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ll, Sir, I have only chang'd _Isabella_ for _Clara_. _Seb_. How, _Francisco_, have you juggled with me? _Fran_. My Daughter's a Lady, Sir. _Bal_. And you, Mistress, you have married _Antonio_, and left the Governor. _Cla_. I thought him the fitter Match, Sir, and hope your Pardon. _Jul_. We cannot scape. _Fran_. But how came you hither, Gentlemen, how durst you venture? _Seb_. Whither, Sir, to my own Son's house; is there such danger in coming a mile or two out of _Cadiz_? _Fran_. Is the Devil in you, or me, or both? Am not I in the Possession of _Turks_ and Infidels? _Bal_. No, Sir; safe in _Antonio Villa_, within a League of _Cadiz_. _Fran_. Why, what a Pox, is not this the Great _Turk_ himself? _Bal_. This, Sir,--cry mercy, my Lord,--'tis Don _Carlos_, Sir, the Governor. _Fran_. The Governor! the worst Great _Turk_ of all; so, I am cozened, --most rarely cheated; why, what a horrid Plot's here carried on, to bring in heretical Cuckoldom? _Car_. Well, Sir, since you have found it out, I'll own my Passion. _Jul_. Well, if I have been kind you forced me to't, nay, begged on your knees, to give my self away. _Fran_. Guilty, guilty, I confess,--but 'twas to the Great _Turk_, Mistress, not Don _Carlos_. _Jul_. And was the Sin the greater? _Fran_. No, but the Honour was less. _Bal_. Oh horrid! What, intreat his Wife to be a Whore? _Car_. Sir, you're mistaken, she was my Wife in sight of Heaven before; and I but seiz'd my own. _Fran_. Oh,--Sir, she's at your Service still. _Car_. I thank you, Sir, and take her as my own. _Bal_. Hold, my Honour's concerned. _Fran_. Not at all, Father mine, she's my Wife, my Lumber now, and, I hope, I may dispose of my Goods and Chattels--if he takes her we are upon equal terms, for he makes himself my Cuckold, as he has already made me his;--for, if my memory fail me not, we did once upon a time consummate, as my Daughter has it. _Enter_ Guiliom _in his own dress; crying Chimney-Sweep_. _Guil_. Chimney-sweep,--by your leave, Gentlemen. _Ant_. Whither away, Sirrah? _Guil_. What's that to you, Sir?-- _Ant_. Not to me, Sirrah;--who wou'd you speak with? _Guil_. What's that to you, Sir? why, what a Pox, may not a man speak with his own Lady and Wife? _Cla_. Heavens! his Wife! to look for his Wife amongst Persons of Quality! _Car_. Kick out the Rascal. _Guil_. As soon as you please, my Lord; but let me take my Wife alon
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