Feth. So—now your Neck, or your Throat, chuse ye either, wise Mr. _Nicholas Fetherfool_—But stay, I hear Company. Now dare not I budg an Inch. Enter _Beaumond_ alone. Beau. Where can this Rascal, my Page, be all this while? I waited in the Piazza so long, that I believed he had mistook my Order, and gone directly to _La Nuche’s_ House—but here’s no sign of him— Feth. Hah—I hear no noise, I’ll venture down. [Goes halfway down and stops. Enter _Abevile_, _Harlequin_, Musick and _Willmore_. Will. Whither will this Boy conduct me?—but since to a Woman, no matter whither ’tis. Feth. Hah, more Company; now dare not I stir up nor down, they may be Bravoes to cut my Throat. Beau. Oh sure these are they— 188 Will. Come, my Heart, lose no time, but tune your Pipes. [_Harlequin_ plays on his Guittar, and sings. Beau. How, sure this is some Rival. [Goes near and listens. Will. Harkye, Child, hast thou ne’er an amorous Ditty, short and sweet, hah— Abev. Shall I not sing that you gave me, Sir? Will. I shall spoil all with hard Questions—Ay, Child—that that. [_Abev._ sings, _Beau._ listens, and seems angry the while. SONG. A Pox upon this needless Scorn! _Silvia_, for shame the Cheat give o’er; The end to which the fair are born, Is not to keep their Charms in store, But lavishly dispose in haste, Of Joys—which none but Youth improve; Joys which decay when Beauty’s past: And who when Beauty’s past will love? When Age those Glories shall deface, Revenging all your cold Disdain, And _Silvia_ shall neglected pass, By every once admiring Swain; And we can only Pity pay, When you in vain too late shall burn: If Love increase, and Youth delay, Ah, _Silvia_, who will make return? Then haste, my _Silvia_, to the Grove, Where all the Sweets of _May_ conspire, To teach us every Art of Love, And raise our Charms of Pleasure higher; Where, whilst imbracing we should lie Loosely in Shades, on Banks of Flowers: The duller World whilst we defy, Years will be Minutes, Ages Hours. 189 Beau. ’Sdeath, that’s my Page’s Voice: Who the Devil is’t that ploughs with my Heifer! Aur. Don Henrick, Don Henrick— [The Door opens, _Beau._ goes up to’t; _Will._ puts him by, and offers to go in, he pulls him back. Will. How now, what intruding Slave art thou? Beau. What Thief art thou that basely, and by dark, rob’st me of all my Rights? [Strikes him, they fight, and Blows light on _Fetherfool_ who hangs down. [_Sancho_ throws _Fetherfool’s_ Clothes out, _Harlequin_takes ’em up in confusion; they fight out _Beaumond_, all go off, but _Will._ gets into the House: _Harlequin_ and _Feth._ remain. _Feth._ gets down, runs against _Harlequin_ in the dark, both seem frighted. Harl. _Que questo._ Feth. Ay, _un pouer dead Home_, murder’d, kill’d. Harl. (_In Italian._) You are the first dead Man I ever saw walk. Feth. Hah, Seignior _Harlequin!_ Harl. _Seignior Nicholas!_