_Guz_. Or, if he be not, he’s old, and past service, we’ll kill the Christian Dog out of the way. _Fran_. Oh, hold, hold, I’m no Christian, Gentlemen; but as errant a Heathen as your selves. _Guz_. Bind him strait, neck and heels, and clap him under hatches. _Jul_. Oh, spare him, Sir, look on his Reverend Age. _Guz_. For your sake, Lady, much may be done, we’ve need of handsom Women. [_Gives her to some Turks that are by_. _Fran_. Hah,--my Wife! My Wife ravish’d--oh, I’m dead. _Jul_. Fear not, my dear, I’ll rather die than do thee wrong. _Fran_. Wou’d she wou’d, quickly,--then there’s her Honour sav’d, and her Ransom, which is better. _Guz_. Down with the muttering Dog; [_He descends_. --And takes the Ladies to several Cabins. [_The Turks take hold of the Men_. _Isa_. Must we be parted then?--ah, cruel Destiny! [_Weeps_. _Guil_. Alas! this Separation’s worse than Death. _Isa_. You possibly may see some _Turkish_ Ladies, that may insnare your Heart, and make you faithless;--but I, ah Heavens! if ever I change my Love, may I become deformed, and lose all hopes of Title or of Grandure. _Guil_. But should the _Grand Seignior_ behold thy Beauty, thou wou’dst despise thine own dear hony Viscount to be a _Sultana_. _Isa_. A _Sultana_, what’s that? _Guil_. Why, ‘tis the great _Turk_, a Queen of _Turkey_. _Isa_. These dear expressions go to my Heart. [_Weeps_. And yet a _Sultana_ is a tempting thing-- [_Aside smiling_. --And you shall find your Isabella true,--though the _Grand Seignior_ wou’d lay his Crown at my feet,--wou’d he wou’d try me though--Heavens! to be Queen of _Turkey_. [_Aside_. _Guil_. May I believe thee,--but when thou seest the difference, alas, I am but a Chimney--hum, nothing to a great _Turk_. _Isa_. Is he so rare a thing?--Oh, that I were a she great _Turk_. [_Aside_. _Guz_. Come, come, we can’t attend your amorous Parleys. [_Parts ‘em_. _Jul_. Alas, what shall we poor Women do? [_Ex. Men_. _Isa_. We must e’en have patience, Madam, and be ravisht. _Cla_. Ravisht! Heavens forbid. _Jac_. An please the Lord, I’ll let my nails grow against that direful day. _Isa_. And so will I, for I’m resolv’d none should ravish me but the great _Turk_. _Guz_. Come, Ladies, you are Dishes to be serv’d up to the board of the _Grand Seignior_. _Isa_. Why, will he eat us all? _Guz_. A slice of each, perhaps, as he finds his Appetite inclin’d. _Isa_. A slice, uncivil Fellow,--as if this Beauty were for a bit and away;--Sir, a word,--if you will do me the favour, to recommend me to be first served up to the _Grand Seignior_, I shall remember the Civility when I am great. _Guz_. Lady, he is his own Carver, a good word by the bye, or so, will do well, and I am--a Favorite--