_Car_. But, Slave, behold these Mutes; that fatal Instrument of Death behold too, and in ‘em read thy doom, if this coy Wife of yours be not made flexible to my Addresses. _Fran_. O Heavens! I make her. _Car_. No more, thy Fate is fix’d--and, here attend, till he himself deliver his willing Wife into my Arms; _Bassa_, attend, and see it be perform’d-- [_To his Mutes, then to_ Guz. [_Ex_. Car. _Guz_. Go, one of you, and fetch the fair Slave hither. [_Ex_. Turk. _Fran_. I pimp for my own Wife! I hold the door to my own Flesh and Blood! _monstrum horrendum_! _Guz_. Nay, do’t, and do’t handsomly too, not with a snivelling Countenance, as if you were compell’d to’t; but with the face of Authority, and the awful command of a Husband--or thou dyest. _Enter_ Turk _and_ Julia. _Fran_. My dear _Julia_, you are a Fool, my Love. _Jul_. For what, dear Husband? _Fran_. I say, a silly Fool, to refuse the Love of so great a _Turk_; why, what a Pox makes you so coy? [_Angrily_. _Jul_. How! this from you, _Francisco_. _Fran_. Now does my Heart begin to fail me; and yet I shall ne’er endure strangling neither; why, am not I your Lord and Master, hah? _Jul_. Heavens! Husband, what wou’d you have me do? _Fran_. Have you do;--why, I wou’d have ye--d’ye see--’twill not out; why, I wou’d have ye lie with the _Sultan_, Huswife; I wonder how the Devil you have the face to refuse him, so handsom, so young a Lover; come, come, let me hear no more of your Coyness, Mistress, for if I do, I shall be hang’d; [_Aside_. The Great _Turk’s_ a most worthy Gentleman, and therefore I advise you to do as he advises you; and the Devil take ye both. [_Aside_. _Jul_. This from my Husband, old _Francisco_! he advise me to part with my dear Honour. _Fran_. Rather than part with his dear Life, I thank ye. [_Aside_. _Jul_. Have you considered the Virtue of a Wife? _Fran_. No, but I have considered the Neck of a Husband. [_Aside_. _Jul_. Which Virtue, before I’ll lose, I’ll die a thousand Deaths. _Fran_. So will not I one; a Pox of her Virtue,--these Women are always virtuous in a wrong place. [_Aside_. I say you shall be kind to the sweet _Sultan_. _Jul_. And rob my Husband of his right! _Fran_. Shaw, Exchange is no Robbery. _Jul_. And forsake my Virtue, and make nown Dear a Cuckold. _Fran_. Shaw, most of the Heroes of the World were so;--go, prithee, Hony, go, do me the favour to cuckold me a little, if not for Love, for Charity. _Jul_. Are you in earnest? _Fran_. I am. _Jul_. And would it not displease you? _Fran_. I say, no; had it been _Aquinius_ his Case, to have sav’d the pinching of his Gullet he wou’d have been a Cuckold. [_Aside_. _Jul_. Fear has made you mad, or you’re bewitcht; and I’ll leave you to recover your Wits again. [_Going out_.