ll lose, I'll die a thousand Deaths.

_Fran_. So will not I one; a Pox of her Virtue,--these Women are always
virtuous in a wrong place. [_Aside_.
I say you shall be kind to the sweet _Sultan_.

_Jul_. And rob my Husband of his right!

_Fran_. Shaw, Exchange is no Robbery.

_Jul_. And forsake my Virtue, and make nown Dear a Cuckold.

_Fran_. Shaw, most of the Heroes of the World were so;--go, prithee,
Hony, go, do me the favour to cuckold me a little, if not for Love,
for Charity.

_Jul_. Are you in earnest?

_Fran_. I am.

_Jul_. And would it not displease you?

_Fran_. I say, no; had it been _Aquinius_ his Case, to have sav'd the
pinching of his Gullet he wou'd have been a Cuckold. [_Aside_.

_Jul_. Fear has made you mad, or you're bewitcht; and I'll leave you to
recover your Wits again. [_Going out_.

_Fran_. O gracious Wife, leave me not in despair; [_Kneels to her and
holds her_.] I'm not mad, no, nor no more bewitcht than I have been
these forty years; 'tis you're bewitcht to refuse so handsom, so young,
and so--a Pox on him, she'll ne'er relish me again after him. [_Aside_.

_Jul_. Since you've lost your Honour with your wits, I'll try what mine
will do.

_Enter_ Carlos, Turks.

_Fran_. Oh, I am lost, I'm lost--dear Wife,--most mighty Sir, I've
brought her finely to't--do not make me lose my credit with his
_Mahometan_ Grace,--my Wife has a monstrous Affection for your Honour,
but she's something bashful; but when alone your Magnanimousness will
find her a swinger.

_Car_. Fair Creature--

_Jul_. Do you believe my Husband, Sir? he's mad.

_Car_. Dog. [_Offers to kill him_.

_Fran_. Hold, mighty Emperor; as I hope to be saved, 'tis but a copy of
her Countenance--inhuman Wife--lead her to your Apartment, Sir!
barbarous honest Woman,--to your Chamber, Sir,--wou'd I had married thee
an errant Strumpet; nay, to your Royal Bed, Sir, I'll warrant you she
gives you taunt for taunt: try her, Sir, try her. [_Puts 'em out_.

_Jac_. Hark you, Sir, are you possest, or is it real reformation in you?
what mov'd this kind fit?

_Fran_. E'en Love to sweet Life; and I shall think my self ever obliged
to my dear Wife, for this kind Reprieve;--had she been cruel, I had
been strangled, or hung in the Air like our Prophet's Tomb.

_Enter First_ Turk.

_Turk_. Sir, boast the honour of the News I bring you.

_Fran_. Oh, my Head! how my Brows twinge.

_Turk_. The mighty _Sultan_, to