ll?

_Lau._ All! can there be more to make me miserable?

_Ism._ I see no reason thou hast to complain:
Come, wipe your Eyes, and take a good Heart;
For I'll tell thee a Story of my own,
That will let thee see I have much more cause to weep;
And yet I have a thousand little Stratagems
In my Head, which give me as many hopes:
This unlucky restraint upon our Sex,
Makes us all cunning; and that shall assist thee now
With my help, I warrant thee;
Come in with me, and know the rest.

[Exeunt.

_Isab._ So, so, disguise it how you will,
I know you are a real Lover;
And that secret shall advance my Love-design.
Yes, Madam, now I will be serv'd by you,
Or you shall fail to find a Friend of me. [Ex. _Isab._

SCENE III. The Street.

Enter _Lorenzo_ drunk, with a _Page_, and Musick, as in the dark.

_Lor._ Here's the Door, begin and play your best,
But let them be soft low Notes, do you hear? [They play.

Enter _Antonio_.

_Ant._ Musick at my Lodgings! it is _Alberto_;
Oh, how I love him for't--if _Clarina_ stand his
Courtship, I am made;
I languish between Hope and Fear.

_Lor._ Stay, Friend, I hear somebody. [Musick ceases.

_Pag._ 'Tis nobody, Sir.

Enter _Isabella_.

_Isab._ 'Tis _Lorenzo_, and my Plot's ripe; [Aside.
[_Lorenzo_ being retir'd the while a little further.

'Twill not sure be hard to get him, under pretence
Of seeing _Clarina_, into my Chamber,
And then I'll order him at my pleasure;
_Ismena_ is on my side, for I know all her Secrets,
And she must wink at mine therefore. [She retires.

_Lor._ Thou art in the right, Boy,
I think indeed 'twas nothing. [Plays again.

Enter _Alberto_.

_Alb._ She yields, bad Woman!
Why so easily won?
By me too, who am thy Husband's Friend:
Oh dangerous Boldness! unconsidering Woman!
I lov'd thee, whilst I thought thou couldst not yield;
But now that Easiness has undone thy Interest in my Heart,
I'll back, and tell thee that it was to try thee.

_Lor._ No, no, 'twas my Fears, away with the Song,
I'll take it on your word that 'tis fit for my purpose.

_Fid._ I'll warrant you, my Lord.

SONG.

_In vain I have labour'd the Victor to prove
Of a Heart that can ne'er give attendance to Love;
So hard to be done.
That nothing so young
Could e'er have resisted a Passion so long.

Yet nothing I lef