+Des.+ I cannot pawn myself to the unworthy ends Of flattery and compliment; but this honour Outbids the value of a thousand lives: What this poor glimpse of expression can show me in; Saints are not more unfeigned in their prayers, Than I to serve you. +Claud.+ I shall not doubt, how much I may be indebted To your noble wishes; but let me add, sir, he that Lays out for me without my warrant, shall scarcely Put it on my account for thanks--much less, debt. +Des.+ Not good devotions! +Claud.+ Them I desire, and shall repay. +Des.+ Then pay back mine. +Claud.+ I'm not to learn my prayers, sir. +Des.+ Teach me yours, that I may turn the virtue Of their charms back to your bosom. +Claud.+ Colonel, mine would hardly please you; I never pray for wars. +Duke.+ You have back-friends, my lord? +De C.+ That some malignant cloud does interpose The king's cheerful favour, I am most sensible. +Duke.+ It wou'd spread to me too, if they durst. +De C.+ Had they but so much virtue left, they durst Own their names by, I should make pale envy blush. +Duke.+ Come, we'll to cards, and leave them to parl. [_Exeunt._ +Des.+ Madam, but mean it in a smile. +Claud.+ What! +Des.+ Love. +Claud.+ Fie! +Des.+ Yet stay; the air has busy wings. But give The thought consent, and I will take it in soft Whispers from your lip. +Claud.+ You will? +Des.+ I feel it creep in flames through all my blood! _Enter +De Flame+._ +Claud.+ Sir, the Count de Flame! +Des.+ With a black evening in his face! +De F.+ O my faithful Achilles, I came To give you joy! +Claud.+ Who! me, sir? +De F.+ My virtuous friend and you. +Claud.+ Of what? +De F.+ Of your entertainment under him. Y' have a brave commander, And he a--I cannot be angry enough to tell you what. +Claud.+ I begin to doubt his wits; he looks so ghastly. +De F.+ Yes, I see a devil in those eyes, that makes my hair Stare upward. False woman, my love durst scarce Doubt before, what now I find and tremble at. But heaven has wrath in ambush and scorpion-stings! +Claud.+ For what, my lord? +De F.+ Duchess, thy perjury and warm engagements To this, this huge impostor! +Claud.+ Sir, he has crack'd his brains with poetry; Pray, forgive him---- +Des.+ Count, you know what privilege this roof can give You on my anger, or else I should make your frenzy Tongueless. Don't requite it barbarously on her, That gives you leave to live by it. Gather your Scatter'd wits up; go home, sir, and repent.