_Hip._ Indeed I think it was, but I repent it; The fault was only in my blood, for now 'Tis gone, I find I do not love so many. _Dor._ In confidence of this, I'll beg my father That he may live; I'm glad the naughty blood, That made you love so many, is gone out. _Hip._ My dear, go quickly, lest you come too late. [_Exit_ DOR. _Enter_ MIRANDA _at the other door, with_ HIPPOLITO'S _sword wrapt up_. _Hip._ Who's this, who looks so fair and beautiful, As nothing but Dorinda can surpass her? O! I believe it is that angel woman, Whom she calls sister. _Mir._ Sir, I am sent hither To dress your wound; how do you find your strength? _Hip._ Fair creature, I am faint with loss of blood. _Mir._ I am sorry for it. _Hip._ Indeed, and so am I, For if I had that blood, I then should find A great delight in loving you. _Mir._ But, sir, I am another's, and your love is given Already to my sister. _Hip._ Yet I find, That, if you please, I can love still a little. _Mir._ I cannot be inconstant, nor should you. _Hip._ O my wound pains me. _Mir._ I am come to ease you. [_She unwraps the sword._ _Hip._ Alas! I feel the cold air come to me; My wound shoots worse than ever. [_She wipes, and anoints the sword._ _Mir._ Does it still grieve you? _Hip._ Now methinks, there's something Laid just upon it. _Mir._ Do you find no ease? _Hip._ Yes, yes, upon the sudden, all the pain Is leaving me: Sweet heaven, how I am eased! _Enter_ FERDINAND _and_ DORINDA _to them_. _Ferd._ [_to Dor_.] Madam, I must confess my life is yours, I owe it to your generosity. _Dor._ I am overjoyed my father lets you live, And proud of my good fortune, that he gave Your life to me. _Mir._ How? gave his life to her! _Hip._ Alas! I think she said so, and he said, He owed it to her generosity. _Ferd._ But is not that your sister with Hippolito? _Dor._ So kind already? _Ferd._ I came to welcome life, and I have met The cruellest of deaths. _Hip._ My dear Dorinda with another man? _Dor._ Sister, what business have you here? _Mir._ You see I dress Hippolito. _Dor._ You're very charitable to a stranger. _Mir._ You are not much behind in charity, To beg a pardon for a man, whom you Scarce ever saw before. _Dor._ Henceforward let your surgery alone, For I had rather he should die, than you Should cure his wound. _Mir._ And I wish Ferdinand had died, before He owed his life to your entreaty. _Ferd._ to _Hip._ Sir, I am glad you are so well recovered. You keep your humour still to have all women? _Hip._ Not all, sir; you except one of the number, Your new love there, Dorinda.