Guil. A Citizen’s! what clod of Earth cou’d bring forth such a Beauty?
Fran. Alas, my Lord, I am that clod of Earth, and to Earth, if you call it so, she must return again, for she’s to be married to a Citizen this Morning.
Guil. Oh! I am doubly wounded, first with her harmonious Eyes, Who’ve fir’d my Heart to that Degree, No Chimney ever burnt like me. Fair Lady,—suffer the Broom of my Affection to sweep all other Lovers from your heart.
Isa. Ah, my Lord, name it not, I’m this day to be married.
Guil. To day! name me the Man; Man did I say? the Monster, that dares lay claim to her I deign to love,—none answer me,—I’ll make him smoak, by Vulcan—and all the rest of the Goddesses.
Fran. Bless me, what a furious thing this Love is?
Guil. By this bright Sword, that is so used to slaughter, he dies; [Draws.] old Fellow, say—the Poltroon’s name.
Fran. Oh, fearful—alas, dread Sir!
Isa. Ah! sheath your Sword, and calm your generous Rage.
Guil. I cannot brook a Rival in my Love, the rustling Pole of my Affection is too strong to be resisted. Runs raging up and down the Stage with his Sword in his hand.