Fran. Oh, hold, hold, I’m no Christian, Gentlemen; but as errant a Heathen as your selves.
Guz. Bind him strait, neck and heels, and clap him under hatches.
Jul. Oh, spare him, Sir, look on his Reverend Age.
Guz. For your sake, Lady, much may be done, we’ve need of handsom Women. [Gives her to some Turks that are by.
Fran. Hah,—my Wife! My Wife ravish’d—oh, I’m dead.
Jul. Fear not, my dear, I’ll rather die than do thee wrong.
Fran. Wou’d she wou’d, quickly,—then there’s her Honour sav’d, and her Ransom, which is better.
Guz. Down with the muttering Dog; [He descends. —And takes the Ladies to several Cabins. [The Turks take hold of the Men.
Isa. Must we be parted then?—ah, cruel Destiny! [Weeps.
Guil. Alas! this Separation’s worse than Death.