_Lor._ Why, why, Sir, the humorous old Fellow, My Father, He will not hear reason from me when I am sober. My Lord, you know _Curtius_ is an honest Fellow, And one of us too; My Sister _Laura_ is a good pretty Wench, He loves her, and she likes him; And because this testy old Blade has done himself, Do you think I can bring him to consider? No, not for my Life, he won’t consider, Sir; And now am I got drunk to see how that will edify him. _Fred._ How! is _Laura_, the Mistress of _Curtius_, your Sister? _Lor._ Yes, marry is she, Sir, at least by the Mother’s side; And to tell you truth, We are too good-natur’d to believe _Salvator_ our Father. _Fred._ Thy Sister, and Daughter to _Salvator_? _Lor._ So said my Mother, but she was handsome; And on my conscience liv’d e’en in such another Debauch’d World as ‘tis now, let them say What they will of their primitive Virtue. _Fred._ May not I see this Sister of thine, _Lorenzo_? _Lor._ Yes, by _Venus_, shall you, Sir, An she were my Mother. _Fred._ But art sure thy Father will permit us? _Lor._ My Father permit us! He may do what he will when I am sober, But being thus fortify’d with potent Wine, He must yield obedience to my Will. Why, my Lord, I’ll tell you, I’ll make him ask me blessing when I am in this Almighty Power. _Fred._ And is thy Sister so very fine? _Lor._ The Girl is well, and if she were not my Sister, I would give you a more certain Proof of my Opinion of her; She has excellent good Hair, fine Teeth, And good Hands, and the best natur’d Fool-- Come, come, Sir, I’ll bring you to her, And then I’ll leave you; For I have a small Affair of Love to dispatch. _Fred._ This is a freedom that sutes not with the Humour of an _Italian_. _Lor._ No, faith, my Lord; I believe my Mother play’d Foul play with some _Englishman_; I am so willing to do you a good office to my Sister. And if by her Humour you become of that opinion too, I shall hope to render myself more acceptable To you by that Franchise. Enter _Galliard_, whispers. _Fred._ Thou knowest my grateful Temper, --No matter; here, carry this Letter to _Cloris_, And make some excuse for my not coming this Evening. [Gives him a Letter, and goes out with _Lorenzo_. _Gal._ So, poor Lass, ‘tis a hundred to one if she be not Lay’d by now, and _Laura_ must succeed her: Well, even _Frederick_, I see, is but a Man, But his Youth and Quality will excuse him; And ‘twill be call’d Gallantry in him, When in one of us, ‘tis Ill-nature and Inconstancy. [Exit. SCENE II. _Antonio’s_ House. Enter _Ismena_ and _Isabella_. _Isab._ Nay, Madam, ‘tis in vain to deny it; Do you think I have liv’d to these years, And cannot interpret cross Arms, imperfect Replies, Your sudden Weepings, your often Sighing, Your melancholy Walks, and making Verses too? And yet I must not say that this is Love.