et a warm desire
In Souls, whom Impotence and Age had chill'd.
--This must along with me.

_Brav._ What means this rudeness, Sir?-- restore the Picture.

_Ant._ Ha! Rudeness committed to the fair _Angelica_!-- Restore the
Picture, Sir.

_Will._ Indeed I will not, Sir.

_Ant._ By Heav'n but you shall.

_Will._ Nay, do not shew your Sword; if you do, by this dear Beauty--
I will shew mine too.

_Ant._ What right can you pretend to't?

_Will._ That of Possession which I will maintain-- you perhaps have 1000
Crowns to give for the Original.

_Ant._ No matter, Sir, you shall restore the Picture.

_Ang._ Oh, _Moretta_! what's the matter? [_Ang._ and _Moret._ above.

_Ant._ Or leave your Life behind.

_Will._ Death! you lye-- I will do neither.

_Ang._ Hold, I command you, if for me you fight.

[They fight, the Spaniards join with _Antonio_, _Blunt_ laying on
like mad. They leave off and bow.

_Will._ How heavenly fair she is!-- ah Plague of her Price.

_Ang._ You Sir in Buff, you that appear a Soldier, that first began this
Insolence.

_Will._ 'Tis true, I did so, if you call it Insolence for a Man to
preserve himself; I saw your charming Picture, and was wounded: quite
thro my Soul each pointed Beauty ran; and wanting a Thousand Crowns to
procure my Remedy, I laid this little Picture to my Bosom-- which if you
cannot allow me, I'll resign.

_Ang._ No, you may keep the Trifle.

_Ant._ You shall first ask my leave, and this.
[Fight again as before.

Enter _Belv._ and _Fred._ who join with the English.

_Ang._ Hold; will you ruin me?-- _Biskey_, _Sebastian_, part them.
[The _Spaniards_ are beaten off.

_Moret._ Oh Madam, we're undone, a pox upon that rude Fellow, he's set
on to ruin us: we shall never see good days, till all these fighting
poor Rogues are sent to the Gallies.

Enter _Belvile_, _Blunt_ and _Willmore_, with his shirt bloody.

_Blunt._ 'Sheartlikins, beat me at this Sport, and I'll ne'er wear Sword
more.

_Belv._ The Devil's in thee for a mad Fellow, thou art always one at an
unlucky Adventure.-- Come, let's be gone whilst we're safe, and remember
these are _Spaniards_, a sort of People that know how to revenge an
Affront.

_Fred._ You bleed; I hope you are not wounded. [To _Will._

_Will._ Not much:-- a plague upon your Dons, if they fight no better
they'll ne'er recover _Flanders_.-- What the Devil was't to them that I
took down the Picture?