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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
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