Cor. Ah-- [_Looking about on him, sees his face black, squeaks and runs away_. Sir _Sig_. Ah, whe, what the Deavilo’s that for? --Whe, ‘tis I, ‘tis I, most _Serenissima Signiora_! [Gal. _returns and_ Philippa. _Gal_. What noise is that, or is’t some new design To fetch me back again? Sir _Sig_. How! _Galliard_ return’d! _Gal_. Hah! what art thou? a Mortal or a Devil? Sir _Sig_. How, not know me? now might I pass upon him most daintily for a Devil, but that I have been beaten out of one Devilship already, and dare venture no more Conjurationing. _Gal_. Dog, what art thou--not speak! Nay, then I’ll inform my self, and try if you be flesh and blood. [_Kicks him, he avoids_. Sir _Sig_. No matter for all this--’tis better to be kickt than discovered, for then I shall be kill’d: and I can sacrifice a Limb or two to my Reputation at any time. _Gal_. Death, ‘tis the Fool, the Fool for whom I am abus’d and jilted? ’.is some revenge to disappoint her Cunning, and drive the Slave before me--Dog! were you her last reserve? [_Kicks him, he keeps in his cry_. Sir _Sig_. Still I say Mum. _Gal_. The Ass will still appear through all disguises, Nor can the Devil’s shape secure the Fool-- [_Kicks him, he runs out, as_ Cor. _enters and holds_ Gal. _Cor_. Hold, Tyrant-- _Gal_. Oh Women, Women, fonder in your Appetites Than Beasts, and more unnatural! For they but couple with their Kind, but you Promiscuously shuffle your Brutes together, The Fop of business with the lazy Gown-men --the learned Ass with the illiterate Wit--the empty Coxcomb with the Politician, as dull and insignificant as he; from the gay Fool made more a Beast by Fortune to all the loath’d infirmities of Age. Farewel--I scorn to croud with the dull Herd, or graze upon the Common where they fatten. [_Goes out_. _Phil_. I know he loves, by this concern I know it, And will not let him part dissatisfied. [_Goes out_. _Cor_. By all that’s good, I love him more each moment, and know he’s destin’d to be mine.-- [_Enter_ Marcella. --What hopes, _Marcella_? what is’t we next shall do? _Mar_. Fly to our last reserve; come, let’s haste and dress in that disguise we took our flight from _Viterbo_ in,--and something I resolve. _Cor_. My soul informs me what--I ha’t! a Project worthy of us both-- which whilst we dress I’ll tell thee,--and by which, My dear _Marcella_, we will stand or fall: ‘Tis our last Stake we set; and have at all. [_Exeunt_. ACT V. SCENE I. _The Corso_. _Enter_ Petro, Tickletext, _from the Garden_. _Tick_. Haste, honest _Barberacho_, before the Day discover us to the wicked World, and that more wicked _Galliard_.