Car.  Come, my dear Julia, let’s retire to shades. [Aside to her. 
Where only thou and I can find an entrance;
These dull, these necessary delays of ours
Have drawn my Love to an impatient height. 
—­Attend these Captives, at a respectful distance.

[Ex. all but Isa_. who stays_ Guil.

Guil.  What wou’d the Great Sultana?

Isa.  Ah! do not pierce my Heart with this unkindness.

Guil.  Ha, ha, ha,—­Pages,—­give order, I have Letters writ to Sevil, to my Merchant,—­I will be ransomed instantly.

Isa.  Ah, cruel Count!

Guil.  Meaning me, Lady! ah, fy! no, I am a Scoundrel; I a Count, no, not I, a Dog, a very Chim—­hum,—­a Son of a Whore, I, not worthy your notice.

Isa.  Oh, Heavens! must I lose you then? no, I’ll die first.

Guil.  Die, die, then; for your Betters must be served before you.

Isa.  Oh!  I shall rave; false and lovely as you are, did you not swear to marry me, and make me a Viscountess.

Guil.  Ay, that was once when I was a Lover; but, now you are a Queen, you’re too high i’th’ mouth for me.

Isa.  Ah! name it not; will you be still hard-hearted?

Guil.  As a Flint, by Jove.

Isa.  Have you forgot your Love?

Guil.  I’ve a bad memory.

Isa.  And will you let me die?

Guil.  I know nothing of the matter.

Isa.  Oh Heavens! and shall I be no Viscountess?

Guil.  Not for me, fair Lady, by Jupiter,—­no, no,—­Queen’s much better,—­Death, affront a man of Honour, a Viscount that wou’d have took you to his Bed,—­after half the Town had blown upon you,—­without examining either Portion or Honesty, and wou’d have took you for better for worse—­Death, I’ll untile Houses, and demolish Chimneys, but I’ll be revenged.
             [Draws and is going out.

Isa.  Ah, hold! your Anger’s just, I must confess:  yet pardon the frailty of my Sex’s vanity; behold my Tears that sue for pity to you.

[She weeps, he stands looking on her.

Guil.  My rage dissolves.

Isa.  I ask but Death, or Pity. [He weeps.

Guil.  I cannot hold;—­but if I shou’d forgive, and marry you, you wou’d be gadding after honour still, longing to be a she Great Turk again.

Isa.  Break not my heart with such suspicions of me.

Gull.  And is it pure and tender Love for my Person, And not for my glorious Titles?

Isa.  Name not your Titles, ’tis your self I love,
Your amiable, sweet and charming self,
And I cou’d almost wish you were not great,
To let you see my Love.

Guil.  I am confirm’d—­