Oliv. What fits?
Fid. Of the falling sickness; and I lie generally an hour in a trance: therefore pray consider your honour for the sake of my love, and let me go, that I may return to you often.
Oliv. But will you be sure then to come to-morrow night?
Fid. Yes.
Oliv. Swear.
Fid. By our past kindness!
Oliv. Well, go your ways then, if you will, you naughty creature you.—[Exit Fidelia.] These young lovers, with their fears and modesty, make themselves as bad as old ones to us; and I apprehend their bashfulness more than their tattling.
Re-enter Fidelia.
Fid. O madam, we're undone! There was a gentleman upon the stairs, coming up with a candle, which made me retire. Look you, here he comes!
Re-enter Vernish, and his Servant with a light.