Car.  I’m ravish’d with the thought.

Ant.  But what will be the event of this?

Car.  I will not look so far, but stop at the dear Joys, and fear no Fate beyond ’em.

Guz.  Nay, with a little cudgelling this dull Brain of mine I shall advance it farther for the Jest-sake;—­as I take it, Signior Don Antonio, you have a fine Villa, within a Bow-shot of this City belonging to your self.

Ant.  I have with pleasant Gardens, Grotto’s, Waterworks.—­

Car.  A most admirable Scene for Love and our Designs.

Ant.  ’Tis yours, Sir.

Guz.  Then, Sir, when we have taken this old Fool, on whom the grossest cheat wou’d pass, much more this, which shall carry so seeming a Truth in’t, he being clapt under hatches in the Dark, we’ll wind round a League or two at Sea, turn in, and land at this Garden, Sir, of yours, which we’ll pretend to be a Seraglio, belonging to the Grand Seignior; whither, in this hot part o’th’ year, he goes to regale himself with his She-Slaves.

Car.  But the distance of Place and Time allow not such a Fallacy.

Guz.  Why he never read in’s life; knows neither Longitude nor Latitude, and Constantinople may be in the midst of Spain for any thing he knows; besides, his Fear will give him little leisure for thinking.

Ant.  But how shall we do with the Seamen of this other Gally?

Guz.  There’s not above a Dozen, besides the Slaves that are chain’d to the Oar, and those Dozen, a Pistole apiece wou’d not only make ’em assist in the design, but betray it in earnest to the Grand Seignior; —­for them I’ll undertake, the Master of it being Pier de Sala, your Father’s old Servant, Sir. [To Carlos.

Ant.  But possibly his mind may alter upon the Arrival of this False Count of ours?

Car.  No matter, make sure of those Seamen however; that they may be ready upon occasion.

Ant.  ’Tis high time for me that your Count were arriv’d, for this morning is destin’d the last of my Liberty.

Car.  This Morning—­Come, haste and dress me—­ [To Guz.]—­Guzman, where’s our Count?

    Enter Guiliom drest fine, two great Pages
    and a little one following.

Guz.  Coming to give you the good morrow, Sir; And shew you how well he looks the Part.

Car.  Good day to your Lordship—­ [Bowing.

Guil.  Morrow, morrow, Friend.

Ant.  My Lord, your most humble Servant.

Guil.  Thank you, Friend, thank you; Page, Boy—­what’s a-Clock, Sirrah?

Page.  About Eight, my Lord.

Ant.  Your Lordship’s early up.

Guil.  My Stomach was up before me, Friend; and I’m damnably hungry; ’tis strange how a man’s Appetite increases with his Greatness; I’ll swinge it away now I’m a Lord,—­then I will wench without Mercy; I’m resolv’d to spare neither Man, Woman, nor Child, not I; hey, Rogues, Rascals, Boys, my Breakfast, quickly, Dogs—­let me see, what shall I have now that’s rare?