a Mine of Gold!-- Old Queen _Bess's_. We have a
Quarrel to her ever since _Eighty Eight_, and may therefore justify the
Theft, the Inquisition might have committed it.

_Luc._ See, a Bracelet of bow'd Gold, these his Sister ty'd about his
Arm at parting-- but well-- for all this, I fear his being a Stranger
may make a noise, and hinder our Trade with them hereafter.

_Phil._ That's our security; he is not only a Stranger to us, but to the
Country too-- the Common-Shore into which he is descended, thou know'st,
conducts him into another Street, which this Light will hinder him from
ever finding again-- he knows neither your Name, nor the Street where
your House is, nay, nor the way to his own Lodgings.

_Luc._ And art not thou an unmerciful Rogue, not to afford him one Night
for all this?-- I should not have been such a _Jew_.

_Phil._ Blame me not, _Lucetta_, to keep as much of thee as I can to my
self-- come, that thought makes me wanton,-- let's to Bed,-- Sancho,
lock up these.

_This is the Fleece which Fools do bear,
Design'd for witty Men to sheer._ [Exeunt.

_The Scene changes, and discovers _Blunt_, creeping out of
a Common Shore, his Face, &c., all dirty._

_Blunt._ Oh Lord! [Climbing up.] I am got out at last, and (which is a
Miracle) without a Clue-- and now to Damning and Cursing,-- but if that
would ease me, where shall I begin? with my Fortune, my self, or the
Quean that cozen'd me-- What a dog was I to believe in Women! Oh
Coxcomb-- ignorant conceited Coxcomb! to fancy she cou'd be enamour'd
with my Person, at the first sight enamour'd-- Oh, I'm a cursed
Puppy,'tis plain, Fool was writ upon my Forehead, she perceiv'd it,--
saw the _Essex_ Calf there-- for what Allurements could there be in this
Countenance? which I can indure, because I'm acquainted with it-- Oh,
dull silly Dog! to be thus sooth'd into a Cozening! Had I been drunk, I
might fondly have credited the young Quean! but as I was in my right
Wits, to be thus cheated, confirms I am a dull believing _English_
Country Fop.-- But my Comrades! Death and the Devil, there's the worst
of all-- then a Ballad will be sung to Morrow on the _Prado_, to a lousy
Tune of the enchanted Squire, and the annihilated Damsel-- But _Fred_,
that Rogue, and the Colonel, will abuse me beyond all Christian
patience-- had she left me my Clothes, I have a Bill of Exchange at home
wou'd have sav'd my Credit-- but now all hope is taken from me-- Well,