Fran.  An Eunuch! oh, Lord!

Turk.  Ay, Sir, to guard his Mistresses, ’tis an honour.

Fran.  Oh!  Mercy, Sir, that honour you may spare, Age has done my business already.

Guz.  Fellow, what art?

Fran.  An’t please your Worship, I cannot tell.

Guz.  How, not tell?

Fran.  An’t please your Lordship, my Fears have so transform’d me, I cannot tell whether I’m any thing or nothing.

Guz.  Thy name, dull Mortal, know’st thou not that?

Fran.  An’t please your Grace, now I remember me, methinks I do.

Guz.  Dog, how art thou call’d?

Fran.  An’t like your Excellence, Men call’d me Signior Don Francisco, but now they will call me Coxcomb.

Guz.  Of what Trade?

Fran.  An’t please your Highness, a Gentleman.

Guz.  How much dost thou get a day by that Trade?  Hah!

Fran.  An’t like your Majesty, our Gentlemen never get but twice in all their lives; that is, when Fathers die, they get good Estates; and when they marry, they get rich Wives:  but I know what your Mightiness wou’d get by going into my Country and asking the Question.

Guz.  What, Fool?

Fran.  A good Cudgelling, an’t please your Illustriousness.

Guz.  Slave!  To my Face!—­Take him away, and let him have the Strapado.

Car. Baridama, Dermack.

Fran.  Heavens, what says he?

I Turk.  He means to have you castrated.

Fran.  Castrated!  Oh, that’s some dreadful thing, I’ll warrant,—­ Gracious Great Turk, for Mahomet’s sake, excuse me; alas, I’ve lost my wits.

Car. Galero Gardines?

Guz.  The Emperor asks if thou art married, Fellow.

Fran.  Hah—­Married—­I was, an’t like your Monsterousness, but, I doubt, your People have spoiled my Property.

Guz.  His Wife, with other Ladies, in a Pavillion in the Garden, attend your Royal pleasure.

Car.  Go, fetch her hither presently.

[Ex.  Guz.

1st Turk.  This is no common Honour, that the Great Turk deigns to speak your Language; ’tis to sign you’ll rise.

Fran.  Yes, by the height of a pair of Horns.

Car.  Is she handsom?

Fran.  Oh, what an Ague shakes my Heart,—­handsom! alas, no, dread Sir; what shou’d such a deform’d Polecat as I do with a handsom Wife?

Car.  Is she young?

Fran.  Young, what shou’d such an old doting Coxcomb as I do with a young Wife?  Pox on him for a Heathen Whoremaster.

Car.  Old is she then?

Fran.  Ay, very old, an’t please your Gloriousness.

Car.  Is she not capable of Love?