Aur. I beg his pardon, for forgetting his antipathy; but it imports not much, sir; for I have lately received a letter from my servant, that he is yet in Spain, and stays for a wind in St Sebastian's.
Bel. Now I am lost, past all redemption.—Maskall, must you be smickering after wenches, while I am in calamity?
[Aside.
Mask. It must be he, I'll venture on't. [Aside.]—Alas, sir, I was complaining to myself of the condition of poor Don Melchor, who, you know, is wind-bound at St Sebastian's.
Bel. Why, you impudent villain, must you offer to name him publicly, when I have taken so much care to conceal him all this while?
Aur. Mitigate your displeasure, I beseech you; and, without making farther testimony of it, gratify my expectances.
Bel. Well, madam, since the sea hinders not, you shall have your desire. Look upon me with a fixed eye——so——or a little more amorously, if you please——good. Now favour me with your hand.
Aur. Is it absolutely necessary you should press my hand thus?
Bel. Furiously necessary, I assure you, madam; for now I take possession of it in the name of the idea of Don Melchor. Now, madam, I am farther to desire of you, to write a note to his genius, wherein you desire him to appear, and this we men of art call a compact with the ideas.
Aur. I tremble furiously.
Bel. Give me your hand, I'll guide it.
[They write.