LADY. Well, Sir Rowland, you have the way,--you are no novice in
the labyrinth of love,--you have the clue. But as I am a person,
Sir Rowland, you must not attribute my yielding to any sinister
appetite or indigestion of widowhood; nor impute my complacency to
any lethargy of continence. I hope you do not think me prone to any
iteration of nuptials?
WAIT. Far be it from me -
LADY. If you do, I protest I must recede, or think that I have made
a prostitution of decorums, but in the vehemence of compassion, and
to save the life of a person of so much importance -
WAIT. I esteem it so -
LADY. Or else you wrong my condescension -
WAIT. I do not, I do not -
LADY. Indeed you do.
WAIT. I do not, fair shrine of virtue.
LADY. If you think the least scruple of causality was an ingredient
-
WAIT. Dear madam, no. You are all camphire and frankincense, all
chastity and odour.
LADY. Or that -
SCENE XIII.
[To them] FOIBLE.
FOIB. Madam, the dancers are ready, and there's one with a letter,
who must deliver it into your own hands.
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