Jul. Since you’ve lost your Honour with your wits, I’ll try what mine will do.
Enter Carlos, Turks.
Fran. Oh, I am lost, I’m lost—dear Wife,—most mighty Sir, I’ve brought her finely to’t—do not make me lose my credit with his Mahometan Grace,—my Wife has a monstrous Affection for your Honour, but she’s something bashful; but when alone your Magnanimousness will find her a swinger.
Car. Fair Creature—
Jul. Do you believe my Husband, Sir? he’s mad.
Car. Dog. [Offers to kill him.
Fran. Hold, mighty Emperor; as I hope to be saved, ‘tis but a copy of her Countenance—inhuman Wife—lead her to your Apartment, Sir! barbarous honest Woman,—to your Chamber, Sir,—wou’d I had married thee an errant Strumpet; nay, to your Royal Bed, Sir, I’ll warrant you she gives you taunt for taunt: try her, Sir, try her. [Puts ‘em out.
Jac. Hark you, Sir, are you possest, or is it real reformation in you? what mov’d this kind fit?
Fran. E’en Love to sweet Life; and I shall think my self ever obliged to my dear Wife, for this kind Reprieve;—had she been cruel, I had been strangled, or hung in the Air like our Prophet’s Tomb.
Enter First Turk.