Volume Iii Part 38 (1/2)

_Guz_. Why he never read in's life; knows neither Longitude nor Lat.i.tude, 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 a.s.sist 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 Lords.h.i.+p-- [_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 Lords.h.i.+p's early up.

_Guil_. My Stomach was up before me, Friend; and I'm d.a.m.nably hungry; 'tis strange how a man's Appet.i.te 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, quickly, Slaves.

_Ant_. That's gross meat, Sir, a pair of Quails--or--

_Guil_. I thank you for that, i'faith, take your Don again, an you please, I'll not be starv'd for ne'er a Don in Christendom.

_Ant_. But you must study to refine your Manners a little.

_Guil_. Manners! you shall pardon me for that; as if a Lord had not more privilege to be more saucy, more rude, impertinent, slovenly and foolish than the rest of his Neighbours, or Mankind.

_Car_. Ay, ay, 'tis great.

_Guil_. Your saucy Rudeness, in a Grandee, is Freedom; your Impertinence, Wit; your Sloven, careless; and your Fool, good natur'd; as least they shall pa.s.s so in me, I'll warrant ye.

_Car_. Well, you have your full Instructions; your Baggage, Bills and Letters, from _Octavio_ the _Sevilian_ Merchant.

_Guz_. All, all, Sir, are ready, and his Lords.h.i.+p's breakfast waits.