_Tick_. Disappointment kills me,--and me too, _certo_--’tis she-- [_Gropes about_. _Gal_. Oh, haste, my Fair, haste to my longing Arms, Where are you, dear and loveliest of your Sex? _Tick_. That’s I, that’s I, _my Alma! mea Core, mea Vita!_ [_Groping and speaking low_. _Gal_. Hah--art thou come, my Life! my Soul! my Joy! [_Goes to embrace_ Tick, _they meet and kiss_. ’.death, what’s this, a bearded Mistress! Lights, Lights there, quickly, Lights! nay, curse me if thou scap’st me. [Tick. _struggles to get away, he holds him by the Crevat and Perriwig_; _Enter_ Petro _with a Candle_. _Gal_. _Barberacho_--confound him, ‘tis the Fool whom I found this Evening about the House, hovering to roost him here!--Ha--what the Devil have I caught--a _Tartar_? escap’d again! the Devil’s his Confederate.-- [Pet. _puts out the Candle, comes to_ Tick, _unties his Crevat behind, and he slips his head out of the Perriwig, and gets away, leaving both in_ Gal’s _hands_. _Pet_. Give me your Hand, I’ll lead you a back-pair of stairs through the Garden. _Tick_. Oh, any way to save my Reputation--oh-- _Gal_. Let me but once more grasp thee, and thou shalt find more safety in the Devil’s Clutches: none but my Mistress serve ye! [_Gropes out after him_. [Pet. _with_ Tick, _running over the Stage_, Gal. _after ‘em, with the Crevat and Perriwig in one Hand, his Pistol in t’other_. _Enter_ Philippa _with a Light_. _Phil_. Mercy upon us! what’s the matter? what Noise is this--hah, a Pistol! what can this mean? [_A Pistol goes off_. _Enter Sir_ Signal _running_. Sir _Sig_. Oh, save me, gentle Devil, save me, the stairs are fortify’d with Cannons and double Culverins; I’m pursu’d by a whole Regiment of arm’d Men! here’s Gold, Gold in abundance, save me.-- _Phil_. What Cannons? what armed Men? Sir _Sig_. Finding my self pursu’d as I was groping my way through the Hall, and not being able to find the Door, I made towards the stairs again, at the foot of which I was saluted with a great Gun--a pox of the Courtesy. _Gal_. [_Without_.] Where are ye, Knight, Buffoon, Dog of _Egypt_? Sir _Sig_. Thunder and Lightning! ‘tis _Gallaird’s_ Voice. _Phil_. Here, step behind this Hanging--there’s a Chimney which may shelter ye till the Storm be over,--if you be not smother’d before. [_Puts him behind the Arras_. _Enter_ Gal. _as before, and_ Corn, _at the other door_. _Cor_. Heavens! What rude noise is this? _Gal_. Where have you hid this Fool, this lucky Fool? He whom blind Chance, and more ill-judging Woman, Has rais’d to that Degree of Happiness, That witty Men must sigh and toil in vain for? _Cor_. What Fool, what Happiness?