Will. Hah—Carlo! Death, what a greeting’s here! Carlo, the happy Man! a Dog! a Rascal, gain the bright La Nuche! Oh Fortune! Cursed blind mistaken Fortune! eternal Friend to Fools! Fortune! that takes the noble Rate from Man, to place it on her Idol Interest. Shift. Why Faith, Captain, I should think her Heart might stand as fair for you as any, could you be less satirical—but by this Light, Captain, you return her Raillery a little too roughly. Will. Her Raillery! By this Hand I had rather be handsomly abus’d than dully flatter’d; but when she touches on my Poverty, my honourable Poverty, she presses me too sensibly—for nothing is so nice as Poverty—But damn her, I’ll think of her no more: for she’s a Devil, tho her Form be Angel. Is Beaumond come from Paris yet? Shift. He is, I came with him; he’s impatient of your Return: I’ll let him know you’re here. [Exit. _Shift_. Feth. Why, what a Pox ails the Captain o’th’ sudden? He looks as sullenly as a routed General, or a Lover after hard Service. Blunt. Oh—something the Lieutenant has told him about a Wench; and when _Cupid’s_ in his Breeches, the Devil’s ever in’s Head—how now—What a pox is the matter with you, you look so scurvily now?—What, is the Gentlewoman otherwise provided? has she cashier’d ye for want of Pay? or what other dire Mischance?—hah— Will. Do not trouble me— Blunt. Adsheartlikins, but I will, and beat thee too, but I’ll know the Cause. I heard _Shift_ tell thee something about _La Nuche_, a Damsel I have often heard thee Fool enough to sigh for. 120 Will. Confound the mercenary Jilt! Blunt. Nay, adsheartlikins they are all so; tho I thought you had been Whore-proof; ’tis enough for us Fools, Country Gentlemen, Esquires, and Cullies, to miscarry in their amorous Adventures, you Men of Wit weather all Storms you. Will. Oh, Sir, you’re become a new Man, wise and wary, and can no more be cozen’d. Blunt. Not by Woman-kind; and for Man I think my Sword will secure me. Pox, I thought a two Months absence and a Siege would have put such Trifles out of thy Head: You do not use to be such a Miracle of Constancy. Will. That Absence makes me think of her so much; and all the Passions thou find’st about me are to the Sex alone. Give me a Woman, Ned, a fine young amorous Wanton, who would allay this Fire that makes me rave thus, and thou shouldst find me no longer particular, but cold as Winter-Nights to this La Nuche: Yet since I lost my little charming Gipsey, nothing has gone so near my Heart as this. Blunt. Ay, there was a Girl, the only she thing that could reconcile me to the Petticoats again after my Naples Adventure, when the Quean rob’d and stript me. Will. Oh name not Hellena! She was a Saint to be ador’d on Holy-days. Enter _Beaumond_. Beau. Willmore! my careless wild inconstant—how is’t, my lucky Rover? [embracing.