Fra.  Anything, Madam.  This shewes exlent in you;
No pennance shall displease so you absolve me. 
Bid me to clime some Rock or Pyramide,
Upon whose narrow spire you have advanc’d
My peace, and I will reach it or else fall,
Lost to the world in my attempt.

La.  You speake
Gloriously; the condition that assures
Your pardon, ’s only this—­that you conclude
Here all your loose desires with a resolve
Never to prosecute or hope to enjoy me.

Fra.  Call you this Charity? let me rather loose
Your pardon then for ever to be thus forfeited;
Bind me never to see you (and yet that
Were cruelty) then charme me to forgett
That I am man or have a hart, and you
A beauty, which your absence can as well
Make nothing as devide from my adoring. 
It is not cure but killing to prescribe
I never must enjoy you.  If you have
Resolv’d a Death upon me, let it bee
When we like Lovers have embrac’d—­

La.  It is not possible.

Fra.  Nothing in love
Can be impossible to willing mindes. 
Ile tell you, Madam—­(sure the Divell has
Forsworne the flesh)—­there may be a plot.  I have it! 
An exelent rare devise, if you but favour it. 
Your husband is imediately for London,
I must in modesty ride with him; you
Are left behind.

La.  How can that profitt you?

Do.—­What a deale of submission these foolish men Trouble us women with, that are more forward To be friends agen then they are!

Fra.  I will counterfeit a fall.

La.  A fall?

Fra.  I, from my horse; observe me, then—­

Do.—­My confederate, I hope, by this time is at gate
Enquiring for Sir Richard very formally
From the old knight, his Master, and good Ladie. 
The fellow has witt to manage it.

Fra.  My footman shall pretend himselfe the Surgeon
To attend me; is’t not rare? 
Stand but to’th fate of this, and if it faile
I will sitt downe a Convert and renounce
All wanton hope hereafter.  Deerest Madam,
If you did meane before this honour to me,
Let not your loving thoughts freeze in a Minuit. 
My genius is a prophet.

Do.  Sir Richard, Madam, Is comeing this way.

Fra.  Shall I hope agen?

La.  I wo’not say you shall despaire.

Fra.  You blesse me. [Exit.

Do.  My busines is a foote; your Jewell, Madam, Will credit much the cause.

La.  Wee will withdraw And let me know how you have cast the plott.

[Exeunt.

(SCENE 3.)

Enter Sir Richard, opening a Letter; a Footman waiting.

Ri.  From thy Master? his name?

Foo.  Sir Walter Littleland.