be Feminine: harkye, Child, I fancy thee some kind thing that
belongs to me.

_La Nu._ Who are you? [In a low tone.

_Will._ A wandering Lover that has lost his Heart, and I have shreud
Guess 'tis in thy dear Bosom, Child.

_La Nu._ Oh you're a pretty Lover, a Woman's like to have a sweet time
on't, if you're always so tedious.

_Will._ By yon bright Star-light, Child, I walk'd here in short turns
like a Centinel, all this live-long Evening, and was just going (Gad
forgive me) to kill my self.

_La Nu._ I rather think some Beauty has detain'd you: Have you not seen
_La Nuche_?

_Will._ _La Nuche!_-- Why, she's a Whore-- I hope you take me for a
civiller Person, than to throw my self away on Whores-- No, Child, I lie
with none but honest Women I: but no disputing now, come-- to my
Lodging, my dear-- here's a Chair waits hard by.
[Exeunt.

SCENE III. _Willmore's Lodging._

Enter _Harlequin_ with _Fetherfool's_ Clothes on his Shoulder,
leading him halting by one Hand, _Blunt_ (drunk) by the other in
the dark; _Fetherfool_ bloody, his Coat put over his Shoulders.

_Feth._ _Peano, Peano_, Seignior, gently, good _Edward_-- for I'll not
halt before a Cripple; I have lost a great part of my agil Faculties.

_Blunt._ Ah, see the Inconstancy of fickle Fortune, _Nicholas_-- A Man
to day, and beaten to morrow: but take comfort, there's many a proper
fellow has been robb'd and beaten on this Highway of whoring.

_Feth._ Ay, _Ned_, thou speak'st by woful Experience-- but that I should
miscarry after thy wholesom Documents-- but we are all mortal, as thou
say'st, _Ned_-- Would I had never crost the Ferry from _Croydon_; a few
such Nights as these wou'd learn a Man Experience enough to be a Wizard,
if he have but the ill luck to escape hanging.

_Blunt._ 'Dsheartlikins, I wonder in what Country our kinder Stars rule:
In _England_ plunder'd, sequester'd, imprison'd and banish'd; in
_France_, starv'd, walking like the Sign of the naked Boy, with
_Plymouth_ Cloaks in our Hands; in _Italy_ and _Spain_ robb'd, beaten,
and thrown out at Windows.

_Feth._ Well, how happy am I, in having so true a Friend to condole me
in Affliction-- [Weeps.] I am oblig'd to Seignior _Harlequin_ too, for
bringing me hither to the Mountebank's, where I shall not only conceal
this Catastrophe from those fortunate Rogues our Comrades, but procure a
little Album Graecum for my Backside. Come, Seignior, my Clothes-- but,
Seign