_Fran_. O gracious Wife, leave me not in despair; [_Kneels to her and holds her_.] I’m not mad, no, nor no more bewitcht than I have been these forty years; ‘tis you’re bewitcht to refuse so handsom, so young, and so--a Pox on him, she’ll ne’er relish me again after him. [_Aside_. _Jul_. Since you’ve lost your Honour with your wits, I’ll try what mine will do. _Enter_ Carlos, Turks. _Fran_. Oh, I am lost, I’m lost--dear Wife,--most mighty Sir, I’ve brought her finely to’t--do not make me lose my credit with his _Mahometan_ Grace,--my Wife has a monstrous Affection for your Honour, but she’s something bashful; but when alone your Magnanimousness will find her a swinger. _Car_. Fair Creature-- _Jul_. Do you believe my Husband, Sir? he’s mad. _Car_. Dog. [_Offers to kill him_. _Fran_. Hold, mighty Emperor; as I hope to be saved, ‘tis but a copy of her Countenance--inhuman Wife--lead her to your Apartment, Sir! barbarous honest Woman,--to your Chamber, Sir,--wou’d I had married thee an errant Strumpet; nay, to your Royal Bed, Sir, I’ll warrant you she gives you taunt for taunt: try her, Sir, try her. [_Puts ‘em out_. _Jac_. Hark you, Sir, are you possest, or is it real reformation in you? what mov’d this kind fit? _Fran_. E’en Love to sweet Life; and I shall think my self ever obliged to my dear Wife, for this kind Reprieve;--had she been cruel, I had been strangled, or hung in the Air like our Prophet’s Tomb. _Enter First_ Turk. _Turk_. Sir, boast the honour of the News I bring you. _Fran_. Oh, my Head! how my Brows twinge. _Turk_. The mighty _Sultan_, to do you honour, has set your Daughter and her Lover free, ransomless;--and this day gives ‘em liberty to solemnize the Nuptials in the Court;--but Christian Ceremonies must be private; but you’re to be admitted, and I’ll conduct you to ‘em. _Fran_. Some Comfort, I shall be Father to a Viscount, and for the rest--Patience-- _All Nations Cuckolds breed, but I deny They had such need of Cuckolding as I_. [_Goes out with the_ Turk. _Enter_ Antonio, _and_ Clara _to_ Jacinta. _Jac_. Madam, the rarest sport--Ha, ha, ha. _Ant_. You need not tell us, we have been witness to all. But to our own Affairs, my dearest _Clara_, Let us not lose this blessed opportunity, Which Art nor Industry can give again if this be idly lost. _Cla_. Nay, hang me if it be my fault, _Antonio_: Charge it to the number of your own Sins; it shall not lie at my door. _Ant_. ‘Tis generously said, and take notice, my little dear Virago, _Guzman_ has a Priest ready to tie you to your word. _Cla_. As fast as you please; hang her that fears the conjuring knot for me: But what will our Fathers say--mine who expects me to be the Governor’s Lady; and yours, who designs _Isabella_ for a Daughter-in-Law?