The Princess of Cleve, as it was acted at the Queens Theatre in Dorset-Garden / by Nath. Lee ...

SCENE II.

Tournon, Nemours.

Nem.

REsolv'd never to see me more, and give up her Honour to the Dauphin, that puling sniveling Prince, that looks as if he suck'd still, or were always in a Milk Diet for the Sins of his Floren∣tine Mother.

Tour.

Bless me! you are jealous.

Nem.

I confess it—The last time I had her in Disguise, she made such Discoveries as I shall never forget: Lose her I must not, no, I'll lose a Limb first, therefore go tell her, tell her the Prince of Cleve's Death has wrought my Conversion, I grow weary of my wild Courses, repent of my Sins, am resolv'd to leave off Whoreing and marry his Wife—

Tour.

So the Town talks indeed.

Nem.

The Town is as it always was and will be, a Talk, a Hum, a Buz, and a great Lye—Do as I bid thee, and tell her, just as you left me, I was going to make my Court to the Princess upon her Husband's Tomb, which is true too, I mean a Visit by the way of Consolation,

not but I knew it the only opportunity to catch a Woman in the undress of her Soul; nay, I wou'd choose such a time for my life, and 'tis like the rest of those starts, and one of the Secrets of their Nature—Why they melt, nay, in Plagues, Fire, Famine, War, or any great Calamity— Mark it—Let a man stand but right before 'em, and like hunted Hares they run into his lap.

Tour.

But who's the Instrument to bring you to her?

Nem.

Her Uncle the Vidam, she lies at his House immur'd in a dark room, with her Husband's Image in her view, and so resolves, he says, for Death. However I'll sound her in the ebb of her Soul, if my Boat run aground 'tis but calling for Marguerite, and she'll weep a Tide that shall set me afloat agen—As thus, I'll lay the Dauphin in her dish, nose her in the Tiptoe of her Pride, Railing, Lying, Laming, Hanging, Drowning, Dying, and she comes about agen.

Exit.

Tour.

Go thy ways Petronius, nay, if he were dying too, with his Veins cut, he wou'd call for Wine, Fiddles and Whores, and laugh him∣self into the other World.

Enter La March.

Where's Marguerite?

La M.

She follows like a Wind, with swollen Cheeks, ruffled Hair, and glareing Eyes, the Princess of Cleve has found her Fury, nor will she yet believe it.