_Isa_. He is a delicate fine Person, _Jacinta_; but, methinks he does not make Love enough to me. _Jac_. Oh, Madam, Persons of his Quality never make Love in Words, the greatness of their Actions show their Passion. _Jac_. Ay, ‘tis true all the little Fellows talk of Love. _Guil_. Come, Ladies, set; Come, _Isabella_, you are melancholy,--Page --Fill my Lady a Beer-glass. _Isa_. Ah, Heav’ns, a Beer-glass. _Guil_. O, your Viscountess never drinks under your Beer-glass, your Citizens Wives simper and sip, and will be drunk without doing Credit to the Treater; but in their Closets, they swinge it away, whole Slashes, i’faith, and egad, when a Woman drinks by her self, Glasses come thick about: your Gentlewoman, or your little Lady, drinks half way, and thinks in point of good manners, she must leave some at the bottom; but your true bred Woman of Honour drinks all, _Supernaculum_, by _Jove_. _Isa_. What a misfortune it was, that I should not know this before, but shou’d discover my want of so necessary a piece of Grandeur. _Jac_. And nothing, but being fuddled, will redeem her Credit. _Guil_. Come--fall to, old Boy,--thou art not merry; what, have we none that can give us a Song? _Ant_. Oh Sir, we have an Artist aboard I’ll assure you; Signior _Cashier_, shall I beg the favour of you to shew your Skill? _Pet_. Sir, my Wife and I’m at your service. _Guil_. Friend, what Language can you sing? _Pet_. Oh, Sir, your Singers speak all Languages. _Guil_. Say’st thou so, prithee then let’s have a touch of Heathen _Greek_. _Pet_. That you shall, Sir, Sol la me fa sol, &c. _Fran_. Hum, I think this is indeed Heathen _Greek_, I’m sure ‘tis so to me. _Guil_. Ay, that may be, but I understand every word on’t. _Fran_. Good lack, these Lords are very learned Men. _Pet_. Now, Sir, you shall hear one of another Language from my Wife and I. [_Sing a Dialogue_ in French. _Enter the_ Captain. _Capt_. Well, Gentlemen, though the news be something unpleasant that I bring, yet to noble minds ‘tis sport and pastime. _Guil_. Hah, Fellow! What’s that that’s sport and pastime to noble minds. _Fran_. Oh Lord, no goodness, I’ll warrant. _Capt_. But, Gentlemen, pluck up your Spirits, be bold and resolute. _Fran_. Oh Lord, bold and resolute! why, what’s the matter, Captain? _Capt_. You are old, Signior, and we expect no good from you but Prayers to Heaven? _Fran_. Oh Lord, Prayers to Heaven! Why, I hope, Captain, we have no need to think of Heaven. _Capt_. At your own Peril be it then, Signior, for the _Turks_ are coming upon us. _Fran_. Oh Lord, Turks, Turks! [_Ex_. Cap. _Guil_. Turks, oh, is that all? [_Falls to eating_. _Fran_. All--why, they’ll make Eunuchs of us, my Lord, Eunuchs of us poor men, and lie with all our Wives. _Guil_. Shaw, that’s nothing, ‘tis good for the Voice.--how sweetly we shall sing, ta, la, ta la la, ta la, &c. _Fran_. Ay, ‘twill make you sing another note, I’ll warrant you.