay, I assure you, we shall be secure enough within: come, come—
Fid. I am sick, and troubled with a sudden dizziness; and cannot stir yet.
Oliv. Come, I have spirits within.
Fid. O! don't you hear a noise, madam?
Oliv. No, no; there is none: come, come. [Pulls her.
Fid. Indeed there is; and I love you so much, I must have a care of your honour, if you won't, and go; but to come to you to-morrow night, if you please.
Oliv. With all my soul. But you must not go yet; come, prithee.
Fid. Oh!—I'm now sicker, and am afraid of one of my fits.