[Prudentilla _and_ Clown _lead_ Wife _off_. Delavil. The storm is coming; I must provide for harbour. [_Exit_. Old Lionel. What strange and sudden alteration’s this! How quickly is this clear day overcast! But such and so uncertain are all things That dwell beneath the moon. Young Lionel. A woman’s qualm, Frailties that are inherent to her sex-- Soon sick, and soon recovered. Wincott. If she misfare, I am a man more wretched in her loss Than had I forfeited life and estate; She was so good a creature. Old Geraldine. I the like Suffered, when I my wife brought to her grave; So you, when you were first a widower: Come, arm yourself with patience. Ricott. These are casualties That are not new, but common. Reignald. Burying of wives!-- As stale as shifting shirts, or for some servants To flout and gull their masters. Owner. Best to send And see how her fit holds her. _Re-enter_ Prudentilla _and_ Clown. Prudentilla. Sir, my sister In these few lines commends her last to you, For she is now no more. What’s therein writ, Save Heaven and you, none knows: this she desired You would take view of, and with these words expired. Wincott. Dead! Young Geraldine. She hath made me then a free release Of all the debts I owed her. Wincott. [_Aside, reading_.] “My fear[3.58] is beyond pardon. Delavil Hath played the villain; but for Geraldine, He hath been each way noble; love him still. My peace already I have made with Heaven; Oh, be not you at war with me! my honour Is in your hands to punish, or preserve; I am now confessed, and only Geraldine Hath wrought on me this unexpected good. The ink I write with, I wish had been my blood, To witness my repentance.”--Delavil! Where’s he? go seek him out. Clown. I shall, I shall, sir. [_Exit_. Wincott. The wills of dead folk should be still obeyed: However false to me, I’ll not reveal’t; Where Heaven forgives, I pardon.--Gentlemen, I know you all commiserate my loss; I little thought this feast should have been turned Into a funeral.--[_Re-enter_ Clown.] What’s the news of him? Clown. He went presently[3.59] to the stable, put the saddle upon his horse, put his foot into the stirrup, clapped his spurs into his sides, and away he’s galloped, as if he were to ride a race for a wager. Wincott. All our ill lucks go with him! Farewell he! But all my best of wishes wait on you, [_To_ Young Geraldine. As my chief friend! This meeting, that was made Only to take of you a parting leave, Shall now be made a marriage of our love, Which none save only death shall separate. Young Geraldine. It calls me from all travel, and from henceforth With my country I am friends.