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