+Diego.+ But we shall catch such colds, sir, under ground, That we shall never hear Fame's trumpet sound.
+Don O.+ 'Tis but returning, when from hence we go, As rivers to their mother-ocean flow.
+Diego.+ We know our names and channels whilst w' are here; W' are swallow'd in that dark abyss when there.
+Don O.+ Engulf'd in endless joys and perfect rest, Unchangeable, i' th' centre of the bless'd.
[_The noise of the opening of a door. +Diego+ runs to the door, looks into the next room, then comes running to +Octavio+._
+Diego.+ O sir, w' are lost! I sea two female giants Coming most terribly upon us.
_Enter +Camilla+ and +Porcia+, the one with a key, the other with a candle._
+Por.+ I'm confident nobody saw us pass From th' other house.
+Cam.+ However, let us go through my brother's quarter, And open the back-door into the street; 'Tis good in all events t' have a retreat More ways than one. [_A door claps behind, and both look back._
+Por.+ O heavens, our passage is cut off! The wind has shut the door through which we came.
+Cam.+ The accident's unlucky: 'tis a spring lock, That opens only on the other side.
+Por.+ Let's on the faster, and make sure of th' other-- [_Seeing +Octavio+, she starts._ Octavio here! [_+Octavio+ hearing them, starts up._
+Don O.+ Porcia in this place! may I trust my senses, Or does my fancy form these chimeras?
+Diego.+ Either we sleep, and dream extravagantly, Or else the fairies govern in this house. [_+Flora+ runs to +Porcia+._
+Flo.+ Ah, dearest mistress! you shall never make me Quit you so again.
+Don O.+ I was Octavio; but I am at present So much astonish'd, I am not myself.
+Cam.+ What can the meaning of this vision be? [_+Don Octavio+ approaches +Porcia+._
+Don O.+ My dearest Porcia, how is't possible To find you in this place, my friend Antonio Having so generously undertaken Your protection?
+Por.+ Did he not yours so too? and yet I find Octavio here, where he is more expos'd Than I to certain ruin. I am loth To say 'tis he who has betray'd us both.
+Don O.+ Antonio false? It is impossible.
+Don O.+ Peace, slave! he is my noble friend, of noble blood, Whose fame's above the level of those tongues That bark by custom at the brightest virtues, As dogs do at the moon.