_Osm_. Whatever you command.

_Abd_. Good!--then see it be perform'd.
_Osmin_, how goes the Night?

_Osm_. About the hour of Eight,
And you're expected at the Banquet, Sir:
Prince _Philip_ storms, and swears you're with the Queen.

_Abd_. Let him storm on; the Tempest will be laid--
Where's my Wife?

_Osm_. In the Presence, Sir, with the Princess and
Other Ladies.

_Abd_. She's wondrous forward!--what the King--
(I am not jealous tho)--but he makes court to her.
--Hah, _Osmin_!
He throws out Love from Eyes all languishing;--
Come tell me,--he does sigh to her,--no matter if he do--
And fawns upon her Hand,--and kneels;--tell me, Slave!

_Osm_. Sir, I saw nothing like to Love; he only treats her
Equal to her Quality.

_Abd_. Oh, damn her Quality.

_Zar_. I came just now
From waiting on his Person to the Banquet,
And heard him ask, if he might visit her to Night,