Dor. Ah mischief, I have lost him with my fooling.  Palamede, Palamede!

  He returns.  She plucks off her peruke, and puts it on again when he
  knows her.

Pala. O heavens! is it you, madam?

Dor. Now, where was your good genius, that would prompt you to find me out?

Pala. Why, you see I was not deceived; you yourself were my good genius.

Dor. But where was the steel, that knew the load-stone?  Ha?

Pala. The truth is, madam, the steel has lost its virtue:  and, therefore, if you please, we’ll new touch it.

  Enter RHODOPHIL; and MELANTHA in Boys habit. RHODOPHIL sees
  PALAMEDE kissing DORALICE’S hand.

Rho. Palamede again! am I fallen into your quarters?  What?  Engaging with a boy?  Is all honourable?

Pala. O, very honourable on my side.  I was just chastising this young villain; he was running away, without paying his share of the reckoning.

Rho. Then I find I was deceived in him.

Pala. Yes, you are deceived in him:  ’tis the archest rogue, if you did but know him.

Mel. Good Rhodophil, let us get off a-la derobbee, for fear I should be discovered.

Rho. There’s no retiring now; I warrant you for discovery.  Now have I the oddest thought, to entertain you before your servant’s face, and he never the wiser; it will be the prettiest juggling trick, to cheat him when he looks upon us.

Mel. This is the strangest caprice in you.

Pala. [to DORALICE.] This Rhodophil’s the unluckiest fellow to me! this is now the second time he has barred the dice when we were just ready to have nicked him; but if ever I get the box again—­

Dor. Do you think he will not know me?  Am I like myself?

Pala. No more than a picture in the hangings.

Dor. Nay, then he can never discover me, now the wrong side of the arras is turned towards him.

Pala. At least, it will be some pleasure to me, to enjoy what freedom I can while he looks on; I will storm the out-works of matrimony even before his face.

Rho. What wine have you there, Palamede?

Pala. Old Chios, or the rogue’s damn’d that drew it.

Rho. Come,—­to the most constant of mistresses! that, I believe, is yours, Palamede.

Dor. Pray spare your seconds; for my part I am but a weak brother.

Pala. Now,—­to the truest of turtles! that is your wife, Rhodophil, that lies sick at home, in the bed of honour.

Rho. Now let us have one common health, and so have done.

Dor. Then, for once, I’ll begin it.  Here’s to him that has the fairest lady of Sicily in masquerade to night.

Pala. This is such an obliging health, I’ll kiss thee, dear rogue, for thy invention. [Kisses her.