I had forgot myself to
be so kind; indeed, I am very angry with you, dear; you are come home
an hour after you appointed: if you had staid a minute longer, I was
just considering whether I should stab, hang, or drown myself.
[_Embracing him._

_Rho._ Nothing but the king's business could have hindered me; and I
was so vexed, that I was just laying down my commission, rather than
have failed my dear. [_Kisses her hand._

_Arte._ Why, this is love as it should be betwixt man and wife: such
another couple would bring marriage into fashion again. But is it
always thus betwixt you?

_Rho._ Always thus! this is nothing. I tell you, there is not such a
pair of turtles in Sicily; there is such an eternal cooing and kissing
betwixt us, that indeed it is scandalous before civil company.

_Dor._ Well, if I had imagined I should have been this fond fool, I
would never have married the man I loved: I married to be happy, and
have made myself miserable by over-loving. Nay, and now my case is
desperate; for I have been married above these two years, and find
myself every day worse and worse in love: nothing but madness can be
the end on't.

_Arte._ Doat on, to the extremity, and you are happy.

_Dor._ He deserves so infinitely much, that, the truth is, there can
be no doating in the matter; but, to love well, I confess, is a work
that pays itself: 'Tis telling gold, and, after, taking it for one's
pains.

_Rho._ By that I should be a very covetous person; for I am ever
pulling out my money, and putting it into my pocket again.

_Dor._ O dear Rhodophil!

_Rho._ O sweet Doralice! [_Embracing each other._

_Arte._ [_Aside._] Nay, I am resolved, I'll never interrupt lovers:
I'll leave them as happy as I found them. [_Steals away._

_Rho._ What, is she gone? [_Looking up._

_Dor._ Yes; and without taking leave.

_Rho._ Then there's enough for this time. [_Parting from her._

_Dor._ Yes, sure, the scene is done, I take it.

_They walk contrary ways on the stage; he, with his hands in his
pockets, whistling; she singing a dull melancholy tune._

_Rho._ Pox o'your dull tune, a man can't think for you.

_Dor._ Pox o'your damned whistling; you can neither be company to me
yourself, nor leave me to the freedom of my own fancy.

_Rho._ Well, thou art the most provoking