Fran.  Say, and hold; but Sultana and precious Stones are damnable Temptations,—­besides, the Rogue’s young and handsome,—­What a scornful look she casts at me; wou’d they were both handsomely at the Devil together.

Guz.  Dog, do you mutter?

Fran.  Oh! nothing, nothing, but the Palsy shook my Lips a little.

Guz.  Slave, go, and on your knees resign your Wife.

Fran.  She’s of years of discretion, and may dispose of her self; but I can hold no longer:  and is this your Mahometan Conscience, to take other Mens Wives, as if there were not single Harlots enough in the World? [In rage.

Guz.  Peace, thou diminutive Christian.

Fran.  I say, Peace thou over-grown Turk.

Guz.  Thou Spanish Cur.

Fran.  Why, you’re a Mahometan Bitch, and you go to that.

Guz.  Death, I’ll dissect the bald-pated Slave.

Fran.  I defy thee, thou foul filthy Cabbage-head, for I am mad, and will be valiant.

[Guz. throws his Turbant at him.

Car.  What Insolence is this!—­Mutes—­strangle him.—­

[They put a Bow-string about his neck.

Jul.  Mercy, dread Sir, I beg my Husband’s life.

Car.  No more,—­this fair one bids you live,—­henceforth, Francisco, I pronounce you a Widower, and shall regard you, for the time to come, as the deceased Husband of the Great Sultana, murmur not upon pain of being made an Eunuch—­take him away.

Jul.  Go, and be satisfied, I’ll die before I’ll yield.

Fran.  Is this my going to Sea?—­the Plague of losing Battels light on thee.

When ill success shall make thee idle lie,
Mayst thou in bed be impotent as I.

Car.  Command our Slaves to give us some diversion; Dismiss his Chains, and use him with respect, because he was the Husband of our beloved Sultana.

Fran.  I see your Cuckold might have a life good enough if he cou’d be contented.
              [They pull off his Chains.

[Carlos and Julia sit under an Umbrella.

The SONG.

How strangely does my Passion grow, Divided equally twixt two?  Damon had ne’er subdued my Heart, Had not Alexis took his part:  Nor cou’d Alexis_ powerful prove, Without my_ Damon’s aid, to gain my Love.

  When my Alexis present is,
   Then I for Damon sigh and mourn;
  But when Alexis I do miss,
   Damon gains nothing but my Scorn: 
  And, if it chance they both are by,
  For both, alas!  I languish, sigh, and die.

Cure then, thou mighty winged God, This raging Fever in my Blood.  One golden-pointed Dart take back; But which, O_ Cupid, wilt thou take? if Damon’s, all my hopes are crost:  Or, that of my Alexis, I am lost.

    Enter Dancers, which dance an Antick.