Fran.  Alas, I must stay at home with my Wife, my Lord.

Guil.  A Wife! have I a Mother-in-law too?—­she must along with us, and take a frisk,—­no denial.

    Enter Carlos.

—­Oh, are you come? [Aside.

Car.  Yes, and thank thee for the best moment of my Life—­Hast thou contrived the Voyage then?

Guil.  Take no care—­come, haste on board—­our Honour will not lose the Fresco of the Morning,—­Follow me, Pages.

Page.  At your heels, my Lord—­

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

Enter, as aboard the Ship, Guiliom, Isabella, Francisco, Julia,
Antonio, Clara, Jacinta, Pedro and his Wife, Pages.

Guil.  Ladies and Gentlemen, you are very welcome aboard—­Come, put off to Sea, Rogues, Scoundrels, Tarpaulins, to your Business, and then, every man his Bottle,—­hey, Page, Rogues, where are my Men?  Come, spread the Table—­for we are very hungry.

Isa.  Heav’ns, what a peculiar Grace there is in every word that comes from the Mouth of a Cavalier.

Guil.  By Mars, the God of Love!

Page.  By Cupid, Sir. [Aside to him.

Guil. Cupid, Sirrah!  I say, I’ll have it Mars, there’s more Thunder in the Sound:  I say, by Mars, these Gallies are pretty neat convenient Tenements—­but a—­I see ne’er a Chimney in ’em:—­Pox on’t, what have I to do with a Chimney now?

Isa.  He is a delicate fine Person, Jacinta; but, methinks he does not make Love enough to me.

Jac.  Oh, Madam, Persons of his Quality never make Love in Words, the greatness of their Actions show their Passion.

Jac.  Ay, ’tis true all the little Fellows talk of Love.

Guil.  Come, Ladies, set; Come, Isabella, you are melancholy,—­Page —­Fill my Lady a Beer-glass.

Isa.  Ah, Heav’ns, a Beer-glass.

Guil.  O, your Viscountess never drinks under your Beer-glass, your Citizens Wives simper and sip, and will be drunk without doing Credit to the Treater; but in their Closets, they swinge it away, whole Slashes, i’faith, and egad, when a Woman drinks by her self, Glasses come thick about:  your Gentlewoman, or your little Lady, drinks half way, and thinks in point of good manners, she must leave some at the bottom; but your true bred Woman of Honour drinks all, Supernaculum, by Jove.

Isa.  What a misfortune it was, that I should not know this before, but shou’d discover my want of so necessary a piece of Grandeur.

Jac.  And nothing, but being fuddled, will redeem her Credit.

Guil.  Come—­fall to, old Boy,—­thou art not merry; what, have we none that can give us a Song?

Ant.  Oh Sir, we have an Artist aboard I’ll assure you; Signior Cashier, shall I beg the favour of you to shew your Skill?