[_Willmore_ having gaz'd all this while on the Picture, pulls down a little one.
_Will._ This posture's loose and negligent, The sight on't wou'd beget a warm desire In Souls, whom Impotence and Age had chill'd.
--This must along with me.
_Brav._ What means this rudeness, Sir?-- restore the Picture.
_Ant._ Ha! Rudeness committed to the fair _Angelica_!-- Restore the Picture, Sir.
_Will._ Indeed I will not, Sir.
_Ant._ By Heav'n but you shall.
_Will._ Nay, do not shew your Sword; if you do, by this dear Beauty-- I will shew mine too.
_Ant._ What right can you pretend to't?
_Will._ That of Possession which I will maintain-- you perhaps have 1000 Crowns to give for the Original.
_Ant._ No matter, Sir, you shall restore the Picture.
_Ang._ Oh, _Moretta_! what's the matter? [_Ang._ and _Moret._ above.
_Ant._ Or leave your Life behind.
_Will._ Death! you lye-- I will do neither.
_Ang._ Hold, I command you, if for me you fight.
[They fight, the Spaniards join with _Antonio_, _Blunt_ laying on like mad. They leave off and bow.
_Will._ How heavenly fair she is!-- ah Plague of her Price.
_Ang._ You Sir in Buff, you that appear a Soldier, that first began this Insolence.
_Will._ 'Tis true, I did so, if you call it Insolence for a Man to preserve himself; I saw your charming Picture, and was wounded: quite thro my Soul each pointed Beauty ran; and wanting a Thousand Crowns to procure my Remedy, I laid this little Picture to my Bosom-- which if you cannot allow me, I'll resign.
_Ang._ No, you may keep the Trifle.
_Ant._ You shall first ask my leave, and this.
[Fight again as before.
Enter _Belv._ and _Fred._ who join with the English.
_Ang._ Hold; will you ruin me?-- _Biskey_, _Sebastian_, part them.
[The _Spaniards_ are beaten off.
_Moret._ Oh Madam, we're undone, a pox upon that rude Fellow, he's set on to ruin us: we shall never see good days, till all these fighting poor Rogues are sent to the Gallies.
Enter _Belvile_, _Blunt_ and _Willmore_, with his shirt bloody.
_Blunt._ 'Sheartlikins, beat me at this Sport, and I'll ne'er wear Sword more.
_Belv._ The Devil's in thee for a mad Fellow, thou art always one at an unlucky Adventure.-- Come, let's be gone whilst we're safe, and remember these are _Spaniards_, a sort of People that know how to revenge an Affront.
_Fred._ You bleed; I hope you are not wounded. [To _Will._
_Will._ Not much:-- a plague upon your Dons, if they fight no better they'll ne'er recover _Flanders_.-- What the Devil was't to them that I took down the Picture?
_Blunt._ Took it! 'Sheartlikins, we'll have the great one too; 'tis ours by Conquest.-- Prithee, help me up, and I'll pull it down.--
_Ang._ Stay, Sir, and e'er you affront me further, let me know how you durst commit this Outrage-- To you I speak, Sir, for you appear like a Gentleman.
_Will._ To me, Madam?-- Gentlemen, your Servant. [_Belv._ stays him.
_Belv._ Is the Devil in thee? Do'st know the danger of entring the house of an incens'd Curtezan?
_Will._ I thank you for your care-- but there are other matters in hand, there are, tho we have no great Temptation.-- Death! let me go.
_Fred._ Yes, to your Lodging, if you will, but not in here.-- Damn these gay Harlots-- by this Hand I'll have as sound and handsome a Whore for a Patacoone.-- Death, Man, she'll murder thee.
_Will._ Oh! fear me not, shall I not venture where a Beauty calls?
a lovely charming Beauty? for fear of danger! when by Heaven there's none so great as to long for her, whilst I want Money to purchase her.
_Fred._ Therefore 'tis loss of time, unless you had the thousand Crowns to pay.
_Will._ It may be she may give a Favour, at least I shall have the pleasure of saluting her when I enter, and when I depart.
_Belv._ Pox, she'll as soon lie with thee, as kiss thee, and sooner stab than do either-- you shall not go.
_Ang._ Fear not, Sir, all I have to wound with, is my Eyes.
_Blunt._ Let him go, 'Sheartlikins, I believe the Gentle-woman means well.
_Belv._ Well, take thy Fortune, we'll expect you in the next Street.-- Farewell Fool,-- farewell--
_Will._ B'ye Colonel-- [Goes in.
_Fred._ The Rogue's stark mad for a Wench. [Exeunt.
SCENE II. _A Fine Chamber._
Enter _Willmore_, _Angelica_, and _Moretta_.
_Ang._ Insolent Sir, how durst you pull down my Picture?
_Will._ Rather, how durst you set it up, to tempt poor amorous Mortals with so much Excellence? which I find you have but too well consulted by the unmerciful price you set upon't.-- Is all this Heaven of Beauty shewn to move Despair in those that cannot buy? and can you think the effects of that Despair shou'd be less extravagant than I have shewn?