Isa.  Ah, Heavens, those Eyes—­that Look,—­that pretty Leer,—­that my
Father shou’d be so doating an old Fool to think these Beauties fit for
a little Merchandize; a Marchioness wou’d so much better become me.
          
                                                [Looks again. 
—­Ah, what a Smile’s there—­and then that scornful Look—­’tis great—­
Heavens, who’s here?
                        [Sees them.

Cla.  Only those Friends that wish you better Fortune than this day promises.

Jac.  Look on that Face; are there not Lines that foretel a world of Greatness, and promise much Honour?

Cla.  Her Face, her Shape, her Mein, her every part declares her Lady—­or something more.

Isa.  Why, so, and yet this little Creature of a Father, ridiculously and unambitious, would spoil this Lady, to make up a simple Citizen’s Wife—­in good time.

Jac.  That very look had some presaging Grandeur.

Isa.  Do you think so, Jacinta?  Ha, ha, ha.

Jac.  That Laugh again, oh Heavens, how it charms!

Cla.  And how graceful ’tis!

Jac.  Ah, nothing but a great gilt Coach will become it.

Cla.  With six Spanish Mares.—­

Jac.  And embroidered Trappings.

Cla.  With four Lackeys.

Jac.  And a Page at the tail on’t.

Cla.  She’s evidently design’d for a Person of Quality.

Isa.  Besides I have so natural an Inclination for a Don, that if my Father do force me to marry this small Creature of a Merchant, I shall make an Intrigue with some body of Quality.

Cla.  Cou’d you but manage it well, and keep it from Antonio.

Isa.  Keep it from Antonio,—­is it think you for a little silly Cit, to complain when a Don does him the Honour to visit his Lady?  Marry, that were pretty.

    Enter Francisco, and Lopez.

Fran.  How, a Count to speak with me! with me, I say,—­here at Cadiz.

Lop.  A Count, Sir, and to speak with you.

Fran.  Art sure ’tis not the Governor?—­I’ll go lock up my Wife.

Lop.  Governor, Sir!  No, no, ’tis a mere Stranger, Sir, a rare Count whom I never saw all days of my life before.

Fran.  And with me wou’d he speak?  I hope he comes not to my Wife.

    Enter Julia.

Jul.  Oh Husband, the delicatest fine Person of Quality, just alighted at the Door, Husband.

Fran.  What, have you seen him then? the Devil’s in these Women, and there be but a Loop-hole to peep out of they’ll spy a man,—­I’m resolved to see this thing,—­go, retire, you Women, here’s Men coming up.

Isa.  And will Men eat us?

Fran.  No, but they may do worse, they may look on ye, and Looking breeds Liking; and Liking, Love; and Love a damn’d thing, call’d Desire; and Desire begets the Devil and all of Mischief to young Wenches—­Get ye gone in, I say—­here’s a Lord coming—­and Lords are plaguy things to Women.