_Isa_. Oh, Heavens! must I lose you then? no, I'll die first.
_Guil_. Die, die, then; for your Betters must be served before you.
_Isa_. Oh! I shall rave; false and lovely as you are, did you not swear to marry me, and make me a Viscountess.
_Guil_. Ay, that was once when I was a Lover; but, now you are a Queen, you're too high i'th' mouth for me.
_Isa_. Ah! name it not; will you be still hard-hearted?
_Guil_. As a Flint, by _Jove_.
_Isa_. Have you forgot your Love?
_Guil_. I've a bad memory.
_Isa_. And will you let me die?
_Guil_. I know nothing of the matter.
_Isa_. Oh Heavens! and shall I be no Viscountess?
_Guil_. Not for me, fair Lady, by _Jupiter_,--no, no,--Queen's much better,--Death, affront a man of Honour, a Viscount that wou'd have took you to his Bed,--after half the Town had blown upon you,--without examining either Portion or Honesty, and wou'd have took you for better for worse--Death, I'll untile Houses, and demolish Chimneys, but I'll be revenged.
[_Draws and is going out_.
_Isa_. Ah, hold! your Anger's just, I must confess: yet pardon the frailty of my Sex's vanity; behold my Tears that sue for pity to you.
[_She weeps, he stands looking on her_.
_Guil_. My rage dissolves.
_Isa_. I ask but Death, or Pity. [_He weeps_.
_Guil_. I cannot hold;--but if I shou'd forgive, and marry you, you wou'd be gadding after honour still, longing to be a she Great _Turk_ again.
_Isa_. Break not my heart with such suspicions of me.
_Gull_. And is it pure and tender Love for my Person, And not for my glorious Titles?
_Isa_. Name not your Titles, 'tis your self I love, Your amiable, sweet and charming self, And I cou'd almost wish you were not great, To let you see my Love.
_Guil_. I am confirm'd--
_'Tis no respect of Honour makes her weep_; _Her Loves the same shou'd I cry--Chimney Sweep.
[_Ex_.
ACT V.
SCENE I. _A Garden_.
_Enter_ Francisco _alone_.
_Fran_. Now am I afraid to walk in this Garden, lest I shou'd spy my own natural Wife lying with the Great _Turk_ in Fresco, upon some of these fine fiowry Banks, and learning how to make Cuckolds in _Turkey_.
_Enter_ Guzman _and_ Jacinta.
_Guz_. Nay, dear _Jacinta_, cast an eye of pity on me.--What, deny the _Vizier Bassa_?
_Jac_. When you are honest _Guzman_ again, I'll tell you a piece of my mind.
_Guz_. But opportunity will not be kind to _Guzman_, as to the Grand _Bassa_; therefore, dear Rogue, let's retire into these kind shades, or, if foolish Virtue be so squeamish, and needless Reputation so nice, that Mr. _Vicar_ must say _Amen_ to the bargain, there is an old lousy Frier, belonging to this _Villa_, that will give us a cast of his Office; for I am a little impatient about this business, Greatness having infus'd a certain itch in my Blood, which I felt not whilst a common Man.
_Fran_. Um, why, what have we here, pert Mrs. _Jacinta_ and the _Bassa_?
I hope the Jade will be Turkefied with a vengeance, and have Circumcision in abundance; and the Devil shall ransom her for old _Francisco_.
_Jac_. Hah, the old Gentleman!
_Fran_. What, the Frolick is to go round, I see, you Women have a happy time on't.
_Guz_. Men that have kind Wives may be as happy; you'll have the honour of being made a Cuckold, Heaven be prais'd.
_Fran_. Ay, Sir, I thank ye,--pray, under the Rose, how does my Wife please his Grace the Great _Turk_?
_Guz_. Murmuring again, thou Slave.
_Fran. Who_, I? O Lord, Sir! not I, why, what hurt is there in being a Cuckold?
_Guz_. Hurt, Sirrah, you shall be swinged into a belief, that it is an honour for the Great _Turk_ to borrow your Wife.
_Fran_. But for the Lender to pay Use-money, is somewhat severe;--but, see, he comes,--bless me, how grim he looks!
_Enter_ Carlos, _and Mutes attending_.
_Car_. Come hither, Slave,--why, was it that I gave you Life? dismiss'd the Fetters from your aged Limbs?
_Fran_. For love of my Wife, and't please your Barbarousness.
_Car_. Gave you free leave to range the Palace round, excepting my Apartment only?
_Fran_. Still for my Wife's sake, I say, and't like your Hideousness.
_Car_. And yet this Wife, this most ungrateful Wife of yours, again wou'd put your Chains on, expose your Life to Dangers and new Torments, by a too stubborn Virtue, she does refuse my Courtship, and foolishly is chaste.
_Fran_. Alas! what pity's that!