Foib. No, good Sir Rowland, don’t incur the law.
Wait. Law! I care not for law. I can but die, and ’tis in a good cause—my lady shall be satisfied of my truth and innocence, though it cost me my life.
Lady. No, dear Sir Rowland, don’t fight, if you should be killed I must never shew my face; or hanged—O consider my reputation, Sir Rowland—No, you shan’t fight.—I’ll go in and examine my niece; I’ll make her confess. I conjure you, Sir Rowland, by all your love, not to fight.
Wait. I am charmed, madam, I obey. But some proof you must let me give you;—I’ll go for a black box, which contains the writings of my whole estate, and deliver that into your hands.
Lady. Ay, dear Sir Rowland, that will be some comfort, bring the black box.
Wait. And may I presume to bring a contract to be signed this night? May I hope so far?
Lady. Bring what you will; but come alive, pray come alive. O this is a happy discovery.
Wait. Dead or alive I’ll come—and married we will be in spight of treachery; ay, and get an heir that shall defeat the last remaining glimpse of hope in my abandoned nephew. Come, my buxom widow:
Foib. Or arrant knave.