Beau. Hold, hold—hah, Willmore! thou Man of constant mischief, what’s the matter?
La Nu. Beaumond! undone!
Aria. —Beaumond!—
Will. Why, here’s a young Spark will take my Lady Bright from me; the unmanner’d Hot-spur would not have patience till I had finish’d my small Affair with her. [Puts up his Sword.
Aria. Death, he’ll know me—Sir, you see we are prevented. [Draws him aside.
—or— [Seems to talk to him, Beau. gazes on La Nuche, who has pull’d down her Veil.
Beau. ’Tis she! Madam, this Veil’s too thin to hide the perjur’d Beauty underneath. Oh, have I been searching thee, with all the diligence of impatient Love, and am I thus rewarded, to find thee here incompass’d round with Strangers, fighting, who first should take my right away?—Gods! take your Reason back, take all your Love; for easy Man’s unworthy of the Blessings.
Will. Harkye, Harry—the—Woman—the almighty Whore—thou told’st me of to day.
Beau. Death, do’st thou mock my Grief—unhand me strait, for tho I cannot blame thee, I must hate thee.— [Goes out.
Will. What the Devil [ails he?]