_Mrs. Bev._ The world may mend with us, and then we may be grateful.
There's comfort in that hope.

_Bev._ Ay; 'tis the sick man's cordial, his promised cure; while in
preparing it, the patient dies.--What now?


SCENE VIII.

_Enter LUCY._

_Lucy._ A letter, Sir.
[_Delivers it, and exit._

_Bev._ The hand is Stukely's.
[_Opens, and reads it to himself._

_Mrs. Bev._ And brings good news--at least I'll hope so--What says
he, love?

_Bev._ Why, this--too much for patience. Yet he directs me to
conceal it from you.
[_Reads._

Let your haste to see me be the only proof of your esteem for
me. I have determined, since we parted, to bid adieu to England;
chusing rather to forsake my country, than to owe my freedom in
it to the means we talked of. Keep this a secret at home, and
hasten to the ruined
R. STUKELY