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because we want wit to invent more new. A colony of Spaniards, or spiritual Italians, planted among us, would make us much more racy. 'Tis true, our variety is not much; but, to speak nobly of our way of living, 'tis like that of the sun, which rises, and looks upon the same thing he saw yesterday, and goes to bed again.

Jac. But I hear your women live most blessedly; there is no such thing as jealousy among the husbands; if any man has horns, he bears them as loftily as a stag, and as inoffensively.

Wild. All this, I hope, gives you no ill character of the country?

Jac. But what need we go into another climate? as our love was born here, so let it live and die here, and be honestly buried in its native country.

Wild. Faith, agreed with all my heart. For I am none of those unreasonable lovers, that propose to themselves the loving to eternity. The truth is, a month is commonly my stint; but, in that month, I love so dreadfully, that it is after a twelve-month's

rate of common love.

Jac. Or, would not a fortnight serve our turn? for, in troth, a month looks somewhat dismally; 'tis a whole Egyptian year. If a moon changes in my love, I shall think my Cupid grown dull, or fallen into an apoplexy.

Wild. Well, I pray heaven we both get off as clear as we imagine; for my part, I like your humour so damnably well, that I fear I am in for a week longer than I proposed: I am half afraid your Spanish planet and my English one have been acquainted, and have found out some by-room or other in the twelve houses: I wish they have been honourable.

Jac. The best way for both were to take up in time; yet I am afraid our forces are engaged so

far, that we must make a battle on't.

What think

you of disobliging one another from this day forward; and shewing all our ill humours at the first, which lovers use to keep as a reserve, till they are married?

Wild. Or let us encourage one another to a breach, by the dangers of possession: I have a song to that purpose.

Jac. Pray let me hear it: I hope it will go to the tune of one of our Passa-calles.

SONG.

You charmed me not with that fair face,
Though it was all divine:

To be another's is the grace,

That makes me wish you mine.
The gods and fortune take their part,
Who, like young monarchs, fight,
And boldly dare invade that heart,
Which is another's right.

First, mad with hope, we undertake
To pull up every bar;

But, once possessed, we faintly make
A dull defensive war.

Now, every friend is turned a foe,
In hope to get our store:

And passion makes us cowards grow,
Which made us brace before.

Jac. Believe it, cavalier, you are a dangerous person: Do you hold forth your gifts, in hopes to make me love you less?

Wild. They would signify little, if we were once married Those gaieties are all nipt and frost-bitten in the marriage-bed, i'faith.

Jac. I am sorry to hear 'tis so cold a place: But

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'tis all one to us, who do not mean to trouble it. The truth is, your humour pleases me exceedingly; how long it will do so, I know not; but so long as it does, I am resolved to give myself the content of seeing you. For, if I should once constrain myself, I might fall in love in good earnest: But I have stayed too long with you, and would be loth to surfeit you at first.

Wild. Surfeit me madam? why, you have but tantalized me all this while!

Jac. What would you have?

Wild. A hand, or lip, or any thing that

you can

spare; when you have conjured up a spirit, he must have some employment, or he'll tear you apieces.

Jac. Well, here's my picture, to help your contemplation in my absence.

Wild. You have already the original of mine: But some revenge you must allow me: A locket of diamonds, or some such trifle, the next time I kiss your hand.

Jac. Fie, fie! you do not think me mercenary? Yet, now I think on't, I'll put you into our Spanish mode of love: Our ladies here use to be the bankers of their servants, and to have their gold in keeping.

Wild. This is the least trial you could have made of me: I have some three hundred pistoles by me; those I'll send by my servant.

Jac. Confess freely, you mistrust me: But if you find the least qualm about your gold, pray keep it for a cordial.

Wild. The cordial must be applied to the heart, and mine's with you, madam. Well; I say no more; but these are dangerous beginnings for holding on: I find my month will have more than oneand-thirty days in't.

Enter BEATRIX, running.

Beat. Madam, your father calls in haste for you, and is looking for you about the house.

Jac. Adieu, servant; be a good manager of your stock of love, that it may hold out your month; I am afraid you'll waste so much of it before to-morrow night, that you'll shine but with a quarter moon upon me.

Wild. It shall be a crescent.

[Exeunt WILD. and JAC. severally. [BEATRIX is going, and MASKALL runs and stops her.

Mask. Pay your ransom; you are my prisoner. Beat. What! do you fight after the French fashion; take towns before you declare a war?

Mask. I shall be glad to imitate them so far, to be in the middle of the country before you could

resist me.

Beat. Well, what composition, monsieur?

Mask. Deliver up your lady's secret; what makes her so cruel to my master?

Beat. Which of my ladies, and which of your masters? For, I suppose, we are factors for both of them.

Mask. Your eldest lady, Theodosia.

Beat. How dare you press your mistress to an inconvenience?

Mask. My mistress? I understand not that language; the fortune of the valet ever follows that of the master; and his is desperate: if his fate were altered for the better, I should not care if I ventured upon you for the worse.

Beat. I have told you already, Donna Theodosia lòves another.

Mask. Has he no name?

Beat. Let it suffice, he is born noble, though without a fortune. His poverty makes him conceal his love from her father; but she sees him every night in private; and, to blind the world, about a fortnight ago he took a solemn leave of her, as if he were going into Flanders: In the mean time, he lodges at the house of Don Lopez de Gamboa ; and is himself called Don Melchor de Guzman.

Mask. Don Melchor de Guzman! O heavens ! Beat. What amazes you?

Theo. [Within.] Why, Beatrix, where are you? Beat. You hear I am called.-Adieu; and be sure you keep my counsel.

Mask. Come, sir, you see the coast is clear.

Enter BELLAMY.

[Exit BEAT.

Bel. Clear, dost thou say? No, 'tis full of rocks and quicksands: Yet nothing vexes me so much, as that she is in love with such a poor rogue.

Mask. But that she should lodge privately in the same house with us! 'twas oddly contrived of for

tune.

Bel. Hang him, rogue! methinks I see him, perching, like an owl, by day, and not daring to flutter out till moon-light. The rascal invents love, and brews his compliments all day, and broaches them at night; just as some of our dry wits do their stories, before they come into company. Well, if I could be revenged on either of them!

Mask. Here she comes again, with Beatrix; but, good sir, moderate your passion.

Enter THEODOSIA and BEATRIX.

Bel. Nay, madam; you are known; and must not pass till I have spoken with you.

[BEL. lifts up THEODOSIA'S veil.

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