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.

Isa.  You possibly may see some Turkish Ladies, that may insnare your Heart, and make you faithless;—­but I, ah Heavens! if ever I change my Love, may I become deformed, and lose all hopes of Title or of Grandure.

Guil.  But should the Grand Seignior behold thy Beauty, thou wou’dst despise thine own dear hony Viscount to be a Sultana.

Isa.  A Sultana, what’s that?

Guil.  Why, ’tis the great Turk, a Queen of Turkey.

Isa.  These dear expressions go to my Heart. [Weeps.  And yet a Sultana is a tempting thing—­ [Aside smiling.  —­And you shall find your Isabella true,—­though the Grand Seignior wou’d lay his Crown at my feet,—­wou’d he wou’d try me though—­Heavens! to be Queen of Turkey. [Aside.

Guil.  May I believe thee,—­but when thou seest the difference, alas, I am but a Chimney—­hum, nothing to a great Turk.

Isa.  Is he so rare a thing?—­Oh, that I were a she great Turk.
          
                                                   [Aside.

Guz.  Come, come, we can’t attend your amorous Parleys.
          
                                           [Parts ’em.

Jul.  Alas, what shall we poor Women do?

[Ex.  Men.

Isa.  We must e’en have patience, Madam, and be ravisht.

Cla.  Ravisht!  Heavens forbid.

Jac.  An please the Lord, I’ll let my nails grow against that direful day.

Isa.  And so will I, for I’m resolv’d none should ravish me but the great Turk.

Guz.  Come, Ladies, you are Dishes to be serv’d up to the board of the Grand Seignior.

Isa.  Why, will he eat us all?

Guz.  A slice of each, perhaps, as he finds his Appetite inclin’d.

Isa.  A slice, uncivil Fellow,—­as if this Beauty were for a bit and away;—­Sir, a word,—­if you will do me the favour, to recommend me to be first served up to the Grand Seignior, I shall remember the Civility when I am great.