Blunt. ’Dshartlikins, I cou’d kill my self.
Feth. To fight away a couple of such hopeful Monsters, and two Millions—’owns, was ever Valour so improvident?
Blunt. Your fighting made me mistake: for who the Pox wou’d have look’d for Nicholas Fetherfool in the person of a Hero?
Feth. Fight, ’Sbud, a Million of Money wou’d have provok’d a Bully; besides, I took you for the damn’d Rogue my Rival.
Blunt. Just as I had finish’d my Serenade, and had put up my Pipes to be gone, out stalk’d me your two-handed Lady, with a Man at her Girdle like a bunch of Keys, whom I taking for nothing less than some one who had some foul design upon the Gentlewoman, like a true Knight-Errant, did my best to rescue her.
Feth. Yes, yes, I feel you did, a Pox of your heavy hand.
Blunt. So whilst we two were lovingly cuffing each other, comes the Rival, I suppose, and carries off the Prize.
Feth. Who must be Seignior Lucifer himself, he cou’d never have vanisht with that Celerity else with such a Carriage—But come, all we have to do is to raise the Mountebank and the Guardian, pursue the Rogues, have ’em hang’d by Law, for a Rape, and Theft, and then we stand fair again.
Blunt. Faith, you may, if you please, but Fortune has provided otherwise for me. [Aside.] [Ex. Blu. and Feth.
Enter Beaumond and Ariadne.