Isa.  Oh, the Insolence of these Turks! do they know who’s aboard? for Heaven’s sake, my Lord, do not expose your noble Person.

Guil.  What, not fight?—­Not fight!  A Lord, and not fight?  Shall I submit to Fetters, and see my Mistress ravish’d by any great Turk in Christendom, and not fight?

Isa.  I’d rather be ravish’d a thousand times, than you should venture your Person.

[Seamen shout within.

Fran.  Ay, I dare swear.

Enter Seaman.

Sea.  Ah, Sirs, what mean you?  Come on the Deck for shame.

Ant.  My Lord, let us not tamely fall, there’s danger near. [Draws.

Guil.  Ay, ay, there’s never smoke, but there’s some fire—­Come, let’s away—­ta la, tan ta la, la la, &c. [Draws.

[Exit singing, and Antonio and Pet.

Fran.  A Pox of all Lords, I say, you must be janting in the Devil’s

name, and God’s dry Ground wou’d not serve your turn. [Shout here.  Oh, how they thunder!  What shall I do?—­oh, for some Auger-hole to thrust my head into, for I could never indure the noise of Cannons,—­oh, ’tis insupportable,—­intolerable—­and not to be indur’d.
                                      [Running as mad about the Stage.

Isa.  Dear Father, be not so frighted. [Weeps.

Fran.  Ah, Crocodile, wou’d thou hadst wept thy Eyes out long ago, that

thou hadst never seen this Count; then he had never lov’d thee, and then we had never been invited a ship-board.
                             [A noise of fighting.

Enter Guiliom, Pet. and Antonio, driven in fighting
by Guzman and other Turks.

Ant.  Ah, Sir, the Turks have boarded us, we’re lost, we’re lost.

Fran.  Oh, I am slain, I’m slain. [Falls down.

Guil.  Hold, hold, I say, you are now in the presence of Ladies, and ’tis uncivil to fight before Ladies.

Guz.  Yield then, you are our Slaves.

Guil.  Slaves, no Sir, we’re Slaves to none but the Ladies.
          
                                        [Offers to fight.

Isa.  Oh, hold, rude man,—­d’ye know whom you encounter?

Guz.  What’s here—­one dead—­
                                  [Looking on Francisco.

Fran.  Oh, Lord!

Guz.  Or, if he be not, he’s old, and past service, we’ll kill the Christian Dog out of the way.

Fran.  Oh, hold, hold, I’m no Christian, Gentlemen; but as errant a Heathen as your selves.

Guz.  Bind him strait, neck and heels, and clap him under hatches.

Jul.  Oh, spare him, Sir, look on his Reverend Age.