.

CYNTHIA _and_ LORD TOUCHWOOD.

CYNT. Now, my lord?

LORD TOUCH. Astonishment binds up my rage! Villainy upon villainy!
Heavens, what a long track of dark deceit has this discovered! I am
confounded when I look back, and want a clue to guide me through the
various mazes of unheard-of treachery. My wife! Damnation! My hell!

CYNT. My lord, have patience, and be sensible how great our happiness
is, that this discovery was not made too late.

LORD TOUCH. I thank you, yet it may be still too late, if we don't
presently prevent the execution of their plots;--ha, I'll do't. Where's
Mellefont, my poor injured nephew? How shall I make him ample
satisfaction?

CYNT. I dare answer for him.

LORD TOUCH. I do him fresh wrong to question his forgiveness; for I know
him to be all goodness. Yet my wife! Damn her:--she'll think to meet
him in that dressing-room. Was't not so? And Maskwell will expect you
in the chaplain's chamber. For once, I'll add my plot too:--let us haste
to find out, and inform my nephew; and do you, quickly as you can, bring
all the company into this gallery. I'll expose the strumpet, and the
villain.

SCENE XX.

LORD FROTH _and_ SIR PAUL.

LORD FROTH. By heavens, I have slept an age. Sir Paul, what o'clock
is't? Past eight, on my conscience; my lady's is the most inviting
couch, and a slumber there is the prettiest amusement! But where's all
the company?

SIR PAUL. The company, gads-bud, I don't know, my lord, but here's the
strangest revolution, all turned topsy turvy; as I hope for providence.

LORD FROTH. O heavens, what's the matter? Where's my wife?

SIR PAUL. All turned topsy turvy as sure as a gun.

LORD FROTH. How do you mean? My wife?

SIR PAUL. The strangest posture of affairs!

LORD FROTH. What, my wife?

SIR PAUL. No, no, I mean the family. Your lady's affairs may be in a
very good posture; I saw her go into the garden with Mr. Brisk.

LORD FROTH. How? Where, when, what to do?

SIR PAUL. I suppose they have been laying their heads together.

LORD FROTH. How?

SIR PAUL. Nay, only about poetry, I suppose, my lord; making couplets.

LORD FROTH. Couplets.

SIR PAUL. Oh, here they come.

SCENE XXI.

[_To them_] LADY FROTH, BRISK.

BRISK. My lord, your humble servant; Sir Paul, yours,--the finest night!

LADY FROTH. My dear, Mr. Brisk and I have been star-gazing, I don't know
how long.

SIR PAUL. Does it not tire y