_Y. Mir._ Vapours! vapours! she'll come to herself: If it be an angry fit, a dram of assa foetida--If jealousy, hartshorn in water--if the mother, burnt feathers--If grief, ratafia--If it be straight stays, or corns, there's nothing like a dram of plain brandy. [_Exit._ _Oriana._ Hold off, give me air----O, my brother! would you preserve my life, endanger not your own; would you defend my reputation, leave it to itself; 'tis a dear vindication that's purchased by the sword; for, though our champion proves victorious, yet our honour is wounded. _Old Mir._ Ay, and your lover may be wounded, that's another thing. But I think you are pretty brisk again, my child. _Oriana._ Ay, sir, my indisposition was only a pretence to divert the quarrel; the capricious taste of your sex, excuses this artifice in ours. [_Exit._ _Petit._ Come, Mr. Dugard, take courage; there is a way still left to fetch him again. _Old Mir._ Sir, I'll have no plot that has any relation to Spain. _Dug._ I scorn all artifice whatsoever; my sword shall do her justice. _Petit._ Pretty justice, truly! Suppose you run him through the body, you run her through the heart at the same time. _Old Mir._ And me through the head--rot your sword, sir, we'll have plots! Come, Petit, let's hear. _Petit._ What if she pretended to go into a nunnery, and so bring him about to declare himself? _Dug._ That, I must confess, has a face. _Old Mir._ A face! a face like an angel, sir! Ad's my life, sir, 'tis the most beautiful plot in Christendom! We'll about it immediately. [_Exeunt._ ACT THE FOURTH. SCENE I. OLD MIRABEL'S _House_. _Enter_ OLD MIRABEL _and_ DUGARD. _Dug._ The Lady Abbess is my relation, and privy to the plot. _Old Mir._ Ay, ay, this nunnery will bring him about, I warrant ye. _Enter_ DURETETE. _Dur._ Here, where are ye all?--O, Mr. Mirabel! you have done fine things for your posterity--And you, Mr. Dugard, may come to answer this--I come to demand my friend at your hands; restore him, sir, or---- [_To_ OLD MIRABEL. _Old Mir._ Restore him! What, d'ye think I have got him in my trunk, or my pocket? _Dur._ Sir, he's mad, and you are the cause on't. _Old Mir._ That may be; for I was as mad as he when I begot him. _Dug._ Mad, sir! What d'ye mean? _Dur._ What do you mean, sir, by shutting up your sister, yonder, to talk like a parrot through a cage? or a decoy-duck, to draw others into the snare? Your son, sir, because she has deserted him, he has forsaken the world; and, in three words, has---- _Old Mir._ Hanged himself! _Dur._ The very same--turned friar! _Old Mir._ You lie, sir! 'tis ten times worse. Bob turned friar!--Why should the fellow shave his foolish crown, when the same razor may cut his throat?