Blunt. False, ’Sheartlikins, what dost thou take me for a _Jew?_ an insensible Heathen,—A Pox of thy old jealous Husband: and he were dead, egad, sweet Soul, it shou’d be none of my fault, if I did not marry thee. Luc. It never shou’d be mine. Blunt. Good Soul, I’m the fortunatest Dog! Luc. Are you not undrest yet? Blunt. As much as my Impatience will permit. [Goes towards the Bed in his Shirt and Drawers. Luc. Hold, Sir, put out the Light, it may betray us else. Blunt. Any thing, I need no other Light but that of thine Eyes!—’sheartlikins, there I think I had it. [Aside. [Puts out the Candle, the Bed descends, he gropes about to find it. —Why—why—where am I got? what, not yet?—where 54 are you sweetest?—ah, the Rogue’s silent now—a pretty Love-trick this—how she’ll laugh at me anon!—you need not, my dear Rogue! you need not! I’m all on a fire already—come, come, now call me in for pity—Sure I’m enchanted! I have been round the Chamber, and can find neither Woman, nor Bed—I lockt the Door, I’m sure she cannot go that way; or if she cou’d, the Bed cou’d not—Enough, enough, my pretty Wanton, do not carry the Jest too far—Ha, betray’d! Dogs! Rogues! Pimps! help! help! [Lights on a Trap, and is let down. Enter _Lucetta_, _Philippo_, and _Sancho_ with a Light. Phil. Ha, ha, ha, he’s dispatcht finely. Luc. Now, Sir, had I been coy, we had mist of this Booty. Phil. Nay when I saw ’twas a substantial Fool, I was mollified; but when you doat upon a Serenading Coxcomb, upon a Face, fine Clothes, and a Lute, it makes me rage. Luc. You know I never was guilty of that Folly, my dear _Philippo_, but with your self—But come let’s see what we have got by this. Phil. A rich Coat!—Sword and Hat!—these Breeches too—are well lin’d!—see here a Gold Watch!—a Purse—ha! Gold!—at least two hundred Pistoles! a bunch of Diamond Rings; and one with the Family Arms!—a Gold Box!—with a Medal of his King! and his Lady Mother’s Picture!—these were sacred Reliques, believe me!—see, the Wasteband of his Breeches have a Mine of Gold!—Old Queen _Bess’s_. We have a Quarrel to her ever since _Eighty Eight_, and may therefore justify the Theft, the Inquisition might have committed it. Luc. See, a Bracelet of bow’d Gold, these his Sister ty’d about his Arm at parting—but well—for all this, I fear his being a Stranger may make a noise, and hinder our Trade with them hereafter. Phil. That’s our security; he is not only a Stranger to us, but to the Country too—the Common-Shore into which 55 he is descended, thou know’st, conducts him into another Street, which this Light will hinder him from ever finding again—he knows neither your Name, nor the Street where your House is, nay, nor the way to his own Lodgings. Luc. And art not thou an unmerciful Rogue, not to afford him one Night for all this?—I should not have been such a _Jew_.