Bal.  This, Sir,—­cry mercy, my Lord,—­’tis Don Carlos, Sir, the Governor.

Fran.  The Governor! the worst Great Turk of all; so, I am cozened, —­most rarely cheated; why, what a horrid Plot’s here carried on, to bring in heretical Cuckoldom?

Car.  Well, Sir, since you have found it out, I’ll own my Passion.

Jul.  Well, if I have been kind you forced me to’t, nay, begged on your knees, to give my self away.

Fran.  Guilty, guilty, I confess,—­but ’twas to the Great Turk, Mistress, not Don Carlos.

Jul.  And was the Sin the greater?

Fran.  No, but the Honour was less.

Bal.  Oh horrid!  What, intreat his Wife to be a Whore?

Car.  Sir, you’re mistaken, she was my Wife in sight of Heaven before; and I but seiz’d my own.

Fran.  Oh,—­Sir, she’s at your Service still.

Car.  I thank you, Sir, and take her as my own.

Bal.  Hold, my Honour’s concerned.

Fran.  Not at all, Father mine, she’s my Wife, my Lumber now, and, I hope, I may dispose of my Goods and Chattels—­if he takes her we are upon equal terms, for he makes himself my Cuckold, as he has already made me his;—­for, if my memory fail me not, we did once upon a time consummate, as my Daughter has it.

    Enter Guiliom in his own dress; crying Chimney-Sweep.

Guil.  Chimney-sweep,—­by your leave, Gentlemen.

Ant.  Whither away, Sirrah?

Guil.  What’s that to you, Sir?—­

Ant.  Not to me, Sirrah;—­who wou’d you speak with?

Guil.  What’s that to you, Sir? why, what a Pox, may not a man speak with his own Lady and Wife?

Cla.  Heavens! his Wife! to look for his Wife amongst Persons of Quality!

Car.  Kick out the Rascal.

Guil.  As soon as you please, my Lord; but let me take my Wife along with me.
            [Takes Isa. by the hand.

Isa.  Faugh! what means the Devil?

Guil.  Devil; ’twas not long since you found me a human creature within there.

Isa.  Villain, Dog; help me to tear his Eyes out.

Guil.  What, those Eyes, those lovely Eyes, that wounded you so deeply?

Fran.  What’s the meaning of all this? why, what, am I cozen’d? and is my Daughter cozen’d?

Guil.  Cozen’d! why, I am a Man, Sir.

Fran.  The Devil you are, Sir, how shall I know that?

Guil.  Your Daughter does, Sir; and that’s all one.

Isa.  Oh!  I’m undone; am I no Viscountess then.

Guil.  Hang Titles; ’twas my self you lov’d, my amiable sweet and charming self:  In fine, sweet-heart, I am your Husband; no Viscount, but honest Guiliom, the Chimney-sweeper.—­I heard your Father design’d to marry you to a Tradesman, and you were for a Don; and to please you both, you see how well I have managed matters.