Blunt. ’Sheartlikins, here’s fine doings. Will. Tilting for the Wench I’m sure—nay gad, if that wou’d win her, I have as good a Sword as the best of ye—Put up—put up, and take another time and place, for this is design’d for Lovers only. [They all put up. Pedro. We are prevented; dare you meet me to morrow on the _Molo?_ For I’ve a Title to a better quarrel, That of _Florinda_, in whose credulous Heart Thou’st made an Int’rest, and destroy’d my Hopes. Ant. Dare? I’ll meet thee there as early as the Day. Pedro. We will come thus disguis’d, that whosoever chance to get the better, he may escape unknown. Ant. It shall be so. [Ex. _Pedro_ and _Stephano_.] Who shou’d this Rival be? unless the _English_ Colonel, of whom I’ve often heard Don _Pedro_ speak; it must be he, and time he were removed, who lays a Claim to all my Happiness. [_Willmore_ having gaz’d all this while on the Picture, pulls down a little one. Will. This posture’s loose and negligent, The sight on’t wou’d beget a warm desire In Souls, whom Impotence and Age had chill’d. —This must along with me. Brav. What means this rudeness, Sir?—restore the Picture. Ant. Ha! Rudeness committed to the fair _Angelica!_—Restore the Picture, Sir. Will. Indeed I will not, Sir. Ant. By Heav’n but you shall. 35 Will. Nay, do not shew your Sword; if you do, by this dear Beauty—I will shew mine too. Ant. What right can you pretend to’t? Will. That of Possession which I will maintain—you perhaps have 1000 Crowns to give for the Original. Ant. No matter, Sir, you shall restore the Picture. Ang. Oh, _Moretta!_ what’s the matter? [_Ang._ and _Moret._ above. Ant. Or leave your Life behind. Will. Death! you lye—I will do neither. Ang. Hold, I command you, if for me you fight. [They fight, the Spaniards join with _Antonio_, _Blunt_ laying on like mad. They leave off and bow. Will. How heavenly fair she is!—ah Plague of her Price. Ang. You Sir in Buff, you that appear a Soldier, that first began this Insolence. Will. ’Tis true, I did so, if you call it Insolence for a Man to preserve himself; I saw your charming Picture, and was wounded: quite thro my Soul each pointed Beauty ran; and wanting a Thousand Crowns to procure my Remedy, I laid this little Picture to my Bosom—which if you cannot allow me, I’ll resign. Ang. No, you may keep the Trifle. Ant. You shall first ask my leave, and this. [Fight again as before. Enter _Belv._ and _Fred._ who join with the English. Ang. Hold; will you ruin me?—_Biskey_, _Sebastian_, part them. [The _Spaniards_ are beaten off. Moret. Oh Madam, we’re undone, a pox upon that rude Fellow, he’s set on to ruin us: we shall never see good days, till all these fighting poor Rogues are sent to the Gallies. Enter _Belvile_, _Blunt_ and _Willmore_, with his shirt bloody. Blunt. ’Sheartlikins, beat me at this Sport, and I’ll ne’er wear Sword more.