Lusinghiero, Lusinghiero, | Pui non Credo alta tua fe | bis L’ incendio del tuo foce Nel mio Core pui vivo none Belta che li die Luoce Belta che li die Luoce Ma il rigor L’Ardore s’bande Io non sato tuo gioce Ch’ il Veleno Del mio seno Vergoroso faggito se n’e. See see Crudel Amore | Il mio Core non fa per te_. | bis _Oct_. ‘Tis they we look for, draw and be ready.-- _Tick_. Hah, draw--then there’s no safety here, _certo_. [_Aside_. [Octavio, Julio _and their Party draw, and fight with_ Fil. _and_ Gal. Marcella _ingages on their side; all fight, the Musick confusedly amongst ‘em:_ Gal. _loses his Sword, and in the hurry gets a Base Viol, and happens to strike_ Tickletext, _who is getting away--his Head breaks its way quite through, and it hangs about his neck; they fight out_. Enter_ Petro _with a Lanthorn. Sir_ Signal _stands close still_. _Tick_. Oh, undone, undone! where am I, where am I? _Pet_. Hah--that’s the voice of my amorous _Ananias_,--or I am mistaken-- what the Devil’s the matter? [_Opens his Lanthorn_. --Where are ye, Sir?--hah, cuts so--what new-found Pillory have we here? _Tick_. Oh, honest _Barberacho_, undo me, undo me quickly. _Pet_. So I design, Sir, as fast as I can--or lose my aim--there, Sir, there: All’s well--I have set you free, come follow me the back way into the house. [_Ex_. Pet. _and_ Tickletext. _Enter_ Fillamour _and_ Marcella, _with their Swords drawn_, Gal. _after ‘em_. _Gal_. A plague upon ‘em, what a quarter’s here for a Wench, as if there were no more i’th’ Nation?--wou’d I’d my Sword again. [_Gropes for it_. _Mar_. Which way shall I direct him to be safer?--how is it, Sir? I hope you are not hurt. _Fil_. Not that I feel, what art thou ask’st so kindly? _Mar_. A Servant to the Roman Curtezan, who sent me forth to wait your coming, Sir; but finding you in danger, shar’d it with you.--Come, let me lead you into safety, Sir-- _Fil_. Thou’st been too kind to give me cause to doubt thee. _Mar_. Follow me, Sir, this Key will give us entrance through the Garden. [_Exeunt_. _Enter_ Octavio _with his Sword in his hand_. _Oct_. Oh! what damn’d luck had I so poorly to be vanquisht! When all is hush’d, I know he will return,--therefore I’ll fix me here, till I become a furious Statue--but I’ll reach his heart. Sir _Sig_. Oh _lamentivolo fato_--what bloody Villains these Popish _Italians_ are! _Enter_ Julio. _Oct_. Hah--I hear one coming this way--hah--the door opens too, and he makes toward it--pray Heaven he be the right, for this I’m sure’s the House.--Now, Luck, an’t be thy will-- [_Follows_ Julio _towards the door softly_.