Arch. Sir Charles Freeman! ’sdeath and hell! my old acquaintance. Now unless Aimwell has made good use of his time, all our fair machine goes souse into the sea like the Eddystone.

[Exit.

SCENE IV.—The Gallery in the same house

Enter Aimwell and Dorinda.

Dor. Well, well, my lord, you have conquered; your late generous action will, I hope, plead for my easy yielding; though I must own, your lordship had a friend in the fort before.

Aim. The sweets of Hybla dwell upon her tongue!—Here, doctor—

Enter Foigard, with a book.

Foi. Are you prepared boat?

Dor. I’m ready. But first, my lord, one word.—I have a frightful example of a hasty marriage in my own family; when I reflect upon’t it shocks me. Pray, my lord, consider a little—

Aim. Consider! do you doubt my honour or my love?

Dor. Neither: I do believe you equally just as brave: and were your whole sex drawn out for me to choose, I should not cast a look upon the multitude if you were absent. But, my lord, I’m a woman; colours, concealments may hide a thousand faults in me, therefore know me better first; I hardly dare affirm I know myself in anything except my love.

Aim. [aside]. Such goodness who could injure! I find myself unequal to the task of villain; she has gained my soul, and made it honest like her own.—I cannot, cannot hurt her.—[Aloud.] Doctor, retire.—[Exit Foigard.] Madam, behold your lover and your proselyte, and judge of my passion by my conversion!—I’m all a lie, nor dare I give a fiction to your arms; I’m all counterfeit, except my passion.

Dor. Forbid it, Heaven! a counterfeit!

Aim. I am no lord, but a poor needy man, come with a mean, a scandalous design to prey upon your fortune; but the beauties of your mind and person have so won me from myself that, like a trusty servant, I prefer the interest of my mistress to my own.

Dor. Sure I have had the dream of some poor mariner, a sleepy image of a welcome port, and wake involved in storms!—Pray, sir, who are you?

Aim. Brother to the man whose title I usurped, but stranger to his honour or his fortune.

Dor. Matchless honesty!—Once I was proud, sir, of your wealth and title, but now am prouder that you want it: now I can show my love was justly levelled, and had no aim but love.—Doctor, come in.

Enter Foigard at one door, Gipsy at another, who whispers Dorinda. [To Foigard.] Your pardon, sir, we shan’t want you now.— [To Aimwell.] Sir, you must excuse me—I’ll wait on you presently.

[Exit with Gipsy.

Foi. Upon my shoul, now, dis is foolish.

[Exit.

Aim. Gone! and bid the priest depart!—It has an ominous look.