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Of polish'd sages, shines deceitfully In all the splendid foppery of virtue. That man was never born whose secret soul, With all its motley treasure of dark thoughts, Foul fantasies, vain musings, and wild dreams, Was ever open'd to another's scan. Away, away! it is delusion all.

Freb. Well, be reserved then: perhaps I'm wrong.

De Mon. How goes the hour?

Freb. 'Tis early: a long day is still before us, Let us enjoy it. Come along with me; I'll introduce you to my pleasant friend.

De Mon. Your pleasant friend?

Freb.Yes, he of whom I spake. (Taking his hand.) There is no good I would not share with thee, And this man's company, to minds like thine, Is the best banquet-feast I could bestow. But I will speak in mystery no more, It is thy townsman, noble Rezenvelt. Nay, on my life, thou rather seem'st offended: Does it displease thee that I call him friend?

De Mon. No, all men are thy friends.

Free. No, say not all men. But thou art offended. I see it well. I thought to do thee pleasure: