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Show 40 The Inconstant i Or, Old M. Patience, Patience, Sir. ( Old Mirabel holds him.) £o£,draw. {Afide.) Dug* Patience! The Coward's Virtue, and the brave Man's failing when thus provok'd Villain. Mir. Your Sifter's Frenzy fhall excufe your ^Madnefs; aqd fhew my concern for what fhe fuffers, I'll bear the Villain from her Brother. - - Put up your Anger with your Sword; I have a Heart like yours, that fwells at an Affront received, but melts at an Injury given; and if the lovely Oriands Grief be fuch a moving Scene, 'twill find a part within this Breaft perhaps, as tender as a Brothers. Dug. To prove that foft Compaffion for her Grief, endeavour to remove it. There, there, behold an Object that's infedlive; I cannot view her but I a m as m a d as fhe, (Enter* Oriana mad, held by two Maids, who put her in a Chair.) a Sifter that m y dying Parents left with their laft Words and Blef-fing to m y Care. Sifter, deareft Sifter. (Goes to her.' Old M. Ay, poor Child, poor Child,'d'ye know me ? Or. You ! you are Amadis de Gaul, Sir; Oh! oh my Heart! Were you never in Love, fair Lady? And do you never dream of Flowers and Gardens ? I dream of walk-ing Fires, and tall Gigantick Sighs. Take heed, it comesnow What's that ? Pray ftand away : 1 have feen that Face fure How light m y Head is ? Mir. What piercing Charms has Beauty, ev'n in Madnefs; thefe hidden ftarts of undigefted Words, fhoot thro' m y Soul with more perfuafive Force, than all the ftudy'd Art of la-bour'd Eloquence. - Come, Madam, try to repofe a little. Or. I cannot; for I muft be up to go to Church, and I muft drefs me, put on m y new Gown, and be fo fine, to meet my Love. Hey, ho! Will not you tell m e where m y Heart lies bury'd ? Mir. M y very Soul is touch'd Your Hand, m y Fair. Or. H o w foft and gentle you feel ? I'll tell you your Fortune, Friend. Mir. H o w fhe flares upon me ! Or. You have a flattering Face ; but 'tis a fine one I warrant you have five hundred Miftreffes Ay, to be fure, a Miftrefs for every Guinea in his Pocket Will you pray for m e ? I fhall die to morrow • A n d will you ring m « Paffmg-Bell ? Mir. O W o m a n , W o m a n , of Artifice created! whofe Nature, even diffracted, has a Cunning: In vain, let M a n his Senfe, his Learning boaft, when Woman's Madnefs over-rules bis Reafon. Do you know me, injur'd Creature ? Or, |