Harl. Que questo.
Feth. Ay, un pouer dead Home, murder’d, kill’d.
Harl. (In Italian.) You are the first dead Man I ever saw walk.
Feth. Hah, Seignior Harlequin!
Harl. Seignior Nicholas!
Feth. A Pox Nicholas ye, I have been mall’d and beaten within doors, and hang’d and bastinado’d without doors, lost my Clothes, my Money, and all my Moveables; but this is nothing to the Secret taking Air. Ah, dear Seignior, convey me to the Mountebanks, there I may have Recruit and Cure under one.
La Nuche on a Couch in an Undress, Willmore at her Feet, on his Knees, all unbraced: his Hat, Sword, &c. on the Table, at which she is dressing her Head.
Will. Oh Gods! no more!