ery Art of Love,
And raise our Charms of Pleasure higher;
Where, whilst imbracing we should lie
Loosely in Shades, on Banks of Flowers:
The duller World whilst we defy,
Years will be Minutes, Ages Hours._

_Beau._ 'Sdeath, that's my Page's Voice: Who the Devil is't that ploughs
with my Heifer!

_Aur._ Don Henrick, Don Henrick--
[The Door opens, _Beau._ goes up to't; _Will._ puts him by, and
offers to go in, he pulls him back.

_Will._ How now, what intruding Slave art thou?

_Beau._ What Thief art thou that basely, and by dark, rob'st me of all
my Rights?
[Strikes him, they fight, and Blows light on _Fetherfool_ who hangs
down.

[_Sancho_ throws _Fetherfool's_ Clothes out, _Harlequin_ takes 'em
up in confusion; they fight out _Beaumond_, all go off, but _Will._
gets into the House: _Harlequin_ and _Feth._ remain. _Feth._ gets
down, runs against _Harlequin_ in the dark, both seem frighted.

_Harl._ _Que questo._

_Feth._ Ay, _un pouer dead Home_, murder'd, kill'd.

_Harl._ (_In Italian._) You are the first dead Man I ever saw walk.

_Feth._ Hah, Seignior _Harlequin_!

_Harl._ _Seignior Nicholas!_

_Feth._ A Pox _Nicholas_ ye, I have been mall'd and beaten within doors,
and hang'd and bastinado'd without doors, lost my Clothes, my Money, and
all my Moveables; but this is nothing to the Secret taking Air. Ah, dear
_Seignior_, convey me to the Mountebanks, there I may have Recruit and
Cure under one.

ACT V.

SCENE I. _A Chamber._

_La Nuche_ on a Couch in an Undress, _Willmore_ at her Feet, on his
Knees, all unbraced: his Hat, Sword, &c. on the Table, at which she is
dressing her Head.

_Will._ Oh Gods! no more!
I see a yielding in thy charming Eyes;
The Blushes on thy Face, thy trembling Arms,
Thy panting Breast, and short-breath'd Sighs confess,
Thou wo't be mine, in spite of all thy Art.

_La Nu._ What need you urge my Tongue then to repeat
What from my Eyes you can so well interpret?
[Bowing down her Head to him and sighing.
--Or if it must-- dispose me as you please--

_Will._ Heaven, I thank thee! [Rises with Joy.
Who wou'd not plough an Age in Winter Seas,
Or wade full seven long Years in ruder Camps,
To find out this Rest at last?-- [Leans on, and kisses her Bosom.
Upon thy tender Bosom to repose;
To gaze upon thy Eyes, and taste thy Balmy Kisses, [Kisses her.
--Sweeter than everlasting Groves