whom the grossest
cheat wou'd pass, much more this, which shall carry so seeming a Truth
in't, he being clapt under hatches in the Dark, we'll wind round a
League or two at Sea, turn in, and land at this Garden, Sir, of yours,
which we'll pretend to be a _Seraglio_, belonging to the _Grand
Seignior_; whither, in this hot part o'th' year, he goes to regale
himself with his She-Slaves.

_Car_. But the distance of Place and Time allow not such a Fallacy.

_Guz_. Why he never read in's life; knows neither Longitude nor
Latitude, and _Constantinople_ may be in the midst of _Spain_ for any
thing he knows; besides, his Fear will give him little leisure
for thinking.

_Ant_. But how shall we do with the Seamen of this other Gally?

_Guz_. There's not above a Dozen, besides the Slaves that are chain'd to
the Oar, and those Dozen, a Pistole apiece wou'd not only make 'em
assist in the design, but betray it in earnest to the _Grand Seignior_;
--for them I'll undertake, the Master of it being _Pier de Sala_, your
Father's old Servant, Sir. [_To_ Carlos.

_Ant_. But possibly his mind may alter upon the Arrival of this False
Count of ours?

_Car_. No matter, make sure of those Seamen however; that they may be
ready upon occasion.

_Ant_. 'Tis high time for me that your Count were arriv'd, for this
morning is destin'd the last of my Liberty.

_Car_. This Morning--Come, haste and dress me--
[_To_ Guz.]--_Guzman_, where's our Count?

_Enter_ Guiliom _drest fine, two great_ Pages
_and a little one following_.

_Guz_. Coming to give you the good morrow, Sir;
And shew you how well he looks the Part.

_Car_. Good day to your Lordship-- [_Bowing_.

_Guil_. Morrow, morrow, Friend.

_Ant_. My Lord, your most humble Servant.

_Guil_. Thank you, Friend, thank you; Page, Boy--what's a-Clock,
Sirrah?

_Page_. About Eight, my Lord.

_Ant_. Your Lordship's early up.

_Guil_. My Stomach was up before me, Friend; and I'm damnably hungry;
'tis strange how a man's Appetite increases with his Greatness; I'll
swinge it away now I'm a Lord,--then I will wench without Mercy; I'm
resolv'd to spare neither Man, Woman, nor Child, not I; hey, Rogues,
Rascals, Boys, my Breakfast, quickly, Dogs--let me see, what shall I
have now that's rare?

_Page_. What will your Honour please to have?

_Guil_. A small rasher of delicate Bacon, Sirrah--of about a Pound, or
two, with a small Morsel of Bread--round the Loaf, d'ye hear, qu