Ind. I’m not concerned to have my truth believed. 
You would be cozened! would assist the cheat! 
But I’m too plain to join in the deceit: 
I’m pleased you think me false,
And, whatsoe’er my letter did pretend,
I made this meeting for no other end.

Aur. Kill me not quite, with this indifference! 
When you are guiltless, boast not an offence. 
I know you better than yourself you know: 
Your heart was true, but did some frailty shew: 
You promised him your love, that I might live;
But promised what you never meant to give. 
Speak, was’t not so? confess; I can forgive.

Ind. Forgive! what dull excuses you prepare, As if your thoughts of me were worth my care!

Aur. Ah traitress!  Ah ingrate!  Ah faithless mind! 
Ah sex, invented first to damn mankind! 
Nature took care to dress you up for sin;
Adorned, without; unfinished left, within. 
Hence, by no judgment you your loves direct;
Talk much, ne’er think, and still the wrong affect. 
So much self-love in your composure’s mixed,
That love to others still remains unfixed: 
Greatness, and noise, and shew, are your delight;
Yet wise men love you, in their own despite: 
And finding in their native wit no ease,
Are forced to put your folly on, to please.

Ind. Now you shall know what cause you have to rage;
But to increase your fury, not assuage: 
I found the way your brother’s heart to move. 
Yet promised not the least return of love. 
His pride and brutal fierceness I abhor;
But scorn your mean suspicions of me more. 
I owed my honour and my fame this care: 
Know what your folly lost you, and despair. [Turning from him.

Aur. Too cruelly your innocence you tell: 
Shew heaven, and damn me to the pit of hell. 
Now I believe you; ’tis not yet too late: 
You may forgive, and put a stop to fate;
Save me, just sinking, and no more to rise. [She frowns.
How can you look with such relentless eyes? 
Or let your mind by penitence be moved,
Or I’m resolved to think you never loved. 
You are not cleared, unless you mercy speak: 
I’ll think you took the occasion thus to break.

Ind. Small jealousies, ’tis true, inflame desire;
Too great, not fan, but quite blow out the fire: 
Yet I did love you, till such pains I bore,
That I dare trust myself and you no more. 
Let me not love you; but here end my pain: 
Distrust may make me wretched once again. 
Now, with full sails, into the port I move,
And safely can unlade my breast of love;
Quiet, and calm:  Why should I then go back,
To tempt the second hazard of a wreck?