_Cor_. My Cavalier! [_Addressing to Sir Sig_. Tick. _pulls him by, and speaks_. _Tick_.--Lady-- Sir _Sig_. You, Sir! why, who the Devil made you a Cavalier? most _Potentissima Signiora_, I am the man of Title, by name Sir _Signal Buffoon_, sole Son and Heir to Eight Thousand Pound a year.-- _Tick_. Oh, Sir, are you the Man she looks for? Sir _Sig_. I, Sir? no, Sir: I’d have ye know, Sir, I scorn any Woman, be she never so fair, unless her design be honest and honourable. _Cor_. The Man of all the World I’ve chosen out, from all the Wits and Beauties I have seen,--to have most finely beaten. [_Aside_. Sir _Sig_. How! In love with me already,--she’s damnable handsome too: now wou’d my Tutor were hang’d a little for an hour or two, out of the way. [_Aside_. _Cor_. Why fly you not into my Arms, [_She approaching, he shunning_. These Arms that were design’d for soft Embraces? Sir _Sig_. Ay, and if my Tutor were not here, the Devil take him that wou’d hinder ‘em--and I think that’s civil, egad. _Tick_. Why, how now, _Barberacho_, what, am I cozen’d then, and is Sir _Signal_ the Man in favour? [_Aside to_ Petro. _Pet_. Lord, Signior, that so wise a man as you cannot perceive her meaning,--for the Devil take me if I can. [_Aside_.--Why this is done to take off all suspicion from you--and lay it on him;--don’t you conceive it, Signior? _Tick_. Yes, honest Rogue,--Oh the witty Wag-tail,--I have a part to play too, that shall confirm it--young Gentlewoman.-- _Cor_. Ah, Belle ingrate, is’t thus you recompense my suffering Love? to fly this Beauty so ador’d by all, that slight the ready Conquest of the World, to trust a Heart with you?--Ah--_Traditor Cruella_. Sir _Sig_. Poor Heart, it goes to the very soul of me to be so coy and scornful to her, that it does; but a pox on’t, her over-fondness will discover all. _Tick_. Fly, fly, young Man, whilst yet thou hast a spark of Virtue shining in thee, fly the temptations of this young Hypocrite; the Love that she pretends with so much zeal and ardour, is indecent, unwarrantable and unlawful; first indecent, as she is Woman--for thou art Woman--and beautiful Woman--yes, very beautiful Woman; on whom Nature hath shew’d her height of Excellence in the out-work, but left thee unfinisht, imperfect and impure. _Cor_. Heavens, what have we here? Sir _Sig_. A Pox of my Sir _Domine_; now is he beside his Text, and will spoil all. _Tick_. Secondly, Unwarrantable; by what Authority dost thou seduce with the Allurements of thine Eyes, and the Conjurements of thy Tongue, the Wastings of thy Hands, and the Tinklings of thy Feet, the young Men in the Villages? _Cor_. Sirrah, how got this Madman in? seize him, and take him hence. Sir _Sig_. _Corpo de mi_, my Governour tickles her notably, I’faith--but had he let the care of my Soul alone to night, and have let me taken care of my Body, ‘twould have been more material at this time. _Tick_. Thirdly, Unlawful--