Beau. Hah, a Woman! Perhaps the same he looks for—I’ll counterfeit his Voice and try my Chance—Fortune may set us even. 197 Aria. Hah, is not that a Man? Yes—and a Chair waiting. [She peeps. Beau. Who’s there? Aria. A Maid. Beau. A Miracle—Oh art thou come, Child? Aria. ’Tis he, you are a civil Captain, are you not, to make a longing Maid expect thus? What Woman has detain’d you? Beau. Faith, my Dear, tho Flesh and Blood be frail, yet the dear Hopes of thee has made me hold out with a Herculean Courage—Stay, where shall I carry her? not to my own Apartment; _Ariadne_ may surprize me: I’ll to the Mountebank here i’th’ Piazza, he has a Cure for all things, even for longing Love, and for a Pistole or two will do Reason.—Hah, Company: Here, step into this Chair. [She goes in, they go off just as _Will._ enters. Will. Hum, a Woman of Quality and jilt me—Egad, that’s strange now—Well, who shall a Man trust in this wicked World? Enter _La Nuche_ as before. La Nu. This should be he, he saunters about like an expecting Lover. [_Will._ peeping and approaching. Will. By this Light a Woman, if she be the right—but right or wrong so she be Feminine: harkye, Child, I fancy thee some kind thing that belongs to me. La Nu. Who are you? [In a low tone. Will. A wandering Lover that has lost his Heart, and I have shreud Guess ’tis in thy dear Bosom, Child. La Nu. Oh you’re a pretty Lover, a Woman’s like to have a sweet time on’t, if you’re always so tedious. Will. By yon bright Star-light, Child, I walk’d here in short turns like a Centinel, all this live-long Evening, and was just going (Gad forgive me) to kill my self. La Nu. I rather think some Beauty has detain’d you: Have you not seen _La Nuche?_ 198 Will. _La Nuche!_—Why, she’s a Whore—I hope you take me for a civiller Person, than to throw my self away on Whores—No, Child, I lie with none but honest Women I: but no disputing now, come—to my Lodging, my dear—here’s a Chair waits hard by. [Exeunt. Scene III. Willmore’s Lodging. Enter _Harlequin_ with _Fetherfool’s_ Clothes on his Shoulder, leading him halting by one Hand, _Blunt_ (drunk) by the other in the dark; _Fetherfool_ bloody, his Coat put over his Shoulders. Feth. _Peano, Peano_, Seignior, gently, good _Edward_—for I’ll not halt before a Cripple; I have lost a great part of my agil Faculties. Blunt. Ah, see the Inconstancy of fickle Fortune, _Nicholas_—A Man to day, and beaten to morrow: but take comfort, there’s many a proper fellow has been robb’d and beaten on this Highway of whoring. Feth. Ay, _Ned_, thou speak’st by woful Experience—but that I should miscarry after thy wholesom Documents—but we are all mortal, as thou say’st, _Ned_—Would I had never crost the Ferry from _Croydon_; a few such Nights as these wou’d learn a Man Experience enough to be a Wizard, if he have but the ill luck to escape hanging.