MASKWELL, CYNTHIA, LORD TOUCHWOOD. MASK. So, this was a pinch indeed, my invention was upon the rack, and made discovery of her last plot. I hope Cynthia and my chaplain will be ready; I'll prepare for the expedition. SCENE XIX. 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 your ladyship? Are not you weary with looking up? LADY FROTH. Oh, no, I love it violently. My dear, you're melancholy. LORD FROTH. No, my dear; I'm but just awake. LADY FROTH. Snuff some of my spirit of hartshorn. LORD FROTH. I've some of my own, thank you, dear.