Lop. 'Tis pitiful, 'tis wondrous pitiful!
Jac. Begone, I say. Thus, Ladies 'tis, perhaps, sometimes with you; With Scorn you fly the Thing, which you pursue.
[Exit Jac.
Lop. [Solus.] 'Tis very well, Mrs. Flipflap, 'tis very well; but do you hear——Tawdry, you are not so alluring as you think you are——Comb-brush, nor I so much in love——your Maidenhead may chance to grow mouldy with your Airs—the Pox be your Bedfellow; there's that for you. Come, let's think no more on't. Sailors must meet with Storms; my Master's going to Sea, too. He may chance to fare no better with the Lady, than I have done with her Abigail: There may be foul Weather there, too. I reckon, at present, he may be lying by under a Mizen, at the Street-Door; I think it rains too, for his Comfort. What if I shou'd leave him there an Hour or two, in fresco, and try to work off the Amour that Way? No; People will be physick'd their own Way. But, perhaps, I might save his Life by't——yes, and have my Bones broke, for being so officious; therefore, if you are at the Door, Don John, walk in, and take your Fortune.
[Opens the Door.
Enter Don John.
Don John. Hist! hist!
Lop. Hist! hist!
Don John. Lopez!
Lop. [Aside.] The Devil—Tread softly.