Ang. No, you may keep the Trifle.
Ant. You shall first ask my leave, and this. [Fight again as before.
Enter Belv. and Fred. who join with the English.
Ang. Hold; will you ruin me?—Biskey, Sebastian, part them. [The Spaniards are beaten off.
Moret. Oh Madam, we’re undone, a pox upon that rude Fellow, he’s set on to ruin us: we shall never see good days, till all these fighting poor Rogues are sent to the Gallies.
Enter Belvile, Blunt and Willmore, with [his shirt bloody].
Blunt. ’Sheartlikins, beat me at this Sport, and I’ll ne’er wear Sword more.
Belv. The Devil’s in thee for a mad Fellow, thou art always one at an unlucky Adventure.—Come, let’s be gone whilst we’re safe, and remember these are Spaniards, a sort of People that know how to revenge an Affront.
Fred. You bleed; I hope you are not wounded. [To Will.
Will. Not much:—a plague upon your Dons, if they fight no better they’ll ne’er recover Flanders.—What the Devil was’t to them that I took down the Picture?