_Prince._ I cannot be mistaken; for Heav’n made nothing but young Angels like her! Sir _Morg._ Look ye, Page, is your Master in his right Wits? Sir _Mer._ Sure he’s in love, and Love’s a devilish thing. Sir _Morg._ Sa, ho, ho, ho, where are you, Sir, where are you? _Prince._ In Heav’n! [Puts him away. Oh! do not rouse me from this charming Slumber, lest I shou’d wake, and find it but a Dream. Sir _Mer._ A plaguy dull Fellow this, that can sleep in so good Company as we are. Sir _Morg._ Dream--A Fiddle-stick; to her, Man, to her, and kiss her soundly, or so, d’ye see. Sir _Mer._ Ay, ay; kiss her, Sir, kiss her--ha, ha, ha, he’s very simple. _Prince._ Kiss her,--there’s universal Ruin in her Lips. _Mir._ I never knew ‘em guilty of such Mischiefs. Sir _Morg._ No, I’ll be sworn, I have kist ‘em twenty times, and they never did me harm. _Prince._ Thou kiss those Lips? impossible, and false; they ne’er were prest but by soft _Southern_ Winds. Sir _Morg._ _Southern_ Winds--ha, ha, lookye, d’ye see, Boy, thy Master’s mad, or so, d’ye see--why, what a Pox, d’ye think I never kiss my Wife, or so, d’ye see. _Prince._ Thy Wife!-- _Mir._ He will betray his Passion to these Fools: Alas, he’s mad--and will undo my Hopes. [Aside. _Prince._ Thou mayst as well claim Kindred to the Gods; she’s mine, a Kingdom shall not buy her from me. Sir _Morg._ Hay day, my Wife yours! look ye, as d’ye see, what, is it _Midsummer-moon_ with you, Sir, or so, d’ye see? _Mir._ In pity give him way, he’s madder than a Storm. _Prince._ Thou know’st thou art, and thy dear Eyes confess it--a numerous Train attended our Nuptials, witness the Priest, witness the sacred Altar where we kneel’d--when the blest silent Ceremony was perform’d. _Mir._ Alas! he’s mad, past all recovery mad. Sir _Mer._ Mad, say, poor Soul--Friend, how long has your Master been thus intoxicated? _Page._ He’s mad indeed to make this Discovery. [Aside. Alas, Sir, he’s thus as often as he sees a beautiful Lady, since he lost a Mistress, who dy’d in _Flanders_ to whom he was contracted. Sir _Mer._ Good lack--ay, ay, he’s distracted, it seems. _Page._ See how he kneels to her! stand off, and do but mind him. _Mir._ Rise, Sir,--you’l ruin me--dissemble if you love--or you can ne’er be happy. [In a low Voice, and raising him. _Prince._ My Transport is too high for a Disguise--give me some hope, promise me some Relief, or at your Feet I’ll pierce a wounded Heart. _Mir._ Rise, and hope for all you wish: Alas, he faints-- [She takes him up, he falls upon her Bosom. _Page._ Hold him fast, Madam, between your Arms, and he’ll recover presently. Stand all away.-- _Prince._ Oh! tell me, wilt thou bless my Youth and Love? Oh! swear, lest thou shouldst break--for Women wou’d be Gods, but for Inconstancy. _Page._ See, he begins to come to himself again--keep off--