Polemius (aside). 
Woe is me! could he have known then
All this time it was Chrysanthus?

Aurelius. 
I approaching, where with shoulders
Turned against me stood one figure,
Saw the countenance of another,
And methinks he was . . .

Polemius (aside). 
                          Ye gods! 
Yes, he saw him! help! support me!

Aurelius. 
The same person who came hither
Lately in the garb of a doctor,
Who to-day to cure Chrysanthus
Such unusual treatment orders. 
Do you ascertain if he
Is Carpophorus; let no portent
Fright you, on yourself rely,
And you ’ll find that all will prosper.

Polemius. 
Thanks, Aurelius, for your warning,
Though ’t is somewhat tardily offered. 
Whether you are right or wrong,
I to-day will solve the problem. 
For the sudden palpitation
Of my heart that beats and throbbeth
’Gainst my breast, doth prove how true
Are the suspicions that it fostered. 
And if so, then Rome will see
Such examples made, such torments,
That one bleeding corse will show
Wounds enough for myriad corses. [Exeunt Aurelius and Polemius.

Claudius. 
Good Escarpin . . .

Escarpin. 
                    Sir.

Claudius. 
                          I know not
How to address you in my sorrow. 
Do you say that Cynthia was
One of those not over-modest
Beauties who to court Chrysanthus
Hither came, and who (strange portent!)
Had some share of his bewitchment
In the stupor that came on them?

Escarpin. 
Yes, sir, and what ’s worse, Daria
Was another, thus the torment
That we both endure is equal,
If my case be not the stronger,
Since to love her would be almost
Less an injury than to scorn her.

Claudius. 
Well, I will not quarrel with you
On the point (for it were nonsense)
Whether one should feel more keenly
Love or hate, disdain or fondness
Shown to one we love; enough
’T is to me to know, that prompted
Or by vanity or by interest,
She came hither to hold converse
With him, ’t is enough to make me
Lose the love I once felt for her.

Escarpin. 
Sir, two men, one bald, one squint-eyed,
Met one day . . .

Claudius. 
                  What, on your hobby? 
A new story?

Escarpin. 
              To tell stories,
Sir, is not my ‘forte’, ’pon honour:—­
Though who would n’t make a hazard
When the ball is over the pocket?—­

Claudius. 
Well, I do not care to hear it.

Escarpin. 
Ah, you know it then:  Another
Let me try:  A friar once . . . 
Stay though, I have quite forgotten
There are no friars yet in Rome: 
Well, once more:  a fool . . .