Hah, what's this? whilst I was grafting Horns on another's Head,
some kind Friend was doing that good Office for me.

_Maun._ Sure 'tis _Wittmore_!--oh that Dissembler--this was his Plot
upon my Lady, to gain time with _Isabella_.
[Aside.

_Wit._ And being so near my Happiness, can you blame me, if I made a
trial whether your Virtue were agreeable to your Beauty, great, and to
be equally ador'd?

_Lod._ Death, I've heard enough to forfeit all my Patience!--Draw, Sir,
and make a trial of your Courage too.--

_Wit._ Hah, what desperate Fool art thou? [Draws.

_Lod._ One that will see thee fairly damn'd, e'er yield his Interest up
in _Isabella_--oh thou false Woman!
[They fight out, _Isabella_, _Fanny_, and _Maundy_ run off.

SCENE IX. _Changes to the long Street, a Pageant of an Elephant coming
from the farther end with Sir _Credulous_ on it, and several others
playing on strange confused Instruments._

Sir _Cred._ This sure is extraordinary, or the Devil's in't, and I'll
ne'er trust Serenade more.
[Come forward, and all play again.
--Hold, hold, now for the Song, which because I wou'd have most
deliciously and melodiously sung, I'll sing my self; look
ye,--hum--hum.--

Sir _Credulous_ should have sung.

_Thou Grief of my Heart, and thou Pearl of my Eyes,
D'on thy Flannel Petticoat quickly, and rise;
And from thy resplendent Window discover
A Face that wou'd mortify any young Lover:
For I, like great _Jove_ transformed, do wooe,
And am amorous Owl, to wit to wooe, to wit to wooe.

A Lover, Ads Zoz, is a sort of a Tool
That of all Things you best may compare to an Owl:
For in some dark Shades he delights still to sit,
And all the Night long he crys wo to wit.
Then rise, my bright _Cloris_, and d'on on slip shoe:
And hear thy amorous Owl chant, wit to wooe, wit to wooe._

--Well, this won't do, for I perceive no Window open, nor Lady bright
appear, to talk obligingly:--perhaps the Song does not please her: you
Ballad-singers, have you no good Songs of another fashion?

_1 Man._ Yes, Sir, Several, _Robin--Hark how the Waters fall, fall,
fall!_

Sir _Cred._ How, Man! Zoz, remove us farther off, for fear of wetting.

_1 Man._ No, no, Sir, I only gave my Fellow a hint of an excellent
Ballad that begins--_Ill-wedded Joys, how quickly do you fade!_
[Sings.

Sir _Cred._ Ay, ay, that, we'll have that,--_Ill-wedded Joys, how
quickly do you fa