harp Air of _Madrid_ has a
most notable Faculty of provoking an Appetite: Prithee let's to the
Ordinary.

_Will._ I will not stay--
[Knocks, enter a Porter.
--Friend, is the Ambassador's Nephew, Mr. _Beaumond_, return'd to
_Madrid_ yet? If he be, I would speak with him.

_Port._ I'll let him know so much. [Goes in, shuts the door.

_Blunt._ Why, how now, what's the Door shut upon us?

_Feth._ And reason, _Ned_, 'tis Dinner-time in the Ambassador's Kitchen,
and should they let the savoury Steam out, what a world of _Castilians_
would there be at the Door feeding upon't.-- Oh there's no living in
_Spain_ when the Pot's uncover'd.

_Blunt._ Nay, 'tis a Nation of the finest clean Teeth--

_Feth._ Teeth! Gad an they use their Swords no oftner, a Scabbard will
last an Age.

Enter _Shift_ from the House.

_Will._ Honest Lieutenant--

_Shift._ My noble Captain-- Welcome to Madrid. What Mr. _Blunt_, and my
honoured Friend _Nicholas Fetherfool_ Esq.

_Feth._ Thy Hand, honest _Shift_-- [They embrace him.

_Will._ And how, Lieutenant, how stand Affairs in this unsanctify'd
Town?-- How does Love's great Artillery, the fair La Nuche, from whose
bright Eyes the little wanton God throws Darts to wound Mankind?

_Shift._ Faith, she carries all before her still; undoes her
Fellow-traders in Love's Art: and amongst the Number, old _Carlo de
Minalta Segosa_ pays high for two Nights in a Week.

_Will._ Hah-- Carlo! Death, what a greeting's here! Carlo, the happy
Man! a Dog! a Rascal, gain the bright La Nuche! Oh Fortune! Cursed blind
mistaken Fortune! eternal Friend to Fools! Fortune! that takes the noble
Rate from Man, to place it on her Idol Interest.

_Shift._ Why Faith, Captain, I should think her Heart might stand as
fair for you as any, could you be less satirical-- but by this Light,
Captain, you return her Raillery a little too roughly.

_Will._ Her Raillery! By this Hand I had rather be handsomly abus'd than
dully flatter'd; but when she touches on my Poverty, my honourable
Poverty, she presses me too sensibly-- for nothing is so nice as
Poverty-- But damn her, I'll think of her no more: for she's a Devil,
tho her Form be Angel. Is Beaumond come from Paris yet?

_Shift._ He is, I came with him; he's impatient of your Return: I'll let
him know you're here.
[Exit. _Shift_.

_Feth._ Why, what a Pox ails the Captain o'th' sudden? He looks as
sullenly as a routed General, or a Lover after hard Se