Fid. I am a woman, sir, a very unfortunate woman.
Ver. How! a very handsome woman, I'm sure then: here are witnesses of't too, I confess—[Pulls off her peruke and feels her breasts; then aside,] Well, I'm glad to find the tables turned; my wife is in more danger of cuckolding than I was.
Fid. Now, sir, I hope you are so much a man of honour, as to let me go, now I have satisfied you, sir.
Ver. When you have satisfied me, madam, I will.
Fid. I hope, sir, you are too much a gentleman to urge those secrets from a woman which concern her honour. You may guess my misfortune to be love by my disguise: but a pair of breeches could not wrong you, sir.
Ver. I may believe love has changed your outside, which could not wrong me; but why did my wife run away?
Fid. I know not, sir; perhaps because she would not be forced to discover me to you, or to guide me from your suspicions, that you might not discover me yourself; which ungentlemanlike curiosity I hope you will cease to have, and let me go.
Ver. Well, madam, if I must not know who you are, 'twill suffice for me only to know certainly what you are; which you must not deny me. Come, there is a bed within, the proper rack for lovers; and if you are a woman, there you can keep no secrets; you'll tell me there all unasked. Come. [Pulls her.
Fid. Oh! what d'ye mean? Help! oh!