_Cur._ They be those Bravoes that belong to me? _Piet._ Yes, Sir, the same; But _Antonio_ is their Patron. _Cur._ They be stout and secret; ‘tis well, Is the Music and all things ready? For I’ll not be seen till my Part is to be play’d. What Arms have they? _Piet._ Pistols, Sir, would you have other? _Cur._ No, I have not yet consider’d how to kill him, Nor scarce resolv’d to do so any way. What makes this strange Irresolution in me? --Sure ‘tis the force of sacred Amity, Which but too strictly was observ’d by me. --My Prince, and Friend, my Wife, and Sister too; Shall not those last, the powerful first out-do? My Honour, and my Love, are there ingag’d, And here, by ties of Duty, I’m oblig’d: I satisfy but these, if he must bleed; But ruin the whole Dukedom in the Deed, The hopeful Heir of all their noble Spoils, And Joy and Recompence of all their Toils. --Why, so was _Cloris_, _Laura_ too, to me, Which both were ravish’d from me, Prince, by thee. [Knocks within. _Piet._ Sir, they be the Bravoes and Curtezans. [_Pietro_ goes out. _Cur._ ‘Tis well, I need not talk with them, They understand their work. _Piet._ They do, my Lord, and shall be ready at your stamp; They are all _Neapolitans_, you know, Sir. _Cur._ Are they the better for that? _Piet._ Much, Sir, a _Venetian_ will turn to your Enemy, If he will give him but a Souse more than you have done; And your _Millanoise_ are fit for nothing but to Rob the Post or Carrier; a _Genovese_ too Will sooner kill by Usury than Sword or Pistol; A _Roman_ fit for nothing but a Spy. _Cur._ Well, Sir, you are pleasant with my Countrymen. _Piet._ I’ll be so with my own too, Sir; and tell you, That a _Maltan_, who pretends to so much Honour And Gravity, are fit only to rob their Neighbours With pretence of Piety, --And a _Cicilian_ so taken up with Plots, How to kill his Vice-Roy, that it keeps them From being Rogues to a less degree. But I have done, Sir, and beg your pardon. _Cur._ Didst leave the Letter, I commanded thee, For _Laura_? _Piet._ I did, my Lord. Enter _Lorenzo_. _Lor._ Well, here’s the Prince just coming. _Cor._ Pray, Sir, conduct him in, I’m ready for him. [Ex. _Cur._ and _Piet._ Enter the Prince, conducted by two Women in Masquerade, with Lights, he endeavouring to take off their Masks. [Ex. two Women. [He walks about while this Song is singing. _What is the recompence of War, But soft and wanton Peace? What the best Balsam to our Scars, But that which _Venus_ gave to _Mars_, When he was circled in a kind Embrace?_ _Behold a Prince, who never yet Was vanquished in the Field; Awhile his Glories must forget, And lay his Laurels at the feet Of some fair Female Power, to whom he’ll yield._ _Fred._ What’s this the Preparation?