Volume I Part 36 (2/2)

A Dwarf, her Sister.

Footmen, Servants, Musicians, Operators and Spectators.

SCENE, _Madrid_.

ACT I.

SCENE I. _A Street._

Enter _Willmore_, _Blunt_, _Fetherfool_, and _Hunt_, two more in Campain Dresses, _Rag_ the Captain's Boy.

_Will._ Stay, this is the _English_ Amba.s.sador's. I'll inquire if _Beaumond_ be return'd from _Paris_.

_Feth._ Prithee, dear Captain, no more Delays, unless thou thinkest he will invite us to Dinner; for this fine thin sharp Air of _Madrid_ has a most notable Faculty of provoking an Appet.i.te: Prithee let's to the Ordinary.

_Will._ I will not stay-- [Knocks, enter a Porter.

--Friend, is the Amba.s.sador's Nephew, Mr. _Beaumond_, return'd to _Madrid_ yet? If he be, I would speak with him.

_Port._ I'll let him know so much. [Goes in, shuts the door.

_Blunt._ Why, how now, what's the Door shut upon us?

_Feth._ And reason, _Ned_, 'tis Dinner-time in the Amba.s.sador's Kitchen, and should they let the savoury Steam out, what a world of _Castilians_ would there be at the Door feeding upon't.-- Oh there's no living in _Spain_ when the Pot's uncover'd.

_Blunt._ Nay, 'tis a Nation of the finest clean Teeth--

_Feth._ Teeth! Gad an they use their Swords no oftner, a Scabbard will last an Age.

Enter _s.h.i.+ft_ from the House.

_Will._ Honest Lieutenant--

_s.h.i.+ft._ My n.o.ble Captain-- Welcome to Madrid. What Mr. _Blunt_, and my honoured Friend _Nicholas Fetherfool_ Esq.

_Feth._ Thy Hand, honest _s.h.i.+ft_-- [They embrace him.

_Will._ And how, Lieutenant, how stand Affairs in this unsanctify'd Town?-- How does Love's great Artillery, the fair La Nuche, from whose bright Eyes the little wanton G.o.d throws Darts to wound Mankind?

_s.h.i.+ft._ Faith, she carries all before her still; undoes her Fellow-traders in Love's Art: and amongst the Number, old _Carlo de Minalta Segosa_ pays high for two Nights in a Week.

_Will._ Hah-- Carlo! Death, what a greeting's here! Carlo, the happy Man! a Dog! a Rascal, gain the bright La Nuche! Oh Fortune! Cursed blind mistaken Fortune! eternal Friend to Fools! Fortune! that takes the n.o.ble Rate from Man, to place it on her Idol Interest.

_s.h.i.+ft._ Why Faith, Captain, I should think her Heart might stand as fair for you as any, could you be less satirical-- but by this Light, Captain, you return her Raillery a little too roughly.

_Will._ Her Raillery! By this Hand I had rather be handsomly abus'd than dully flatter'd; but when she touches on my Poverty, my honourable Poverty, she presses me too sensibly-- for nothing is so nice as Poverty-- But d.a.m.n her, I'll think of her no more: for she's a Devil, tho her Form be Angel. Is Beaumond come from Paris yet?

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