The Works of Aphra Behn, Volume III

SCENE I. The Street.

Enter Sir Timothy Tawdrey, Sham, and Sharp.

Sir Tim. Hereabouts is the House wherein dwells the Mistress of my Heart; for she has Money, Boys, mind me, Money in abundance, or she were not for me—The Wench her self is good-natur’d, and inclin’d to be civil: but a Pox on’t—she has a Brother, a conceited Fellow, whom the World mistakes for a fine Gentleman; for he has travell’d, talks Languages, bows with a bonne mine, and the rest; but, by Fortune, he shall entertain you with nothing but Words—

Sham. Nothing else!—

Sir Tim. No—He’s no Country-Squire, Gentlemen, will not game, whore; nay, in my Conscience, you will hardly get your selves drunk in his Company—He treats A-la-mode, half Wine, half Water, and the rest—But to the Business, this Fellow loves his Sister dearly, and will not trust her in this leud Town, as he calls it, without him; and hither he has brought her to marry me.

Sham. A Pox upon him for his Pains—

Sir Tim. So say I—But my Comfort is, I shall be as weary of her, as the best Husband of ‘em all. But there’s Conveniency in it; besides, the Match being as good as made up by the old Folks in the Country, I must submit—The Wench I never saw yet, but they say she’s handsom—But no matter for that, there’s Money, my Boys.

Sharp. Well, Sir, we will follow you—but as dolefully as People do their Friends to the Grave, from whence they’re never to return, at least not the same Substance; the thin airy Vision of a brave good Fellow, we may see thee hereafter, but that’s the most.

Sir Tim. Your Pardon, sweet Sharp, my whole Design in it is to be Master of my self, and with part of her Portion to set up my Miss, Betty Flauntit; which, by the way, is the main end of my marrying; the rest you’ll have your shares of—Now I am forc’d to take you up Suits at treble Prizes, have damn’d Wine and Meat put upon us, ‘cause the Reckoning is to be book’d: But ready Money, ye Rogues! What Charms it has! makes the Waiters fly, Boys, and the Master with Cap in Hand—excuse what’s amiss, Gentlemen—Your Worship shall command the best—and the rest—How briskly the Box and Dice dance, and the ready Money submits to the lucky Gamester, and the gay Wench consults with every Beauty to make her self agreeable to the Man with ready Money! In fine, dear Rogues, all things are sacrific’d to its Power; and no Mortal conceives the Joy of Argent Content. ‘Tis this powerful God that makes me submit to the Devil, Matrimony; and then thou art assur’d of me, my stout Lads of brisk Debauch.

Sham. And is it possible you can be ty’d up to a Wife? Whilst here in London, and free, you have the whole World to range in, and like a wanton Heifer, eat of every Pasture.

Sir Tim. Why, dost think I’ll be confin’d to my own dull Enclosure? No, I had rather feed coarsely upon the boundless Common; perhaps two or three days I may be in love, and remain constant, but that’s the most.

Sharp. And in three Weeks, should you wed a Cynthia, you’d be a Monster.

Sir Tim. What, thou meanest a Cuckold, I warrant. God help thee! But a Monster is only so from its Rarity, and a Cuckold is no such strange thing in our Age.

Enter Bellmour and Friendlove.

But who comes here? Bellmour! Ah, my little dear Rogue! how dost thou? —Ned Friendlove too! Dear Lad, how dost thou too? Why, welcome to Town, i’faith, and I’m glad to see you both.

Friend. Sir Timothy Tawdrey!—

Sir Tim. The same, by Fortune, dear Ned: And how, and how, Man, how go Matters?

Friend. Between who, Sir?

Sir Tim. Why, any Body, Man; but, by Fortune, I’m overjoy’d to meet thee: But where dost think I was going?

Friend. Is’t possible one shou’d divine?

Sir Tim. Is’t possible you shou’d not, and meet me so near your Sister’s Lodgings? Faith, I was coming to pay my Respects and Services, and the rest—Thou know’st my meaning—The old Business of the Silver-World, Ned; by Fortune, it’s a mad Age we live in, Ned; and here be so many—wicked Rogues, about this damn’d leud Town, that, ’.aith, I am fain to speak in the vulgar modish Style, in my own Defence, and railly Matrimony and the rest.

Friend. Matrimony!—I hope you are so exactly refin’d a Man of the Town, that you will not offer once to think of so dull a thing: let that alone for such cold Complexions as Bellmour here, and I, that have not attain’d to that most excellent faculty of Keeping yet, as you, Sir Timothy, have done; much to your Glory, I assure you.

Sir Tim. Who, I, Sir? You do me much Honour: I must confess I do not find the softer Sex cruel; I am received as well as another Man of my Parts.

Friend. Of your Money you mean, Sir.

Sir Tim. Why, ‘faith, Ned, thou art i’th’ right; I love to buy my
Pleasure: for, by Fortune, there’s as much pleasure in Vanity and
Variety, as any Sins I know; What think’st thou, Ned?

Friend. I am not of your Mind, I love to love upon the square; and that I may be sure not to be cheated with false Ware, I present ‘em nothing but my Heart.

Sir Tim. Yes, and have the Consolation of seeing your frugal huswifery
Miss in the Pit, at a Play, in a long Scarf and Night-gown, for want of
Points, and Garniture.

Friend. If she be clean, and pretty, and drest in Love, I can excuse the rest, and so will she.

Sir Tim. I vow to Fortune, Ned, thou must come to London, and be a little manag’d: ‘slife, Man, shouldst thou talk so aloud in good Company, thou wouldst be counted a strange Fellow. Pretty—and drest with Love—a fine Figure, by Fortune: No, Ned, the painted Chariot gives a Lustre to every ordinary Face, and makes a Woman look like Quality; Ay, so like, by Fortune, that you shall not know one from t’other, till some scandalous, out-of-favour’d laid-aside Fellow of the Town, cry—Damn her for a Bitch—how scornfully the Whore regards me—She has forgot since Jack—such a one, and I, club’d for the keeping of her, when both our Stocks well manag’d wou’d not amount to above seven Shillings six Pence a week; besides now and then a Treat of a Breast of Mutton from the next Cook’s.—Then the other laughs, and crys—Ay, rot her—and tells his Story too, and concludes with, Who manages the Jilt now; Why, faith, some dismal Coxcomb or other, you may be sure, replies the first. But, Ned, these are Rogues, and Rascals, that value no Man’s Reputation, because they despise their own. But faith, I have laid aside all these Vanities, now I have thought of Matrimony; but I desire my Reformation may be a Secret, because, as you know, for a Man of my Address, and the rest—’tis not altogether so Jantee.

Friend. Sir, I assure you, it shall be so great a Secret for me, that I will never ask you who the happy Woman is, that’s chosen for this great Work of your Conversion.

Sir Tim. Ask me—No, you need not, because you know already.

Friend. Who, I? I protest, Sir Timothy—

Sir Tim. No Swearing, dear Ned, for ‘tis not such a Secret, but I will trust my Intimates: these are my Friends, Ned; pray know them—This Mr. Sham, and this—by Fortune, a very honest Fellow [Bows to ‘em] Mr. Sharp, and may be trusted with a Bus’ness that concerns you as well as me.

Friend. Me! What do you mean, Sir Timothy?

Sir Tim. Why, Sir, you know what I mean.

Friend. Not I, Sir.

Sir Tim. What, not that I am to marry your Sister Celinda?

Friend. Not at all.

Bel. O, this insufferable Sot! [Aside.

Friend. My Sister, Sir, is very nice.

Sir Tim. That’s all one, Sir, the old People have adjusted the matter, and they are the most proper for a Negotiation of that kind, which saves us the trouble of a tedious Courtship.

Friend. That the old People have agreed the matter, is more than I know.

Sir Tim. Why, Lord, Sir, will you persuade me to that? Don’t you know that your Father (according to the Method in such Cases, being certain of my Estate) came to me thus—Sir Timothy Tawdrey,—you are a young Gentleman, and a Knight, I knew your Father well, and my right worshipful Neighbour, our Estates lie together; therefore, Sir, I have a desire to have a near Relation with you—At which, I interrupted him, and cry’d—Oh Lord, Sir, I vow to Fortune, you do me the greatest Honour, Sir, and the rest—

Bel. I can endure no more; he marry fair Celinda!

Friend. Prithee let him alone. [Aside.

Sir Tim. To which he answer’d—I have a good Fortune—have but my Son Ned, and this Girl, call’d Celinda, whom I will make a Fortune, sutable to yours; your honoured Mother, the Lady Tawdrey, and I, have as good as concluded the Match already. To which I (who, though I say it, am well enough bred for a Knight) answered the Civility thus—I vow to Fortune, Sir—I did not swear, but cry’d—I protest, Sir, Celinda, deserves—no, no, I lye again, ‘twas merits—Ay, Celinda—merits a much better Husband than I.

Friend. You speak more Truth than you are aware of. [Aside.] Well, Sir, I’ll bring you to my Sister; and if she likes you, as well as My Father does, she’s yours; otherwise, I have so much Tenderness for her, as to leave her Choice free.

Sir Tim. Oh, Sir, you compliment. _Alons, Entrons.

[Exeunt_.

Enter Celinda, and Nurse.

Cel. I wonder my Brother stays so long: sure Mr. Bellmour is not yet arriv’d, yet he sent us word he would be here to day. Lord, how impatient I grow!

Nur. Ay, so methinks; if I had the hopes of enjoying so sweet a Gentleman as Mr. Bellmour, I shou’d be so too—But I am past it—Well, I have had my Pantings, and Heavings, my Impatience, and Qualms, my Heats, and my Colds, and my I know not whats—But I thank my Stars, I have done with all those Fooleries.

Cel. Fooleries!—
Is there any thing in Life but Love?
Wou’dst thou praise Heaven for thy Being,
Without that grateful part of it?
For I confess I love.

Nur. You need not, your Sighs, and daily (nay, and nightly too) Disorders, plainly enough betray the Truth.

Cel. Thou speak’st as if it were a Sin:
But if it be so, you your self help’d to make me wicked.
For e’er I saw Mr. Bellmour, you spoke the kindest things of him,
As would have mov’d the dullest Maid to love;
And e’er I saw him, I was quite undone.

Nur. Quite undone! Now God forbid it; what, for loving? You said but now there was no Life without it.

Cel. But since my Brother came from Italy,
And brought young Bellmour to our House,
How very little thou hadst said of him!
How much above thy Praise, I found the Youth!

Nur. Very pretty! You are grown a notable Proficient in Love—And you are resolv’d (if he please) to marry him?

Cel. Or I must die.

Nur. Ay, but you know the Lord Plotwell has the Possession of all his Estate, and if he marry without his liking, has Power to take away all his Fortune, and then I think it were not so good marrying him.

Cel. Not marrying him! Oh, canst thou think so poorly of me?
Yes, I would marry him, though our scanty Fortune
Cou’d only purchase us
A lonely Cottage, in some silent Place,
All cover’d o’er with Thatch,
Defended from the Outrages of Storms
By leafless Trees, in Winter; and from Heat,
With Shades, which their kind Boughs wou’d bear anew;
Under whose Covert we’d feed our gentle Flock,
That shou’d in gratitude repay us Food,
And mean and humble Clothing.

Nur. Very fine!

Cel. There we wou’d practise such degrees of Love,
Such lasting, innocent, unheard of Joys,
As all the busy World should wonder at,
And, amidst all their Glories, find none such.

Nur. Good lack! how prettily Love teaches his Scholars to prattle.— But hear ye, fair Mrs. Celinda, you have forgot to what end and purpose you came to Town; not to marry Mr. Bellmour, as I take it—but Sir Timothy Tawdrey, that Spark of Men.

Cel. Oh, name him not—Let me not in one Moment Descend from Heaven to Hell— How came that wretched thing into thy Noddle?

Nur. Faith, Mistress, I took pity of thee, I saw you so elevated with Thoughts of Mr. Bellmour, I found it necessary to take you down a degree lower.

Cel. Why did not Heaven make all Men like lo Bellmour? So strangely sweet and charming!

Nur. Marry come up, you speak well for your self; Oh intolerable loving Creature! But here comes the utmost of your Wishes.

Cel. My Brother, and Bellmour! with strange Men!

Enter Friendlove, Bellmour, Sir Timothy, Sham, and Sharp.

Friend. Sister, I’ve brought you here a Lover, this is the worthy Person you have heard of, Sir Timothy Tawdrey.

Sir Tim. Yes, faith, Madam, I am Sir Timothy Tawdrey, at your
Service—Pray are not you Mrs. Celinda Dresswell?

Cel. The same, but cannot return your Compliment.

Sir Tim. Oh Lord, oh Lord, not return a Compliment. Faith, Ned, thy Sister’s quite spoil’d, for want of Town-Education; ‘tis pity, for she’s devilish pretty.

Friend. She’s modest, Sir, before Company; therefore these Gentlemen and I will withdraw into the next Room.

Cel. Inhuman Brother! Will you leave me alone with this Sot?

Friend. Yes, and if you would be rid of the trouble of him, be not coy, nor witty; two things he hates.

Bel. ‘Sdeath! Must she be blown upon by that Fool?

Friend. Patience, dear Frank, a little while.

[Exeunt Friend. Bell. Sham and Sharp.

    [Sir Timothy walks about the Room, expecting when
    Celinda should speak.

Cel. Oh, dear Nurse, what shall I do?

Nur. I that ever help you at a dead Lift, will not fail you now.

Sir Tim. What a Pox, not a Word?

Cel. Sure this Fellow believes I’ll begin.

Sir Tim. Not yet—sure she has spoke her last—

Nur. The Gentleman’s good-natur’d, and has took pity on you, and will not trouble you, I think.

Sir Tim.—Hey day, here’s Wooing indeed—Will she never begin, trow? —This some would call an excellent Quality in her Sex—But a pox on’t, I do not like it—Well, I see I must break Silence at last—Madam—not answer me—’shaw, this is mere ill breeding—by Fortune—it can be nothing else—O’ my Conscience, if I should kiss her, she would bid me stand off—I’ll try—

Nur. Hold, Sir, you mistake your Mark.

Sir Tim. So I should, if I were to look in thy mouldy Chaps, good
Matron—Can your Lady speak?

Nur. Try, Sir.

Sir Tim. Which way?

Nur. Why, speak to her first.

Sir Tim. I never knew a Woman want a Cue for that; but all that I
Have met with were still before-hand with me in tittle tattle.

Nur. Likely those you have met with may, but this is no such Creature, Sir.

Sir Tim. I must confess, I am unus’d to this kind of Dialogue; and
I am an Ass, if I know what to say to such a Creature.
—But come, will you answer me to one Question?

Cel. If I can, Sir.

Sir Tim. But first I should ask you if you can speak? For that’s a
Question too.

Cel. And if I cannot, how will you be answer’d?

Sir Tim. Faith, that’s right; why, then you must do’t by signs.

Cel. But grant I can speak, what is’t you’ll ask me?

Sir Tim. Can you love?

Cel. Oh, yes, Sir, many things; I love my Meat, I love abundance of Adorers, I love choice of new Clothes, new Plays; and, like a right Woman, I love to have my Will.

Sir Tim. Spoke like a well-bred Person, by Fortune: I see there’s hopes of thee, Celinda; thou wilt in time learn to make a very fashionable Wife, having so much Beauty too. I see Attracts, and Allurements, wanton Eyes, the languishing turn of the Head, and all That invites to Temptation.

Cel. Would that please you in a Wife?

Sir Tim. Please me! Why, Madam, what do you take me to be? a Sot?— a Fool?—or a dull Italian of the Humour of your Brother?—No, no, I can assure you, she that marries me, shall have Franchise—But, my pretty Miss, you must learn to talk a little more—

Cel. I have not Wit, and Sense enough, for that.

Sir Tim. Wit! Oh la, O la, Wit! as if there were any Wit requir’d in a Woman when she talks; no, no matter for Wit, or Sense: talk but loud, and a great deal to shew your white Teeth, and smile, and be very confident, and ‘tis enough—Lord, what a Sight ‘tis to see a pretty Woman Stand right up an end in the middle of a Room, playing with her Fan, for want of something to keep her in Countenance. No, she that is mine, I will teach to entertain at another rate.

Nur. How, Sir? Why, what do you take my young Mistress to be?

Sir Tim. A Woman—and a fine one, and so fine as she ought to permit her self to be seen, and be ador’d.

Nur. Out upon you, would you expose your Wife? by my troth, and I were she, I know what I wou’d do—

Sir Tim. Thou do—what thou wouldst have done sixty Years ago, thou meanest.

Nur. Marry come up, for a stinking Knight; worse than I have gone down with you, e’er now—Sixty Years ago, quoth ye—As old as I am— I live without Surgeons, wear my own Hair, am not in Debt to my Taylor, as thou art, and art fain to kiss his Wife, to persuade her Husband to be merciful to thee—who wakes thee every Morning with his Clamour and long Bills, at thy Chamber-door.

Sir Tim. Prithee, good Matron, Peace; I’ll compound with thee.

Nur. ‘Tis more than thou wilt do with thy Creditors, who, poor Souls, despair of a Groat in the Pound for all thou ow’st them, for Points, Lace, and Garniture—for all, in fine, that makes thee a complete Fop.

Sir Tim. Hold, hold thy eternal Clack.

Nur. And when none would trust thee farther, give Judgments for twice the Money thou borrowest, and swear thy self at Age; and lastly—to patch up your broken Fortune, you wou’d fain marry my sweet Mistress Celinda here—But, Faith, Sir, you’re mistaken, her Fortune shall not go to the Maintenance of your Misses; which being once sure of, she, poor Soul, is sent down to the Country-house, to learn Housewifery, and live without Mankind, unless she can serve her self with the handsom Steward, or so—whilst you tear it away in Town, and live like Man and Wife with your Jilt, and are every Day seen in the Glass Coach, whilst your own natural Lady is hardly worth the Hire of a Hack.

Sir Tim. Why, thou damnable confounded Torment, wilt thou never cease?

Nur. No, not till you raise your Siege, and be gone; go march to your Lady of Love, and Debauch—go—You get no Celinda here.

Sir Tim. The Devil’s in her Tongue.

Cel. Good gentle Nurse, have Mercy upon the poor Knight.

Nur. No more, Mistress, than he’ll have on you, if Heaven had so abandon’d you, to put you into his Power—Mercy—quoth ye—no—, no more than his Mistress will have, when all his Money’s gone.

Sir Tim. Will she never end?

Cel. Prithee forbear.

Nur. No more than the Usurer would, to whom he has mortgag’d the best part of his Estate, would forbear a Day after the promis’d Payment of the Money. Forbear!—

Sir Tim. Not yet end! Can I, Madam, give you a greater Proof of my
Passion for you, than to endure this for your sake?

Nur. This—thou art so sorry a Creature, thou wilt endure any thing for the lucre of her Fortune; ‘tis that thou hast a Passion for: not that thou carest for Money, but to sacrifice to thy Leudness, to purchase a Mistress, to purchase the Reputation of as errant a Fool as ever arriv’d at the Honour of keeping; to purchase a little Grandeur, as you call it; that is, to make every one look at thee, and consider what a Fool thou art, who else might pass unregarded amongst the common Croud.

Sir Tim. The Devil’s in her Tongue, and so ‘tis in most Women’s of her
Age; for when it has quitted the Tail, it repairs to her upper Tire.

Nur. Do not persuade me, Madam, I am resolv’d to make him weary of his Wooing.

Sir Tim. So, God be prais’d, the Storm is laid—And now, Mrs. Celinda, give me leave to ask you, if it be with your leave, this Affront is put on a Man of my Quality?

Nur. Thy Quality—

Sir Tim. Yes; I am a Gentleman, and a Knight.

Nur. Yes, Sir, Knight of the ill-favour’d Countenance is it?

Sir Tim. You are beholding to Don Quixot for that, and ‘tis so many Ages since thou couldst see to read, I wonder thou hast not forgot all that ever belong’d to Books.

Nur. My Eye-sight is good enough to see thee in all thy Colours, thou Knight of the burning Pestle thou.

Sir Tim. Agen, that was out of a Play—Hark ye, Witch of Endor, hold your prating Tongue, or I shall most well-favour’dly cudgel ye.

Nur. As your Friend the Hostess has it in a Play too, I take it, Ends which you pick up behind the Scenes, when you go to be laught at even by the Player-Women.

Sir Tim. Wilt thou have done? By Fortune, I’ll endure no more—

Nur. Murder, Murder!

Cel. Hold, hold.

Enter Friendlove, Bellmour, Sham and Sharp.

Friend. Read here the worst of News that can arrive, [Gives Bellm. a Letter. —What’s the matter here? Why, how now, Sir Timothy, what, up in Arms with the Women?

Sir Tim. Oh, Ned, I’m glad thou’rt come—never was Tom Dove baited as I have been.

Friend. By whom? my Sister?

Sir Tim. No, no, that old Mastiff there—the young Whelp came not on, thanks be prais’d.

Bel. How, her Father here to morrow, and here he says, that shall be the last Moment, he will defer the Marriage of Celinda to this Sot— Oh God, I shall grow mad, and so undo ‘em all—I’ll kill the Villain at the Altar—By my lost hopes, I will—And yet there is some left—Could I but—speak to her—I must rely on Dresswell’s Friendship—Oh God, to morrow—Can I endure that thought? Can I endure to see the Traytor there, who must to morrow rob me of my Heaven?—I’ll own my Flame—and boldly tell this Fop, she must be mine—

Friend. I assure you, Sir Timothy, I am sorry, and will chastise her.

Sir Tim. Ay, Sir, I that am a Knight—a Man of Parts and Wit, and one that is to be your Brother, and design’d to be the Glory of marrying Celinda.

Bel. I can endure no more—How, Sir—You marry fair Celinda!

Sir Tim. Ay, Frank, ay—is she not a pretty little plump white
Rogue, hah?

Bel. Yes.

Sir Tim. Oh, I had forgot thou art a modest Rogue, and to thy eternal
Shame, hadst never the Reputation of a Mistress—Lord, Lord, that I
could see thee address thy self to a Lady—I fancy thee a very ridiculous
Figure in that Posture, by Fortune.

Bel. Why, Sir, I can court a Lady—

Sir Tim. No, no, thou’rt modest; that is to say, a Country Gentleman; that is to say, ill-bred; that is to say, a Fool, by Fortune, as the World goes.

Bel. Neither, Sir—I can love—and tell it too—and that you may believe me—look on this Lady, Sir.

Sir Tim. Look on this Lady, Sir—Ha, ha, ha,—Well, Sir—Well, Sir—
And what then?

Bel. Nay, view her well, Sir—

Sir. Tim. Pleasant this—Well, Frank, I do—And what then?

Bel. Is she not charming fair—fair to a wonder!

Sir Tim. Well, Sir, ‘tis granted—

Bel. And canst thou think this Beauty meant for thee, for thee, dull common Man?

Sir Tim. Very well, what will he say next?

Bel. I say, let me no more see thee approach this Lady.

Sir Tim. How, Sir, how?

Bel. Not speak to her, not look on her—by Heaven—not think of her.

Sir Tim. How, Frank, art in earnest?

Bel. Try, if thou dar’st.

Sir Tim. Not think of her!—

Bel. No, not so much as in a Dream, could I divine it.

Sir Tim. Is he in earnest, Mr. Friendlove?

Friend. I doubt so, Sir Timothy.

Sir Tim. What, does he then pretend to your Sister?

Bel. Yes, and no Man else shall dare do so.

Sir Tim. Take notice I am affronted in your Lodgings—for you, Bellmour—You take me for an Ass—therefore meet me to morrow Morning about five, with your Sword in your Hand, behind Southampton House.

Bel. ‘Tis well—there we will dispute our Title to Celinda. [Exit Sir Tim. Dull Animal! The Gods cou’d ne’er decree So bright a Maid shou’d be possest by thee.

[Exeunt.

SCENE I. A Palace.

Enter Nurse with a Light.

Nur. Well, ‘tis an endless trouble to have the Tuition of a Maid in love, here is such Wishing and Longing.—And yet one must force them to what they most desire, before they will admit of it—Here am I sent out a Scout of the Forlorn Hope, to discover the Approach of the Enemy—Well —Mr. Bellmour, you are not to know, ‘tis with the Consent of Celinda, that you come—I must bear all the blame, what Mischief soever comes of these Night-Works.

Enter Bellmour.

Oh, are you come—Your Hour was Twelve, and now ‘tis almost Two.

Bel. I could not get from Friendlove—Thou hast not told Celinda of my coming?

Nur. No, no, e’en make Peace for me, and your self too.

Bel. I warrant thee, Nurse—Oh, how I hope and fear this Night’s Success!

[Exeunt.

    Celinda in her Night-Attire, leaning on a Table.
    Enter to her Bellmour and Nurse.

Cel. Oh Heavens! Mr. Bellmour at this late Hour in my Chamber!

Bel. Yes, Madam; but will approach no nearer till you permit me; And sure you know my Soul too well to fear.

Cel. I do, Sir, and you may approach yet nearer, And let me know your Business.

Bel. Love is my bus’ness, that of all the World; Only my Flame as much surmounts the rest, As is the Object’s Beauty I adore.

Cel. If this be all, to tell me of your Love, To morrow might have done as well.

Bel. Oh, no, to morrow would have been too late,
Too late to make returns to all my Pain.
—What disagreeing thing offends your Eyes?
I’ve no Deformity about my Person;
I’m young, and have a Fortune great as any
That do pretend to serve you;
And yet I find my Interest in your Heart,
Below those happy ones that are my Rivals.
Nay, every Fool that can but plead his Title,
And the poor Interest that a Parent gives him,
Can merit more than I.
—What else, my lovely Maid, can give a freedom
To that same talking, idle, knighted Fop?

Cel. Oh, if I am so wretched to be his, Surely I cannot live; For, Sir, I must confess I cannot love him.

Bel. But thou may’st do as bad, and marry him, And that’s a Sin I cannot over-live; —No, hear my Vows—

Cel. But are you, Sir, in earnest?

Bel. In earnest? Yes, by all that’s good, I am; I love you more than I do Life, or Heaven!

Cel. Oh, what a pleasure ‘tis to hear him say so! [Aside. —But pray, how long, Sir, have you lov’d me so?

Bel. From the first moment that I saw your Eyes, Your charming killing Eyes, I did adore ‘em; And ever since have languisht Day and Night.

Nur. Come, come, ne’er stand asking of Questions, But follow your Inclinations, and take him at his Word.

Bel. Celinda, take her Counsel,
Perhaps this is the last opportunity;
Nay, and, by Heaven, the last of all my Life,
If you refuse me now—
Say, will you never marry Man but me?

Cel. Pray give me till to morrow, Sir, to answer you; For I have yet some Fears about my Soul, That take away my Rest.

Bel. To morrow! You must then marry—Oh fatal Word! Another! a Beast, a Fool, that knows not how to value you.

Cel. Is’t possible my Fate shou’d be so near?

Nur. Nay, then dispose of your self, I say, and leave dissembling; ’.is high time.

Bel. This Night the Letter came, the dreadful News Of thy being married, and to morrow too. Oh, answer me, or I shall die with Fear.

Cel. I must confess it, Sir, without a blush,
(For ‘tis no Sin to love) that I cou’d wish—
Heaven and my Father were inclin’d my way:
But I am all Obedience to their Wills.

Bel. That Sigh was kind,
But e’er to morrow this time,
You’ll want this pitying Sense, and feel no Pantings,
But those which Joys and Pleasures do create.

Cel. Alas, Sir! what is’t you’d have me do?

Bel. Why—I wou’d have you love, and after that
You need not be instructed what to do.
Give me your Faith, give me your solemn Vow
To be my Wife, and I shall be at Peace.

Cel. Have you consider’d, Sir, your own Condition? ’.is in your Uncle’s Power to take your Fortune, If in your Choice you disobey his Will. —And, Sir, you know that mine is much below you.

Bel. Oh, I shall calm his Rage,
By urging so much Reason as thy Beauty,
And my own Flame, on which my Life depends.
—He now has kindly sent for me to London,
I fear his Bus’ness—
Yet if you’ll yield to marry me,
We’ll keep it secret, till our kinder Stars
Have made provision for the blest Discovery.
Come, give me your Vows, or we must part for ever.

Cel. Part! Oh, ‘tis a fatal Word! I will do any thing to save that Life, To which my own so nearly is ally’d.

Enter Friendlove.

Friend. So, forward Sister!

Bel. Ha, Friendlove!

Friend. Was it so kindly done, to gain my Sister Without my knowledge?

Bel. Ah, Friend! ‘Twas from her self alone That I wou’d take the Blessing which I ask.

Friend. And I’ll assist her, Sir, to give it you. Here, take him as an Honour, and be thankful.

Bel. I as a Blessing sent from Heaven receive her, And e’er I sleep will justify my Claim, And make her mine.

Friend. Be not so hasty, Friend: Endeavour first to reconcile your Uncle to’t.

Bel. By such Delays we’re lost: Hast thou forgot? To morrow she’s design’d another’s Bride!

Friend. For that let me alone t’evade.

Bel. If you must yet delay me,
Give me leave not to interest such Wealth without Security.
And I, Celinda, will instruct you how to satisfy my Fears.
                           [Kneels, and takes her by the Hand.
Bear witness to my Vows—
May every Plague that Heaven inflicts on Sin,
Fall down in Thunder on my Head,
If e’er I marry any but Celinda
Or if I do not marry thee, fair Maid.

Nur. Heartily sworn, as I vow.

Cel. And here I wish as solemnly the same: —May all arrive to me, If e’er I marry any Man but Bellmour!

Nur. We are Witnesses, as good as a thousand.

Friend. But now, my Friend, I’d have you take your leave; the day comes on apace, and you’ve not seen your Uncle since your Arrival.

Bel. ‘Tis Death to part with thee, my fair Celinda; But our hard Fates impose this Separation: —Farewel—Remember thou’rt all mine.

Cel. What have I else of Joy to think upon? —Go—go—depart.

Bel. I will—but ‘tis as Misers part with Gold, Or People full of Health depart from Life.

Friend. Go, Sister, to your Bed, and dream of him.

[Ex. Cel. and Nurse.

Bel. Whilst I prepare to meet this Fop to fight him.

Friend. Hang him, he’ll ne’er meet thee; to beat a Watch, or kick a Drawer, or batter Windows, is the highest pitch of Valour he e’er arriv’d to.

Bel. However, I’ll expect him, lest he be fool-hardy enough to keep his Word.

Friend. Shall I wait on thee?

Bel. No, no, there’s no need of that—Good-morrow, my best Friend.

Friend. But e’er you go, my dearest Friend and Brother,
Now you are sure of all the Joys you wish
From Heaven, do not forgetful grow of that great Trust
I gave you of all mine; but, like a Friend,
Assist me in my great Concern of Love
With fair Diana, your lovely Cousin.
You know how long I have ador’d that Maid;
But still her haughty Pride repell’d my Flame,
And all its fierce Efforts.

Bel. She has a Spirit equal to her Beauty,
As mighty and tyrannick; yet she has Goodness,
And I believe enough inclin’d to Love,
When once her Pride’s o’ercome. I have the Honour
To be the Confident of all her Thoughts:
And to augment thy Hopes, ‘tis not long since
She did with Sighs confess to me, she lov’d
A Man, she said, scarce equal to her Fortune:
But all my Interest could not learn the Object;
But it must needs be you, by what she said.
This I’ll improve, and so to your Advantage—

Friend. I neither doubt thy Industry, nor Love; Go, and be careful of my Interest there, Whilst I preserve thine as intirely here.

[Ex. severally.

Enter Sir Timothy, Sham, Sharp, and Boy.

Sharp. Good morrow, Sir Timothy; what, not yet ready, and to meet Mr. Bellmour at Five? the time’s past.

Sir Tim.—Ay, Pox on’t—I han’t slept to Night for thinking on’t.

Sham. Well, Sir Timothy, I have most excellent News for you, that will do as well; I have found out—

Sir Tim. A new Wench, I warrant—But prithee, Sham, I have other matters in hand; ‘Sheart, I am so mortify’d with this same thought of Fighting, that I shall hardly think of Womankind again.

Sharp. And you were so forward, Sir Timothy—

Sir Tim. Ay, Sharp, I am always so when I am angry; had I been but
A little more provok’d then, that we might have gone to’t when the heat
was brisk, I had done well—but a Pox on’t, this fighting in cool
Blood I hate.

Sham. ‘Shaw, Sir, ‘tis nothing, a Man wou’d do’t for Exercise in a Morning.

Sir Tim. Ay, if there were no more in’t than Exercise; if a Man cou’d take a Breathing without breathing a Vein—but, Sham, this Wounds, and Blood, sounds terribly in my Ears; but since thou say’st ‘tis nothing, prithee do thou meet Bellmour in my stead; thou art a poor Dog, and ’.is no matter if the World were well rid of thee.

Sham. I wou’d do’t with all my Soul—but your Honour, Sir—

Sir Tim.—My Honour! ‘tis but Custom that makes it honourable to fight Duels—I warrant you the wise Italian thinks himself a Man of Honour; and yet when did you hear of an Italian, that ever fought a Duel? Is’t not enough, that I am affronted, have my Mistress taken away before my Face, hear my self call’d, dull, common Man, dull Animal, and the rest?—But I must after all give him leave to kill me too, if he can—And this is your damn’d Honourable English way of shewing a Man’s Courage.

Sham. I must confess I am of your mind, and therefore have been studying a Revenge, sutable to the Affront: and if I can judge any thing, I have hit it.

Sir Tim. Hast thou? dear Sham, out with it.

Sham. Why, Sir—what think you of debauching his Sister?

Sir Tim. Why, is there such a thing in Nature?

Sham. You know he has a Sister, Sir.

Sir Tim. Yes, rich, and fair.

Sham. Both, or she were not worthy of your Revenge.

Sir Tim. Oh, how I love Revenge, that has a double Pleasure in it—and where—and where is this fine piece of Temptation?

Sham. In being, Sir—but Sharp here, and I, have been at some cost in finding her out.

Sir Tim. Ye shall be overpaid—there’s Gold, my little Maquere—but she’s very handsom?

Sharp. As a Goddess, Sir.

Sir Tim. And art thou sure she will be leud?

Sharp. Are we sure she’s a Woman, Sir?—Sure, she’s in her Teens, has Pride and Vanity—and two or three Sins more that I cou’d name, all which never fail to assist a Woman in Debauchery—But, Sir, there are certain People that belong to her, that must be consider’d too.

Sir Tim. Stay, Sir, e’er I part with more Money, I’ll be certain what returns ‘twill make me—that is, I’ll see the Wench, not to inform my self, how well I like her, for that I shall do, because she is new, and Bellmour’s Sister—but to find what possibility there is in gaining her.—I am us’d to these things, and can guess from a Look, or a Kiss, or a Touch of the Hand—but then I warrant, ‘twill come to the knowledge of Betty Flauntit.

Sham. What, Sir, then it seems you doubt us?

Sir Tim. How do you mean, your Honesty or Judgment? I can assure you,
I doubt both.

Sharp. How, Sir, doubt our Honesty!

Sir Tim. Yes—why, I hope neither of you pretend to either, do you?

Sham. Why, Sir, what, do you take us for Cheats?

Sir Tim. As errant, as any’s in Christendom.

Sharp. How, Sir?

Sir Tim. Why, how now—what, fly in my Face? Are your Stomachs so queasy, that Cheat won’t down with you?

Sham. Why, Sir, we are Gentlemen; and though our ill Fortunes have thrown us on your Bounty, we are not to be term’d—

Sir Tim. Why, you pair of Hectors—whence this Impudence?—Do ye know me, ye Raggamuffins?

Sham. Yes, but we knew not that you were a Coward before. You talkt big, and huft where-e’er you came, like an errant Bully; and so long we reverenc’d you—but now we find you have need of our Courage, we’ll stand on our own Reputations.

Sir Tim. Courage and Reputation!—ha, ha, ha—why, you lousy
Tatterdemallions—dare ye talk of Courage and Reputation?

Sharp. Why, Sir, who dares question either?

Sir Tim. He that dares try it. [Kicks ‘em.

Sharp. Hold, Sir, hold.

Sham. Enough, enough, we are satisfy’d.

Sir Tim. So am not I, ye mangy Mungrels, till I have kickt Courage and
Reputation out of ye.

Sham. Hold there, Sir, ‘tis enough, we are satisfy’d, that you have Courage.

Sir Tim. Oh, are you so? then it seems I was not to be believ’d—I told you I had Courage when I was angry.

Sham. Ay, Sir, we have prov’d it, and will now swear it.—But we had an Inclination to try, Sir.

Sir Tim. And all you did, was but to try my Courage, hah!

Sharp. On our Honours, nothing else, Sir Timothy.

Sir Tim. Though I know ye to be cursed cowardly lying Rogues, yet because I have use of ye, I must forgive ye.—Here, kiss my Hand, and be forgiven.

Sham. ‘Tis an Honour we are proud of, Sir.

Sir Tim. Oh, is it so, Rascallians? then I hope I am to see the Lady without Indentures.

Sharp. Oh Lord, Sir, any thing we can serve you in.

Sham. And I have brib’d her Maid to bring her this Morning into the Mall.

Sir Tim. Well, let’s about it then; for I am for no fighting to day—D’ye hear, Boy—Let the Coach be got ready whilst I get my self drest.

Boy. The Coach, Sir! Why, you know Mr. Shatter has pawn’d the Horses.

Sir Tim. I had forgot it—A pox on’t, this ‘tis to have a Partner in
A Coach; by Fortune, I must marry and set up a whole one.

[Exeunt.

Enter Charles Bellmour, and Trusty.

Trusty. Mr. Charles, your Brother, my young Master Bellmour, is come.

Char. I’m glad on’t; my Uncle began to be impatient that he came not, you saying you left him but a day’s Journey behind you yesterday. My Uncle has something of importance to say to him, I fancy it may be about A Marriage between him and my Lady Diana—such a Whisper I heard—

Trusty. Ay, marry, Sir, that were a Match indeed, she being your Uncle’s only Heir.

Char. Ay, but they are Sisters Children, and too near a-kin to be happy.

Trusty. ‘Twere pity my young Master shou’d be unhappy in a Wife; for he is the sweetest-natur’d Gentleman—But one Comfort is, Mr. Charles, you, and your Sister Mrs. Phillis, will have your Portions assign’d you if he marry.

Char. Yes, that he can’t deny us the very Day after his Marriage.

Trusty. I shall be glad to see you all dispos’d of well; but I was half afraid, your Brother would have married Mrs. Celinda Friendlove, to whom he made notable Love in Yorkshire I thought: not but she’s a fine Lady; but her Fortune is below that of my young Master’s, as much as my Lady Diana’s is above his—But see, they come; let us retire, to give ‘em leave to talk alone.

[Exeunt.

Enter Lord Plotwell, and Bellmour.

Lord. And well, Frank, how dost thou find thy self inclin’d? thou should’st begin to think of something more than Books. Do’st thou not wish to know the Joys that are to be found in a Woman, Frank? I well remember at thy Age I fancy’d a thousand fine things of that kind.

Bel. Ay, my Lord, a thousand more perhaps than are to be found.

Lord. Not so; but I confess, Frank, unless the Lady be fair, and there be some Love too, ‘tis not altogether so well; therefore I, who am still busy for thy good, have fix’d upon a Lady—

Bel. Ha!—

Lord. What, dost start? Nay, I’ll warrant thee she’ll please; A Lady rich, and fair, and nobly born, and thou shalt marry her, Frank.

Bel. Marry her, my Lord—

Lord. Why, yes, marry her—I hope you are none of the fashionable Fops, that are always in Mutiny against Marriage, who never think themselves very witty, but when they rail against Heaven and a Wife— But, Frank, I have found better Principles in thee, and thou hast the Reputation of a sober young Gentleman; thou art, besides, a Man of great Fortune, Frank.

Bel. And therefore, Sir, ought the less to be a Slave.

Lord. But, Frank, we are made for one another; and ought, by the Laws of God, to communicate our Blessings.

Bel. Sir, there are Men enough, fitter much than I, to obey those Laws; nor do I think them made for every one.

Lord. But, Frank, you do not know what a Wife I have provided for you.

Bel. ‘Tis enough I know she’s a Woman, Sir.

Lord. A Woman! why, what should she be else?

Bel. An Angel, Sir, e’er she can be my Wife.

Lord. In good time: but this is a Mortal, Sir—and must serve your turn—but, Frank, she is the finest Mortal—

Bel. I humbly beg your Pardon, if I tell you,
That had she Beauty such as Heav’n ne’er made,
Nor meant again t’inrich a Woman with,
It cou’d not take my Heart.

Lord. But, Sir, perhaps you do not guess the Lady.

Bel. Or cou’d I, Sir, it cou’d not change my Nature.

Lord. But, Sir, suppose it be my Niece Diana.

Bel. How, Sir, the fair Diana!

Lord. I thought thou’dst come about again; What think you now of Woman-kind, and Wedlock?

Bel. As I did before, my Lord.

Lord. What, thou canst not think I am in earnest; I confess, Frank, she is above thee in point of Fortune, she being my only Heir—but suppose ‘tis she.

Bel. Oh, I’m undone!—Sir, I dare not suppose so greatly in favour of my self.

Lord. But, Frank, you must needs suppose—

Bel. Oh, I am ruin’d, lost, for ever lost.

Lord. What do you mean, Sir?

Bel. I mean, I cannot marry fair Diana.

Lord. Death! how’s this?

Bel. She is a thing above my humble wishes—

Lord. Is that all? Take you no care for that; for she loves you already, and I have resolv’d it, which is better yet.

Bel. Love me, Sir! I know she cannot, And Heav’n forbid that I should injure her.

Lord. Sir, this is a Put-off: resolve quickly, or I’ll compel you.

Bel. You wou’d not use Extremity; What is the Forfeit of my Disobedience?

Lord. The loss of all your Fortune, If you refuse the Wife I have provided— Especially a handsom Lady, as she is, Frank.

Bel. Oh me, unhappy! What cursed Laws provided this Severity?

Lord. Even those of your Father’s Disposal, who seeing so many Examples in this leud Age, of the ruin of whole Families by imprudent Marriages, provided otherwise for you.

Bel. But, Sir, admit Diana be inclin’d, And I (by my unhappy Stars so curs’d) Should be unable to accept the Honour.

Lord. How, Sir! admit!—I can no more admit, Than you can suppose—therefore give me your final Answer.

Bel. Sir, can you think a Blessing e’er can fall Upon that Pair, whom Interest joins, not Love?

Lord. Why, what’s in Diana, that you shou’d not love her?

Bel. I must confess she has a thousand Virtues,
The least of which wou’d bless another Man;
But, Sir, I hope, if I am so unhappy
As not to love that Lady, you will pardon me.

Lord. Indeed, Sir, but I will not; love me this Lady, and marry me this Lady, or I will teach you what it is to refuse such a Lady.

Bel. Sir, ‘tis not in my power to obey you.

Lord. How! not in your pow’r?

Bel. No, Sir, I see my fatal Ruin in your Eyes, And know too well your Force, and my own Misery. —But, Sir—when I shall tell you who I’ve married—

Lord. Who you’ve married;—By all that’s sacred, if that be true, thou art undone for ever.

Bel. O hear me, Sir! I came with Hopes to have found you merciful.

Lord. Expect none from me; no, thou shalt not have So much of thy Estate, as will afford thee Bread: By Heav’n, thou shalt not.

Bel. Oh, pity me, my Lord, pity my Youth;
It is no Beggar, nor one basely born,
That I have given my Heart to, but a Maid,
Whose Birth, whose Beauty, and whose Education
Merits the best of Men.

Lord. Very fine! where is the Priest that durst dispose of you without my Order? Sirrah, you are my Slave—at least your whole Estate is at my mercy—and besides, I’ll charge you with an Action of 5000 pounds. For your ten Years Maintenance: Do you know that this in my power too?

Bel. Yes, Sir, and dread your Anger worse than Death.

Lord. Oh Villain! thus to dash my Expectation!

Bel. Sir, on my bended Knees, thus low I fall To beg your mercy.

Lord. Yes, Sir, I will have mercy; I’ll give you Lodging—but in a Dungeon, Sir, Where you shall ask your Food of Passers by.

Bel. All this, I know, you have the Pow’r to do;
But, Sir, were I thus cruel, this hard Usage
Would give me Cause to execute it.
I wear a Sword, and I dare right my self;
And Heaven wou’d pardon it, if I should kill you:
But Heav’n forbid I shou’d correct that Law,
Which gives you Power, and orders me Obedience.

Lord. Very well, Sir, I shall tame that Courage, and punish that Harlot, whoe’er she be, that has seduc’d ye.

Bel. How, Harlot, Sir!—Death, such another Word,
And through all Laws and Reason I will rush,
And reach thy Soul, if mortal like thy Body.
—No, Sir, she’s chaste, as are the new-made Vows
I breath’d upon her Lips, when last we parted.

Lord. Who waits there?

Enter Trusty and Servants.

—Shall I be murder’d in my own House?
’.is time you were remov’d—
Go, get an Action of 5000 pounds, enter’d against him,
With Officers to arrest him.

Trusty. My Lord, ‘tis my young Master Bellmour.

Lord. Ye all doat upon him, but he’s not the Man you take him for.

Trusty. How, my Lord! not this Mr. Bellmour!

Lord. Dogs, obey me. [Offers to go.

Bel. Stay, Sir—oh, stay—what will become of me?
’.were better that my Life were lost, than Fortune—
For that being gone, Celinda must not love me.
—But to die wretchedly—
Poorly in Prison—whilst I can manage this—
Is below him, that does adore Celinda. [Draws.
I’ll kill my self—but then—I kill Celinda.
Shou’d I obey this Tyrant—then too she dies.
Yes, Sir—You may be cruel—take the Law,
And kill me quickly, ‘twill become your Justice. [Weeps.

Lord. Was I call’d back for this? Yes, I shall take it, Sir; do not fear. [Offers to go.

Bel. Yet, stay, Sir—Have you lost all Humanity? Have you no Sense of Honour, nor of Horrors?

Lord. Away with him—go, be gone.

Bel. Stay, Sir. Oh, God! what is’t you’d have me do?
—Here—I resign my self unto your Will—
But, Oh Celinda! what will become of thee? [Weeps.
—Yes, I will marry—and Diana too.

Lord. ‘Tis well you will; had I not been good-natur’d now, You had been undone, and miss’d Diana too.

Bel. But must I marry—needs marry, Sir? Or lose my Fortune, and my Liberty, Whilst all my Vows are given to another?

Lord. By all means, Sir—

Bel. If I must marry any but Celinda,
I shall not, Sir, enjoy one moment’s Bliss:
I shall be quite unman’d, cruel and brutal;
A Beast, unsafe for Woman to converse with.
Besides, Sir, I have given my Heart and Faith,
And my second Marriage is Adultery.

Lord. Heart and Faith, I am glad ‘tis no worse; if the Ceremony of the Church has not past, ‘tis well enough.

Bel. All, Sir, that Heaven and Love requires, is past.

Lord. Thou art a Fool, Frank, come—dry thy Eyes. And receive Diana—Trusty, call in my Niece.

Bel. Yet, Sir, relent, be kind, and save my Soul.

[Ex. Trusty.

Lord. No more—by Heaven, if you resist my Will, I’ll make a strange Example of thee, and of that Woman, whoe’er she be, that drew you to this Folly. Faith and Vows, quoth ye!

Bel. Then I obey.

Enter Trusty and Diana.

Lord. Look ye here, Frank; Is this a Lady to be dislik’d? Come hither, Frank—Trusty, haste for Dr. Tickletext, my Chaplain’s not in Town; I’ll have them instantly married—Come hither, Diana—will you marry your Cousin, Frank Bellmour?

Dia. Yes, if it be your pleasure; Heaven cou’d not let fall a greater Blessing. [Aside.

Lord. And you, Frank, will you marry my Niece Diana?

Bel. Since you will have it so.

Lord. Come, follow me then, and you shall be both pleas’d.

Bel. Oh my Celinda!—

To preserve thee, what is’t I wou’d not do? Forfeit my Heaven, nay more, I forfeit you.

[Exit.

Enter Sir Timothy Tawdrey, Sham and Sharp.

Sir Tim. Now, Sham, art not thou a damn’d lying Rogue, to make me saunter up and down the Mall all this Morning, after a Woman that thou know’st in thy Conscience was not likely to be there?

Sham. Why, Sir—if her Maid will be a jilting Whore, how can I help it?—Sharp, thou know’st we presented her handsomly, and she protested she’d do’t.

Sharp. Ay, ay, Sir: But the Devil a Maid we saw. [Aside.

Sham. Sir, it may be Things have so fallen out, that she could not possibly come.

Sir Tim. Things! a Pox of your Tricks—Well, I see there’s no trusting a poor Devil—Well, what Device will your Rogueship find out to cheat me next?

Sham. Prithee help me out at a dead lift, Sharp. [Aside.

Sharp. Cheat you, Sir!—if I ben’t reveng’d on this She-Counsellor of the Patching and Painting, this Letter-in of Midnight Lovers, this Receiver of Bribes for stol’n Pleasures; may I be condemn’d never to make love to any thing of higher Quality.

Sir Tim. Nay, nay, no threatning, Sharp; it may be she’s innocent yet—Give her t’other Bribe, and try what that will do. [Gives him Money.

Sham. No, Sir, I’ll have no more to do with frail Woman, in this Case; I have a surer way to do your Business.

Enter Page with a Letter.

Sir Tim. Is not that Bellmour’s Page?

Sharp. It is, Sir.

Sir Tim. By Fortune, the Rogue’s looking for me; he has a Challenge in his hand too.

Sham. No matter, Sir, huff it out.

Sir Tim. Prithee do thee huff him, thou know’st the way on’t.

Sham. What’s your Bus’ness with Sir Timothy, Sir?

Page. Mine, Sir, I don’t know the Gentleman; pray which is he?

Sir Tim. I, I, ‘tis so—Pox on him.

Sharp. Well, Boy, I am he—What—Your Master.

Page. My Master, Sir—

Sharp. Are not you Bellmour’s Page?

Page. Yes, Sir.

Sharp. Well, your News.

Page. News, Sir? I know of none, but of my Master’s being this Morning—

Sir Tim. Ay, there it is—behind Southampton House.

Page. Married this Morning.

Sir Tim. How! Married! ‘Slife, has he serv’d me so?

Sham. The Boy is drunk—Bellmour married!

Page. Yes, indeed, to the Lady Diana.

Sir Tim. Diana! Mad, by Fortune; what Diana?

Page. Niece to the Lord Plotwell.

Sir Tim. Come hither, Boy—Art thou sure of this?

Page. Sir, I am sure of it; and I am going to bespeak Musick for the Ball anon.

Sir Tim. What hast thou there—a Letter to the Divine Celinda?
A dainty Boy—there’s Money for to buy thee Nickers.

Page. I humbly thank you.
                               [Exit.

Sharp. Well, Sir, if this be true, Celinda will be glad of you again.

Sir. Tim. Ay, but I will have none of her—For, look you, Sham, there is but two sorts of Love in this World—Now I am sure the Rogue did love her; and since it was not to marry her, it was for the thing you wot on, as appears by his writing to her now—But yet, I will not believe what this Boy said, till I see it.

Sham. Faith, Sir, I have thought of a thing, that may both clear your doubt, and give us a little Mirth.

Sir Tim. I conceive thee.

Sham. I know y’are quick of Apprehension, Sir Timothy.

Sir Tim. O, your Servant, dear Sham—But to let thee see, I am none of the dullest, we are to Jig it in Masquerade this Evening, hah.

Sham. Faith, Sir, you have it, and there you may have an Opportunity to court Bellmour’s Sister.

Sir Tim. ‘Tis a good Motion, and we will follow it; send to the Duke’s
House, and borrow some Habits presently.

Sham. I’ll about it, Sir.

Sir Tim. Make haste to my Lodging—But hark ye—not a word of this to Betty Flauntit, she’ll be up in Arms these two Days, if she go not with us; and though I think the fond Devil is true to me, yet it were worse than Wedlock, if I should be so to her too.

Tho Whores in all things else the Mastery get, In this alone, like Wives, they must submit.

Exeunt.

SCENE I. A Room in Lord Plotwell’s House.

Enter Lord Plotwell, Bellmour leading in Diana, _follow’d by _Charles Bellmour, Phillis, and other Ladies and Gentlemen. [Musick plays, till they are all seated.

Lord. Here, Nephew, I resign that Trust, which was repos’d in me by your dead Father; which was, that on your Wedding-Day I should thus— make you Master of your whole Fortune, you being married to my liking— And now, Charles, and you, my Niece Phillis, you may demand your Portions to morrow, if you please, for he is oblig’d to pay you the Day after that of his Marriage.

Phil. There’s time enough, my Lord.

Lord. Come, come, Ladies, in troth you must take but little Rest to Night, in complaisance to the Bride and Bridegroom, who, I believe, will take but little—Frank—why, Frank—what, hast thou chang’d thy Humour with thy Condition? Thou wert not wont to hear the Musick play in vain.

Bel. My Lord, I cannot dance.

Dia. Indeed, you’re wondrous sad,
And I, methinks, do bear thee Company,
I know not why; and yet excess of Joy
Have had the same Effects with equal Grief.

Bel. ‘Tis true, and I have now felt the Extremes of both.

Lord. Why, Nephew Charles—has your Breeding at the Academy instructed your Heels in no Motion?

Char. My Lord, I’ll make one.

Phil. And I another, for Joy that my Brother’s made happy in so fair a Bride.

Bel. Hell take your Ignorance, for thinking I am happy,—
Wou’d Heaven wou’d strike me dead,
That by the loss of a poor wretched Life
I might preserve my Soul—But Oh, my Error!
That has already damn’d it self, when it consented
To break a Sacred Vow, and Marry here.

Lord. Come, come, begin, begin, Musick to your Office.

[Soft Musick.

Bel. Why does not this hard Heart, this stubborn Fugitive,
Break with this Load of Griefs? but like ill Spirits
It promis’d fair, till it had drawn me in,
And then betray’d me to Damnation.

Dia. There’s something of disorder in his Soul, Which I’m on fire to know the meaning of.

Enter Sir Timothy, Sham, and Sharp, in Masquerade.

Sir Tim. The Rogue is married, and I am so pleas’d, I can forgive him our last Night’s Quarrel. Prithee, Sharp, if thou canst learn that young Thing’s Name, ‘tis a pretty airy Rogue, whilst I go talk to her.

Sharp. I will, Sir, I will.

[One goes to take out a Lady.

Char. Nay, Madam, you must dance. [Dance.

Bel. I hope you will not call it Rudeness, Madam, if I refuse you here.

    [The Lady that danced goes to take out the Bridegroom. After the
    Dance she takes out Sir Timothy, they walk to a Courant.

Am I still tame and patient with my Ills?
Gods! what is Man, that he can live and bear,
Yet know his Power to rid himself of Grief?
I will not live; or if my Destiny
Compel me to’t, it shall be worse than dying.

Enter Page with a Table-Book.

Bel. What’s this?

Page. The Answer of a Letter, Sir, you sent the divine Celinda; for so it was directed.

Bel.—Hah—Celinda—in my Croud of Thoughts
I had forgot I sent—come nearer, Boy—
What did she say to thee?—Did she not smile?
And use thee with Contempt and Scorn?—tell me.

Page. How scorn, Sir!

Bel. Or she was angry—call’d me perjur’d Villain, False, and forsworn—nay, tell me truth.

Page. How, Sir?

Bel. Thou dost delay me—say she did, and please me.

Page. Sir!

Bel. Again—tell me, what answer, Rascal, did she send me?

Page. You have it, Sir, there in the Table-Book.

Bel. Oh, I am mad, and know not what I do. —Prithee forgive me, Boy—take breath, my Soul, Before thou do’st begin; for this—perhaps, may be So cruel kind, To leave thee none when thou hast ended it. [Opens it, and reads.

LETTER.

I have took in the Poison which you sent, in those few fatal Words, “Forgive me, my Celinda, I am married”—’Twas thus you said—And I have only Life left to return, “Forgive me my sweet Bellmour, I am dead.” CELINDA.

Can I hear this, and live?—I am a Villian!
In my Creation destin’d for all Mischief,
—To commit Rapes, and Murders, to break Vows,
As fast as Fools do Jests.
Come hither, Boy—
And said the Lady nothing to thee?

Page. Yes, e’er she read the Letter, ask’d your Health, And Joy dispers’d it self in Blushes through her Cheeks.

Bel. Her Beauty makes the very Boy adore it.

Page. And having read it, She drew her Tablets from her Pocket, And trembling, writ what I have brought you, Sir.

Bel. Though I before had loaded up my Soul
With Sins, that wou’d have weigh’d down any other,
Yet this one more it bears, this Sin of Murder;
And holds out still—What have I more to do,
But being plung’d in Blood, to wade it through?

Enter Friendlove in Masquerade. A Jigg.

Friend. There stands the Traitor, with a guilty Look,
That Traitor, who the easier to deceive me,
Betray’d my Sister; yet till I came and saw
The Perjury, I could not give a Faith to’t.
By Heaven, Diana loves him, nay, dotes on him,
I find it in her Eyes; all languishing,
They feed the Fire in his: arm’d with a double Rage,
I know I shall go through with my Revenge.

Sir Tim. Fair Maid—

Phil. How do you know that, Sir?

Sir Tim. I see y’are fair, and I guess you’re a Maid.

Phil. Your Guess is better than your Eye-sight, Sir.

Sir Tim. Whate’er you are, by Fortune, I wish you would permit me to love you with all your Faults.

Phil. You? Pray who are you?

Sir Tim. A Man, a Gentleman—and more, a Knight too, by Fortune.

Phil. Then ‘twas not by Merit, Sir—But how shall I know you are either of these?

Sir Tim. That I’m a Man, the Effects of my vigorous Flame shall prove —a Gentleman, my Coat of Arms shall testify; and I have the King’s Patent for my Title.

Phil. For the first you may thank your Youth, for the next your Father, and the last your Money.

Sir Tim. By Fortune, I love thee for thy Pertness.

Phil. Is it possible you can love at all?

Sir Tim. As much as I dare.

Phil. How do you mean?

Sir Tim. Not to be laught at; ‘tis not the Mode to love much; A Platonick Fop I have heard of, but this is an Age of sheer Enjoyment, and little Love goes to that; we have found it incommode, and loss of time, to make long Addresses.

Enter Celinda like a Boy.

Phil. I find, Sir, you and I shall never agree upon this matter; But see, Sir, here’s more Company.

Cel. Oh Heaven! ‘tis true, these Eyes confirm my Fate.
Yonder he is—and that fair splendid Thing,
That gazes on him with such kind Desire,
Is my blest Rival—Oh, he is married!
—Gods! And yet you let him live;
Live too with all his Charms, as fine and gay,
As if you meant he shou’d undo all easy Maids,
And kill ‘em for their Sin of loving him.
Wretched Celinda!
But I must turn my Eyes from looking on
The fatal Triumphs of my Death—Which of all these
Is my Brother? Oh, that is he: I know him
By the Habit he sent for to the Play-House.
                                  [Points to Sir Tim.
And hither he’s come in Masquerade,
I know with some Design against my Bellmour,
Whom though he kill me, I must still preserve:
Whilst I, lost in despair, thus as a Boy
Will seek a Death from any welcome Hand,
Since I want Courage to perform the Sacrifice.

Enter one and dances an Entry, and a Jig at the end on’t.

Lord. Enough, enough at this time, let’s see the Bride to bed, the Bridegroom thinks it long.

Friend. Hell! Can I endure to hear all this with Patience?
Shall he depart with Life to enjoy my Right,
And to deprive my Sister of her due?
—Stay, stay, and resign
That Virgin.

Bel. Who art thou that dar’st lay a Claim to ought that’s here?

Friend. This Sword shall answer ye. [Draws.

Bel. Though I could spare my Life, I’ll not be robb’d of it. [Draws.

Dia. Oh, my dear Bellmour!

[All draw on Bellmour’s side_—Diana holds Bellmour, Celinda runs between their Swords, and defends Bellmour; Sir Tim. Sham, and Sharp draw, and run into several Corners, with signs of Fear.

Friend. Who art thou, that thus fondly guard’st his Heart? [To Celinda. —Be gone, and let me meet it.

Cel. That thou mayst do through mine, but no way else.

Friend. Here are too many to encounter, and I’ll defer my Vengeance.

Char. Stay, Sir, we must not part so.

[Ex. Drawing at the same Door, that Sir Tim. is sneaking out at.

Come back I say. [Pulls in Sir Tim.
Slave! Dost thou tremble?—

Sir Tim. Sir, I’m not the Man you look for—
By Fortune, Sham, we’re all undone:
He has mistook me for the fighting Fellow.

Char. Villain, defend thy Life.

Sir Tim. Who, I, Sir? I have no quarrel to you, nor no man breathing, not I, by Fortune.

Cel. This Coward cannot be my Brother. [Aside.

Char. What made thee draw upon my Brother?

Sir Tim. Who, I, Sir? by Fortune, I love him—I draw upon him!

Char. I do not wonder thou canst lye, for thou’rt a Coward! Didst not thou draw upon him? Is not thy Sword yet out? Did I not see thee fierce, and active too, as if thou hadst dar’d?

Sir Tim. Why, he’s gone, Sir; a Pox of all Mistakes and Masqueradings
I say—this was your Plot, Sham.

Char. Coward! Shew then thy Face.

Sir Tim. I’ll be hang’d first, by Fortune; for then ‘twill be plain ’.was I, because I challeng’d Bellmour last Night, and broke my Assignation this Morning. [Aside.

Char. Shew thy Face without delay, or—

Sir Tim. My Face, Sir! I protest, by Fortune, ‘tis not worth seeing.

Char. Then, Sirrah, you are worth a kicking—take that—and that— [Kicks him.

Sir Tim. How, Sir? how?

Char. So, Sir, so. [Kicks him again.

Sir Tim. Have a care, Sir—by Fortune, I shall fight with a little more.

Char. Take that to raise you. [Strikes him.

Sir Tim. Nay, then I am angry, and I dare fight.

[They fight out.

Lord. Go, Ladies, see the Bride to her Chamber.

[Ex. Women.

Bel. The Knight, Sir Timothy Tawdrey; —The Rascal mist me at the appointed place, And comes to attack me here— [Turns to Cel. —Brave Youth, I know not how I came to merit this Relief from thee: Sure thou art a Stranger to me, thou’rt so kind.

Cel. Sir, I believe those happy ones that know you Had been far kinder, but I’m indeed a Stranger.

Bel. Mayst thou be ever so to one so wretched; I will not ask thy Name, lest knowing it, (I’m such a Monster) I should ruin thee.

Cel. Oh, how he melts my Soul! I cannot stay, Lest Grief, my Sex, my Bus’ness shou’d betray. [Aside. —Farewel, Sir— May you be happy in the Maid you love. [Exit Cel.

Bel. O, dost thou mock my Griefs? by Heaven, he did. —Stay, Sir, he’s gone.

Enter Charles Bellmour.

Char. The Rogue took Courage, when he saw there was no Remedy; but there’s no hurt done on either side.

Lord. ‘Tis fit such as he shou’d be chastis’d, that do abuse Hospitality. Come, come, to Bed; the Lady, Sir, expects you.

Bel. Gentlemen, good Night.

[Exeunt.

Enter Diana.

Dia. I long to know the Cause of Bellmour’s Disorder to Night, and here he comes.

Enter Bellmour, Lord, Charles, and the rest.

Char. Shan’t we see you laid, Brother?

Bel. Yes, in my Grave, dear Charles; But I’ll excuse that Ceremony here.

Char. Good Night, and no Rest to you, Brother.

[Ex. all but Bellmour and Diana.

Dia. Till now, my Bellmour, I wanted Opportunity
To ask the Cause, why on a joyful Day,
When Heav’n has join’d us by a sacred Tie,
Thou droop’st like early Flowers with Winter-storms.

Bel. Thou art that Winter-storm that nips my Bud;
All my young springing Hopes, my gay Desires,
The prospect of approaching Joys of Love,
Thou in a hapless Minute hast took from me,
And in its room,
Hast given me an eternal Desperation.

Dia. Have you then given me Vows ye can repent of?

Bel. I given ye Vows! be witness, ye just Pow’rs, How far I was from giving any Vows: No, no, Diana, I had none to give.

Dia. No Vows to give! What were they which unto the Holy Man Thou didst repeat, when I was made all thine?

Bel. The Effects of low Submission, such as Slaves Condemn’d to die, yield to the angry Judge.

Dia. Dost thou not love me then?

Bel. Love thee! No, by Heaven: yet wish I were so happy, For thou art wondrous fair and wondrous good.

Dia. Oh, what a Defeat is here!
The only Man, who from all Nature’s store
I found most charming, fit for my Desires;
And now after a thousand Expectations,
Such as all Maids that love like me do hope,
Just ready for the highest Joys of Love!
Then to be met thus cold—nay, worse, with scorn. [Aside.
—Why, since you could not love me, did you marry me?

Bel. Because I was a Beast, a very Villain! That stak’d a wretched Fortune to all my Joys of Life, And like a prodigal Gamester lost that all.

Dia. How durst you, Sir, knowing my Quality, Return me this false Pay, for Love so true? Was this a Beauty, Sir, to be neglected?

Bel. Fair angry Maid, frown on, frown till you kill,
And I shall dying bless those Eyes that did so.
For shou’d I live, I shou’d deprive the happier World
Of Treasures, I’m too wretched to possess.
And were’t not pity that vast store of Beauty
Shou’d, like rich Fruit, die on the yielding Boughs?

Dia. And are you then resolved to be a Stranger to me?

Bel. For ever! for a long Eternity!

Dia. O thou’st undone me then; hast thou found out A Maid more fair, more worthy of thy Love? Look on me well.

Bel. I have consider’d thee,
And find no Blemish in thy Soul, or Form;
Thou art all o’er Divine, yet I must hate thee,
Since thou hast drawn me to a mortal Sin,
That cannot be forgiven by Men, or Heaven.
—Oh, thou hast made me break a Vow, Diana,
A sacred solemn Vow;
And made me wrong the sweetest Innocence,
That ever blest the Earth.

Dia. Instead of cooling this augments my Fire; No Pain is like defeated new Desire. [Aside. ’.is false, or but to try my Constancy. Your Mistress is not so divine as I, And shou’d I, ‘gainst himself, believe the Man Who first inspir’d my Heart with Love’s soft Flame?

Bel. What Bliss on me insensibly you throw!
I’d rather hear thee swear, thou art my Foe,
And like some noble and romantick Maid
With Poniards wou’d my stubborn Heart invade;
And whilst thou dost the faithful Relique tear,
In every Vein thoud’st find Celinda there.

Dia. Come, Sir, you must forget Celinda’s Charms,
And reap Delights within my circling Arms,
Delights that may your Errors undeceive,
When you find Joys as great as she can give.

Bel. What do I hear?—is this the kind Relief
Thou dost allow to my Despair and Grief?
Is this the Comfort that thou dost impart
To my all-wounded, bleeding, dying Heart?
Were I so brutal, cou’d thy Love comply
To serve it self with base Adultery?
For cou’d I love thee, cou’d I love again,
Our Lives wou’d be but one continu’d Sin:
A Sin of that black dye, a Sin so foul,
’.wou’d leave no Hopes of Heav’n for either’s Soul.

Dia. Dull Man! Dost think a feeble vain Excuse
Shall satisfy me for this Night’s abuse?
No, since my Passion thou’st defeated thus,
And robb’d me of my long-wish’d Happiness,
I’ll make thee know what a wrong’d Maid can do,
Divided ‘twixt her Love and Injuries too.

Bel. I dare thy worst;
Shou’d Hell assist thy Aims, thou cou’dst not find,
New Plagues, unless thou shou’dst continue kind,
Hard Fate, Diana, when thy Love must be
The greatest Curse that can arrive to me.
—That Friendship which our Infant Years begun,
And till this Day has still continued on,
I will preserve; and my Respects shall be
Profound, as what was ever paid by me:
But for my Love, ‘tis to Celinda due,
And I can pay you none that’s just and true.

Dia. The rest I’d have thee know I do despise, I better understand my conquering Eyes; Those Eyes that shall revenge my Love and Shame, I’ll kill thy Reputation and thy Name. [Exit.

Bel. My Honour! and my Reputation, now!
They both were forfeit, when I broke my Vow,
Nor cou’d my Honour with thy Fame decline;
Whoe’er profanes thee, injures nought of mine.
This Night upon the Couch my self I’ll lay,
And like Franciscans, let th’ensuing Day
Take care for all the Toils it brings with it;
Whatever Fate arrives, I can submit.

[Exit.

Enter Celinda, drest as before.

Cel. Not one kind Wound to send me to my Grave,
And yet between their angry Swords I ran,
Expecting it from Bellmour, or my Brother’s:
Oh, my hard Fate! that gave me so much Misery,
And dealt no Courage to prevent the shock.
—Why came I off alive, that fatal Place
Where I beheld my Bellmour, in th’embrace
Of my extremely fair, and lovely Rival?
—With what kind Care she did prevent my Arm,
Which (greedy of the last sad-parting twine)
I wou’d have thrown about him, as if she knew
To what intent I made the passionate Offer?
—What have I next to do, but seek a Death
Wherever I can meet it—Who comes here? [Goes aside.

Enter Sir Timothy, Sham and Sharp, with Fidlers and Boy.

Sir Tim. I believe this is the Bed-chamber Window where the Bride and Bridegroom lies.

Sham. Well, and what do you intend to do, if it be, Sir?

Sir Tim. Why, first sing a Baudy Song, and then break the Windows, in revenge for the Affront was put upon me to night.

Sharp. Faith, Sir, that’s but a poor Revenge, and which every Footman may take of his Lady, who has turn’d him away for filching—You know, Sir, Windows are frail, and will yield to the lusty Brickbats; ‘tis an Act below a Gentleman.

Sir Tim. That’s all one, ‘tis my Recreation; I serv’d a Woman so the other night, to whom my Mistress had a Pique.

Sham. Ay, Sir, ‘tis a Revenge fit only for a Whore to take—And the Affront you receiv’d to Night, was by mistake.

Sir Tim. Mistake! how can that be?

Sham. Why, Sir, did you not mind, that he that drew upon Bellmour, was in the same Dress with you.

Sir Tim. How shou’d his be like mine?

Sham. Why, by the same Chance, that yours was like his—I suppose sending to the Play-house for them, as we did, they happened to send him such another Habit, for they have many such for dancing Shepherds.

Sir Tim. Well, I grant it a Mistake, and that shall reprieve the
Windows.

Sharp. Then, Sir, you shew’d so much Courage, that you may bless the Minute that forc’d you to fight.

Sir Tim. Ay, but between you and I, ‘twas well he kick’d me first, and made me angry, or I had been lustily swing’d, by Fortune—But thanks to my Spleen, that sav’d my Bones that bout—But then I did well—hah, came briskly off, and the rest.

Sham. With Honour, Sir, I protest.

Sir Tim. Come then, we’ll serenade him. Come, Sirrah, tune your Pipes, and sing.

Boy. What shall I sing, Sir?

Sir Tim. Any thing sutable to the Time and Place.

SONG.

I.

  The happy Minute’s come, the Nymph is laid,
    Who means no more to rise a Maid.
  Blushing, and panting, she expects th’.pproach
    Of Joys that kill with every touch:
  Nor can her native Modesty and Shame
  Conceal the Ardour of her Virgin Flame.

II.

  And now the amorous Youth is all undrest,
    Just ready for Love’s mighty Feast;
  With vigorous haste the Veil aside he throws,
    That doth all Heaven at once disclose.
  Swift as Desire, into her naked Arms
  Himself he throws, and rifles all her Charms.

Good morrow, Mr. Bellmour, and to your lovely Bride, long may you live and love.

Enter Bellmour above.

Bel. Who is’t has sent that Curse?

Sir Tim. What a Pox, is that Bellmour? The Rogue’s in choler, the
Bride has not pleas’d him.

Bel. Dogs! Do you upbraid me? I’ll be with you presently.

Sir Tim. Will you so?—but I’ll not stay your coming.

Cel. But you shall, Sir.

Bel. Turn, Villains!

[Sir Tim. &c. offers to go off, Celinda steps forth, and draws, they draw, and set upon her. Enter Bellmour behind them: They turn, and Celinda sides with Bellmour, and fights. Enter Diana, Bellmour fights ‘em out, and leaves Celinda breathless, leaning on her Sword.

Dia. I’ll ne’er demand the cause of this disorder, But take this opportunity to fly To the next hands will take me up—who’s here?

Cel. Not yet, my sullen Heart!

Dia. Who’s here? one wounded—alas—

Cel. ‘Tis not so lucky—but who art thou That dost with so much pity ask?

Dia. He seems a Gentleman—handsome and young— [Aside.
Pray ask no Questions, Sir; but if you are what you seem,
Give a Protection to an unhappy Maid.
—Do not reply, but let us haste away.

Cel. Hah—What do I hear! sure, ‘tis Diana.
—Madam, with haste, and joy, I’ll serve you.
—I’ll carry her to my own Lodgings.
Fortune, in this, has done my Sufferings right,
My Rival’s in my Power, upon her Wedding-Night. [Aside.

[Exeunt.

Enter Bellmour, Sir Tim. Sham, and Sharp.

Sir Tim. Lord, Lord, that you should not know your Friend and humble Servant, Tim. Tawdrey—But thou look’st as if thou hadst not been a-bed yet.

Bel. No more I have.

Sir Tim. Nay, then thou losest precious time, I’ll not detain thee. [Offers to go.

Bel. Thou art mistaken, I hate all Woman-kind—

Sir Tim. How, how!

Bel, Above an Hour—hark ye, Knight—I am as leud, and as debaucht as thou art.

Sir Tim. What do you mean, Frank?

Bel. To tell a Truth, which yet I never did. —I whore, drink, game, swear, lye, cheat, rob, pimp, hector, all, all I do that’s vitious.

Sir Tim. Bless me!

Bel. From such a Villian, hah!

Sir Tim. No, but that thou should’st hide it all this while.

Bel. Till I was married only, and now I can dissemble it no longer— come—let’s to a Baudy-House.

Sir Tim. A Baudy-house! What, already!
This is the very quintessence of Leudness.
—Why, I thought that I was wicked, but, by Fortune,
This dashes mine quite out of Countenance.

Bel. Oh, thou’rt a puny Sinner!—I’ll teach thee Arts (so rare) of Sin, the least of them shall damn thee.

Sir Tim. By Fortune, Frank, I do not like these Arts.

Bel. Then thou’rt a Fool—I’ll teach thee to be rich too.

Sir Tim. Ay, that I like.

Bel. Look here, my Boys! [Hold up his Writings, which he takes out of his Pockets. The Writings of 3000 pounds a Year: —All this I got by Perjury.

Sir Tim. By Fortune, a thriving Sin.

Bel. And we will live in Sin while this holds out. And then to my cold Home—Come let’s be gone: Oh, that I ne’er might see the rising Sun.

[Exeunt.

SCENE I. Celinda’s Chamber.

Discovers Celinda as before sitting in a Chair, Diana by her in another, who sings.

SONG.

I.

  Celinda, who did Love disdain,
  For whom had languished many a Swain,
  Leading her bleating Flocks to drink,
  She spy’d upon the River’s brink
  A Youth, whose Eyes did well declare
  How much he lov’d, but lov’d not her.

II.

  At first she laugh’d, but gaz’d the while,
  And soon it lessen’d to a Smile;
  Thence to surprize and wonder came,
  Her Breast to heave, her Heart to flame;
  Then cry’d she out, Ah, now I prove
  Thou art a God, Almighty Love.

III.

  She wou’d have spoke, but Shame deny’d,
  And bad her first consult her Pride;
  But soon she found that Aid was gone,
  For Love, alas, had left her none.
  Oh, how she burns, but ‘tis too late,
  For in his Eyes she reads her Fate.

Cel. Oh, how numerous are her Charms —How shall I pay this generous Condescension? Fair lovely Maid—

Dia. Why do you flatter, Sir?

Cel. To say you’re lovely, by your self I do not,
I’m young, and have not much convers’d with Beauty:
Yet I’ll esteem my Judgment, since it knows
Where my Devotions shou’d be justly paid.
—But, Madam, may I not yet expect
To hear the Story, you so lately promis’d me?

Dia. I owe much to your Goodness, Sir—but—

Cel. I am too young, you think, to hear a Secret; Can I want Sense to pity your Misfortunes, Or Passion to incite me to revenge ‘em?

Dia. Oh, would he were in earnest!

Cel. She’s fond of me, and I must blow that flame,
Do any thing to make her hate my Bellmour. [Aside.
—But, Madam, I’m impatient for your Story,
That after that, you may expect my Service.

Dia. The Treatment you this night have given a distressed Maid, enough obliges me; nor need I tell you, I’m nobly born; something about my Dress, my Looks and Mien, will doubtless do me reason.

Cel. Sufficiently—

Dia. But in the Family where I was educated, a Youth of my own Age, a Kinsman too, I chanc’d to fall in love with, but with a Passion my Pride still got the better of; and he, I thought, repaid my young Desires. But Bashfulness on his part, did what Pride had done on mine, And kept his too conceal’d—At last my Uncle, who had the absolute Dominion of us both, thought good to marry us together.

Cel. Punish him, Heaven, for a Sin so great. —And are you married then?

Dia. Why is there Terror in that Word?

Cel. By all that’s Sacred, ‘tis a Word that kills me. Oh, say thou art not; And I thus low will fall, and pay thee Thanks. [Kneels.

Dia. You’ll wish indeed I were not, when you know How very, very wretched it has made me.

Cel. Shou’d you be telling me a Tale all day, Such as would melt a Heart that ne’er could love, ’.would not increase my Reason for the wish That I had dy’d e’er known you had been married.

Dia. So many soft Words from my Bellmour’s mouth
Had made me mad with Joy, and next to that
I wish to hear ‘em from this Youth;
If they be real, how I shall be reveng’d! [Aside.
—But why at my being married should you sigh?

Cel. Because I love, is that a Wonder, Madam?
Have you not Charms sufficient at first sight
To wound a Heart tender and young as mine?
Are you not heavenly fair? Oh, there’s my Grief—
Since you must be another’s.

Dia. Pray hear me out; and if you love me after,
Perhaps you may not think your self unhappy.
When Night was come, the long’d for Night, and all
Retir’d to give us silent Room for Joy—

Cel. Oh, I can hear no more—by Heav’n, I cannot. —Here—stab me to the Heart—let out my Life, I cannot live, and hear what follow’d next.

Dia. Pray hear me, Sir—

Cel. Oh, you will tell me he was kind—
Yes, yes—oh God—were not his balmy Kisses
Sweeter than Incense offer’d up to Heaven?
Did not his Arms, softer and whiter far
Than those of Jove’s transform’d to Wings of Swans,
Greedily clasp thee round?—Oh, quickly speak,
Whilst thy fair rising Bosom met with his;
And then—Oh—then—

Dia. Alas, Sir! What’s the matter?—sit down a while.

Cel. Now—I am well—pardon me, lovely Creature,
If I betray a Passion, I’m too young
To’ve learnt the Art of hiding;
—I cannot hear you say that he was kind.

Dia. Kind! yes, as Blasts to Flow’rs, or early Fruit;
All gay I met him full of youthful Heat:
But like a Damp, he dasht my kindled Flame,
And all his Reason was—he lov’d another,
A Maid he call’d Celinda.

Cel. Oh blessed Man!

Dia. How, Sir?

Cel. To leave thee free, to leave thee yet a Virgin.

Dia. Yes, I have vow’d he never shall possess me.

Cel. Oh, how you bless me—but you still are married, And whilst you are so—I must languish—

Dia. Oh, how his Softness moves me! [Aside. —But can all this Disorder spring from Love?

Cel. Or may I still prove wretched.

Dia. And can you think there are no ways For me to gratify that Love? What ways am I constrain’d to use to work out my Revenge! [Aside.

Cel. How mean you, Madam?

Dia. Without a Miracle, look on my Eyes— And Beauty—which you say can kindle Fires; —She that can give, may too retain Desires.

Cel. She’ll ravish me—let me not understand you.

Dia. Look on my Wrongs—
Wrongs that would melt a frozen Chastity,
That a religious Vow had made to Heaven:
—And next survey thy own Perfections.

Cel. Hah—

Dia. Art thou so young, thou canst not apprehend me? Fair bashful Boy, hast thou the Power to move, And yet not know the Bus’ness of thy Love?

Cel. How in an instant thou hast chill’d my Blood, And made me know no Woman can be good? ’.is Sin enough to yield—but thus to sue Heav’n—’tis my Business—and not meant for you.

Dia. How little Love is understood by thee,
’.is Custom, and not Passion you pursue;
Because Enjoyment first was nam’d by me,
It does destroy what shou’d your Flame renew:
My easy yielding does your Fire abate,
And mine as much your tedious Courtship hate.
Tell Heaven—you will hereafter sacrifice,
—And see how that will please the Deities.
The ready Victim is the noblest way,
Your Zeal and Obligations too to pay.

Cel. I think the Gods wou’d hardly be ador’d,
If they their Blessings shou’d, unask’d, afford;
And I that Beauty can no more admire,
Who ere I sue, can yield to my Desire.

Dia. Dull Youth, farewel: For since ‘tis my Revenge that I pursue Less Beauty and more Man as well may do. [Offers to go.

Enter Friendlove disguised, as one from a Camp.

Cel. Madam, you must not go with this Mistake. [Holds her.

Friend. Celinda has inform’d me true—’tis she— Good morrow, Brother, what, so early at your Devotions?

Cel. O, my Brother’s come, and luckily relieves me. [Aside.

Friend. Your Orizons are made to a fair Saint.
—Pray, Sir, what Lady’s that?
—Or is it blasphemy to repeat her Name?
—By my bright Arms, she’s fair—With what a charming
Fierceness, she charges through my Body to my Heart.
—Death! how her glittering Eyes give Fire, and wound!
And have already pierc’d my very Soul!
—May I approach her, Brother?

Cel. Yes, if you dare, there’s danger in it though, She has Charms that will bewitch you: —I dare not stand their Mischief. [Exit.

Friend. Lady, I am a Soldier—yet in my gentlest Terms
I humbly beg to kiss your lovely Hands—
Death! there’s Magick in the Touch.
By Heaven, you carry an Artillery in every part.

Dia. This is a Man indeed fit for my purpose. [Aside.

Friend. Nay, do not view me, I am no lovely Object;
I am a Man bred up to Noise and War,
And know not how to dress my Looks in Smiles;
Yet trust me, fair one, I can love and serve
As well as an Endymion, or Adonis.
Wou’d you were willing to permit that Service!

Dia. Why, Sir?—What cou’d you do?

Friend. Why—I cou’d die for you.

Dia. I need the Service of the living, Sir. But do you love me, Sir?

Friend. Or let me perish, flying from a single Enemy. I am a Gentleman, and may pretend to love you; And what you can command, I can perform.

Dia. Take heed, Sir, what you say, for I’m in earnest.

Friend. Command me any thing that’s just and brave; And, by my Eyes, ‘tis done.

Dia. I know not what you call just or brave; But those whom I do the Honour to command, Must not capitulate.

Friend. Let him be blasted with the Name of Coward, That dares dispute your Orders.

Dia. Dare you fight for me?

Friend. With a whole Army; ‘tis my Trade to fight.

Dia. Nay, ‘tis but a single Man.

Friend. Name him.

Dia. Bellmour.

Friend. Of Yorkshire? Companion to young Friendlove, that came lately from Italy?

Dia. Yes, do you know him?

Friend. I do, who has oft spoke of Bellmour;
We travel’d into Italy together—But since, I hear,
He fell in love with a fair cruel Maid,
For whom he languishes.

Dia. Heard you her Name?

Friend. Diana, rich in Beauty, as in Fortune.
—Wou’d she had less of both, and more of Pity;
And that I knew not how to wish, till now
That I became a Lover, perhaps as unsuccessful. [Aside.

Dia. I knew my Beauty had a thousand Darts,
But knew not they cou’d strike so quick and home. [Aside.
Let your good Wishes for your Friend alone,
Lest he being happy, you shou’d be undone.
For he and you cannot be blest at once.

Friend. How, Madam!

Dia. I am that Maid he loves, and who hates him.

Friend. Hate him!

Dia. To Death.

Friend. Oh, me unhappy! [Aside.

Dia. He sighs and turns away—am I again defeated? Surely I am not fair, or Man’s insensible.

Friend. She knows me not—
And ‘twas discreetly done to change my Shape:
For Woman is a strange fantastick Creature;
And where before, I cou’d not gain a Smile,
Thus I may win her Heart. [Aside.
—Say, Madam, can you love a Man that dies for you?

Dia. The way to gain me, is to fight with Bellmour.
Tell him from me you come, the wrong’d Diana;
Tell him you have an Interest in my Heart,
Equal to that which I have made in yours.

Friend. I’ll do’t; I will not ask your Reason, but obey. Swear e’er I go, that when I have perform’d it, You’ll render me Possession of your Heart.

Dia. By all the Vows that Heaven ties Hearts together with, I’ll be entirely yours.

Friend. And I’ll not be that conscientious Fool,
To stop at Blessings ‘cause they are not lawful;
But take ‘em up, when Heaven has thrown ‘em down,
Without the leave of a Religious Ceremony. [Aside.
Madam, this House, which I am Master of,
You shall command; whilst I go seek this Bellmour.

Dia. But e’er you go, I must inform you why I do pursue him with my just Revenge.

Friend. I will attend, and hear impatiently.

[Exeunt.

Enter Mrs. Driver and Betty Flauntit.

Flaunt. Driver, prithee call for a Glass, that I may set my self in order, before I go up; for really my Knight has not been at home all this Night, and I am so confus’d—

Enter one with a Glass, and two Wenches, Jenny and Doll.

Lord, Mrs. Driver, I wonder you shou’d send for me, when other Women are in Company; you know of all things in the World, I hate Whores, they are the pratingst leudest poor Creatures in Nature; and I wou’d not, for any thing, Sir Timothy shou’d know that I keep Company, ‘twere enough to lose him.

Mrs. Driv. Truly, Mrs. Flauntit, this young Squire that you were Sent to for, has two or three Persons more with him that must be accommodated too.

Flaunt. Driver, though I do recreate my self a little sometimes, yet you know I value my Reputation and Honour.

Jenny. Mrs. Driver, why shou’d you send for us where Flauntit is? a stinking proud Flirt, who because she has a tawdry Petticoat, I warrant you, will think her self so much above us, when if she were set out in her own natural Colours, and her original Garments, wou’d be much below us in Beauty.

Mrs. Driv. Look ye, Mrs. Jenny, I know you, and I know Mrs. Flauntit; but ‘tis not Beauty or Wit that takes now-a-days; the Age is altered since I took upon me this genteel Occupation: but ‘tis a fine Petticoat, right Points, and clean Garnitures, that does me Credit, and takes the Gallant, though on a stale Woman. And again, Mrs. Jenny, she’s kept, and Men love as much for Malice, as for Lechery, as they call it. Oh, ‘tis a great Mover to Joy, as they say, to have a Woman that’s kept.

Jen. Well! Be it so, we may arrive to that excellent Degree of Cracking, to be kept too one day.

Mrs. Driv. Well, well, get your selves in order to go up to the
Gentlemen.

Flaunt. Driver, what art thou talking to those poor Creatures? Lord, how they stink of Paint and Pox, faugh—

Mrs. Driv. They were only complaining that you that were kept, shou’d intrude upon the Privileges of the Commoners.

Flaunt. Lord, they think there are such Joys in Keeping, when I vow, Driver, after a while, a Miss has as painful a Life as a Wife; our Men drink, stay out late, and whore, like any Husbands.

Driv. But I hope in the Lord, Mrs. Flauntit, yours is no such Man; I never saw him, but I have heard he’s under decent Correction.

Flaunt. Thou art mistaken, Driver, I can keep him within no moderate Bounds without Blows; but for his filthy Custom of Wenching, I have almost broke him of that—but prithee, Driver, who are these Gentlemen?

Driv. Truly, I know not; but they are young, and fine as Princes: two of ‘em were disguis’d in masking Habits last Night, but they have sent ’.m away this Morning, and they are free as Emperors—One of ‘em has lost a Thousand Pound at Play, and never repin’d at it; one’s a Knight, and I believe his Courage is cool’d, for he has ferreted my Maids over and over to Night—But ‘tis the fine, young, handsom Squire that I design you for.

Flaunt. No matter for his Handsomness, let me have him that has most Money.

[Exeunt.

Enter Bellmour, Sir Timothy, Sham and Sharp.

Bel. Damn it, give us more Wine. [Drinks. Where stands the Box and Dice?—Why, Sham.

Sham. Faith, Sir, Your Luck’s so bad, I han’t the Conscience to play longer—Sir Timothy and you play off a hundred Guineas, and see if Luck will turn.

Bel. Do you take me for a Country Squire, whose Reputation will be crackt at the loss of a petty Thousand? You have my Note for it to my Goldsmith.

Sham. ‘Tis sufficient if it were for ten thousand.

Bel. Why, Sir Timothy—Pox on’t, thou’rt dull, we are not half debauch’d and leud enough, give us more Wine.

Sir Tim. Faith, Frank, I’m a little maukish with sitting up all Night, and want a small refreshment this Morning—Did we not send for Whores?

Bel. No, I am not in humour for a Wench—
By Heaven, I hate the Sex.
All but divine Celinda,
Appear strange Monsters to my Eyes and Thoughts.

Sir Tim. What, art Italianiz’d, and lovest thy own Sex?

Bel. I’m for any thing that’s out of the common Road of Sin; I love a Man that will be damn’d for something: to creep by slow degrees to Hell, as if he were afraid the World shou’d see which way he went, I scorn it, ‘tis like a Conventicler—No, give me a Man, who to be certain of’s Damnation, will break a solemn Vow to a contracted Maid.

Sir Tim. Ha, ha, ha, I thought thou would’st have said at least—had murder’d his Father, or ravish’d his Mother—Break a Vow, quoth ye—by Fortune, I have broke a thousand.

Bel. Well said, my Boy! A Man of Honour! And will be ready whene’er the Devil calls for thee—So—ho—more Wine, more Wine, and Dice.

Enter a Servant with Dice and Wine.

Come, Sir, let me— [Throws and loses.

Sir Tim. What will you set me, Sir?

Bel. Cater-tray—a hundred Guineas—oh, damn the Dice—’tis mine—come, a full Glass—Damnation to my Uncle.

Sir Tim. By Fortune, I’ll do thee reason—give me the Glass, and, Sham, to thee—Confusion to the musty Lord.

Bel. So—now I’m like my self, profanely wicked.
A little room for Life—but such a Life
As Hell it self shall wonder at—I’ll have a care
To do no one good deed in the whole course on’t,
Lest that shou’d save my Soul in spite of Vow-breach.
—I will not die—that Peace my Sins deserve not.
I’ll live and let my Tyrant Uncle see
The sad effects of Perjury, and forc’d Marriage.
—Surely the Pow’rs above envy’d my Bliss;
Marrying Celinda, I had been an Angel,
So truly blest, and good. [Weeps.

Sir Tim. Why, how now, Frank—by Fortune, the Rogue is Maudlin—So, ho, ho, so ho.

Bel. The matter?

Sir Tim. Oh, art awake—What a Devil ail’st thou, Frank?

Bel. A Wench, or any thing—come, let’s drink a round.

Sham. They’re come as wisht for.

Enter Flauntit, Driver, Doll and Jenny mask’d.

Bel. Oh, damn ‘em! What shall I do? Yet it would look like Virtue to avoid ‘em. No, I must venture on—Ladies, y’are welcome.

Sir Tim. How, the Women?—Hold, hold, Bellmour, let me choose too—
Come, come, unmask, and shew your pretty Faces.

Flaunt. How, Sir Timothy! What Devil ow’d me a spite. [Aside.

Sir Tim. Come, unmask, I say: a willing Wench would have shew’d all in half this time.

Flaunt. Wou’d she so, Impudence! [Pulls off her Mask.

Sir Tim. How, my Betty!

Flaunt. This is the Trade you drive, you eternal Fop, when I sit at home expecting you Night after Night.

Sir Tim. Nay, dear Betty!

Flaunt. ‘Tis here you spend that which shou’d buy me Points and Petticoats, whilst I go like no body’s Mistress; I’d as live be your Wife at this rate, so I had: and I’m in no small danger of getting the foul Disease by your Leudness.

Sir Tim. Victorious Betty, be merciful, and do not ruin my Reputation amongst my Friends.

Flaunt. Your Whores you mean, you Sot you.

Sir Tim. Nay, triumphant Betty, hear thy poor Timmy.

Flaunt. My poor Ninny, I’m us’d barbarously, and won’t endure it.

Sir Tim. I’ve won Money to Night, Betty, to buy thee Clothes—hum —hum—Well said, Frank, towse the little Jilts, they came for that purpose.

Flaunt. The Devil confound him, what a Prize have I lost by his being here—my Comfort is, he has not found me out though, but thinks I came to look for him, and accordingly I must dissemble.

Bel. What’s here? A Lady all in Tears!

Sir Tim. An old Acquaintance of mine, that takes it unkindly that I am for Change—Betty, say so too, you know I can settle nothing till I’m marry’d; and he can do it swingingly, if we can but draw him in.

Flaunt. This mollifies something, do this, and you’ll make your Peace; if not, you Rascal, your Ears shall pay for this Night’s Transgression.

Sir Tim. Come hither, Frank, is not this a fine Creature?

Bel. By Heaven, a very Devil!

Sir Tim. Come, come, approach her; for if you’ll have a Miss, this has all the good Qualities of one—go, go Court her, thou art so bashful—

Bel. I cannot frame my Tongue to so much Blasphemy, as ‘tis to say kind things to her—I’ll try my Heart though—Fair Lady—Damn her, she is not fair—nor sweet—nor good—nor—something I must say for a beginning. Come, Lady—dry your Eyes: This Man deserves not all the Tears you shed. —So—at last the Devil has got the better of me, And I am enter’d.

Flaunt. You see, Sir, how miserable we Women are that love you Men.

Bel. How, did you love him? Love him against his Will?

Flaunt. So it seems, Sir.

Bel. Oh, thou art wretched then indeed; no wonder if he hate thee— Does he not curse thee? Curse thee till thou art damn’d, as I do lost Diana. [Aside.

Flaunt. Curse me! He were not best in my hearing; Let him do what he will behind my Back. What ails the Gentleman?

Bel. Gods! what an odious thing mere Coupling is!
A thing which every sensual Animal
Can do as well as we—but prithee tell me,
Is there nought else between the nobler Creatures?

Flaunt. Not that I know of, Sir— Lord, he’s very silly, or very innocent, I hope he has his Maidenhead; if so, and rich too. Oh, what a booty were this for me! [Aside.

Bel. ‘Tis wondrous strange; Why was not I created like the rest, Wild, and insensible, to fancy all?

Flaunt. Come, Sir, you must learn to be gay, to sing, to dance, and talk of any thing, and fancy any thing that’s in your way too.

Bel. Oh, I can towse, and ruffle, like any Leviathan, when I begin— Come, prove my Vigor. [Towses her.

Flaunt. Oh, Lord, Sir! You tumble all my Garniture.

Bel. There’s Gold to buy thee more—

Flaunt. Oh, sweet Sir—wou’d my Knight were hang’d, so I were well rid of him now—Well, Sir, I swear you are the most agreeable Person—

Bel. Am I?—let us be more familiar then—I’ll kiss thy Hand, thy Breast, thy Lips—and—

Flaunt. All—you please, Sir—

Bel. A tractable Sinner! [Offers to kiss her. Faugh—how she smells—had I approach’d so near divine Celinda, what A natural Fragrancy had sent it self through all my ravisht Senses! [Aside.

Flaunt. The Man’s extasy’d, sure, I shall take him. Come, Sir, you’re sad.

Bel. As Angels fall’n from the Divine Abode,
And now am lighted on a very Hell!
—But this is not the way to thrive in Wickedness;
I must rush on to Ruin—Come, fair Mistress,
Will you not shew me some of your Arts of Love?
For I am very apt to learn of Beauty—Gods—
What is’t I negotiate for?—a Woman!
Making a Bargain to possess a Woman!
Oh, never, never!

Flaunt. The Man is in love, that’s certain—as I was saying, Sir—

Bel. Be gone, Repentance! Thou needless Goodness, Which if I follow, canst lead me to no Joys. Come, tell me the Price of all your Pleasures.

Sir Tim. Look you, Mistress, I am but a Country Knight.
Yet I shou’d be glad of your farther Acquaintance.
—Pray, who may that Lady be—

Driv. Who, Mrs. Flauntit, Sir?

Sir Tim. Ay, she: she’s tearing fine, by Fortune.

Driv. I’ll assure you, Sir, she’s kept, and is a great Rarity, but to a Friend, or so—

Sir Tim. Hum—kept—pray, by whom?

Driv. Why, a silly Knight, Sir, that—

Sir Tim. Ay, ay, silly indeed—a Pox upon her—a silly Knight, you say—

Driv. Ay, Sir, one she makes a very Ass of.

Sir Tim. Ay, so methinks—but she’s kind, and will do reason for all him.

Driv. To a Friend, a Man of Quality—or so.

Sir Tim. Ay, she blinds the Knight.

Driv. Alas, Sir, easily—he, poor Cully, thinks her a very Saint—but when he’s out of the way, she comes to me to pleasure a Friend.

Sir Tim. But what if the Fool miss her?

Driv. She cries Whore first, brings him upon his Knees for her Fault; and a piece of Plate, or a new Petticoat, makes his Peace again.

Sir _Tim. Why—look you, Mistress, I am that Fop, that very silly Knight, and the rest that you speak of.

Driv. How, Sir? then I’m undone, she’s the Upholder of my Calling, the very Grace of my Function.

Sir Tim. Is she so? e’en keep her to your self then, I’ll have no more of her, by Fortune—I humbly thank you for your Intelligence, and the rest. Well—I see there’s not one honest Whore i’th’ Nation, by Fortune.

Enter Charles Bellmour, and Trusty.

Hark ye, Mistress, what was your Bus’ness here?

Flaunt. To meet a Rogue!—

Sir Tim. And I to meet a Whore, and now we are well met.

Flaunt. How, Sir?

Sir Tim. Nay, never be surpriz’d, for your Intrigues are discover’d, the good Matron of the House (against her Will) has done me that kindness—you know how to live without your Keeper, and so I’ll leave you.

Flaunt. You’re too serviceable a Fool to be lost so. [Aside.

Bel. Who knows this bold Intruder?

Char. How, Sir, am I a Stranger to you? But I shou’d wonder at it, since all your last Night’s Actions betray’d a strange depravity of Sense.—Sir, I have sought you long, and wish I had not found you yet, since both the Place and Company declare, how grossly you’ve dissembled Virtue all this while.

Bel. Take hence that prating Boy.

Char. How, Sir—You are my elder Brother, yet I may be allow’d to do the Business that I came for, and from my Uncle to demand your Wife.

Bel. You may return, and tell him that she’s dead.

Char. Dead! sure, Sir, you rave. [Turns him about.

Bel. Indeed I do—but yet she’s dead, they say.

Char. How came she dead?

Bel. I kill’d her—ask no more, but leave me. [Turns him about again.

Char. Sir, this is Madman’s Language, and not to be believed.

Bel. Go to—y’are a saucy Boy.

Char. Sir, I’m an angry Boy— But yet can bear much from a Brother’s Mouth; Y’ave lost your sleep: pray, Sir, go home and seek it.

Bel. Home! I have no Home, unless thou mean’st my Grave, And thither I cou’d wish thou wou’d conduct me. [Weeps.

Flaunt. Pray Heaven this young virtuous Fellow don’t spoil all. —Sir, shall I send for a Scrivener to draw the Settlement you promis’d me?

Bel. Do so, and I’ll order him to get it ready.

Char. A Settlement! On whom? This Woman, Sir?

Bel. Yes, on this Woman, Sir.

Char. Are you stark mad?—Know you where you are?

Bel. Yes, in a Baudy-house.

Char. And this Woman, Sir.—

Bel. A very Whore—a tawdry mercenary Whore! And what of this?

Char. And can you love her, Sir?

Bel. No, if I did, I wou’d not gratify her.

Char. What, is’t in Charity to keep her honest?

Bel. Neither.

Char. Is your Lust grown so high—

Bel. Take that— [Strikes him. For naming but so base a thing to me.

Char. I wear a Sword, but not to draw on Mad-men. But since y’are so free, Sir, I demand that Fortune, which by my Father’s Will y’are bound to pay the day after your Wedding-Day; my Sister’s too is due.

Bel. Ha, ha, ha,—Sir Timothy, come hither—who dost think this is?

Sir Tim. A Fidler, perhaps—let him play in the next Room.

Bel. No, my Brother—come to demand his Portion of me; he says I am in leud Company, and, like a Boy, he wou’d correct me.

Sir Tim. Why, this comes of Idleness; thou should’st have bound him
Prentice in time, the Boy would have made a good saucy Taylor.

Char. Sirrah, y’are a Rascal, whom I must thus chastise.
                                                   [Kicks him.

    [They all draw, and Bellmour stands foremost, and fights
    with Charles; the Women run squeaking out, Sir Tim.
    Sham, and Sharp sneak behind; Trusty interposes.

Trust. Hold, hold, I beseech you, my dear Masters! Oh, what a fight is this? Two Brothers fighting with each other! Oh, were my old Master alive, this wou’d break his Heart: Oh, Sir, you’ve kill’d your Brother!

Bel. Why, then his Portion’s paid.
                           [Charles wounded.

Sir Tim. How, kill’d! Nay, ‘tis time we departed then, and shifted for ourselves.

[Ex. Sir Tim. Sham and Sharp.

Trust. Oh, Sir, shall I send for a Chyrurgion?

Char. No, for a Coach rather, I am not wounded much.

[Ex. Trusty.

Bel. How dar’st thou trust thy self alone with me?

Char. Why should I fear thee?

Bel. Because I’m mad, Mad as a Tygress rob’d of her dear Young.

Char. What is’t that makes you so?

Bel. My Uncle’s Politicks, Hell take him for’t,
Has ruin’d me, thou and my Sister too,
By marrying me to a fair hated Maid,
When I had plighted all my Faith before.

Enter Trusty.

Trust. Sir, here’s a Coach.

Char. Come, Brother, will you go home with me?

Bel. Home!—no, never to that place thou call’st so.
If, when I’m dead, thou wouldst behold thy Brother,
And take the last Adieu from his cold Lips,
(If those so perjur’d can deserve that kindness)
Inquire for lost Celinda, at whose Feet
Thou shalt behold me fall’n a Sacrifice.
Till then, I’ll let mistaken Parents know
The mischiefs that ensue a broken Vow.

[Ex. severally.

SCENE I. Covent Garden.

Enter Betty Flauntit alone.

Flaunt. Sure I rose the wrong way to day, I have had such damn’d ill luck every way: First, to be sent for to such a Man as this Bellmour, and, as the Devil wou’d have it, to find my Knight there; then to be just upon the Point of making my Fortune, and to be interrupted by that virtuous Brother of his; then to have a Quarrel happen, that (before I could whisper him in the Ear, to say so much as, Meet me here again— anon) forc’d me to quit the House, lest the Constable had done it for me; then that that silly Baud should discover all to my Cully. If this be not ill Luck, the Devil’s in’t—But Driver must bring matters about, that I may see this liberal Squire again—But here comes my Noddy, I must pretend to be angry.

Enter Sir Timothy.

Sir Tim. Lord, Lord, how ye look now, as if you had committed no Misdemeanour: Alas, good Innocent, what canst thou say for thy self, thou Renegado thou, for being false to my Bosom, say?

Flaunt. False to your Bosom! You silly impudent Sot you—who dares accuse me?

Sir Tim. E’en your trusty and well-beloved Friend, Mrs. Driver the Baud.

Flaunt. She! She’s an impudent confounded Lyar—and because she wou’d have your worshipful Custom—scandaliz’d me, to breed a difference between us.

Sir Tim. Ay, if you could make me believe that indeed, when she knew
Me not, nor ever saw me all the Days of her Life before.

Flaunt. I know that, Simpleton; but when I went to enquire for you by your Name, and told her my Bus’ness, our Amours are not kept so secret, nor was she so dull, as not to understand how matters went between us.

Sir Tim. Now though I know this to be a damn’d Lye, yet the Devil has assisted her to make it look so like Truth, that I cannot in Honour but forgive her.

Flaunt. Forgive me!—Who shall forgive you your debauch’d Whoring and Drinking?—marry, ye had need so, you are such a Ruffler, at least if y’are every where as you are at home with me—No, Sirrah, I’ll never bed with you more; here I live sneaking without a Coach, or any thing to appear withal; when even those that were scandalous two Ages ago, can be seen in Hide-Park in their fine Chariots, as if they had purchas’d it with a Maidenhead; whilst I, who keep myself intirely for you, can get nothing but the Fragments of your Debauches—I’ll be damn’d before I’ll endure it.

Sir Tim. Just as the Baud said; yet I am mollify’d—nay, dear Betty, forgive me, and I’ll be very good for the future.

Flaunt. Will you swear to be so?

Sir Tim. Ay, by Fortune, I will.

Flaunt. Come, what will you give me then to be Friends? for you won Money last Night.

Sir Tim. Ay, that’s it that appeases her highest Storms—here, my
Jewel, here’s a hundred Guineas to buy thee fine things.

Flaunt. Yes, great store of fine things indeed, with this pitiful Sum; let me feel in your Pockets, and see if you have no more. [She feels in his Pockets.

Sir Tim. So, ‘twas well I laid by the rest, my Peace had not been
Made under every Rag on’t else; and what I was painfully cheating for
All this Night, would have been laid out at the Mercers and Lacemans
in half an Hour.
—Well, are you satisfy’d I have no more?

Flaunt. Have you sunk none indeed and indeed, my Timmy?

Sir Tim. No, I need not, you sink mine fast enough, I thank ye. [Aside.

Flaunt. Well, get your self ready to go abroad with me.

[Exit Flaunt.

Sir Tim. I have other Matters in hand—now have I four hundred Guineas in Bank, which I won last Night of Bellmour, which I’ll make use of to debauch his Sister, with whom I’m damnably in love, and long for the return of my two Setting-dogs, to bring me News of the Game.

Enter Sham and Sharp.

Oh, are you come?

Sham. Ay, Sir, with News worth the hearing; I have been diligent, Sir, and got my self acquainted with the old Steward of the Family, an avaricious Judas, that will betray for Gold.

Sir Tim. And that we’ll furnish him with—his Master’s Gold, like all other mortal things, must return from whence it came.

Sharp. Not all, Sir; for Sham and I have dispos’d of part.

Sir Tim. Indeed you are a little shabby.

Sham. Ay, Sir, Fools were made to repair the Breaches of us that have Wit enough to manage ‘em.

Sir Tim. What—the Goldsmith paid the Money at sight, without demanding why?

Sharp. Readily, Sir—he’s a brave Fellow, and must not be lost so.

Sham. By no means, we must make use of him whilst he is hot; for I doubt the Humour is not natural, and I fear he may cool.

Sir Tim. But to our Business.

Sharp. Ay, Sir, this same Sister of his you must have; if it be but to put this insolent Whore Flauntit out of favour, who manages this Fop intirely. [Aside.

Sir Tim. Ay, but art thou sure there is no danger in this Enterprize?
Shall I not have my Throat cut? and the rest.

Sham. We have none of that Italian Humour now-a-days, I can assure ye; they will sooner, with a brotherly kindness, assist the yielding Sister to the willing Gallant.

Sir Tim. A good thriving Inclination, by Fortune.

Sham. And, Sir, you have all Encouragement; her Brother, you heard, refus’d to pay her Portion, and you know the Fate of a handsom young Wench in this Town, that relies on weak Virtue—Then because she is in The House with her Uncle, this same Steward has contriv’d matters so, to bring you in at the Back-door, her Lodgings being in the Garden.

Sir Tim. This is something—Oh, I’m impatient to be with her—Well, I must in, and make some Lye to Betty for my Absence, and be with you presently. [Exit Sir Tim.

Sharp. What Design hast thou in hand? for I suppose there is no such real thing as debauching of this Lady.

Sham. Look ye, Sharp, take to thee an implicit Faith, and believe Impossibilities; for thou and I must cozen this Knight.

Sharp. What, our Patron?

Sham. Ay, Sharp, we are bound to labour in our Callings, but mum— here he comes.

Enter Sir Timothy.

Sir Tim. Come, let’s away, my Lyoness begins to roar.—You, Sharp, go seek after Bellmour, watch his Motions, and give us notice.

[Exeunt.

Flaunt. He is gone, and I believe [Betty Flauntit peeping out.] for no Goodness; I’ll after him, and watch him.

[Exit cross the Stage.

Enter Lord Plotwell, Charles, Trusty, and two Servants.

Lord. In a Baudy-house, with Whores, Hectors, and Dice! Oh, that I should be so deceiv’d in Mankind, he whom I thought all Virtue and Sobriety! But go some of you immediately, and take Officers along with you, and remove his Quarters from a Baudy-house to a Prison: charge him with the Murder of his Wife.

Char. My Lord, when I demanded her, he said indeed that she was dead, and kill’d by him; but this I guess was the Effects of Madness, which Debauchery, and want of Sleep has brought him to.

Lord. That shall be try’d; go to the Place where Charles has directed you, and do as I command you.

[Ex. Servants.

—Oh, sweet Diana, in whom I had plac’d my absolute Delight,
And gave thee to this Villain, because I wish’d thee happy.
And are my Expectations fall’n to this?
Upon his Wedding Night to abandon thee,
And shew his long dissembled natural Leudness!

Char. My Lord, I hope, ‘tis not his natural Temper;
For e’er we parted, from a brutal Rudeness,
He grew to all the Softness Grief could dictate.
He talkt of breach of Vows, of Death, and Ruin,
And dying at the Feet of a wrong’d Maid;
I know not what he meant.

Lord. Ay, there’s his Grief; there is some jilting Hussy has drawn him in; but I’ll revenge my self on both.

Enter Page.

Page. A Letter for your Lordship.

Lord reads.

My LORD,

As your Goodness has been ever great towards me, so I humbly beseech you to continue it; and the greatest Proofs you can give me of it, is to use all your Interest to undo that tye between Bellmour and my self, which with such Joy you knit. I will say no more, but as you love my Life, and my dearer Honour, get a Divorce, or you will see both ruin’d in Your Diana.

[Gives Charles the Letter.

Lord. A Divorce! yes, if all my Interest or Estate can purchase it— some Joy yet that thou art well.

Char. Doubtless her Reasons must be great for this Request.

Lord. Yes, for she lov’d him passionately; when I first told her of my Designs to marry ‘em together, she could not hide her Joy; which was one Motive, I urg’d it to him with such Violence.

Char. Persons so near of Kin do seldom prosper in the Marriage-Bed.

Lord. However ‘tis, I now think fit to unmarry ‘em; And as for him, I’ll use him with what Rigor The utmost Limits of the Law allows me.

Char. Sir, I beseech you—

Lord. You beseech me! You, the Brother of the Villain! that has abus’d the best of all my Hopes!—No, I think—I shall grow (for his sake) to hate all that belong to him.

Char. Sir, how, have I offended?

Lord. Yes, Sir, you have offended me, and Nature has offended me; you are his Brother, and that’s an Offence to me.

Char. Is that a Fault, my Lord?

Lord. Yes, Sir, a great one, and I’ll have it so; and let me tell you, you nor your Sister (for that reason) must expect no more Friendship at my Hands, than from those that are absolute Strangers to you: Your Brother has refus’d you your Portions, and I’ll have as little Mercy As he, and so farewel to you—But where’s the Messenger that brought the Letter?

Page. Without, my Lord.

[Ex. Lord and Page.

Trust. Here’s like to be a hopeful end of a noble Family. My Comfort is, I shall die with Grief, and not see the last of ye. [Weeps.

Char. No, Trusty, I have not been so meanly educated, but I know how to live, and like a Gentleman: All that afflicts me in this Misfortune, is my dear Sister Phillis, she’s young; and to be left poor in this loose Town, will ruin her for ever.

Trust. Sir, I think we were best to marry her out of the way.

Char. Marry her! To whom? who is’t regards poor Virtue?

Trust. For that let me alone; and if you dare trust her to my Management, I’ll undertake to marry her to a Man of 2000 pounds a Year; and if it fail, I’ll be sure to keep her Honour safe.

Char. Prithee how wilt do this?

Trust. Sir, I have serv’d your Family these thirty Years, with Faith and Love; and if I lose my Credit now, I’ll never pretend to’t more.

Char. Do what thou wilt, for I am sure thou’rt honest, And I’ll resign my Sister to thy Conduct, Whilst I endeavour the Conversion of my Brother. [Exit Charles.

Enter Phillis.

Phil. No News yet of my Brother?

Trust. None: The Next you’ll hear is, that he’s undone, and that you must go without your Portions; and worse than that, I can tell you, your Uncle designs to turn you out of Doors.

Phil. Alas! what shou’d I do, if he shou’d be so cruel? Wou’d I were in Flanders at my Monastery again, if this be true.

Trust. I have better Bus’ness for you, than telling of Beads—No, Mrs. Phillis, you must be married.

Phil. Alas! I am too young, and sad for Love.

Trust. The younger, and the less Love, the better.

Enter Page.

Page. Mr. Trusty, here’s a Gentleman would speak with you, he says his Name’s Mr. Sham.

Trust. Gud’s me, Mistress, put on all your Holiday Looks; for this is the little Merchant of Love by Retail, that brings you the Husband I promis’d you.

Enter Sham.

Sham. Well, Mr. Trusty, I have brought Sir Timothy as I promis’d, he is at the Garden-door.

Trust. The best time in the World, my Lord’s out of the way.

Sham. But you know our Conditions.

Trust. Yes, that if he marry her, you are to have all the Money that he offers to debauch her.

Sham. Right.

Trust. Bring him in then, and I’ll civilly withdraw. [Exit Trusty.

Enter Sham, bringing in Sir Timothy.

Sir Tim. Well, Sham, thou hast prepar’d all things, and there needs no Ceremony.

Sham. None, none, Sir; you may fall down-right to the Business. [Exit.

Enter Phillis.

Sir Tim. sings.

  Come, my Phillis, let us improve
  Both our Joys of equal Love;
  Whilst we in yonder shady Grove,
  Count Minutes by our Kisses.

Phil. What sort of Courtship’s this? ‘tis very odd!

Sir Tim. Pox on formal Fops; we have high-born and generous Souls, and scorn the common Road—Come, let’s enjoy, whilst Youth and Beauty lasts.

Phil. What means this Rudeness? I’ll tell my Brother.

Sir Tim. Your Brother! by Fortune, he’s so leud, that should I he so unconscionable to leave thee a Virgin but this Night, he wou’d ravish thee himself, and that at cheaper Rates than I design to do it.

Phil. How dare you talk to me at this rate?

Sir Tim. Talk to thee—by Fortune, I’ll play the Tarquin with thee, if thou yieldest not quickly—for thou hast set me all on fire.

Phil. Defend me, Heaven, from such a Man.

Sir Tim. Then it must defend you from all the Sex; for all Mankind are like me, nay, and all Womankind are, or wou’d be, what I must make thee.

Phil. What’s that, a Wench?

Sir Tim. Fie, fie, that’s a gross Name; no, a Miss, that’s the Word— a Lady of Delight, a Person of Pleasure and the rest; I’ll keep thee, not a Woman of Quality shall be half so fine—Come, dear Phillis, yield. Oh, I am mad for the happy hour—come, say the word, ‘tis but inclining thy Head a little thus, thy pretty Eyes down, and thy Cheeks all Blushes, and fetching a long Sigh—thus—with—do—what you please —at the end on’t—and I shall take it for granted.

Phil. That, Sir, you’ll never hear me say to any thing but a Husband, if I must say it then.

Sir Tim. A Husband! it is enough to spoil a Man’s Appetite, the very naming on’t—By Fortune, thou hast been bred with thy great Grand-mother, some old Queen Elizabeth Lady, that us’d to preach Warnings to young Maidens; but had she liv’d in this Age, she wou’d have repented her Error, especially had she seen the Sum that I offer thee—Come, let’s in, by Fortune, I’m so vigorous, I shall ravish else.

Phil. Unhand me, or I’ll call out. I assure you, this is not the way to gain me.

Sir Tim. I know there is a way to gain all mortal Womankind; but how to hit the critical Minute of the Berjere—

Phil. It is past your Politicks at this time, Sir.

Sir Tim. I’ll try all ways, and the Devil’s in it, if I don’t hit upon the right at last. [Aside. All the soft things I’ve said—

Phil. That a Knight of your Parts ought to say.

Sir Tim. Then I have kneel’d—and cry’d, and swore—and—

Phil. And damn’d your self five hundred times.

Sir Tim. Yet still y’are impregnable—I’ll make another Proposition to you, which is both reasonable and modish—if it prove a Boy—I’ll marry you—the Devil’s in’t, if that be not fair.

Phil. You get no earnest of me, Sir, and so farewel to you. [Ex. Phillis.

Enter Sham.

Sir Tim. Oh, Sham, I am all over fire, mad to enjoy. I have done what Man can do (without doing what I wou’d do) and still she’s Flint; nothing will down with her but Matrimony—what shall I do? for thou know’st I cannot marry a Wife without a Fortune.

Sham. Sir, you know the old Cheat; hire a Lay Rascal in a Canonical Habit, and put a false Marriage upon her.

Sir Tim. Lord, that this shou’d not enter into my Coxcomb before! haste then and get one—I’ll have it done immediately, whilst I go after her to keep up my flame. [Ex. Sir Tim.

Sham. And I will fit you with a Parson presently.

[Ex.

Enter Friendlove disguis’d as before.

Friend. I find Diana knows me not; and this Year’s absence, since I first made my Addresses to her, has alter’d me much, or she has lost the remembrance of a Man, whom she ever disesteem’d till in this lucky Dress: the price of her Favour is Bellmour’s Life. I need not have been brib’d for that, his Breach of Faith both to my Sister and my self, enough incites me to Revenge—He has not yet enjoy’d her, that Blessing is reserv’d for me alone; and though the Priest have joyn’d ‘em, that Marriage may be disannull’d, and she has a Fortune sufficient to excuse her other Faults.

Enter Bellmour sad.

—Hah! the Man I seek—so near my Lodgings too—Sir!

Bel. Sir!

Friend. Traitor! thou know’st me, and my bus’ness.— Look on this Face, if thou dar’st look on him Whom thou hast doubly wrong’d—and draw thy Sword.

Bel. Thou should’st be Friendlove, Brother to Celinda.

Friend. And Lover of Diana too—Oh, quickly draw, Or I shall leave thee, like a Coward, dead.

Bel. No, rather like a Sacrifice, [Offers to embrace him.
And thou should’st be the Priest should offer it;
But that I have yet,
For some few moments, business for my Life.

Friend. I can allow no time for business now, My Injuries are in haste, and so am I.

Bel. Shou’dst thou stab here a thousand gaping Wounds,
Upon this false, this perjur’d Heart of mine,
It wou’d not part with Life, unless ‘twere laid
Near to the Sacred Altar of my Vows,
Low at the Feet of my fair injur’d Wife.

Friend. Ha!—means he his Wife? [Aside. Canst thou repent thy Injuries to her, And leave the rest of all thy Sins neglected?

Bel. Those I have done to thee, though foul and barbarous, May plead the Excuse of Force—but those to her, Not thou, nor I, nor she, or Heav’n can pardon.

Friend. Heav’ns!
My Sister’s Wrongs, and mine, may plead Excuse,
But those to her alone can ne’er be pardon’d.
—This place, Sir, is too open—come with me,
For I’ve desir’d, and now resolve to kill thee.

Bel. And so thou shalt; defenceless, I will yield,
And leave my Bosom open to thy Sword.
—But first conduct me to my Wife;
For I will see her—nor can I die unpardon’d.

Friend. See his Wife!—Of whom do you demand her.

Bel. Of thee!—dar’st thou detain me? [Offers to go in.

Friend. Death! how shou’d he know she’s here? [Aside. —Stay, Sir, this way our Business lies. [Pulls him back.

Bel. I ask not thine, but mine lies only this way. [Offers to go in again.

Friend. By Heav’n, you shall not enter here.

Bel. I know thou lov’st her. And ‘tis with Reason thou deny’st an Entrance To one so much unworthy to approach her.

Friend. Yes, I do love her, and dare own it too; And will defend her from one so base and treacherous.

Bel. Who dares deny thy Reasons?

Friend. Sh’has made me take an Oath, to fight with thee; And every Wound my lucky Sword shou’d make, She bad me say, was sent thee from her Hate.

Bel. Oh, I believe thee: prithee tell on, young Man, That I may die without the aid of Wounds.

Friend. To break thy Heart, know then, she loves another, And has took back the Vows she made to thee, And given ‘em to a Man more worthy of ‘em.

Bel. Alas! I credit thee—yet—then, by Heav’n, she’s false!
And I will know, why ‘tis she is thus perjur’d. [Offers to go.
—Nay, now—nor Heaven, nor Hell, shall hinder me.
—Stand off, or to the number I’ll add one Sin more,
And make my Passage to it through thy Heart.

Friend. And so you shall, Sir.

[They fight, Bellmour disarms Friend, and runs in_.

—Disarm’d! by Heav’n, you shall not so escape
A Rage that is too just here to give o’er.

Enter Celinda, as before, met by Nurse.

Nur. Oh, Madam, here’s Mr. Bellmour; he has wounded my young Master, who deny’d him Entrance, and is come into the House, and all in Rage demands his Wife.

Cel. Oh Heav’n! Demands his Wife! Is that sad Curse Added to all the rest?—Does he then love her?

Enter Bellmour with two Swords.

Nur. Whither do you press, Sir? and what’s your business?

Bel. To see my Wife, my Wife, Impertinence; And must I meet with nought but Opposition? [Pushes her roughly away.

Cel. Let him come in.

Nur. Marry, he lets himself in, I thank him.

Cel. What Man art thou thus cover’d o’er with Horror?

Bel. One sent from Hell to punish Perjury!
—Where’s this perfidious Fair? this blushless Maid,
That has by my Example broke her Vows?
A Precedent that Fiends wou’d shame to follow.

Cel. Who is’t you mean, Sir?

Bel. A thing that has no Name, she is so bad;
One who so lately gave her self to me,
And now is flown into another’s Arms:
One that attacks my Life, for the same Sins
Which she her self commits—and thinks to live too.
—Yet still she is my Wife, whom I have injur’d:
Till when, she was a Saint—come, lead me to her,
Though she be false as I, yet I’ll forgive it.
                                [Throws by the Swords.

Cel. Heav’ns! he repents his Cruelty to her, And never mentions me! Ah then ‘tis time to die. And that I may be sure of Death— [Aside. Well, Sir, I will conduct this happy Lady to you. [Ex. Cel.

Bel. Gods! Happy!—whilst I am wretched.
—Oh, what an Ague chills my shivering Limbs,
Turns my hot Rage to softest Love, and Shame!
Were I not here to die—here at her Feet,
I wou’d not stand the Shock of her Reproaches.
—But yet she need not speak, a Look’s sufficient
To call up all my Sins to my undoing—
She comes—Oh Heav’n! she comes—

Enter Celinda and Diana.

—Like penitent Criminals thus—with my Eyes declin’d, I bow my Head down, for the last sad Blow. [Stands bow’d.

Cel. Sir, in Obedience to your Commands, I’ve brought the Lady.

Dia. How! The perfidious Bellmour! The only Object of my Hate and Scorn.

Bel. Say on, my angry Deity— [Kneels.
Whilst I thus trembling hear my fatal Doom,
Like Sinners, conscious ne’er to be forgiven,
I dare not lift my guilty Eyes towards Heaven.

Cel. Can I hear this, and yet retain my Life?

Dia. Had I but two days since beheld this Youth
Thus prostrate at my Feet, I should have thought
My self more blest,
Than to have been that Deity he calls me.

Enter Friendlove.

Friend. Defend me! The Traitor here! And at Diana’s Feet! The fittest Altar for my Sacrifice! —Turn, turn, from what thou lov’st, and meet my Justice.

Cel. Oh, hold, my dearest Brother.

[Bellmour rises, and turns about.

Bel. Nay, now I’m ready for the welcome Sword, Since my Celinda’s false, and cannot pardon.

Cel. Oh, do not die with that profane Opinion. Celinda false! or cannot pardon thee!

Dia. Stay, generous Sir, my Pity has forgiven him.

Bel. Thou! Why, who art thou—Diana?

Dia. Yes, that Diana, Whom, maugre all the Penitence thou shew’st, Can scarce forgive the Injuries thou hast done her.

Bel. I shew a Penitence for injuring thee! By Heav’n, I never cou’d do one, or other; All that I am is the divine Celinda’s.

Friend. He’s stark mad! [Aside.

Bel. But since she cannot pardon, I can die. [Offers to fall on his Sword.

Cel. Canst thou not credit me? She pardons thee. Live—and enjoy—Diana. [Turns her Face from him.

Bel. What art thou, who know’st her Heart so well?
Art thou my Rival? the blessed Youth, to whom
She has given her Vows?—Live, and enjoy, Diana!
—Yes, yes, thou art my Rival, and I’ll kill thee.

Cel. Do, whilst I meet thy Sword.

[Opens her Arms, Diana stays him; he lets fall his Sword, and gazes.

Bel, Dull—dull Adorer! Not to know my Saint.
Oh, how I have profan’d! To what strange Idol
Was that I kneel’d,
Mistaking it for a Divinity?

Cel. To your fair Wife Diana.

Bel. Oh cruel Maid! Has Heav’n design’d me any but Celinda?

Dia. Maid! Bless me!—did I then love a Woman? —I am pleas’d thou should’st renounce me; make it good, And set me free from Fetters which I hate.

Bel. If all our Laws can do’t, I will—for here Ends all my Claim. [To Celinda.

Friend. Was this the Wife you did demand of me?

Bel. Yes, I had no other.

Dia. Fair Maid! forgive me all my shameful Passion, And charge my Fault upon your Beauty only.

Cel. Excellent Creature! I shou’d sue for that, Which my Deceit will never make me hope.

Bel. And art thou true to Love, and all thy Vows?
Whilst I to save my Fortune,
(That only which you’d make me merit thee)
Gave my unwilling Hand to this fair noble Maid.
—Ah, Friendlove, when thou hear’st my Story told,
Thou wilt forgive, and pity me.

Dia. What was’t you said, Sir? Friendlove!

Friend. Yes, Madam, I hope the Name can make no difference; Or hate that still, so you but love the Man.

Dia. Though I’m again defeated, yet this last Proves least offensive; nor shall an empty Word Alter my fix’d Resolves, to love you still.

Friend. Then I am blest!

Bel. But yet the Office of the Priest has past: What Remedy for that?

Dia. My Uncle’s Pow’r, the Nearness of our Blood, The Contradiction of our Circumstances.

Bel. And above all that, my Contract with Celinda. —Methinks I feel a Joy spread o’er my Heart, The blessed Omen of approaching Happiness.

Cel. I do believe thee; for by Sympathy, Mine takes new Fire and Hope.

Dia. I have already writ to my Uncle, and the Messenger assur’d me, he would gratify my Desires; that done, I will be yours. [To Friendlove.

Bel. But why thus drest? it might have led my Rage, Full of Despair and Jealousy to have hurt thee.

Cel. Sir, when the Letter came of your being married,
I will not tell you all the Effects it had
Upon my desperate Soul;
But this I know, I had resolv’d to die,
But first to see you. Your Page inform’d the Nurse
All that had past, and of the last Night’s Ball;
And much concern’d, she got this Habit for me,
And inform’d me how ‘twas I was to act,
And that my Brother (describing of his Dress) was gone before.
This made me haste, lest e’er I came
His Rage had done the Business which it went for.

Friend. And so it had, hadst thou not hinder’d me; For I, Sir, was the Man who drew on you.

Bel. And was it thou that didst defend my Heart, That I might live to pay thy Goodness back?

Cel. It was to save your Life, and to expose my own.

Dia. Come, let’s in, and consult what’s best for us to do.

Bel. Come, my Celinda. Let us no longer doubt, the Pow’rs above Will be propitious to united Love.

[Ex. Cel.

Enter Servant.

Serv. Sir, my Lord Plotwell is at the Door in his Coach.

Dia. My Uncle come! Sir, we will not doubt our Fortune. But how came he to know of my being here?

Serv. Madam, I fear he follow’d me after I had given him the Letter.

Enter Lord Plotwell, Charles, Trusty.

Lord. Bellmour and Diana kneeling!
                                 [Bel. and Diana kneel.
—Rise; the Joy I have to see you thus, makes me
Resolve to grant you any thing, and pardon
All that’s past.

Bel. Be not so hasty in your Goodness, Sir, Lest you repent as fast.

Dia. Sir, we have an humble Suit to you.

Lord. What is it ye can jointly ask, I will not grant?

Dia. By all that Love you ever had for me,
By all those Infant Charms which us’d to please you,
When on your Lap you taught my Tongue that Art
Which made those dear Impressions on your Heart,
Which ever since to my Advantage grew,
I do conjure you hear me now I sue,
And grant the mighty Grace I beg of you.

Lord. What is it you wou’d ask?

Bel. Oh, dress your Face and Eyes in gentler Looks, If you wou’d have us hope for any Mercy.

Lord. Rise, and whate’er you ask, I’ll freely grant.

Dia. That you’ll undo that Knot, that ties us two.

Lord. How! this Request from thee! who lov’d him once, And wish’d no good beyond possessing him.

Dia. Heav’n has not, Sir, decreed us for each other: Something of Fate or Chance Has otherwise dispos’d those first Resolves.

Lord. Too virtuous Maid, I know thou dost but feign, His Wickedness has forc’d thee to this change.

Dia. No, Sir, were he the only Man
Of kind and good, I never wou’d be his.
—And if you shou’d compel me, I shou’d live
The infamous Reproach of my whole Sex.

Lord. Well, and you, Sir, that are the cause of this, What canst thou say to move me for thy Pardon?

Bel. I am so guilty in your Opinion,
My Prayers wou’d but make you merciless;
I only say Celinda is my Wife,
And I shou’d injure this too generous Maid,
Not to adore her equal to her Merit.

Lord. I see, Sir, you have found your Wits again.
—Well, I see there’s no opposing Destiny;
And I have still such tenderness for thee, [To Dia.
That hadst thou pleaded his Cause to me before,
I shou’d have been less cruel to him.
—Where is that Lady which you so admire,
Whose Beauty does eclipse that of Diana?

[Bellmour goes out, and brings in Celinda.

Dia. This, Sir, is she who merits more than I.

Lord. She’s fair indeed; here, Frank, I give thee thy Celinda, whose Beauty Excuses all thy Faults of Disobedience.

Bel. Thus low, I thank you for this Goodness, Sir. [Kneels.

Lord. There only wants the Ceremony of the Law to undo what’s between you and Diana, if she remain a Virgin.

Bel. For me, by Heav’n she is; And for the rest, I do not doubt her Virtue.

Dia. You may believe him, Sir; and this alone’s the Man, in whom I will, or never will be happy.

Lord. Mr. Friendlove! I give Consent to’t, he has a noble Character; and what he wants in Fortune, has in Virtue—take her, young Man.

Friend. ‘Tis such an Honour, Sir, that my Gratitude, without the mighty Passion I have for her, would make me ever thankful.

Lord. This Term, we shall make the former Marriage void; till then love on, and fear no Frowns from Fortune—but Nephew—now I hope your Brother shall have his Portion.

Bel. My dearest Charles, forgive me all that’s past, And share the Fortune Heaven has given thy Brother.

Char. The Joy I have, Sir, to be undeceived, Is much the greatest Blessing Heav’n can send me.

    Enter Sir Timothy, follow’d by Phillis, Sham,
    Sharp, and Betty Flauntit.

Sir Tim. I am pursu’d by two impertinent Women; prithee, Friendlove, tell ‘em I am gone out at the Backdoor, and send ‘em away.

Lord. What’s the News here?

Sir Tim. How, Celinda here, and Bellmour too! Nay, now wou’d I compound for my Life, at any rate, by Fortune.

Phil. Sir, this Villain here has abus’d me, and with a false Marriage has rob’d me of my Honour.

Bel. How!

Sir Tim. My Lord, I say this young Jilt would have rob’d me of my self; and courting her, and enjoying her only for a Miss, would persuade me I am married to her.

Flaunt. Sir, I say, I am doubly wrong’d; first by this false Knight, who has belong’d to me this three Years, which gives me a right to him, as good as if I were married to him; who has now unlawfully left my Bed, for that of this Gilflurt, who, on the other side, takes away my Knight, and consequently eats the Bread out of my Mouth.

Bel. What means all this? Speak some of ye that know.

Flaunt. Oh Lord! Who’s here? The fine Squire? [Aside.

Trust. Sir Timothy Tawdry, Sir, is married to Mrs. Phillis.

Sir Tim. How can that be a Marriage, when he who join’d us, was but a hired Fellow, dress’d like a Parson?

Trust. Sir, ‘twas Parson Tickletext that marry’d ‘em.

Sir Tim. Oh, what a damn’d lying Pimp is this!—Sham, didst thou not hire a Fellow, (because I was damnably in Love, and in haste) to marry us, that was no Parson?

Sham. Why, truly, Sir—I did go to hire such a one—

Sir Tim. Look ye there now.

Sham. But you’d meet with none; and because you said you shou’d die if you enjoy’d her not presently, and that she would not yield on any other Terms, but those of Marriage, I e’en brought the Parson that Trusty had provided for you.

Sir Tim. Oh Villain, to betray me! and for no Reward!

Trust. Yes, indeed, Sir, the four hundred Guineas you left behind my young Mistress’s Looking-glass fell to his share.

Sir Tim. What’s my Money gone! and I am marry’d too! This ‘tis not to use to go to Church; for then I might have chanc’d to know the Parson.

Bel. Death, you Dog! you deserve to die, for your base Designs upon a Maid of her Quality—How durst you, Sister, without my leave, marry that Rascal?

Phil. Sir, you deny’d me my Portion, and my Uncle design’d to turn me out of doors, and in my Despair I accepted of him.

Flaunt. Married! and to a Wife of no Fortune! that’s the worst part on’t—what shall I do?

Bel. Renounce this leud Fool, and I’ll make thee a Fortune suitable to thy Quality.

Sir Tim. Say you so?—Renounce me, Sir! I’d have you to know I merit her: And as for Leudness, I name no body, Bellmour—but only some have the Art of hiding it better than I—but for Whoring, Drinking, Dicing, and all the deadly Sins that thereupon depend, I thank my Stars, I come short of you: And since you say, I shall not have your Sister, by Fortune, I will have your Sister, and love your Sister, and lie with your Sister, inspite of you.

Lord. Well, Sir Timothy, since my Niece has done amiss, ‘tis too late to mend it—and that you may not repent, I’ll take care her Fortune shall be suitable to the Jointure you’ll make her.

Bel. With this Proviso, that you make no Settlement to Misses, Sir Timothy—I am not so unreasonable to tie you up from all of that Profession; that were to spoil a fashionable Husband, and so put you quite out of Fop-road.

Lord. This Day we’ll set apart for Mirth, And all must make my House their happy home.

Bel. To thee, Celinda! all my Good I owe, My Life, my Fortune, and my Honour too, Since all had perish’d by a broken Vow.

Flaunt. What, am I like to lose my Timmy? Canst thou have the Heart to leave me for ever? I who have been true and constant to you?

Sir Tim. Alas! now I must melt again, by Fortune—thou art a Fool, dost think I wou’d have had her, but for her Fortune? which shall only serve to make thee out-flaunt all the Cracks in Town—go—go home and expect me, thou’lt have me all to thy self within this Day or two:

    Since Marriage but a larger Licence is
    For every Fop of Mode to keep a Miss.

Spoken by Sir Timothy Tawdrey.

Sir Timothy, Gallants, at last is come
To know his Sentence, and receive his Doom,
But pray before you are resolv’d to be
Severe, look on your selves, and then on me;
Observe me well, I am a Man of Show,
Of Noise, and Nonsense, as are most of you.
Though all of you don’t share with me in Title,
In Character you differ very little.
Tell me in what you find a Difference?
It may be you will say, you’re Men of Sense;
But Faith—
Were one of you o’th’ Stage, and I i’th’ Pit,
He might be thought the Fop, and I the Wit.
On equal Grounds you’ll scarce know one from t’other;
We are as like, as Brother is to Brother.
To judge against me then wou’d be Ill-Nature,
For Men are kind to those they’re like in Feature.
For Judges therefore I accept you all;
By you, Sir Timothy will stand or fall.
He’s too faint-hearted that his Sentence fears,
Who has the Honour to be try’d by’s Peers.

Written by Mr. E.R.

Don Carlos, Governor of Cadiz, who has been contracted to Julia, now married to a rich old churl, Francisco, in order to gain her, mans a galley, which has been captured from the Turks, with some forty or fifty attendants disguised as ferocious Ottomans; and whilst she, her husband and a party of friends are taking a pleasure trip in a yacht, they are suddenly boarded and all made prisoners by the supposed corsairs, who carry them off to a country villa a few miles from the town belonging to Carlos’ friend, Antonio, which, however, they are firmly convinc’d is a palace inhabited by the Great Turk himself. Here Carlos appears, dressed as the Sultan, with much pomp, and Francisco, overwhelmed with terror, speedily relinquishes Julia to his captor. In order to punish her for her intolerable arrogance, Isabella, Francisco’s daughter by his former wife, who is designed to wed Antonio, is introduced to a chimney-sweep, Guiliom, masquerading as a noble of high degree. She forthwith strikes up a match with the False Count, leaving Antonio free to marry Clara, Julia’s sister, whom he loves. No sooner, however, has the knot been securely tied than Guiliom, appearing in his sooty rags and with smutched face, publicly demands and humiliates his haughty bride. The trick of the feigned Turks is discovered by the arrival at the villa of Baltazer, Julia’s father. Don Carlos, however, claims his mistress by reason of his former contract, which is perforce allowed.

Guiliom, masquerading as a Count, is of course directly derived from Les Précieuses Ridicules, first performed 18 November, 1659, and Isabella is a close copy of Cathos and Magdelon. Flecknoe had already adapted Molière in The Damoiselles à la Mode, unacted (4to 1667); and seven years later than Mrs. Behn, Shadwell, in his fine comedy, Bury Fair (1689), drew largely from the same source. His mock noble is a French peruke-maker, La Roch, who marries Lady Fantast’s affected daughter. Miller, in his The Man of Taste; or, The Guardian (1735), blended the same plot with L’Ecole des Maris. The stratagem of the feigned Turkish ship capturing the yacht is a happy extension of a hint from the famous galley scene (Que diable allait-il faire à cette galère?), Act ii, 7, Les Fourberies de Scapin. This, however, is not original with Molière, being entirely borrowed from Le Pédant Joué, Act ii, 4, of Cyrano de Bergerac (1654). What is practically a translation of Les Fourberies de Scapin by Otway, was produced at the Duke’s Theatre in 1677, and in the same year Ravenscroft included a great part of it in his Scaramouch a Philosopher, Harlequin a Schoolboy, Bravo, Merchant, and Magician.

In the Epilogue Mrs. Behn asserts that she wrote The False Count with ease in something less than a week. This may be a pardonable exaggeration; but there are certainly distinct marks of haste in the composition of the play. In Act iii, I, she evidently intended Francisco and his party to be seized as they were returning home by sea, at the end of the act she arranges their sea trip as an excursion on a yacht.

The False Count; or, A New Way to Play an Old Game was produced at the Duke’s Theatre, Dorset Garden, in the autumn of 1682, not later than the end of October. An excellent rattling farce, it seems to have kept the stage at intervals for some twenty years. On 11 August, 1715, there was a revival at Lincoln’s Inn Fields. It is billed as ‘not acted ten years’. Spiller played Guiliom, Mrs. Moor Isabella, and Mrs. Thurmond Julia. There is no further record of its performance.

THE FALSE COUNT: or, A New Way to play an old Game.

Spoken by Mr. Smith.

Know all ye Whigs and Tories of the Pit,
(Ye furious Guelphs and Gibelins of Wit,
Who for the Cause, and Crimes of Forty One
So furiously maintain the Quarrel on)
Our Author, as you’ll find it writ in Story,
Has hitherto been a most wicked Tory;
But now, to th’joy o’th’ Brethren be it spoken,
Our Sister’s vain mistaken Eyes are open;
And wisely valuing her dear Interest now,
All-powerful Whigs, converted is to you.
’.was long she did maintain the Royal Cause,
Argu’d, disputed, rail’d with great Applause;
Writ Madrigals and Doggerel on the Times,
And charg’d you all with your Fore-fathers Crimes;
Nay, confidently swore no Plot was true,
But that so slily carried on by you:
Raised horrid Scandals on you, hellish Stories,
In Conventicles how you eat young Tories;
As Jew did heretofore eat Christian _Suckling;
And brought an Odium on your pious Gutling:
When this is all Malice it self can say,
You for the good Old Cause devoutly eat and pray.
Though this one Text were able to convert ye,
Ye needy Tribe of Scriblers to the Party;
Yet there are more advantages than these,
For write, invent, and make what Plots you please,
The wicked Party keep your Witnesses;
Like frugal Cuckold-makers you beget
Brats that secur’d by others fires shall sit.
Your Conventicling Miracles out-do
All that the Whore of_ Babylon e’er knew:
By wondrous art you make Rogues honest Men,
And when you please transform ‘em Rogues again.
To day a Saint, if he but hang a Papist,
Peach a true Protestant, your Saint’s turn’d Atheist:
And dying Sacraments do less prevail,
Than living ones, though took in Lamb’s-Wool-Ale.
Who wou’d not then be for a Common-weal,
To have the Villain covered with his Zeal?
A Zeal, who for Convenience can dispense
With Plays provided there’s no Wit nor Sense.
For Wit’s profane, and Jesuitical,
And Plotting’s Popery, and the Devil and all.
We then have fitted you with one to day,
’.is writ as ‘twere a Recantation Play;
Renouncing all that has pretence to witty,
T’oblige the Reverend Brumighams o’th’ City:
No smutty Scenes, no Jests to move your Laughter,
Nor Love that so debauches all your Daughters.
But shou’d the Torys now,—who will desert me,
Because they find no dry bobs on your Party,
Resolve to hiss, as late did Popish Crew, |
By Yea and Nay, she’ll throw her self on you, |
The grand Inquest of Whigs, to whom she’s true. |
Then let ‘em rail and hiss, and damn their fill,
Your Verdict will be Ignoramus still.

Don Carlos, Governour of Cadiz, young and rich, in love with Julia, Mr. Smith Antonio, a Merchant, young and rich. Friend to Carlos, in love with Clara, but promis’d to Isabella, Mr. Wiltshire Francisco, old and rich, Husband to Julia, and Father to Isabella, Mr. Nokes. Baltazer, Father to Julia and Clara, Mr. Bright. Sebastian, Father to Antonio, Mr. Freeman. Guzman, Gentlemen to Carlos, Mr. Underhill. Guiliom, a Chimney-Sweeper; the False Count, Mr. Lee. Two overgrown Pages to the False Count, A little Page to the False Count. Petro, Cashier to Antonio. Page to Don Carlos. Captain of a Gally. Two Seamen. Lopez, Servant to Baltazer. Several disguis’d like Turks.

Julia, Wife to Francisco, young and handsom, in love with Carlos, Mrs. Davis. Clara, Sister to Julia, in love with Antonio, Mrs. Petty. Isabella, Daughter to Francisco; proud, vain and foolish, despising all Men under the degree of Quality, and falls in love with Guiliom, Mrs. Corror. Jacinta, Woman to Julia, Mrs. Osborne. Wife to Petro.

Dancers, Singers, &c.

SCENE I. The Street.

Enter Carlos, Antonio and Guzman.

Car. By all that’s good, I’m mad, stark raving mad,
To have a Woman young, rich, beautiful,
Just on the point of yielding to my Love,
Snatcht from my Arms by such a Beast as this;
An old ridiculous Buffoon, past Pleasure,
Past Love, or any thing that tends that way;
Ill-favour’d, ill-bred, and ill-qualify’d,
With more Diseases than a Horse past Service;
And only blest with Fortune and my Julia;
For him, I say, this Miser, to obtain her,
After my tedious nights and days of Love,
My midnight Watchings, Quarrels, Wounds and Dangers;
—My Person not unhandsom too,
By Heav’n, ‘twas wondrous strange!

Ant. And old Francisco, without the expence of an hour’s Courtship, a Billet-Doux, or scarce a sight of her, could gain her in a day; and yet ‘tis wonder, your Fortune and your Quality, should be refus’d by Don Baltazer her Father.

Car. A Pox upon’t, I went the wrong way to work, and courted the Daughter; but indeed my Father, the late Governour of Cadiz, whose Estate and Honour I now enjoy, was then living; and, fearing he would not consent to my Passion, I endeavoured to keep it secret, though sacred Vows had past between us two.

Ant. Did she not tell you of this Marriage with old Francisco?

Car. The night before, she did; but only by a Letter from her Window dropt; which when by the help of a dark Lanthorn, I had read, I was struck dead with Grief. [Gives him the Letter.

Ant. [reads.]

  Expect to morrow night to hear I’m dead, since the next
  Sun will guide me to a fatal Marriage with old Francisco.
                                                    Your Julia.

Car. Judge, dear Antonio, my Surprize and Grief;
A-while I stood unmov’d, thoughtless, and silent,
But soon Rage wak’d me to new Life again;
But what I said and did, I leave to raging Lovers,
Like disappointed me, to guess and judge;
She heard—and only answer’d me in Tears,
Nor could I beg one tender Word from her,
She sigh’d, and shut the Window too, and vanish’d.

Ant. And she accordingly next day was married.

Car. She was—and I have since endeavoured all the Arts and Ways I can to cuckold him; ‘tis now two months since the Wedding, and I hear he keeps her as close as a Relict, jealous as Age and Impotence can make him. She hitherto has been absent at Sevil, but Expectation of her Daughter-in-law’s Wedding with you has brought ‘em hither,—and, I ask your Pardon, Antonio, for raillying your Father-in-law that shall be, old Francisco.

Ant. I hope you are mistaken, Sir.

Car. How, are you not to marry his Daughter, Isabella?

Ant. Not if I can help it, Sir,—the Honour you have done me in your Friendship to me, a Person so much above me in Title and Birth, makes me think it my Duty to conceal no part of my Heart to you,—Know then this Isabella, Daughter to old Francisco, and your Cuckold that shall be I hope, is, though fair, most ridiculously proud, vain and fantastical; as all of her Birth and Education, grown rich, are.

Car. Prithee, what was her Birth?

Ant. Why, her Father, old Francisco, was in his youth an English Cordwainer, that is to say, a Shoemaker, which he improv’d in time to a Merchant; and the Devil and his Knavery helping him to a considerable Estate, he set up for Gentleman; and being naturally a stingey, hide-bound Rascal, and in the Humour of Jealousy even out-doing the most rigid of us Spaniards, he came over into Spain, to settle with his whole Family, where his Wife dying, to heighten the Vice, marries this young Julia, your Mistress, Sir;—and now this Daughter of his having wholly forgot her original Dunghill, sets up for a Viscountess at least, though her Father has design’d me the Blessing; but I have fixt my Heart and Eyes else-where, Clara, the young Sister of your Mistress, Sir, commands my Liberty.

Car. I’ve seen her, she has Youth and Beauty capable to make a Conquest any where,—but does she know your Love?

Ant. She does, and makes me think my Love return’d.

Car. Then know, Antonio, I must be your Rival.

Ant. How, Sir!

Car. You said but now you were my Friend, Antonio; If true, you must assist in my design.

Ant. I listen, Sir, impatiently.

Car. Then thus; before I knew she was your Mistress, I had resolv’d upon Addresses to her, in order to’t, have treated with her Father about a Marriage.

Ant. How! and wou’d the false, forsworn, receive your Vows?

Car. No; but with Tears implores her Father daily, whene’er he speaks to her about my Passion; nor can I undeceive her, for indeed I have but feign’d a Love, (she living in the same house with Julia whilst here at Cadiz) to get an opportunity with that dear, charming Creature; for, coming as a Brother, sure they’ll admit me kindly; nor will Francisco, who has heard of what has past ‘twixt me and Julia, suspect me any more.

Ant. I knew I had a Rival, Sir, whom Clara lov’d not; but ne’er cou’d get it from her who he was, for fear of mischief: I have often the Liberty to see her, under the name and pretence of Isabella’s Lover.

Car. And I visit her only to get a sight of Julia, which hitherto has been impossible, though I have oft endeavour’d it. I beg you’ll not be jealous; for this, by Heav’n, is only my Design.

Ant. I’ll trust my Life, my Honour and my Mistress in so good hands at any time.

Car. You oblige me; but though I find your Clara cold and cruel, Isabella would invite me to her Love, and makes so many kind advances to me—

Ant. So would she for your Title, were you deform’d, and had no shape of Man about you; but me, because a little Citizen and Merchant, she so reviles, calling me base Mechanick, saucy Fellow; and wonders where I got the Impudence to speak of Love to her—in fine, I am resolved to be reveng’d on all her Pride and Scorn; by Heav’n, I will invent some dire Revenge:—I’m bent upon’t, and will about it instantly.

Car. And would you do it home and handsomly, and have a good occasion of being disengaged from her, and make her self the instrument?

Ant. Ay, such a Plot were worth the Prosecution.

Car. And such a one I have in my head: Guzman, my Servant, knows a fellow here in Cadiz, whom for his pleasant humour I have oft observ’d, as I have past the Streets, but too mean to be convers’d with, by almost any human thing, by Trade a Chimney-Sweeper.

Ant. On, Sir, I beseech you.

Car. This Fellow’s of a quick Wit and good Apprehension, though possibly he cannot act the Don so well, yet that which makes up the best part of our young Gallants now a-days, he shall not want; that is, good Clothes, Money, and an Equipage,—and a little Instruction will serve turn.

Ant. I’m ravisht with the Fancy;—let me see—he shall be an English Lord, or a French Count.

Car. Either, we’ll furnish him with Bills on Signior Don Francisco, —Men and Baggage, and the business is done—he shall make Love to her.

Ant. Most excellent.

Car. Guzman, have you not observ’d this Fellow I am speaking of.

Guz. Observ’d him, Sir! I know him particularly, I’ll fetch him to you now, Sir; he always stands for new Imployment with the rest of his Gang under St. Jago’s Church-wall.

Car. Bring him anon to my Lodgings, where we’ll prepare him for the Adventure.

Ant. And if the proud Isabella bite not at so gay a bait, I’ll be bound to be married to her.

Car. And if she do not, possibly that may be your Fate—but in return, you must let Clara know the Design I have, and, undeceiving her opinion of my Love, make her of our Party.

Ant. Trust my Friendship, Sir, and Management. I’ll to her instantly, that is, make a visit to Isabella, and get an opportunity to speak with Clara.

Car. And I must write a Letter to Julia, to undeceive her Fears too, could I but get it to her.

Guz. For that let me alone.

[Exeunt severally, bowing.

Enter Julia and Jacinta.

Jac. Lord, Madam, you are as melancholy as a sick Parrot.

Jul. And can you blame me, Jacinta? have I not many Reasons to be sad? first have I not lost the only Man on earth in Don Carlos, that I cou’d love? and worse than that, am married to a Thing, fit only for his Tomb; a Brute, who wanting sense to value me, treats me more like a Prisoner than a Wife?—and his Pretence is, because I should not see nor hear from Don Carlos.

Jac. Wou’d I were in your room, Madam, I’d cut him out work enough, I’d warrant him; and if he durst impose on me, i’faith, I’d transform both his Shape and his Manners; in short, I’d try what Woman-hood cou’d do. And indeed, the Revenge wou’d be so pleasant, I wou’d not be without a jealous Husband for all the World; and really, Madam, Don Carlos is so sweet a Gentleman.

Jul. Ay, but the Sin, Jacinta!

Jac. O’ my Conscience, Heav’n wou’d forgive it; for this match of yours, with old Francisco, was never made there.

Jul. Then if I wou’d, alas, what opportunities have I, for I confess since his first Vows made him mine—

Jac. Right—that lying with old Francisco is flat Adultery.

Jul. I might, with some excuse, give my self away to Carlos—But oh, he’s false, he takes unjustly all the Vows he paid me, and gives ‘em to my Sister Clara now.

Jac. Indeed that’s something uncivil, Madam, if it be true.

Jul. True! my Father has with joy consented to it, and he has leave to visit her; and can I live to see’t? No, Mischief will ensue, my Love’s too high, too nicely true to brook Affronts like that.

Jac. Yet you first broke with him.

Jul. Not I; be witness, Heav’n, with what reluctancy I forc’d my breaking heart; and can I see that charming Body in my Sister’s Arms! that Mouth that has so oft sworn Love to me kist by another’s Lips! no, Jacinta, that night that gives him to another Woman, shall see him dead between the Charmer’s Arms. My Life I hate, and when I live no more for Carlos, I’ll cease to be at all; it is resolv’d.

Jac. Faith, Madam, I hope to live to see a more comical end of your Amours—but see where your amiable Spouse comes with Don Baltazer your Father.

Enter Francisco and Baltazer.

Fran. So—you two are damnable close together, ‘tis for no goodness I’ll warrant, you have your trade betimes.

Jac. Meaning me, Sir?

Fran. Yes, you, one of my Wife’s evil Counsellors,—go, get you up both to your respective Chambers, go—

[Ex. both.

Bal. Barring your Compliments, good Son, give me leave to speak.

Fran. Shaw, I know as well as your self what you wou’d say now; you wou’d assure me I am sole Master of your House, and may command; that you are heartily glad to see me at Cadiz, and that you desire I wou’d resolve upon a Week’s stay, or so; that you’ll spare nothing for my entertainment: why, I know all this, and therefore pray take my word, good Father-in-Law, without any more ado.

Bal. Well, Sir, pray answer me one question, what drew you to Cadiz?

Fran. Why, I’ll tell you; in the first place, a Pox of all Lovers, I say; for my Daughter Isabella is to be married, as you know, to Antonio, a young rich Merchant of this Town; in the second place, my Wife, with a Vengeance, must be gadding to visit you and her Sister, whom we heard also was to be married to the young Governor Don Carlos; ’.is shreudly against my will, Heav’n knows, for my Wits are in an uproar already about this business—your Gallants, Father, your young Gallants,—I wish my Wife were secure at home again.

Bal. Pray, why so?

Fran. Alas, I see the Trick, Sir, a mere Trick put upon a Man, a married Man, and a married Man to a handsome young Woman,—you apprehend me.

Bal. Not I, Sir.

Fran. Not you, Sir! why, look ye, your young Governor who now is, made most desperate love to her who is now my Wife, d’ye mind me?—but you, being a Man of an exact Judgment, to her great grief, gave her to me, who best deserv’d her, both for my civil Behaviour, and comely Personage, d’ye understand me? but now this Carlos, by his Father’s death, being made Governor, d’ye see? is to marry me your other daughter Clara, and to exasperate me, wou’d never let me be at quiet till he had got both of us hither to Cadiz, to grace his Wedding; a Pox of his Invitation, was I so civil to invite him to mine?

Bal. If this be your Affliction, you may avoid it.

Fran. No, no, I’ll try to force Nature a little, and be civil, or so; but as soon as the Ceremony’s over, I’ll steal out of Town, whip a way, presto, i’faith.

Bal. But shou’d you do so rude a thing to your new Brother, your Wife wou’d think you were jealous of her. No, dissemble that Fault, I beseech you, ‘twill make you odious to her and all the world, when ‘tis needless, ’.is natural for Women to hate what they fear.

Fran. Say you so, then I will hide it as much as I can in words, I can dissemble too upon occasion.

Bal. Let her remain awhile amongst us.

Fran. The Devil a bit she shall, good Father mine, no, no, I have more years than you, Sir Father, and understand what Women are, especially when married to ancient Men, and have the Conversation of young Men—whose Eyes like Basilisks destroy Modesty with looking on ‘em; the very Thought on’t has rais’d a Bump in my Forehead already.

Bal. I am sorry you should suspect my Daughter’s Virtue.

Fran. May be you are, Sir—but Youth you know— Opportunity—Occasion—or so—there are Winks, and Nods, and Signs, and Twirs—and—well—in short I am satisfied, and they that are not may go whistle: and so I’ll to my Wife, whom I have left too long alone, evil thoughts will grow upon her—Wife, Love—Duckling— [Calls her.

Enter Julia and Jacinta.

Bal. Wou’d I had never married her to this Sot.

Jul. Your pleasure, Sir.

Fran. Only to see thee, Love.

Jul. I have a Suit to you.

Fran. What is’t, my Chicken.

Jul. I wou’d go make a Visit to my Aunt, my Sister Clara’s there, and I’ll go fetch her home.

Fran. Hum—perhaps the Governor’s there too?

Jul. What if he be? we ought to make him a visit too, who so kindly sent for us to Cadiz.

Fran. How! Make a visit to the Governor? What have I to do with the
Governor, or what have you to do with the Governor? you are no Soldier,
Love. As for a Visit to your Aunt, there’s some reason in’t; but for the
Governor, think no more upon him, I say no more.

Jul. Since he’s to marry my Sister, why shou’d you refuse him that Civility.

Fran. Your Sister, so much the worse.

Jul. So much the worse?

Fran. I, so much the worse, I tell you; for mark me, you have been Lovers lately; and old Stories may arise that are not yet forgotten; and having under the Cloke of a Husband both Sisters at command, one for a Wife, t’other for a Mistress, hoyte toyte, there will be mad work, i’faith; What a mixture of Brother by the Father’s side, and Uncle by the Mother’s side there will be; Aunt by the Mother’s side, and Sister by the Father’s side; a man may find as good kindred amongst a kennel of Beagles.—No, no, no Visits to the Governor, I beseech you, fair Madam.

Bal. So, you are at your Jealousy again.

Fran. Come, come, I love plain dealing; besides, when she named the Governor, Flesh and Blood could not contain.

Jul. I spoke in reference to his Quality.

Fran. A Pox of your Civility; I tell you, I scorn my Wife should be civil. Why, what a Coil’s here about a Governor! I’ll stand to’t, a Man had better have a Mule to his Wife than a Woman, and ‘twere easier govern’d.

Bal. But hear reason, Son.

Fran. What, from a Woman and a Wife? Lord, Lord, where are your Wits, good Father-in-Law? Why, what a Devil, shall I be made ridiculous, a Coxcomb, Cuckold, to shew my Wife? No, no, there’s no Necessity of your Civility, Mistress; leave that to me who understand the due Punctilios of it.

Bal. Harkye, Son, Harkye!

Fran. Father mine, every Man to his business, I say, therefore say no more of this; for I’ll give my Mother’s Son to the Devil, when any Wife of mine ever makes a Visit to the Governor; and there’s an end on’t. Was ever so horrid a Plot contriv’d against her own lawful Husband? Visit the Governor with a Pox!

Bal. ‘Tis an Honour due to all Men of his Rank.

Fran. I care not for that, my opinion is, my Wife’s my Slave, and let him keep his Rank to himself.

Enter Guzman.

[Fran. gets his Wife behind him, and fences her with his Cloke.

Guz. He’s here, and with his Wife; how shall I do to deliver my Letter to her;—Sir, by the order of my Master, Don Carlos, the Governour, I am commanded to come hither to the end that, going from hence, and returning to my Master, I may be able to inform him—

Fran. That I am in health,—very well, I was afraid he wou’d have been harping upon my Wife in the first place—the Devil take her, she looks for’t. [Makes signs to have her gone.

Guz. Farther, Sir, he kisses your hand, with a more than ordinary friendship.

Fran. A Pox of his Compliments.— [Aside.

Guz. But he charg’d me, Sir, most passionately to present his Service to your Lady.

Fran. Yes, yes; I thought as much.

Guz.—In a more particular manner.

Fran. Friend, my Wife, or Lady, has no need of his Service in a more particular manner, and so you may return it.

Jac. Indeed, but she has great need of his service in a very particular manner.

Guz. Sir, I meant no hurt, but ‘tis always the fashion of your true bred Courtier, to be more ceremonious in his Civilities to Ladies than Men;—and he desires to know how she does.

Fran. How strong this Carlos smells of the Devil—Friend, tell your Master she’s very well, but since she was married, she has forgot her gentile Civility and good Manners, and never returns any Compliments to Men.

Guz.—How shall I get it to her?—Sir, the Governor hopes he shall have the honour of entertaining you both at his House. He’s impatient of your coming, and waits at home on purpose.

Fran. Friend, let your Master know we are here in very good quarters already, and he does us both too much honour; and that if we have notice of the Wedding-day, and I have nothing else to do, we’ll certainly wait on him, and the next morning we intend to take our leaves, which I send him word of beforehand to prevent surprize.

Guz. But, Sir—

[Approaching him, he puts his Wife farther.

Fran. Go, Sir, and deliver your Message.

Guz. But I have order, Sir—

Fran. There’s no such thing in this World.

Guz. I’m resolv’d to teaze him, if I can do nothing else, in revenge;—But, Sir, he most earnestly desires to entertain your fair Lady in his own house.

Fran. Yes, yes; I know he does; but I’ll give him to the Devil first.—Troth, Sir, this Cadiz Air does not agree with my fair Lady, she has ventured out but once, and has got an Ague already.

Guz. Agues, Sir, are kind Diseases, they allow of Truces and Cessations.

Fran. No, no; she has no Cessation, Friend, her Ague takes her night and day, it shakes her most unmercifully, and it shall shake her till the Wedding-day.

Guz. Were this Fellow to be tried by a Jury of Women, I would not be in his Coat to lie with his Lady.—What shall I do to deliver this Letter?—Well, Sir, since I see you are so averse to what the Governor desires, I’ll return—but, Sir, I must tell you as a Friend, a Secret; that to a man of your temper may concern you;—Sir,—he’s resolv’d when he comes next to visit his Mistress, to make another visit to your Apartment, to your Lady too.

[Goes to whisper him, and gives Julia the Letter over his Shoulder.

Fran. Is he so, pray tell him he need not take that pains; there’s no occasion for’t; besides ‘twill be but in vain; for the Doctors have prescribed her Silence and Loneliness, ‘tis good against the Fit; how this damn’d Fellow of a Rival torments me! honest Friend, adieu.

Guz. Now is this Fellow so afraid of being made a Cuckold that he fears his own Shadow, and dares not go into his Wife’s Chamber if the Sun do but shine into the room— [Ex. Guz.

Fran. So, your Mercury’s gone; Lord, how simply you look now, as if you knew nothing of the matter!

Jul. Matter! what matter? I heard the civil Message the Governor sent, and the uncivil Answer you return’d back.

Fran. Very good; did that grieve your heart? alas, what pity ‘twas I carried you not in my hand, presented you to him my self, and beg’d him to favour me so much to do my office a little for me, or the like; hah,—

Jul. And there’s need enough, and the truth were known.

Jac. Well said, Madam.

Fran. Peace, thou wicked Limb of Satan—but for you, Gentlewoman, since you are so tarmagant, that your own natural Husband cannot please you, who, though I say it, am as quiet a Bed-fellow, and sleep as sweetly, for one of my years, as any in Spain—I’ll keep you to hard meat, i’faith.

Jul. I find no fault with your sleeping, ‘tis the best quality you have a-bed.

Fran. Why so then, is the Devil in an unmerciful Woman? Come, come, ’.is a good Tenant that pays once a quarter.

Jac. Of an hour do you mean, Sir?—

Fran. Peace, I say—thou damnable Tormentor, this is the Doctrine you preach to your Mistress, but you shall do’t it private, for I’m resolv’d to lock ye both up, and carry the Keys in my Pocket.

Jul. Well, I am a wicked Creature to teaze thee so, Dear; but I’ll do what thou wilt; come, come, be friends, I vow, I care not for the Governor, not I, no more than I do for my—own Soul.

Fran. Why so, this is something; Come, come your ways in,—who have we here? a Man! ad’s my life, away, away.

Jul. Yes, up to my Chamber, to write an answer to this dear Letter. [Ex Julia.

Enter Isabella.

Fran. No, ‘tis not a Man, but my Daughter Isabella.

Jac. Now will I stay, and set her on to teaze the Dotard: wou’d I could teaze him to Death, that my Mistress might be rid of him.

Fran. How now, what makes you look so scurvily to day? Sure the Devil rides once a day through a Woman, that she may be sure to be inspired with some ill Qualities—what wou’d you have now?

Isa. Something.

Fran. Something? what thing? have I not provided you a Husband whom you are to marry within a day or two.

Isa. There’s a Husband indeed, pray keep him to your self, if you please; I’ll marry none of him, I’ll see him hanged first.

Fran. Hey day;—what, is he not young and handsome enough, forsooth?

Isa. Young and handsome; is there no more than that goes to the making up of a Husband—Yes, there’s Quality.

Fran. Quality!—Why, is he not one of the richest Merchants of his standing in all Cadiz.

Isa. Merchant! a pretty Character! a Woman of my Beauty, and five Thousand Pound, marry a Merchant—a little, petty, dirty-heel’d Merchant; faugh, I’d rather live a Maid all the days of my life, or be sent to a Nunnery, and that’s Plague enough I’m sure.

Jac. Have a care of a Nunnery, lest he take you at your word.

Isa. I would not for the world; no, Jacinta, when ever thou seest me in holy Orders, the World will be at an end.

Fran. Merchant! why, what Husband do you expect?

Isa. A Cavalier at least, if not a Nobleman.

Fran. A Nobleman, marry come up, your Father, Huswife, meaning my self, was a Leather-seller at first, till, growing rich, I set up for a Merchant, and left that mechanick Trade; and since turned Gentleman; and Heav’n blest my Endeavours so as I have an Estate for a Spanish Grandee; and, are you so proud, forsooth, that a Merchant won’t down with you, but you must be gaping after a Cap and Feather, a Silver Sword with a more dreadful Ribbon at the hilt?—Come, come, I fear me, Huswise, you are one that puff’s her up with Pride thus;—but lay thy hand upon thy Conscience now.— [To Jacinta.

Jac. Who, I, Sir? No, no, I am for marrying her out of hand to any reasonable Husband, except a Merchant; for Maids will long, and that’s Probatum est against the prevailing distemper of Longing. Hitherto I dare answer for her, but Batteries will be made, and I dare not be always responsible for frail Mortality.

Fran. Well, I have provided her one that I like, but if she be so squeamish, let her fast, with a Murrain to her.

Isa. Dear Father.

Fran. Dear me no Dears: wou’d your old Mother were alive, she wou’d have strapt your Just-au-corps, for puleing after Cavaliers and Nobleman, i’faith, that wou’d she; a Citizen’s Daughter, and would be a Madona—in good time.

_Isa. Why, Father, the Gentry and Nobility now-a-days frequently marry Citizens Daughters.

Fran. Come, come, Mistress, I got by the City, and I love and honour the City; I confess ‘tis the Fashion now-a-days, if a Citizen get but a little Money, one goes to building Houses, and brick Walls; another must buy an Office for his Son, a third hoists up his Daughter’s Topsail, and flaunts it away, much above her breeding; and these things make so many break, and cause the decay of Trading: but I am for the honest Dutch way of breeding their Children, according to their Fathers Calling.

Isa. That’s very hard, because you are a laborious, ill-bred Tradesman, I must be bound to be a mean Citizen’s Wife.

Fran. Why, what are you better than I, forsooth, that you must be a Lady, and have your Petticoats lac’d four Stories high; wear your false Towers, and cool your self with your Spanish Fan? Come, come, Baggage, wear me your best Clothes a Sunday, and brush ‘em up a Monday Mornings, and follow your Needle all the Week after; that was your good old Mother’s way, and your Grandmother’s before her; and as for the Husband, take no care about it, I have designed it Antonio, and Antonio you are like to wed, or beat the hoof, Gentlewoman, or turn poor Clare, and die a begging Nun, and there’s an end on’t—see where he comes—I’ll leave you to ponder upon the business. [Exit.]

Enter Antonio. Isabella weeps.

Ant. What, in Tears, Isabella? what is’t can force that tribute from your Eyes?

Isa. A Trifle, hardly worth the naming, your self.—

Ant. Do I? pray, for what Sin of mine must your fair Eyes be punish’d?

Isa. For the Sin of your odious Addresses to me, I have told you my mind often enough, methinks your Equals should be fitter for you, and sute more with your Plebeian Humour.

Ant. My Equals! ‘Tis true, you are fair; but if there be any Inequality in our births, the advantage is on my side.

Isa. Saucy Impertinent, you shew your City breeding; you understand what’s due to Ladys! you understand your Pen and Ink, how to count your dirty Money, trudge to and fro chaffering of base commodities, and cozening those you deal with, till you sweat and stink again like an o’er heated Cook, faugh, I smell him hither.

Ant. I must confess I am not perfum’d as you are, to stifle Stinks you commonly have by Nature; but I have wholesom, cleanly Linen on; and for my Habit wore I but a Sword, I see no difference between your Don and me, only, perhaps, he knows less how to use it.

Isa. Ah, name not a Don, the very sound from the Mouth of a little Cit is disagreeable—Bargain and Sale, Bills, Money, Traffick, Trade, are words become you better.

Jac. Well said, use him scurvily that Mrs. Clara may have him. [Aside.

Ant. The best of those you think I should not name, dare hardly tell me this.

Isa. Good Lord, you think your self a very fine Fellow now, and finical your self up to be thought so; but there’s as much difference between a Citizen and a true bred Cavalier—

Ant. As between you and a true bred Woman of Honour.

Isa. Oh, Sir, you rail, and you may long enough, before you rail me out of my Opinion, whilst there are Dons with Coaches and fine Lackeys, and I have Youth and Beauty, with a Fortune able to merit one, so farewel, Cit. [Ex.

Ant. Farewel, proud Fool.

Jac. Sir, be this Evening at the Door, Donna Clara has something to say to you.

Ant. Bless thee for this Tidings, dear Jacinta.

[Ex. Jacinta.

  —I find let Man be brave, or good, or wise,
  His Virtue gains no Smiles from Woman’s Eyes;
  ‘Tis the gay Fool alone that takes the Heart,
  Foppery and Finery still guide the Dart.

[Ex.

SCENE I. A Chamber.

Enter Jacinta with a Light, and Julia.

Jac. Well, Madam, have you writ to Don Carlos?

Jul. No, nor is it possible I shou’d, this Devil haunts me so from room to room, like my evil Genius to prevent that Good; oh, for an opportunity of one kind Minute to return Acknowledgments for this kind Letter he has sent me.

Jac. I’m glad you find me a Sybil: Madam, I ever prophesy’d a happier end of that Amour than your ill Fortune has hitherto promised,—but what said the lovely Cavalier?

Jul. All that a Man inspir’d with Love cou’d say, all that was soft and charming.

Jac. Nay, I believe his Art.

Jul. Judge then what my Heart feels, which like a Fire but lightly cover’d o’er with the cold Ashes of Despair, with the least blast breaks out into a Flame; I burn, I burn, Jacinta, and only charming Carlos can allay my Pain—but how? Ay, there’s the question.

Jac. Some way I will contrive to speak with him, for he has lost his old wont if he traverse not the Street where you live: but see Donna Clara.—

Enter Clara.

Jul. Hah, my Sister, whom yet my jealous heart can scarce be reconciled to; so deeply was my fear of Rivalship fixt there, —so sad, my Sister, and so near the happy day with Carlos?

Cla. ‘Tis pity she that thinks it so shou’d want him; the Blessing’s thrown away on me, but we are both unhappy to be match’d to those we cannot love. Carlos, though young, gay, handsom, witty, rich, I hate as much as you the old Francisco; for since I cannot marry my Antonio, both Youth and Beauty are but lost on me, and Age decrepid would be equal torment.

Jul. Wou’d Carlos knew your heart, sure he’d decline; for he has too much Honor to compel a Maid to yield that loves him not.

Cla. ‘Tis true, he is above me every way, and the Honor my Father thinks to do our Family by this Match, makes him resolve upon’t; but I have given my Vows to young Antonio.

Jul. And young Antonio you are like to have, for any thing that Carlos cares; for know, to thy eternal joy, my Clara, he has but feigned to thee, as much as thy Antonio to Isabella.

Cla. But are you sure of this?

Jul. Most certain; this Night if you can let Antonio see you, he’ll tell you all the Cheat, and beg your Pardon.

Cla. Which he will soon obtain, and in return, what Service I can render him in your behalf he shall not want.

Jul. Antonio will engage you they are Friends.

Cla. You amaze me.

Jac. I have appointed him this night to wait, and, if possible, I would get him a Minute’s time with you.

Cla. Dear Jacinta, thou art the kindest Maid.—

Jac. Hang’t, why should we young Women pine and languish for what our own natural Invention may procure us; let us three lay our Heads together, and if Machiavel with all his Politicks can out-wit us, ‘tis pity but we all lead Apes in Hell, and die without the Jewish Blessing of Consolation.

Jul. No more, here comes the Dragon.

Enter Francisco.

Fran. So, together consulting and contriving.

Jac. What, are you jealous of the Petticoat?

Fran. Petticoat! Come, come, Mistress Pert, I have known as much danger hid under a Petticoat, as a pair of Breeches. I have heard of two Women that married each other—oh abominable, as if there were so prodigious a scarcity of Christian Mans Flesh.

Jac. No, the Market’s well enough stored, thanks be praised, might every Woman be afforded a reasonable Allowance.

Fran. Peace, I say, thou Imp of Lucifer; wou’d thou hadst thy Bellyful, that I might be fairly rid of thee—go get you up to your Chamber, and, d’ye hear, stir not from thence, on pain of our severe displeasure, for I am sent for in all haste, to Signior Don Sebastian’s, ‘tis but hard by, I shall soon return;—what, are you here?

Enter Isabella.

I have a high commendation of your fine Behaviour, Gentlewoman, to Antonio; his Father has sent for me, and I shall know all anon, this shall but hasten your Wedding, Huswise, I tell you that, and so farewel to you— [Ex. Isabella crying.

Cla. Say you so, then ‘tis time for me to look about me.

Jul. But will you go out so late, Love? indeed some hurt will come to thee.

Fran. No, look ye, I go arm’d. [Shews his Girdle round with Pistols. Go, get you to your Chambers.

[He goes out, they go in.

Enter Carlos, Antonio.

Car. I wonder where this Man of mine should be, whom I sent this Evening with my Letter to Julia. What art thou?

Enter Guzman, runs against Carlos.

Guz. My Lord, ‘tis I, your trusty Trojan, Guzman.—what makes you here, Sir, so near the Door of your Mistress?

Car. To wait my Doom; what Tidings hast thou, Guzman?

Guz. Why, Sir, I went as you directed me, to Don Baltazer’s.

Car. And didst thou deliver it?

Guz. And the first thing I met with was old Francisco.

Car. So.

Guz. To whom I civilly addrest my self—told him, you presented your Service to him,—sent to know how his Lady and he did. Which word Lady I no sooner named, but I thought he would have saluted me with a Cudgel,—in fine, observing her behind him, whom he shelter’d all he could with his Cloke, I taking an occasion to whisper him, gave it her over his shoulder, whilst she return’d some Smiles and Looks of Joy,—but for an answer, ‘twas impossible to get the least sign of one.

Car. No matter, that joy was evident she wisht me one, and by the first opportunity my diligent waiting will be recompensed; but where hast thou been all this while?

Guz. Finding out the Chimney-sweeper you spoke of, Sir, and whom you ordered me to bring this Evening.

Car. And hast thou found him?

Guz. He’s here, at the corner of the Street, I’ll call him. [Ex. Guz.

Car. I have, Antonio, besides your particular Revenge, one of my own to act by this deceit, since all my Industry to see the charming Julia has hitherto been vain, I have resolv’d upon a new project, if this False Count pass upon ‘em, as I doubt not but he will, and that he gets admittance into the House, I’ll pass for one of his Domesticks.

Enter Guzman and Guiliom. Page holding his lanthorn to his face.

Guz. Here’s the Fellow, Sir.

Ant. Fellow! he may be the Devil’s Fellow by his countenance.

Car. Come nearer, Friend; dost think thou canst manage a Plot well?

Guil. As any Man in Cadiz, Sir, with good instructions.

Car. That thou shalt have, thou art apprehensive.

Guil. So, so, I have a pretty memory for mischief.

Ant. Hast thou Assurance and Courage?

Guil. To kill the honestest Man in Spain, if I be well paid.

Car. That thou shalt be.

Guil. I’ll do’t, say no more, I’ll do’t.

Car. But canst thou swear stoutly, and lye handsomely.

Guil. Prettily, by Nature, Sir, but with good instructions I shall improve; I thank Heaven I have Docity, or so.

Car. Thou want’st not Confidence.

Guil. No, nor Impudence neither; how should a man live in this wicked world without that Talent?

Ant. Then know our Design is only comical, though if you manage not Matters well, it may prove tragical to you; in fine, dost think thou canst personate a Lord?

Guil. A Lord! marry, that’s a hard question: but what sort of a Lord?

Car. Why, any Lord.

Guil. That I cannot do, but I can do some sort of a Lord, as some Lords are wiser than other-some; there is your witty Lord,—him I defie; your wise Lord, that is to say, your knavish Lord, him I renounce; then there’s your Politick Lord, him I wou’d have hang’d; then there’s your Foolish Lord, let him follow the Politician; then there’s your brisk, pert, noisy Lord, and such a small insignificant Fiend I care not if I am possest with; I shall deal well enough with a Devil of his capacity.

Car. Very well, then there needs no more but that you go along with my man to my house, my Authority shall secure you from all the injuries that shall accrue from a discovery, but I hope none will happen: Equipage, Clothes and Money we’ll furnish you with.—Go home with him, and dress, and practise the Don till we come, who will give you ample instructions what to do.

Guil. And if I do not fit you with a Don better than Don Del Phobos, or Don Quixote, let me be hang’d up for the Sign of the Black Boy on my own Poles at a Spanish Inn door.

Ant. We’ll be with you presently.

Guil. And if you find me not en Cavalier, say Clothes, Garniture, Points, and Feathers have lost their Power of making one.

[Ex. Guz. and Page, and Guil.

Enter, opening the door, Jacinta.

Car. Hah, the Door opens, and surely ‘tis a Woman that advances: dear Antonio, wait a little farther;—who’s there?

Jac. Hah, if it should be old Francisco now.

Car. Let it be who it will, I’ll tell my name, it cannot injure either;—I’m Carlos, who are you?

Jac. A thing that looks for him you name—Jacinta;—are you alone?

Car. Never since Julia did possess my heart; what news, my dearest Messenger of Love? what may I hope?—

Enter Julia.

Jul. All that the kindest Mistress can bestow, If Carlos loves, and still will keep his Vows.

Car. Julia, my Life, my Soul, what happy Stars Conspir’d to give me this dear lucky minute?

Jul. Those that conducted old Francisco out,
And will too soon return him back again;
I dare not stay to hear thy love or chiding,
Both which have power to charm, since both proceed
From a kind heart, that’s mine.

Car. Oh, take not this dear Body from my Arms, For if you do, my Soul will follow it.

Jul. What would’st thou have me do?

Car. Be wondrous kind, be lavish of thy Heart, Be generous in thy Love, and give me all.

Jul. Oh Heavens! what mean you? I shall die with fear.

Car. Fear! let coward Lovers fear, who love by halves, We that intirely love are bold in Passion, Like Soldiers fir’d with glory dread no Danger.

Jul. But should we be unthrifty in our Loves, And for one Moment’s joy give all away, And be hereafter damn’d to pine at distance?

Car. Mistaken Miser, Love like Money put
Into good hands increases every day,
Still as you trust me, still the Sum amounts:
Put me not off with promise of to morrow,
To morrow will take care for new delights,
Why shou’d that rob us of a present one?

Jul. Ah, Carlos! How fondly do I listen to thy words,
And fain would chide, and fain wou’d boast my Virtue,
But mightier Love laughs at those poor delays;
And I should doubtless give you all your Julia,
Did not my fear prevent my kinder business;
—And should Francisco come and find me absent,
Or take thee with me, we were lost, my Carlos.

Car. When then, my Julia, shall we meet again?

Jul. You Spaniards are a jealous Nation, But in this English Spaniard Old Francisco, That mad Passion’s doubled; wholly deprives him of his Sense, and turns his Nature Brute; wou’d he but trust me only with my Woman, I wou’d contrive some way to see my Carlos.

Car. ‘Tis certain, Julia, that thou must be mine.

Jul. Or I must die, my Carlos.

[Ant. listning advances.

Ant.—I’m sure ‘tis Carlos’s voice, and with a Woman; And though he be my Rival but in Jest, I have a natural curiosity to see who ‘tis he entertains.

Jul. Oh Heavens! Sir, here’s Francisco; step aside, Lest mischief shou’d befall you. [Runs in.

Car. Now Love and wild Desire prompt me to kill this happy Rival,— he’s old, and can’t be long in his Arrears to Nature.—What if I paid the debt? [Draws halfway. One single push wou’d do’t, and Julia’s mine;—but, hang’t, Adultery is a less sin than Murder, and I will wait my Fortune.—

Ant. Where are you,—Don Carlos?

Car. Who’s there, Antonio? I took thee for my Rival, and ten to one but I had done thy business.

Ant. I heard ye talking and believ’d you safe, and came in hopes to get a little time to speak to Clara in;—hah!—Jacinta—

Jac. Who’s there, Antonio? [Peeping out of the door.

Ant. The same; may I not speak with Clara?

Jac. Come in, she’s here.—

Car. And prithee, dear Jacinta, let me have one word with Julia more, she need not fear surprize; just at the door let me but kiss her hand. [Going in.

Jac. I’ll see if I can bring her.—

Enter Francisco.

Fran. A proud ungracious Flirt,—a Lord with a Pox! here’s a fine business, i’faith, that she should be her own Carver,—well I’ll home, and thunder her together with a vengeance.

Car. Who’s here? sure this is he indeed; I’ll step aside, lest my being seen give him an occasion of jealousy, and make him affront his Wife. [Goes aside as Fran. was going in.

Enter Julia.

Fran. Hum, what have we here, a Woman?

Jul. Heavens! what, not gone yet, my Dear?

Fran. So, so, ‘tis my confounded Wife, who expecting some body wou’d have me gone now.

Jul. Are you not satisfied with all I’ve said, With all the Vows I’ve made, Which here anew, in sight of Heaven, I breathe?

Fran. Yes, yes, you can promise fair, but hang him that trusts ye.

Jul. Go, go, and pray be satisfyed with my eternal Love.—

Fran. How fain she’d have me gone now; ah, subtle Serpent! is not this plain demonstration,—I shall murder her, I find the Devil great with me. [Aside still.

Jul.—What is’t thou pausest on?

Fran. The wicked Dissimulation of villainous Woman. [Aloud to her.

Jul. Francisco!

Fran. Oh thou Monster of Ingratitude, have I caught thee? You’d have me gone, wou’d ye? ay, to Heaven, I believe, like a wicked Woman as you are, so you were rid of me. Go,—and be satisfyed of my eternal love —ah, Gipsey,—no, Gentlewoman, I am a tuff bit, and will hold you tugging till your heart ake.

Jul. Why, was there such hurt in desiring you to go that you might make haste back again,—Oh, my fears!

Fran. That you might receive a Lover,—’tis plain—and my Indignation’s high.

Jul. Heav’n knows I meant—

Fran. Only to cuckold me a little,—get you in,—where I will swear thee by Bell, Book and Candle,—get you in, I say,—go, go,—I’ll watch for your Lover, and tell him how unkind he was to stay so long, I will.—

[Ex. Julia, he stands just in the door, Carlos advances.

Car. I hear no noise, sure ‘twas he,—and he’s gone in— To reap those Joys he knows not how to value, And I must languish for; I’ll stay a little—perhaps Jacinta may return again, for anything belonging to my Julia is dear, even to my Soul.

[Goes just to the door, Fran. bolts out on him.

Fran. Who’s there?—what wou’d you have?—who wou’d you speak to?—who do you come from?—and what’s your business?

Car. Hah, ‘tis the Sot himself;—my name is Carlos.

Fran. Carlos! what Father of Belzebub sent him hither?—a plain case;—I’ll murder her out of hand.

Car.—And I wou’d speak to any body, Friend, that belongs to the fair Clara,—if you are any of this house.

Fran. Only the Cuckold of the house, that’s all;—my name, Sir, is Francisco; but you, perhaps, are better acquainted with my Wife.

Car. Francisco, let me embrace you, my noble Brother, and chide you, that you wou’d not visit me. [Going to embrace him, he flies off.

Fran. And bring my Wife along with me.

Car. Both had been welcome—and all I have, you shou’d command.

Fran. For my Wife’s sake—what if I shou’d pistol him now;—and I am damnably provok’d to’t, had I but Courage to shoot off one. [Aside.

Car. Methinks you make not so kind returns as my Friendship to you, and the Alliance shall be between us, deserves.

Fran. I am something ill-bred, I confess, Sir;—’tis dark, and if I shou’d do’t no body wou’d know ‘twas I. [Aside.

Car. I fear there’s some Misunderstanding between us, pray let us go in a while, I’ll talk you from your error. [Offers to go, he gets between him and the door.

Fran. Between us, Sir! oh Lord, not in the least, Sir, I love and honour you so heartily—I’d be content to give you to the Devil, but the noise of the Pistol wou’d discover the business. [Aside.

Car. Come, let’s in, and talk a while.

Fran. I’m sorry I cannot do’t, Sir, we are something incommoded being not at our own house.

Car. Brother, I am afraid you are a little inclined to be jealous, that will destroy all Friendship.—

Fran. So, how finely the Devil begins to insinuate!

Car. That makes a Hell of the Heav’n of Love, and those very Pains you fear, are less tormenting than that Fear; what say you, Brother, is’t not so with you?

Fran. I find you wou’d have me turn a Husband of the Mode, a fine convenient Tool, one of the modern Humour, a civil Person, that understands Reason, or so; and I doubt not but you wou’d be as modish a Gallant.

Car. Ha, ha, ha.

Fran. What, do you laugh, Sir?

Car. Who can chuse, to hear your Suspicions, your needless Fears. Come, come, trust your Wife’s Discretion, and Modesty—and I doubt not but you will find your self—

Fran. In the Road to Heaven, whither they say all Cuckolds go—I thank you for your advice; I perceive you wou’d willingly help me onwards of my Journey.

Car. I’m glad I know you, Sir,—farewel to you— [Goes out.

Fran. No matter for that, so you know not my Wife—and so farewel to you, Sir, and, the Devil take all Cuckoldmakers.

[Exit.

Enter Clara, Julia, Antonio, Jacinta running to ‘em.

Jac. He has seen Don Carlos, and they have been in great discourse together, I cou’d not hear one word, but you’ll have it at both ears anon, I’ll warrant you. Ha, he’s coming.

Enter Francisco.

Cla. Heavens, he must not see you here. [To Ant.

Jac. Here, step into Clara’s Bed-chamber. [He goes in.

Fran. So the Plot’s at last discover’d,—he was a Cavalier of his Parole.

Jul. Who speak you of?

Fran. Only the Governor, the fine young Governor, I deliver’d him the message, told him my mind and the like.

Jul. So kind to visit us, and have you sent him away already?

Fran. Ah, Witch; already! why, have I any lodging for him?

Jul. But I am glad you brought him not in, I being so unready.

Fran. But you are always ready for him, my dear victorious Man-slayer.

Jul. What means he, sure he has a Gad-bee in his Brain.

Fran. Satan’s she Advocate—peace, I say;—so, you look as innocently now, as a little Devil of two years old, I’ll warrant;—come, come, look me full in the face—thus,—turn your nose just to mine—so—now tell me whose damnable Plot this was, to send your Gallant with his Eloquence, Querks and Conundrums, to tutor me into better manners?

Jul. Send him! I’ll answer no such idle questions.

Fran. He has taken a world of pains about your particular Chapter, and no doubt but he preach’d according to instructions;—what say you for your self, that Judgment may not pass?

Jul. I say you’re an old jealous Fool; have I seen Don Carlos, or heard from Don Carlos, or sent to Don Carlos? here’s a-do indeed.

Fran. What made you at the door against my positive commands,—the very Street-door,—in the night,—alone,—and undrest,—this is a matter of Fact, Gentlewoman; you hastened me away,—a plain case,—and presently, after Don Carlos comes to the door,—positive proof,—sees me and falls right down upon my Jealousy,—clear conviction,—’twas pity but I had follow’d his counsel, yes, when the Devil turns student in Divinity;—but no matter, I’ll see your back fairly turn’d upon this Town to morrow; I’ll marry my Daughter in the morning to Antonio, and a fair wind or not, we’ll home; the Gally lies ready in the Harbour— therefore prepare, pack up your tools, for you are no woman of this world.

Ant. How! marry me to morrow to his daughter;—and carry his Wife from my Friend; this misfortune must be prevented. [Aside peeping.

Fran. And so, Mistress, come your ways to your Chamber.

Jul. And study how to prevent this cruel separation. [Aside, goes out with him and Jacinta.

Cla. Ah, Antonio, I find by that sad look of yours, you have over-heard our hasty Doom.

Ant. I have, and am a little surpriz’d at the suddenness of it; and I my self am the unlucky occasion of it,—to break it off, I told my Father how scurvily Isabella treated me,—he thereupon sends for old Francisco, tells him of my complaint, and instead of disengaging my self, I find my self more undone.

Cla. What shall we do? I’m sure thou wilt not marry her, thou canst not do’t and hope to go to Heaven.

Ant. No, I have one prevention left, and if that fail, I’ll utterly refuse to marry her, a thing so vainly proud; no Laws of Nature or Religion, sure, can bind me to say yes; and for my Fortune, ‘tis my own, no Father can command it.

Cla. I know thou wilt be true, and I’ll not doubt it.

Enter Jacinta.

Jac. Ah! Madam, the saddest news—

Cla. Hah! what?

Jac. Poor Gentleman, I pity you of all things in the World,—you must be forc’d—how can I utter it,—to the most lamentable torment that ever Lover endur’d—to remain all night in your Mistress’s Chamber.

Ant. Alas, how shall I endure so great an Affliction?

Cla. And I.

Jac. Ha, ha, ha, how I am griev’d to think on it; ha, ha, ha, that you shou’d both be so hardly put to it; ha, ha, ha, for the old Gentleman has lock’d all the doors, and took the keys to bed to him,—go, get you in,—ha, ha, ha.—

Ant. Oh, my dear Clara, this is a blessing I could not hope.

Cla. So large a Freedom shall my Virtue prove, I’ll trust my Honour with Antonio’s Love.

[They go in.

[Ex. Jacinta laughing.

SCENE I. Don Carlos’ house.

Enter Don Carlos in his Night-gown, Antonio, and Guzman with Clothes.

Car. All night with Clara say’st thou? that was lucky; But was she kind, my friend?

Ant. As I desir’d, or Honour wou’d permit her; Nor wou’d I press her farther.

Car. A very moderate Lover.

Ant. For some part of my Virtue, Sir, I owe to you; in midst of all my Love, even in the kindest moments of Delight, my Joys were broken by concern for you.—Julia this day, or very suddenly, leaves Cadiz.

Car. By Heaven, and so will Carlos then; for I’m so resolutely bent to possess that dear Creature, That I will do’t with hazard of my Life, Expence of Fortune, or what’s dear to me.

Guz. And how wou’d you reward that politick head, that shou’d contrive the means to bring this handsomly about; not for an a hour, or a night, but even as long as you please, with freedom; without the danger of venturing your honourable neck, in showing Feats of Activity three stories high, with a Dagger in one hand, and a Pistol in t’other, like a Ropedancer?

Car. But how? Thou talkest of Impossibilities.

Ant. Dost think she’ll e’er consent to quit her Husband?

Guz. No, Heaven forbid, I am too good a Christian to part Man and Wife; but being naturally inclined to works of Charity, I will with one project I have in this noddle of mine,—make old Francisco a Cuckold, accommodate my Lord and Julia, serve you, Sir,—and give our selves a good Scene of Mirth.

Car. Thou amazest me.

Guz. If I do’t not, send me to the Galleys; nay, and so far cure the Jealousy of the old Fellow, that from a rigid suspicious troublesom Fool, he shall become so tame and gentle a Husband,—that he shall desire you to favour him so much as to lie with his dear Wife.

Car. By what strange Witchcraft shall this be brought to pass?

Guz. E’en honest Invention, Sir, good Faith, listen and believe:—When he goes, he certainly goes by Sea, to save the charges of Mules.

Ant. Right, I heard him say so; in the Galley that lies in the Port.

Guz. Good, there is a Galley also, in the Harbour, you lately took from the Turks; Habits too were taken in her enough to furnish out some forty or fifty as convenient Turks as a man wou’d wish at the Devil.

Car. Ah, Rogue, I begin to apprehend already.

Guz. Our Turkish Galley thus man’d, I’ll put to Sea, and about a League from Land, with a sham-fight set on that of Old Francisco, take it, make ‘em all Slaves, clap the Old Fellow under hatches, and then you may deal with the fair Slave his Wife, as Adam did with Eve.

Car. I’m ravish’d with the thought.

Ant. But what will be the event of this?

Car. I will not look so far, but stop at the dear Joys, and fear no Fate beyond ‘em.

Guz. Nay, with a little cudgelling this dull Brain of mine I shall advance it farther for the Jest-sake;—as I take it, Signior Don Antonio, you have a fine Villa, within a Bow-shot of this City belonging to your self.

Ant. I have with pleasant Gardens, Grotto’s, Waterworks.—

Car. A most admirable Scene for Love and our Designs.

Ant. ‘Tis yours, Sir.

Guz. Then, Sir, when we have taken this old Fool, on whom the grossest cheat wou’d pass, much more this, which shall carry so seeming a Truth in’t, he being clapt under hatches in the Dark, we’ll wind round a League or two at Sea, turn in, and land at this Garden, Sir, of yours, which we’ll pretend to be a Seraglio, belonging to the Grand Seignior; whither, in this hot part o’th’ year, he goes to regale himself with his She-Slaves.

Car. But the distance of Place and Time allow not such a Fallacy.

Guz. Why he never read in’s life; knows neither Longitude nor Latitude, and Constantinople may be in the midst of Spain for any thing he knows; besides, his Fear will give him little leisure for thinking.

Ant. But how shall we do with the Seamen of this other Gally?

Guz. There’s not above a Dozen, besides the Slaves that are chain’d to the Oar, and those Dozen, a Pistole apiece wou’d not only make ‘em assist in the design, but betray it in earnest to the Grand Seignior; —for them I’ll undertake, the Master of it being Pier de Sala, your Father’s old Servant, Sir. [To Carlos.

Ant. But possibly his mind may alter upon the Arrival of this False Count of ours?

Car. No matter, make sure of those Seamen however; that they may be ready upon occasion.

Ant. ‘Tis high time for me that your Count were arriv’d, for this morning is destin’d the last of my Liberty.

Car. This Morning—Come, haste and dress me— [To Guz.]—Guzman, where’s our Count?

    Enter Guiliom drest fine, two great Pages
    and a little one following.

Guz. Coming to give you the good morrow, Sir; And shew you how well he looks the Part.

Car. Good day to your Lordship— [Bowing.

Guil. Morrow, morrow, Friend.

Ant. My Lord, your most humble Servant.

Guil. Thank you, Friend, thank you; Page, Boy—what’s a-Clock, Sirrah?

Page. About Eight, my Lord.

Ant. Your Lordship’s early up.

Guil. My Stomach was up before me, Friend; and I’m damnably hungry; ’.is strange how a man’s Appetite increases with his Greatness; I’ll swinge it away now I’m a Lord,—then I will wench without Mercy; I’m resolv’d to spare neither Man, Woman, nor Child, not I; hey, Rogues, Rascals, Boys, my Breakfast, quickly, Dogs—let me see, what shall I have now that’s rare?

Page. What will your Honour please to have?

Guil. A small rasher of delicate Bacon, Sirrah—of about a Pound, or two, with a small Morsel of Bread—round the Loaf, d’ye hear, quickly, Slaves.

Ant. That’s gross meat, Sir, a pair of Quails—or—

Guil. I thank you for that, i’faith, take your Don again, an you please, I’ll not be starv’d for ne’er a Don in Christendom.

Ant. But you must study to refine your Manners a little.

Guil. Manners! you shall pardon me for that; as if a Lord had not more privilege to be more saucy, more rude, impertinent, slovenly and foolish than the rest of his Neighbours, or Mankind.

Car. Ay, ay, ‘tis great.

Guil. Your saucy Rudeness, in a Grandee, is Freedom; your Impertinence, Wit; your Sloven, careless; and your Fool, good natur’d; as least they shall pass so in me, I’ll warrant ye.

Car. Well, you have your full Instructions; your Baggage, Bills and Letters, from Octavio the Sevilian Merchant.

Guz. All, all, Sir, are ready, and his Lordship’s breakfast waits.

Car. Which ended, we advance,
Just when Aurora rose from _Thetis’. Bed,
Where he had wantoned a short Summer’s night,
Harness’d his bright hoov’d Horses to begin
His gilded course above the Firmament,
Out sallied Don Gulielmo Rodorigo de Chimney Sweperio, and so forth.
Gad, this adventure of ours will be worthy to be sung in Heroick Rhime
Doggerel, before we have finisht it; Come—
                                      [Goes out.

Guil. Hey, Rogues, Rascals, Boys, follow me just behind.

[Exeunt.

Enter Clara and Jacinta.

Jac. Nay, I knew he would be civil, Madam, or I would have borne you Company; but neither my Mistress nor I, cou’d sleep one wink all Night, for fear of a Discovery in the Morning; and to save the poor Gentleman a tumbling Cast from the Window, my Mistress, just at day-break, feigned her self wondrous sick,—I was called, desired to go to Signior Spadilio’s the Apothecary’s, at the next Door, for a Cordial; and so he slipt out;—but the Story of this false Count pleases me extremely, and, if it should take, Lord, what mirth we shall have. Ha, ha, ha, I can’t forbear with the thoughts on’t.

Cla. And to see the Governor his Man?

Jac. Ah, what a Jest that would be too—Ha, ha, ha! but here comes Isabella; let’s puff up her Pride with Flatteries on her Beauty.

Enter Isabella looking in a Glass, and seeing her Face.

Isa. Ah, Heavens, those Eyes—that Look,—that pretty Leer,—that my Father shou’d be so doating an old Fool to think these Beauties fit for a little Merchandize; a Marchioness wou’d so much better become me. [Looks again. —Ah, what a Smile’s there—and then that scornful Look—’tis great— Heavens, who’s here? [Sees them.

Cla. Only those Friends that wish you better Fortune than this day promises.

Jac. Look on that Face; are there not Lines that foretel a world of Greatness, and promise much Honour?

Cla. Her Face, her Shape, her Mein, her every part declares her Lady—or something more.

Isa. Why, so, and yet this little Creature of a Father, ridiculously and unambitious, would spoil this Lady, to make up a simple Citizen’s Wife—in good time.

Jac. That very look had some presaging Grandeur.

Isa. Do you think so, Jacinta? Ha, ha, ha.

Jac. That Laugh again, oh Heavens, how it charms!

Cla. And how graceful ‘tis!

Jac. Ah, nothing but a great gilt Coach will become it.

Cla. With six Spanish Mares.—

Jac. And embroidered Trappings.

Cla. With four Lackeys.

Jac. And a Page at the tail on’t.

Cla. She’s evidently design’d for a Person of Quality.

Isa. Besides I have so natural an Inclination for a Don, that if my Father do force me to marry this small Creature of a Merchant, I shall make an Intrigue with some body of Quality.

Cla. Cou’d you but manage it well, and keep it from Antonio.

Isa. Keep it from Antonio,—is it think you for a little silly Cit, to complain when a Don does him the Honour to visit his Lady? Marry, that were pretty.

Enter Francisco, and Lopez.

Fran. How, a Count to speak with me! with me, I say,—here at Cadiz.

Lop. A Count, Sir, and to speak with you.

Fran. Art sure ‘tis not the Governor?—I’ll go lock up my Wife.

Lop. Governor, Sir! No, no, ‘tis a mere Stranger, Sir, a rare Count whom I never saw all days of my life before.

Fran. And with me wou’d he speak? I hope he comes not to my Wife.

Enter Julia.

Jul. Oh Husband, the delicatest fine Person of Quality, just alighted at the Door, Husband.

Fran. What, have you seen him then? the Devil’s in these Women, and there be but a Loop-hole to peep out of they’ll spy a man,—I’m resolved to see this thing,—go, retire, you Women, here’s Men coming up.

Isa. And will Men eat us?

Fran. No, but they may do worse, they may look on ye, and Looking breeds Liking; and Liking, Love; and Love a damn’d thing, call’d Desire; and Desire begets the Devil and all of Mischief to young Wenches—Get ye gone in, I say—here’s a Lord coming—and Lords are plaguy things to Women.

Isa. How, a Lord! oh, heavens! Jacinta, my Fan, and set my Hair in order, oh, the Gods! I would not but see a Lord for all the World! how my Heart beats already—keep your Distance behind, Jacinta,—bless me, how I tremble—a little farther, Jacinta.

Fran. Come, come, Huswife, you shall be married anon, and then let your Husband have the plague of you—but for my Gentlewoman,—Oh Lord —they’re here.

Enter Guiliom, Carlos, and Pages, &c.

Gull. How now, Fellow, where’s this old Don Francisco?

Fran. I’m the Person, Sir.

Isa. Heavens, what an Air he has!

Guil. Art thou he? Old Lad, how dost thou do? Hah!

Fran. I don’t know.

Guil. Thou knowest me not it seems, old Fellow, hah!

Fran. Know you—no, nor desire to do,—on what acquaintance, pray?

Guil. By Instinct; such as you ought to know a Person of Quality, and pay your Civilities naturally; in France, where I have travel’d, so much good manners is used, your Citizen pulls off his hat, thus—to every Horse of Quality, and every Coach of Quality; and do you pay my proper Person no more respect, hah!

Isa. What a Dishonour’s this to me, to have so dull a Father, that needs to be instructed in his Duty.

Guil. But, Sir, to open the eyes of your understanding—here’s a Letter to you, from your Correspondent a Merchant of Sevil.

[Gives him a dirty Letter which he wipes on his Cloke and reads, and begins to pull off his hat, and reading on bows lower and lower till he have finisht it.

Fran. Cry Mercy, my Lord,—and yet I wou’d he were a thousand Leagues off.

Guil. I have Bills of Exchange too, directed to thee, old Fellow, at Sevil; but finding thee not there, and I (as most Persons of my Quality are) being something idle, and never out of my way, came to this Town, to seek thee, Fellow—being recommended as thou seest here, old Vermin—here— [Gives him Bills.

Isa. Ah, what a graceful Mein he has! how fine his Conversation! ah, the difference between him and a filthy Citizen!

Jul.—Clara has told me all.— [Jac. whispering to Jul.

Car. That’s she in the middle; stand looking on her languishingly, —your head a little on one side,—so,—fold your Arms,—good,—now and then heave your breast with a sigh,—most excellent.— [He groans.

Fran. Bills for so many thousands.

Jac. He has you in his eye already.

Isa. Ah, Jacinta, thou flatterest me.

Jac. Return him some kind looks in pity. [She sets her Eyes, and bows, &c.

Car. That other’s my Mistress,—couldst thou but keep this old Fellow in discourse whilst I give her the sign to retire a little.—

Guil. I’ll warrant you I’ll banter him till you have cuckolded him, if you manage matters as well as I.

Fran. My Lord, I ask your pardon for my rudeness in not knowing you before, which I ought to have done in good manners I confess; who the Devil does he stare at so?—Wife, I command you to withdraw, upon pain of our high displeasure.—my Lord, I shall dispatch your affairs,—he minds me not,—Ay, ‘tis my Wife, I say, Minion, be gone,—your Bills, my Lord, are good, and I accept ‘em;—why a Devil he minds me not yet, [Julia goes to t’other side to Carlos.]—and though I am not at my proper home,—I am where I can command Money,—hum,—sure ‘tis my Daughter,—Ay, ay,—’tis so, how if he should be smitten now; the plaguy Jade had sure the Spirit of Prophecy in her; ‘tis so—’tis she—my Lord.

Guil. Prithee, old Fellow, Peace,—I am in love.

Fran. In love,—what, shall I be the Father of a Lord? wou’d it become me, think ye?—he’s mighty full of Cogitabund—my Lord,—sure his Soul has left the Tenement of his Body—I have his Bills here, and care not if it never return more. [Looks over the Bills.

Car. Dear Julia, let’s retire, our time’s but short.

Jul. I dare not with you, the venture wou’d be too bold in a young beginner in the Thefts of Love.

Guil. Her Eyes are Suns, by Jove.

Car. Oh, nothing is so ventrous as Love, if it be true.

Guil. Or else, two Morning Stars, All other Beauties are but Soot to her.

Jul. But shou’d my Husband—

Car. He’s safe for one dear half hour, I’ll warrant you, come.

Fran. Um—my Wife here still, must I begin to thunder.

Jul. Lord, and you be so froward, I’ll be gone.—

Car. So, her Husband, kind heart, lest she should be cruel, has himself given me the dear opportunity.—[Aside.—Be sure you keep the old Fellow in discourse awhile.

Guil. Be you as sure to cuckold him.— [Ex. Car. and Jul. —Old Fellow,—prithee what Person of Quality is that?

Fran. Person of Quality! alas, my Lord, ‘tis a silly Citizen’s Daughter.

Guil. A Citizen’s! what clod of Earth cou’d bring forth such a Beauty?

Fran. Alas, my Lord, I am that clod of Earth, and to Earth, if you call it so, she must return again, for she’s to be married to a Citizen this Morning.

Guil. Oh! I am doubly wounded, first with her harmonious Eyes, Who’ve fir’d my Heart to that Degree, No Chimney ever burnt like me. Fair Lady,—suffer the Broom of my Affection to sweep all other Lovers from your heart.

Isa. Ah, my Lord, name it not, I’m this day to be married.

Guil. To day! name me the Man; Man did I say? the Monster, that dares lay claim to her I deign to love,—none answer me,—I’ll make him smoak, by Vulcan—and all the rest of the Goddesses.

Fran. Bless me, what a furious thing this Love is?

Guil. By this bright Sword, that is so used to slaughter, he dies; [Draws.] old Fellow, say—the Poltroon’s name.

Fran. Oh, fearful—alas, dread Sir!

Isa. Ah! sheath your Sword, and calm your generous Rage.

Guil. I cannot brook a Rival in my Love, the rustling Pole of my Affection is too strong to be resisted. Runs raging up and down the Stage with his Sword in his hand.

Isa. I cannot think, my Lord, so mean a Beauty can so suddenly charm a Heart so great as yours.

Guil. Oh! you’re mistaken, as soon as I cast my eyes upon the Full-moon of your Countenance, I was struck blind and dumb.

Fran. Ay, and deaf too, I’ll be sworn, he cou’d neither hear, see nor understand; this Love’s a miraculous thing.

Guil. And that Minute, the most renoun’d Don Gulielmo Roderigo de Chimeny Sweperio, became your Gally-Slave,—I say no more, but that I do love,—and I will love,—and that if you are but half so willing as I, I will dub you, Viscountess de Chimeny Sweperio.

Isa. I am in Heaven, ah! I die, Jacinta. How can I credit this, that am so much unworthy?

Guil. I’ll do’t, say no more, I’ll do’t.

Fran. Do’t, but, my Lord, and with what face can I put off Signior Antonio, hum.

Guil. Antonio,—hy, Pages, give order that Antonio be instantly run through the Lungs—d’ye hear?

Fran. Oh, hold, hold, my Lord! run through the Lungs!

Page. It shall be done, my Lord! but what Antonio?

Guil. Why, any Antonio; all the Antonio’s that you find in Cadiz.

Fran. Oh, what bloody-minded Monsters these Lords are!—But, my Lord, I’ll ne’er give you the trouble of killing him, I’ll put him off with a handsom Compliment; as thus,—Why, look ye, Friend Antonio, the business is this, my Daughter Isabella may marry a Lord, and you may go fiddle.—

Guil. Ay, that’s civil,—and if he do not desist, I’ll unpeople Spain but I’ll kill him; for, Madam, I’ll tell you what happened to me in the Court of France—there was a Lady in the Court in love with me,—she took a liking to my Person which—I think,—you will confess—

Isa. To be the most accomplisht in the World.

Guil. I had some sixscore Rivals, they all took Snuff; that is, were angry—at which I smiled;—they were incensed; at which I laught, ha, ha, ha,—i’faith; they rag’d, I—when I met ‘em,—Cockt, thus—en passant—justled ‘em—thus,—[Overthrows Fran.] They turn’d and frown’d,—thus,—I drew.—

Fran. What, on all the sixscore, my Lord?

Guil. All, all; sa, sa, quoth I, sa, sa, sa, sa, sa, sa. [Fences him round the Stage.

Fran. Hold, hold, my Lord, I am none of the sixscore.

Guil. And run ‘em all through the Body!

Fran. Oh Heavens! and kill’d ‘em all.

Guil. Not a Man,—only run ‘em through the body a little, that’s all, my two Boys were by, my Pages here.

Isa. Is it the fashion, Sir, to be attended by Pages so big?

Guil. Pages of Honour always;—these were stinted at nurse, or they had been good proper Fellows.

Fran. I am so frighted with this relation, that I must up to my Wife’s Chamber for a little of that strong Cordial that recovered her this morning. [Going out Guil. stays him.

Guil. Why, I’ll tell you, Sir, what an odd sort of a Wound I received in a Duel the other day,—nay, Ladies, I’ll shew it you; in a very odd place—in my back parts. [Goes to untuck his Breeches, the Ladies squeak.

Isa. Ah.

Page. Shew a Wound behind, Sir! the Ladies will think you are a Coward.

Guil. Peace, Child, peace, the Ladies understand Dueling as little as my self; but, since you are so tender-hearted, Ladies, I’ll not shew you my wound; but faith, it spoiled my dancing.

Page comes in.

Page. My Lord, now you talk of dancing, here’s your Baggage brought from a-board the Gally by your Seamen, who us’d to entertain you with their rustick Sports.

Guil. Very well; Sir, with your permission, I am resolved whether you will or no, to give the Ladies some divertisement,—bid ‘em come in; nay, Sir, you stir not. [Ex. Page. ’.is for your delight, Sir, I do’t; for, Sir, you must understand, a Man, if he have any thing in him, Sir, of Honour, for the case, Sir, lies thus, ‘tis not the business of an Army to droll upon an Enemy—truth is, every man loves a whole skin;—but ‘twas the fault of the best Statesmen in Christendom to be loose in the hilts,—you conceive me.

Fran. Very well, my Lord, I’ll swear he’s a rare spoken man;—why, what a Son-in-law shall I have? I have a little business, my Lord, but I’ll wait on you presently. [Going out.

Guil. Sir, there is nothing like your true jest; a thing once well done, is twice done, and I am the happiest Man in the World in your Alliance; for, Sir, a Nobleman if he have any tolerable parts,—is a thing much above the Vulgar;—oh,—here comes the Dancers.

Enter Dancers.

Come, sit down by me.

Fran. ‘Tis my duty to stand, my Lord.

Guil. Nay, you shall sit.

[They dance.

Enter Antonio.

Ant. Good day, Sir, I hope you will not chide my tardiness, I have a little overslept my self, and am ashamed to see my lovely Bride, and all this worthy Company attend. —But you, fair Creature— [To Isabella.

Isa. No marrying to day, Sir.

Fran. No, Sir, no marrying to day.

Ant. How, do I dream, or hear this from Francisco?

Guil. How now, Fellow, what art thou?

Ant. The Husband of that proud disdainful Woman.

Guil. Another word like that—and thou art—

Ant. What, Sir?

Fran. Oh, hold, hold, my Lord! Antonio, I must tell you, you’re uncivil.

Guil. Dost know, dull Mortal, that I am a Lord, And Isabella my adopted Lady.

Ant. I beg your pardon, Sir, if it be so, poor Mortals can but grieve in silence.

Guil. Alas, poor Mortal!

Ant. But, for you, Francisco.

Fran. Ah, dear Antonio, I vow and swear I cannot chuse but weep to lose thee; but my Daughter was born for a Lady, and none can help their destiny.

Ant. And is it possible thou canst use me thus? [To Isa.

Isa. Take away that little Fellow; in pity of your life, I deign to bid you withdraw and be safe.

Guil. D’ye hear, hah?—this Lady has beg’d your life.

Ant. Beg’d my Life!

Guil. Vile Wretch, dar’st thou retort? [Draws, the Women hold him.

Fran. Oh, hold, hold, my noble Son-in-law, he shall do any thing;— dear Antonio, consider, I was never Father to a Lord all days of my Life before:—my Lord, be pacified, my Daughter shall be a Lady.

Isa. For my sake spare him, and be Friends with him, as far as you may deign to be with a little Citizen.

Guil. Fellow, I forgive thee,—here’s my hand to kiss in sign and token I am appeased. [Gives him his hand to kiss, ‘tis all black.

Ant. A Pox of his honourable hand, ‘t had like to have spoiled all, —well, since it must be so, I am content.

Guil. So, now Peace is concluded on, on all sides, what shall we do to day besides eating and drinking in abundance; for to morrow I shall get my self in order for my Marriage.

Cla. What thinks your Honour of taking the Air upon the Sea, in a Galley, a League or two?

Guil. With Fiddles, Drums and Trumpets, Westphalia hams and Pidgeons, and the like: Hey, Rogues, Scoundrels, Dogs.

Isa. Ah, how fine is every Action of a great Man!

Guil. Command a Galley to attend us presently. —You shall along, old Boy. [To Fran.

Fran. Alas, I must stay at home with my Wife, my Lord.

Guil. A Wife! have I a Mother-in-law too?—she must along with us, and take a frisk,—no denial.

Enter Carlos.

—Oh, are you come? [Aside.

Car. Yes, and thank thee for the best moment of my Life—Hast thou contrived the Voyage then?

Guil. Take no care—come, haste on board—our Honour will not lose the Fresco of the Morning,—Follow me, Pages.

Page. At your heels, my Lord—

[Exeunt.

SCENE I.

    Enter, as aboard the Ship, Guiliom, Isabella, Francisco, Julia,
    Antonio, Clara, Jacinta, Pedro and his Wife, Pages.

Guil. Ladies and Gentlemen, you are very welcome aboard—Come, put off to Sea, Rogues, Scoundrels, Tarpaulins, to your Business, and then, every man his Bottle,—hey, Page, Rogues, where are my Men? Come, spread the Table—for we are very hungry.

Isa. Heav’ns, what a peculiar Grace there is in every word that comes from the Mouth of a Cavalier.

Guil. By Mars, the God of Love!

Page. By Cupid, Sir. [Aside to him.

Guil. Cupid, Sirrah! I say, I’ll have it Mars, there’s more Thunder in the Sound: I say, by Mars, these Gallies are pretty neat convenient Tenements—but a—I see ne’er a Chimney in ‘em:—Pox on’t, what have I to do with a Chimney now?

Isa. He is a delicate fine Person, Jacinta; but, methinks he does not make Love enough to me.

Jac. Oh, Madam, Persons of his Quality never make Love in Words, the greatness of their Actions show their Passion.

Jac. Ay, ‘tis true all the little Fellows talk of Love.

Guil. Come, Ladies, set; Come, Isabella, you are melancholy,—Page —Fill my Lady a Beer-glass.

Isa. Ah, Heav’ns, a Beer-glass.

Guil. O, your Viscountess never drinks under your Beer-glass, your Citizens Wives simper and sip, and will be drunk without doing Credit to the Treater; but in their Closets, they swinge it away, whole Slashes, i’faith, and egad, when a Woman drinks by her self, Glasses come thick about: your Gentlewoman, or your little Lady, drinks half way, and thinks in point of good manners, she must leave some at the bottom; but your true bred Woman of Honour drinks all, Supernaculum, by Jove.

Isa. What a misfortune it was, that I should not know this before, but shou’d discover my want of so necessary a piece of Grandeur.

Jac. And nothing, but being fuddled, will redeem her Credit.

Guil. Come—fall to, old Boy,—thou art not merry; what, have we none that can give us a Song?

Ant. Oh Sir, we have an Artist aboard I’ll assure you; Signior Cashier, shall I beg the favour of you to shew your Skill?

Pet. Sir, my Wife and I’m at your service.

Guil. Friend, what Language can you sing?

Pet. Oh, Sir, your Singers speak all Languages.

Guil. Say’st thou so, prithee then let’s have a touch of Heathen Greek.

Pet. That you shall, Sir, Sol la me fa sol, &c.

Fran. Hum, I think this is indeed Heathen Greek, I’m sure ‘tis so to me.

Guil. Ay, that may be, but I understand every word on’t.

Fran. Good lack, these Lords are very learned Men.

Pet. Now, Sir, you shall hear one of another Language from my Wife and I. [Sing a Dialogue in French.

Enter the Captain.

Capt. Well, Gentlemen, though the news be something unpleasant that I bring, yet to noble minds ‘tis sport and pastime.

Guil. Hah, Fellow! What’s that that’s sport and pastime to noble minds.

Fran. Oh Lord, no goodness, I’ll warrant.

Capt. But, Gentlemen, pluck up your Spirits, be bold and resolute.

Fran. Oh Lord, bold and resolute! why, what’s the matter, Captain?

Capt. You are old, Signior, and we expect no good from you but Prayers to Heaven?

Fran. Oh Lord, Prayers to Heaven! Why, I hope, Captain, we have no need to think of Heaven.

Capt. At your own Peril be it then, Signior, for the Turks are coming upon us.

Fran. Oh Lord, Turks, Turks!

[Ex. Cap.

Guil. Turks, oh, is that all? [Falls to eating.

Fran. All—why, they’ll make Eunuchs of us, my Lord, Eunuchs of us poor men, and lie with all our Wives.

Guil. Shaw, that’s nothing, ‘tis good for the Voice.—how sweetly we shall sing, ta, la, ta la la, ta la, &c.

Fran. Ay, ‘twill make you sing another note, I’ll warrant you.

Enter a Seaman.

Sea. For Heaven’s sake, Sirs, do not stand idle here; Gentlemen, if you wou’d save your lives,—draw and defend ‘em. [Exit.

Fran. Draw! I never drew any thing in my Life, but my Purse, and that most damnably against my will; oh, what shall I do?

Enter Captain.

Capt. Ah, my Lord, they bear up briskly to us, with a fresh Gale and full Sails.

Fran. Oh, dear Captain, let us tack about and go home again.

Capt. ‘Tis impossible to scape, we must fight it out.

Fran. Fight it out! oh, I’m not able to indure it,—why, what the Devil made me a ship-board?

[Ex. Cap.

Guil. Why, where be these Turks? set me to ‘em, I’ll make ‘em smoke, Dogs, to dare attack a man of Quality.

Isa. Oh, the Insolence of these Turks! do they know who’s aboard? for Heaven’s sake, my Lord, do not expose your noble Person.

Guil. What, not fight?—Not fight! A Lord, and not fight? Shall I submit to Fetters, and see my Mistress ravish’d by any great Turk in Christendom, and not fight?

Isa. I’d rather be ravish’d a thousand times, than you should venture your Person.

[Seamen shout within.

Fran. Ay, I dare swear.

Enter Seaman.

Sea. Ah, Sirs, what mean you? Come on the Deck for shame.

Ant. My Lord, let us not tamely fall, there’s danger near. [Draws.

Guil. Ay, ay, there’s never smoke, but there’s some fire—Come, let’s away—ta la, tan ta la, la la, &c. [Draws.

[Exit singing, and Antonio and Pet.

Fran. A Pox of all Lords, I say, you must be janting in the Devil’s name, and God’s dry Ground wou’d not serve your turn. [Shout here. Oh, how they thunder! What shall I do?—oh, for some Auger-hole to thrust my head into, for I could never indure the noise of Cannons,—oh, ’.is insupportable,—intolerable—and not to be indur’d. [Running as mad about the Stage.

Isa. Dear Father, be not so frighted. [Weeps.

Fran. Ah, Crocodile, wou’d thou hadst wept thy Eyes out long ago, that thou hadst never seen this Count; then he had never lov’d thee, and then we had never been invited a ship-board. [A noise of fighting.

Enter Guiliom, Pet. and Antonio, driven in fighting by Guzman and other Turks.

Ant. Ah, Sir, the Turks have boarded us, we’re lost, we’re lost.

Fran. Oh, I am slain, I’m slain. [Falls down.

Guil. Hold, hold, I say, you are now in the presence of Ladies, and ’.is uncivil to fight before Ladies.

Guz. Yield then, you are our Slaves.

Guil. Slaves, no Sir, we’re Slaves to none but the Ladies. [Offers to fight.

Isa. Oh, hold, rude man,—d’ye know whom you encounter?

Guz. What’s here—one dead— [Looking on Francisco.

Fran. Oh, Lord!

Guz. Or, if he be not, he’s old, and past service, we’ll kill the Christian Dog out of the way.

Fran. Oh, hold, hold, I’m no Christian, Gentlemen; but as errant a Heathen as your selves.

Guz. Bind him strait, neck and heels, and clap him under hatches.

Jul. Oh, spare him, Sir, look on his Reverend Age.

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.

Guz. Lady, he is his own Carver, a good word by the bye, or so, will do well, and I am—a Favorite—

Isa. Are you so? here, take this Jewel,—in earnest of greater Favours— [Gives him a Jewel.

[Exeunt all.

Enter Don Carlos and Lopez.

Car. But, why so near the Land? by Heaven, I saw each action of the Fight, from yonder grove of Jessamine; and doubtless all beheld it from the Town.

Lop. The Captain, Sir, design’d it so, and at the Harbour gave it out those two Galleys were purposely prepared to entertain the Count and the Ladies with the representation of a Sea-fight; lest the noise of the Guns should alarm the Town, and, taking it for a real fight, shou’d have sent out Supplies, and so have ruin’d our Designs.

Car. Well, have we all things in readiness?

Lop. All, Sir, all.

Enter Page.

Page. My Lord, a Barge from the Galley is just arriv’d at the Garden-Stairs.

Enter Guzman.

Car. I’ll retire then, and fit me for my part of this Farce.

Guz. My Lord, you must retire, they’re just bringing the Old Gentleman ashore.

Car. Prithee how does he take his Captivity?

Guz. Take it, Sir! he has cast himself into a Fit, and has lain like one in a Trance this half hour; ‘tis impossible for him to speak Sense this fortnight; I’ll secure his Reason a play-day for so long at least; your Servants, in Turkish habits, are now his Guards, who will keep him safe enough from hindering your designs with Julia.

Car. Whatever you do, have a care you do not overfright the Coxcomb, and make a Tragedy of our Comedy.

Guz. I’ll warrant you, Sir, mind your Love-affairs,—he’s coming in,—retire, Sir.—

[Ex. Car. and Page and Lop.

_Enter some _Turks _with the body of _Francisco in chains, and lay him down on a Bank.

1st Turk. Christian, so ho ho, Slave, awake.— [Rubbing and calling him.

Fran. Hah! where am I?—my Wife,—my Wife—where am I?—hah! what are you?—Ghosts,—Devils,—Mutes,—no answer?—hah, bound in chains, —Slaves, where am I?

1st Turk. They understand not your Language; but I, who am a Renegade Spaniard, understand you when you speak civilly, which I advise you to do.

Fran. Do you know me, Friend?

1st Turk. I know you to be a Slave, and the Great Turk’s Slave too.

Fran. The Great Turk,—the Great Devil, why, where am I, Friend?

1st Turk. Within the Territories of the Grand Seignior, and this a Palace of Pleasure, where he recreates himself with his Mistresses.

Fran. And how far is that from Cadiz?—but what care I? my Wife, Friend, my own Wife.

1st Turk. Your own,—a true Musselman cou’d have said no more; but take no care for her, she’s provided for.

Fran. Is she dead? That wou’d be some comfort.

1st Turk. No, she’s alive, and in good hands.

Fran. And in good hands! oh, my head! and, oh, my heart! ten thousand tempests burst the belly of this day, wherein old Francisco ventur’d Life and Limbs, Liberty and Wife to the mercy of these Heathen Turks.

1st Turk. Friend, you need not thus complain; a good round Ransom redeems ye.

Fran. A round Ransom! I’ll rot in my chains first, before I’ll part with a round ransom.

1st Turk. You have a fair Wife, and need not fear good usage, if she knows how to be kind. You apprehend me.

Fran. Patience, good Lord.

1st Turk. Perhaps the Grand Seignior may like her, and to be favour’d by him in such a Glory—

Fran. As the Devil take me if I desire.

1st Turk. And then you may in triumph laugh at all the rest of your Brother Cuckolds.

Fran. Hum, and has the Devil serv’d me thus?—but no matter, I must be gadding, like an old Coxcomb, to Cadiz,—and then, jaunting to Sea, with a Pox, to take pains to be a Cuckold, to bring my Wife into a strange Land, amongst Unbelievers, with a vengeance, as if we had not honest Christian Cuckold-makers enough at home; Sot that I was, not to consider how many Merchants have been undone by trusting their Commodities out at Sea; why, what a damn’d ransom will the Rogues exact from me, and more for my Wife, because she’s handsome; and then, ‘tis ten to one, I have her turned upon my hands the worse for wearing; oh, damn’d Infidels! no, ‘tis resolv’d, I’ll live a Slave here, rather than enrich them.

1st Turk. Friend, you’ll know your Destiny presently; for ‘tis the custom of the Great Turk to view the Captives, and consider of their Ransoms and Liberties, according to his pleasure. See, he is coming forth with the Vizier Bassa.

Enter Carlos and Guzman as Turks with Followers.

Most mighty Emperor, behold your Captive.

Fran. Is this the Great Turk?

1st Turk. Peace.

Fran. Bless me! as we at home describe him, I thought the Great Turk had been twice as big; but I shall find him Tyrant big enough, I’ll warrant him.

Guz. Of what Nation art thou, Slave? speak to the Emperor, he understands thee, though he deign not to hold discourse with Christian Dogs.

Fran. Oh fearful!—Spain, so please you, Sir.

Guz. By Mahomet, he’ll make a reverend Eunuch.

Fran. An Eunuch! oh, Lord!

Turk. Ay, Sir, to guard his Mistresses, ‘tis an honour.

Fran. Oh! Mercy, Sir, that honour you may spare, Age has done my business already.

Guz. Fellow, what art?

Fran. An’t please your Worship, I cannot tell.

Guz. How, not tell?

Fran. An’t please your Lordship, my Fears have so transform’d me, I cannot tell whether I’m any thing or nothing.

Guz. Thy name, dull Mortal, know’st thou not that?

Fran. An’t please your Grace, now I remember me, methinks I do.

Guz. Dog, how art thou call’d?

Fran. An’t like your Excellence, Men call’d me Signior Don Francisco, but now they will call me Coxcomb.

Guz. Of what Trade?

Fran. An’t please your Highness, a Gentleman.

Guz. How much dost thou get a day by that Trade? Hah!

Fran. An’t like your Majesty, our Gentlemen never get but twice in all their lives; that is, when Fathers die, they get good Estates; and when they marry, they get rich Wives: but I know what your Mightiness wou’d get by going into my Country and asking the Question.

Guz. What, Fool?

Fran. A good Cudgelling, an’t please your Illustriousness.

Guz. Slave! To my Face!—Take him away, and let him have the Strapado.

Car. Baridama, Dermack.

Fran. Heavens, what says he?

I Turk. He means to have you castrated.

Fran. Castrated! Oh, that’s some dreadful thing, I’ll warrant,— Gracious Great Turk, for Mahomet’s sake, excuse me; alas, I’ve lost my wits.

Car. Galero Gardines?

Guz. The Emperor asks if thou art married, Fellow.

Fran. Hah—Married—I was, an’t like your Monsterousness, but, I doubt, your People have spoiled my Property.

Guz. His Wife, with other Ladies, in a Pavillion in the Garden, attend your Royal pleasure.

Car. Go, fetch her hither presently.

[Ex. Guz.

1st Turk. This is no common Honour, that the Great Turk deigns to speak your Language; ‘tis to sign you’ll rise.

Fran. Yes, by the height of a pair of Horns.

Car. Is she handsom?

Fran. Oh, what an Ague shakes my Heart,—handsom! alas, no, dread Sir; what shou’d such a deform’d Polecat as I do with a handsom Wife?

Car. Is she young?

Fran. Young, what shou’d such an old doting Coxcomb as I do with a young Wife? Pox on him for a Heathen Whoremaster.

Car. Old is she then?

Fran. Ay, very old, an’t please your Gloriousness.

Car. Is she not capable of Love?

Fran. Hum, so, so,—like Fire conceal’d in a Tinderbox,—I shall run mad.

Car. Is she witty?

Fran. I’m no competent Judge, an’t like your Holiness, —This Catechism was certainly of the Devil’s own making. [Aside.

    Enter Guzman, bringing in Julia, Clara, Isabella, Jacinta,
    Guiliom, Antonio, &c. Women veil’d.

Car. These, Sir, are all the Slaves of Note are taken.

Isa. Dost think, Jacinta, he’ll chuse me?

Jac. I’ll warrant you, Madam, if he looks with my Eyes.

Guz. Stand forth. [To the Men.

Guil. Stand forth, Sir! why, so I can, Sir, I dare show my Face, Sir, before any Great Turk in Christendom.

Car. What are you, Sir?

Guil. What am I, Sir? Why, I’m a Lord, a Lord.

Fran. What, are you mad to own your Quality, he’ll ask the Devil and all of a ransom.

Guil. No matter for that, I’ll not lose an Inch of my Quality for a King’s ransom; disgrace my self before my fair Mistress!

Isa. That’s as the Great Turk and I shall agree. [Scornfully.

Car. What are you, Sir?

Ant. A Citizen of Cadiz.

Car. Set ‘em by, we’ll consider of their ransoms—now unveil the Ladies. [Guzman unveils Jacinta.

Fran. Oh, dear Wife, now or never show thy Love, make a damnable face upon the filthy Ravisher,—glout thy Eyes thus—and thrust out thy upper lip, thus.— [Guzman presents Jacinta.

Guil. Oh, dear Isabella, do thee look like a Dog too.

Isa. No, Sir, I’m resolv’d I’ll not lose an Inch of my Beauty, to save so trifling a thing as a Maiden head.

Car. Very agreeable, pretty and chearful—

[She is veil’d and set by: Then Clara is unveil’d.

A most divine bud of Beauty—all Nature’s Excellence—drawn to the life in little,—what are you, fair one?

Cla. Sir, I’m a Maid.

Fran. So, I hope he will pitch upon her.

Cla. Only, by promise, Sir, I’ve given my self away.

Car. What happy Man cou’d claim a title in thee, And trust thee to such danger?

Isa. Heavens, shall I be defeated by this little Creature? What pity ’.was he saw me not first?

Cla. I dare not name him, Sir, lest this small Beauty which you say adorns me, shou’d gain him your displeasure; he’s in your presence, Sir, and is your Slave.

Car. Such Innocence this plain Confession shows, name me the man, and I’ll resign thee back to him.

Fran. A Pox of his Civility.

Ant. This Mercy makes me bold to claim my right. [Kneels.

Car. Take her, young Man, and with it both your Ransoms.

Guil. Hum—hum—very noble, i’faith, we’ll e’en confess our loves too, Isabella.

Isa. S’life, he’ll spoil all,—hold—pray let your Betters be serv’d before you.

Guil. How! Is the Honour of my Love despised?—wer’t not i’th presence of the Great Turk, for whom I have a reverence because he’s a man of quality—by Jove, I’d draw upon you.

Isa. Because you were my Lover once, when I’m Queen I’ll pardon you.

    [Guzman unveils her, and leads her to Carlos, she making
    ridiculous actions of Civility.

Car. What aukard, fond, conceited thing art thou? Veil her, and take the taudry Creature hence.

Guil. Hum—your Majesty’s humble Servant.
                              [Putting off his Hat ridiculously.

Fran. How! refuse my Daughter too! I see the Lot of a Cuckold will fall to my share.

Guz. This is the Wife, Great Sir, of this old Slave. [Unveils Julia.

Car. Hah! what do I see, by Mahomet, she’s fair.

Fran. So, so, she’s condemn’d; oh, damn’d Mahometan Cannibal! will nothing but raw flesh serve his turn.

Car. I’ll see no more,—here I have fix’d my heart.

Fran. Oh, Monster of a Grand Seignior!

Guz. Have you a mind to be flead, Sir?

Car. Receive my Handkerchief. [Throws it to her.

Fran. His Handkerchief! bless me, what does he mean?

Guz. To do her the honour to lie with her to night.

Fran. Oh, hold, most mighty Turk. [Kneeling.

Guz. Slave, darest thou interrupt ‘em,—die, Dog.

Fran. Hold, hold, I’m silent.

Car. I love you, fair one, and design to make you—

Fran. A most notorious Strumpet. A Pox of his Courtesy.

Car. What Eyes you have like Heaven blue and charming, a pretty Mouth, Neck round and white as polisht Alabaster, and a Complexion beauteous as an Angel, a Hair fit to make Bonds to insnare the God of Love,—a sprightly Air,—a Hand like Lillies white, and Lips, no Roses opening in a Morning are half so sweet and soft.

Fran. Oh, damn’d circumcised Turk.

Car. You shall be call’d the beautiful Sultana, And rule in my Seraglio drest with Jewels.

Fran. Sure, I shall burst with Vengeance.

Jul. Sir, let your Virtue regulate your Passions; For I can ne’er love any but my Husband.

Fran. Ah, dissembling Witch!

Jul. And wou’d not break my Marriage Vows to him, For all the honour you can heap upon me.

Fran. Say, and hold; but Sultana and precious Stones are damnable Temptations,—besides, the Rogue’s young and handsome,—What a scornful look she casts at me; wou’d they were both handsomely at the Devil together.

Guz. Dog, do you mutter?

Fran. Oh! nothing, nothing, but the Palsy shook my Lips a little.

Guz. Slave, go, and on your knees resign your Wife.

Fran. She’s of years of discretion, and may dispose of her self; but I can hold no longer: and is this your Mahometan Conscience, to take other Mens Wives, as if there were not single Harlots enough in the World? [In rage.

Guz. Peace, thou diminutive Christian.

Fran. I say, Peace thou over-grown Turk.

Guz. Thou Spanish Cur.

Fran. Why, you’re a Mahometan Bitch, and you go to that.

Guz. Death, I’ll dissect the bald-pated Slave.

Fran. I defy thee, thou foul filthy Cabbage-head, for I am mad, and will be valiant.

[Guz. throws his Turbant at him.

Car. What Insolence is this!—Mutes—strangle him.—

[They put a Bow-string about his neck.

Jul. Mercy, dread Sir, I beg my Husband’s life.

Car. No more,—this fair one bids you live,—henceforth, Francisco, I pronounce you a Widower, and shall regard you, for the time to come, as the deceased Husband of the Great Sultana, murmur not upon pain of being made an Eunuch—take him away.

Jul. Go, and be satisfied, I’ll die before I’ll yield.

Fran. Is this my going to Sea?—the Plague of losing Battels light on thee.

  When ill success shall make thee idle lie,
  Mayst thou in bed be impotent as I.

Car. Command our Slaves to give us some diversion; Dismiss his Chains, and use him with respect, because he was the Husband of our beloved Sultana.

Fran. I see your Cuckold might have a life good enough if he cou’d be contented. [They pull off his Chains.

[Carlos and Julia sit under an Umbrella.

The SONG.

  How strangely does my Passion grow,
  Divided equally twixt two?
  Damon had ne’er subdued my Heart,
  Had not Alexis took his part:
  Nor cou’d Alexis_ powerful prove,
  Without my_ Damon’s _aid, to gain my Love.

  When my_ Alexis present is,
   Then I for Damon sigh and mourn;
  But when Alexis I do miss,
   Damon _gains nothing but my Scorn:
  And, if it chance they both are by,
  For both, alas! I languish, sigh, and die.

  Cure then, thou mighty winged God,
  This raging Fever in my Blood.
  One golden-pointed Dart take back;
  But which, O_ Cupid, wilt thou take?
  if Damon’s, all my hopes are crost:
  Or, that of my Alexis, I am lost.

Enter Dancers, which dance an Antick.

Car. Come, my dear Julia, let’s retire to shades. [Aside to her.
Where only thou and I can find an entrance;
These dull, these necessary delays of ours
Have drawn my Love to an impatient height.
—Attend these Captives, at a respectful distance.

[_Ex. all but Isa. who stays_ Guil.

Guil. What wou’d the Great Sultana?

Isa. Ah! do not pierce my Heart with this unkindness.

Guil. Ha, ha, ha,—Pages,—give order, I have Letters writ to Sevil, to my Merchant,—I will be ransomed instantly.

Isa. Ah, cruel Count!

Guil. Meaning me, Lady! ah, fy! no, I am a Scoundrel; I a Count, no, not I, a Dog, a very Chim—hum,—a Son of a Whore, I, not worthy your notice.

Isa. Oh, Heavens! must I lose you then? no, I’ll die first.

Guil. Die, die, then; for your Betters must be served before you.

Isa. Oh! I shall rave; false and lovely as you are, did you not swear to marry me, and make me a Viscountess.

Guil. Ay, that was once when I was a Lover; but, now you are a Queen, you’re too high i’th’ mouth for me.

Isa. Ah! name it not; will you be still hard-hearted?

Guil. As a Flint, by Jove.

Isa. Have you forgot your Love?

Guil. I’ve a bad memory.

Isa. And will you let me die?

Guil. I know nothing of the matter.

Isa. Oh Heavens! and shall I be no Viscountess?

Guil. Not for me, fair Lady, by Jupiter,—no, no,—Queen’s much better,—Death, affront a man of Honour, a Viscount that wou’d have took you to his Bed,—after half the Town had blown upon you,—without examining either Portion or Honesty, and wou’d have took you for better for worse—Death, I’ll untile Houses, and demolish Chimneys, but I’ll be revenged. [Draws and is going out.

Isa. Ah, hold! your Anger’s just, I must confess: yet pardon the frailty of my Sex’s vanity; behold my Tears that sue for pity to you.

[She weeps, he stands looking on her.

Guil. My rage dissolves.

Isa. I ask but Death, or Pity. [He weeps.

Guil. I cannot hold;—but if I shou’d forgive, and marry you, you wou’d be gadding after honour still, longing to be a she Great Turk again.

Isa. Break not my heart with such suspicions of me.

Gull. And is it pure and tender Love for my Person, And not for my glorious Titles?

Isa. Name not your Titles, ‘tis your self I love,
Your amiable, sweet and charming self,
And I cou’d almost wish you were not great,
To let you see my Love.

Guil. I am confirm’d—

’.is no respect of Honour makes her weep; _Her Loves the same shou’d I cry—Chimney Sweep.

[Ex.

SCENE I. A Garden.

Enter Francisco alone.

Fran. Now am I afraid to walk in this Garden, lest I shou’d spy my own natural Wife lying with the Great Turk in Fresco, upon some of these fine fiowry Banks, and learning how to make Cuckolds in Turkey.

Enter Guzman and Jacinta.

Guz. Nay, dear Jacinta, cast an eye of pity on me.—What, deny the Vizier Bassa?

Jac. When you are honest Guzman again, I’ll tell you a piece of my mind.

Guz. But opportunity will not be kind to Guzman, as to the Grand Bassa; therefore, dear Rogue, let’s retire into these kind shades, or, if foolish Virtue be so squeamish, and needless Reputation so nice, that Mr. Vicar must say Amen to the bargain, there is an old lousy Frier, belonging to this Villa, that will give us a cast of his Office; for I am a little impatient about this business, Greatness having infus’d a certain itch in my Blood, which I felt not whilst a common Man.

Fran. Um, why, what have we here, pert Mrs. Jacinta and the Bassa? I hope the Jade will be Turkefied with a vengeance, and have Circumcision in abundance; and the Devil shall ransom her for old Francisco.

Jac. Hah, the old Gentleman!

Fran. What, the Frolick is to go round, I see, you Women have a happy time on’t.

Guz. Men that have kind Wives may be as happy; you’ll have the honour of being made a Cuckold, Heaven be prais’d.

Fran. Ay, Sir, I thank ye,—pray, under the Rose, how does my Wife please his Grace the Great Turk?

Guz. Murmuring again, thou Slave.

Fran. Who, I? O Lord, Sir! not I, why, what hurt is there in being a Cuckold?

Guz. Hurt, Sirrah, you shall be swinged into a belief, that it is an honour for the Great Turk to borrow your Wife.

Fran. But for the Lender to pay Use-money, is somewhat severe;—but, see, he comes,—bless me, how grim he looks!

Enter Carlos, and Mutes attending.

Car. Come hither, Slave,—why, was it that I gave you Life? dismiss’d the Fetters from your aged Limbs?

Fran. For love of my Wife, and’t please your Barbarousness.

Car. Gave you free leave to range the Palace round, excepting my Apartment only?

Fran. Still for my Wife’s sake, I say, and’t like your Hideousness.

Car. And yet this Wife, this most ungrateful Wife of yours, again wou’d put your Chains on, expose your Life to Dangers and new Torments, by a too stubborn Virtue, she does refuse my Courtship, and foolishly is chaste.

Fran. Alas! what pity’s that!

Car. I offer’d much, lov’d much, but all in vain; Husband and Honour still was the reply.

Fran. Good lack! that she shou’d have no more Grace before her Eyes.

Car. But, Slave, behold these Mutes; that fatal Instrument of Death behold too, and in ‘em read thy doom, if this coy Wife of yours be not made flexible to my Addresses.

Fran. O Heavens! I make her.

Car. No more, thy Fate is fix’d—and, here attend, till he himself deliver his willing Wife into my Arms; Bassa, attend, and see it be perform’d— [To his Mutes, then to Guz. [Ex. Car.

Guz. Go, one of you, and fetch the fair Slave hither.

[Ex. Turk.

Fran. I pimp for my own Wife! I hold the door to my own Flesh and Blood! monstrum horrendum!

Guz. Nay, do’t, and do’t handsomly too, not with a snivelling Countenance, as if you were compell’d to’t; but with the face of Authority, and the awful command of a Husband—or thou dyest.

Enter Turk and Julia.

Fran. My dear Julia, you are a Fool, my Love.

Jul. For what, dear Husband?

Fran. I say, a silly Fool, to refuse the Love of so great a Turk; why, what a Pox makes you so coy? [Angrily.

Jul. How! this from you, Francisco.

Fran. Now does my Heart begin to fail me; and yet I shall ne’er endure strangling neither; why, am not I your Lord and Master, hah?

Jul. Heavens! Husband, what wou’d you have me do?

Fran. Have you do;—why, I wou’d have ye—d’ye see—’twill not out; why, I wou’d have ye lie with the Sultan, Huswife; I wonder how the Devil you have the face to refuse him, so handsom, so young a Lover; come, come, let me hear no more of your Coyness, Mistress, for if I do, I shall be hang’d; [Aside. The Great Turk’s a most worthy Gentleman, and therefore I advise you to do as he advises you; and the Devil take ye both. [Aside.

Jul. This from my Husband, old Francisco! he advise me to part with my dear Honour.

Fran. Rather than part with his dear Life, I thank ye. [Aside.

Jul. Have you considered the Virtue of a Wife?

Fran. No, but I have considered the Neck of a Husband. [Aside.

Jul. Which Virtue, before I’ll lose, I’ll die a thousand Deaths.

Fran. So will not I one; a Pox of her Virtue,—these Women are always virtuous in a wrong place. [Aside. I say you shall be kind to the sweet Sultan.

Jul. And rob my Husband of his right!

Fran. Shaw, Exchange is no Robbery.

Jul. And forsake my Virtue, and make nown Dear a Cuckold.

Fran. Shaw, most of the Heroes of the World were so;—go, prithee, Hony, go, do me the favour to cuckold me a little, if not for Love, for Charity.

Jul. Are you in earnest?

Fran. I am.

Jul. And would it not displease you?

Fran. I say, no; had it been Aquinius his Case, to have sav’d the pinching of his Gullet he wou’d have been a Cuckold. [Aside.

Jul. Fear has made you mad, or you’re bewitcht; and I’ll leave you to recover your Wits again. [Going out.

Fran. O gracious Wife, leave me not in despair; [Kneels to her and holds her.] I’m not mad, no, nor no more bewitcht than I have been these forty years; ‘tis you’re bewitcht to refuse so handsom, so young, and so—a Pox on him, she’ll ne’er relish me again after him. [Aside.

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.

Turk. Sir, boast the honour of the News I bring you.

Fran. Oh, my Head! how my Brows twinge.

Turk. The mighty Sultan, to do you honour, has set your Daughter and her Lover free, ransomless;—and this day gives ‘em liberty to solemnize the Nuptials in the Court;—but Christian Ceremonies must be private; but you’re to be admitted, and I’ll conduct you to ‘em.

Fran. Some Comfort, I shall be Father to a Viscount, and for the rest—Patience—

  All Nations Cuckolds breed, but I deny
   They had such need of Cuckolding as I.

[Goes out with the Turk.

Enter Antonio, and Clara to Jacinta.

Jac. Madam, the rarest sport—Ha, ha, ha.

Ant. You need not tell us, we have been witness to all. But to our own Affairs, my dearest Clara, Let us not lose this blessed opportunity, Which Art nor Industry can give again if this be idly lost.

Cla. Nay, hang me if it be my fault, Antonio: Charge it to the number of your own Sins; it shall not lie at my door.

Ant. ‘Tis generously said, and take notice, my little dear Virago, Guzman has a Priest ready to tie you to your word.

Cla. As fast as you please; hang her that fears the conjuring knot for me: But what will our Fathers say—mine who expects me to be the Governor’s Lady; and yours, who designs Isabella for a Daughter-in-Law?

Ant. Mine will be glad of the Change; and, for yours, if he be not pleased, let him keep his Portion to himself—that’s the greatest mischief he can do us: and for my Friend, the Governor, he’s above their Anger.

Cla. Why do we lose precious time? I long to be at—I Clara take thee Antonio,—the very Ceremony will be tedious, so much I wish thee mine; and each delay gives me a fear something will snatch me from thee.

Ant. No power of Man can do’t, thou art so guarded; but now the Priest is employed in clapping up the honourable Marriage between the False Count and Isabella.

Jac. Lord, what a jest ‘twill be to see ‘em coupled, ha, ha.

Cla. Unmerciful Antonio, to drive the Jest so far; ‘tis too unconscionable!

Ant. By Heaven, I’m so proud I cannot think my Revenge sufficient for Affronts, nor does her Birth, her Breeding and her Vanity—deserve a better Fortune; besides,—he has enough to set up for a modern Spark— the Fool has just Wit and good Manners to pass for a Fop of Fashion; and, where he is not known, will gain the Reputation of a fine accomplish’d Gentleman,—yet I’m resolved she shall see him in his Geers, in his original Filthiness, that my Revenge may be home upon the foolish Jilt.

Cla. Cruel Antonio, come, lets go give ‘em Joy.

Ant. And finish our Affair with Mr. Vicar.

Enter Isabella, her Train borne by the great Page, Guiliom, with the other great Page, and Francisco bare.

—Joy to my noble Lord, and you, fair Isabella!

Isa. Thank thee, Fellow,—but, surely, I deserved my Titles from thee.

Cla. Your Honour I hope will pardon him.

Isa. How now, Clara! [Nodding to her.

Jac. I give your Honour joy.

Isa. Thank thee, poor Creature.—

Fran. My Lord, this Honour you have done my Daughter is so signal, that whereas I designed her but five thousand Pound, I will this happy day settle on her ten.

Guil. Damn dirty trash, your Beauty is sufficient—hum —Signior Don Antonio, get the Writings ready. [Aside. Money—hang Money.

Fran. How generous these Lords are; nay, my Lord, you must not refuse a Father’s Love, if I may presume to call you Son—I shall find enough besides for my Ransom, if the Tyrant be so unmerciful to ask more than my Wife pays him.

Guil. Nay, if you will force it upon me.

Isa. Ay, take it, the trifling sum will serve to buy our Honour Pins.

Ant. Well, Sir, since you will force it on him, my Cashier shall draw the Writings.

Guil. And have ‘em signed by a publick Notary. [Aside.

Fran. With all my Soul, Sir, I’ll go to give him order, and subscribe. [Ex. Francisco.

Guil. Let him make ‘em strong and sure—you shall go halves. [Aside.

Ant. No, you will deserve it dearly, who have the plague of such a Wife with it;—but harkye, Count—these goods of Fortune are not to be afforded you, without Conditions.

Guil. Shaw, Conditions, any Conditions, noble Antonio.

Ant. You must disrobe anon, and do’n your native Habiliments—and in the Equipage give that fair Viscountess to understand the true quality of her Husband.

Guil. Hum—I’m afraid, ‘tis a harder task to leap from a Lord to a Rogue, than ‘tis from a Rogue to a Lord.

Ant. Not at all, we have examples of both daily.

Guil. Well, Sir, I’ll show you my agility—but, Sir, I desire I may consummate, d’ye see,—consummate—a little like a Lord, to make the Marriage sure.

Ant. You have the Freedom to do so—the Writings I’ll provide.

Guil. I’ll about it then, the Priest waits within for you, and Guzman for you, Jacinta,—haste, for he is to arrive anon Ambassador from Cadiz.

Jac. I know not, this noise of Weddings has set me agog, and I’ll e’en in, and try what ‘tis.

[Ex. Antonio, Clara, and Jacinta.

Guil. Come, Madam, your Honour and I have something else to do, before I have fully dub’d you a Viscountess.

Isa. Ah, Heav’ns, what’s that?

Guil. Why a certain Ceremony, which must be performed between a pair of Sheets,—but we’ll let it alone till Night.

Isa. Till Night, no; whate’er it be, I wou’d not be without an Inch of that Ceremony, that may compleat my Honour for the World; no, for Heaven’s sake, let’s retire, and dub me presently.

Guil. Time enough, time enough.

Isa. You love me not, that can deny me this.

Guil. Love—no, we are married now, and People of our Quality never Love after Marriage; ‘tis not great.

Isa. Nay, let’s retire, and compleat my Quality, and you will find me a Wife of the Mode, I’ll warrant you.

Guil. For once you have prevail’d.

Enter Francisco.

Fran. Whither away?

Isa. Only to consummate a little, pray keep your distance. [She pulls off his hat.

Fran. Consummate!

Isa. Ay, Sir, that is to make me an absolute Viscountess—we cannot stay—farewel. [Guiliom leads her out.

Fran. Hum—this Turkey Air has a notable faculty, where the Women are all plaguy kind.

Enter Carlos and Julia.

Car. By Heav’n, each Moment makes me more your Slave.

Fran. The Business is done.

Jul. My Husband! [Aside.

Car. And all this constant love to old Francisco has but engaged me more.

Fran. Ha, Love to me? [Aside.

Jul. Sir, if this Virtue be but real in you, how happy I shou’d be; but you’ll relapse again, and tempt my virtue, which if you do—

Fran. I’ll warrant she wou’d kill herself. [Aside.

Jul. I should be sure to yield. [In a soft tone to him.

Car. No, thou hast made an absolute Conquest o’er me—and if that Beauty tempt me every hour, I shall still be the same I was the last.

Fran. Pray Heaven he be John.

Enter First Turk.

1st Turk. Most mighty Emperor, a Messenger from Cadiz has Letters for your Highness.

Car. Conduct him in; in this retreat of ours we use no State.

Enter Guzman, as himself, gives Carlos Letters.

Guz. Don Carlos, Governor of Cadiz, greets your Highness.

Carlos reads.

High and Mighty,

For seven Christian Slaves, taken lately by a Galley of yours, we offer you twice the number of Mahometans taken from you by us. —If this suffice not,—propose your Ransoms, and they shall be paid by Don Carlos, Governor of Cadiz.

—Know you this Carlos offers so fair for you?

Fran. Most potent Lord, I do, and wonder at the Compliment,—and yet I am not jealous—I have so overacted the complaisant Husband, that I shall never fall into the other Extreme again.

Car. Go, let the Christian Governor understand his Request is granted.

Guz. The Slaves are ready, Sir, and a Galley to carry off the Christians.

Jul. How shall we make this Governor amends?

Fran. I do even weep for joy; alas, I must leave it to thee, Love.

Jul. To me, Sir? do you mock me?

Fran. Mock thee! no; I know thy Virtue, and will no more be jealous, believe me, Chicken, I was an old Fool.

Car. Your Wife is chaste—she overcame my unruly Passion with her Prayers and Tears.

    Enter Isabella at one door; Clara, Antonio, Jacinta,
    at another; Isabella’s Train carried up.

Fran. Rare News,—we are all free and ransom’d! All’s well, and the Man has his Mare again.

Isa. You still forget your Duty and your Distance.

Fran. A pox of your troublesom Honour; a man can’t be overjoy’d in quiet for’t.

Enter Baltazer and Sebastian.

Seb. Sure, I am not mistaken, this is the House of my Son Antonio.

Bal. Let it be whose house ‘twill, I think the Devil’s broke loose in’t.

Seb.—Or the Turks; for I have yet met with ne’er a Christian thing in’t.

Fran. Hah,—do I dream, or is that my Father-in-law, and Signior Sebastian?

Ant. My Father here?

Car. Baltazer! [Aside.

Bal. Son Francisco, why do you gaze on me so?

Fran. Bless me, Sir, are you taken by the Great Turk too?

Bal. Taken,—Great Turk,—what do mean?

Fran. Mean, Sir! why, how the Devil came you into Turkey?

Bal. Sure, Jealousy has crack’d his brains.

Fran. Crack me no Cracks, good Father mine;—am not I a Slave in Turkey? and is not this the Grand Seignior’s Palace?

Car. So,—all will come out, there’s no prevention. [Aside.

Seb. Some that are wiser answer us: You, Son,—are you infected too?—was not yesterday to have been your Wedding-day?

Ant. To day has done as well, Sir, I have only chang’d Isabella for Clara.

Seb. How, Francisco, have you juggled with me?

Fran. My Daughter’s a Lady, Sir.

Bal. And you, Mistress, you have married Antonio, and left the Governor.

Cla. I thought him the fitter Match, Sir, and hope your Pardon.

Jul. We cannot scape.

Fran. But how came you hither, Gentlemen, how durst you venture?

Seb. Whither, Sir, to my own Son’s house; is there such danger in coming a mile or two out of Cadiz?

Fran. Is the Devil in you, or me, or both? Am not I in the Possession of Turks and Infidels?

Bal. No, Sir; safe in Antonio Villa, within a League of Cadiz.

Fran. Why, what a Pox, is not this the Great Turk himself?

Bal. This, Sir,—cry mercy, my Lord,—’tis Don Carlos, Sir, the Governor.

Fran. The Governor! the worst Great Turk of all; so, I am cozened, —most rarely cheated; why, what a horrid Plot’s here carried on, to bring in heretical Cuckoldom?

Car. Well, Sir, since you have found it out, I’ll own my Passion.

Jul. Well, if I have been kind you forced me to’t, nay, begged on your knees, to give my self away.

Fran. Guilty, guilty, I confess,—but ‘twas to the Great Turk, Mistress, not Don Carlos.

Jul. And was the Sin the greater?

Fran. No, but the Honour was less.

Bal. Oh horrid! What, intreat his Wife to be a Whore?

Car. Sir, you’re mistaken, she was my Wife in sight of Heaven before; and I but seiz’d my own.

Fran. Oh,—Sir, she’s at your Service still.

Car. I thank you, Sir, and take her as my own.

Bal. Hold, my Honour’s concerned.

Fran. Not at all, Father mine, she’s my Wife, my Lumber now, and, I hope, I may dispose of my Goods and Chattels—if he takes her we are upon equal terms, for he makes himself my Cuckold, as he has already made me his;—for, if my memory fail me not, we did once upon a time consummate, as my Daughter has it.

Enter Guiliom in his own dress; crying Chimney-Sweep.

Guil. Chimney-sweep,—by your leave, Gentlemen.

Ant. Whither away, Sirrah?

Guil. What’s that to you, Sir?—

Ant. Not to me, Sirrah;—who wou’d you speak with?

Guil. What’s that to you, Sir? why, what a Pox, may not a man speak with his own Lady and Wife?

Cla. Heavens! his Wife! to look for his Wife amongst Persons of Quality!

Car. Kick out the Rascal.

Guil. As soon as you please, my Lord; but let me take my Wife along with me. [Takes Isa. by the hand.

Isa. Faugh! what means the Devil?

Guil. Devil; ‘twas not long since you found me a human creature within there.

Isa. Villain, Dog; help me to tear his Eyes out.

Guil. What, those Eyes, those lovely Eyes, that wounded you so deeply?

Fran. What’s the meaning of all this? why, what, am I cozen’d? and is my Daughter cozen’d?

Guil. Cozen’d! why, I am a Man, Sir.

Fran. The Devil you are, Sir, how shall I know that?

Guil. Your Daughter does, Sir; and that’s all one.

Isa. Oh! I’m undone; am I no Viscountess then.

Guil. Hang Titles; ‘twas my self you lov’d, my amiable sweet and charming self: In fine, sweet-heart, I am your Husband; no Viscount, but honest Guiliom, the Chimney-sweeper.—I heard your Father design’d to marry you to a Tradesman, and you were for a Don; and to please you both, you see how well I have managed matters.

Fran. I’ll not give her a farthing.

Guil. No matter, her Love’s worth a million; and, that’s so great, that I’m sure she’ll be content to carry my Soot basket after me.

Isa. Ah! I die, I die.

Guil. What, and I so kind? [Goes and kisses her, and blacks her face.

Isa. Help! murder, murder!

Guil. Well, Gentlemen, I am something a better fortune than you believe me, by some thousands. [Shows Car. his Writings.

Car. Substantial and good! faith, Sir, I know not where you’ll find a better fortune for your Daughter, as cases stand. [To Francisco.

Guil. And, for the Viscount, Sir, gay Clothes, Money and Confidence will set me up for one, in any ground in Christendom.

Car. Faith, Sir, he’s i’th’ right; take him home to Sevil, your Neighbours know him not, and he may pass for what you please to make him; the Fellow’s honest, witty and handsom.

Fran. Well, I have considered the matter: I was but a Leather-seller my self, and am grown up to a Gentleman; and, who knows but he, being a Chimney-sweeper, may, in time, grow up to a Lord? Faith, I’ll trust to Fortune, for once—here—take her and rid me of one Plague, as you, I thank you, Sir, have done of another. [To Carlos.

Guil. Prithee be pacified, thou shalt see me within this hour as pretty a fluttering Spark as any’s in Town.—My noble Lord, I give you thanks and joy; for, you are happy too.

Car. As Love and Beauty can make me.

Fran. And I, as no damn’d Wife, proud Daughter, or tormenting Chamber-maid can make me.

Ant. And I, as Heaven and Clara can. —You base-born Beauties, whose ill-manner’d Pride, Th’industrious noble Citizens deride. May you all meet with Isabella’s doom.

Guil. —And all such Husbands as the Count Guiliome.

Spoken by Mrs. Barry, made by a Person of Quality.

_I Come not a Petitioner to sue,
This Play the Author has writ down to you;
’.is a slight Farce, five Days brought forth with ease,
So very foolish that it needs must please;
For though each day good Judges take offence, |
And Satir arms in Comedy’s defence, |
You are still true to your Jack-Pudding Sense. |
No Buffoonry can miss your Approbation,
You love it as you do a new_ French Fashion:
Thus in true hate of Sense, and Wit’s despite,
Bantring and Shamming is your dear delight.
Thus among all the Folly’s here abounding,
None took like the new Ape-trick of Dumfounding.
If to make People laugh the business be, |
You Sparks better Comedians are than we; |
You every day out-fool ev’n Nokes and Lee. |
They’re forc’d to stop, and their own Farces quit,
T’admire the Merry-Andrews of the Pit;
But if your Mirth so grate the Critick’s ear,
Your Love will yet more Harlequin appear.
—You everlasting Grievance of the Boxes,
You wither’d Ruins of stum’d Wine and Poxes;
What strange Green-sickness do you hope in Women
Should make ‘em love old Fools in new Point Linen?
The Race of Life you run off-hand too fast,
Your fiery Metal is too hot to last;
Your Fevers come so thick, your Claps so plenty,
Most of you are threescore at five and twenty.
Our Town-bred Ladys know you well enough,
Your courting Women’s like your taking Snuff;
Out of mere Idleness you keep a pother,
You’ve no more need of one than of the other.
  Ladies—
Wou’d you be quit of their insipid noise,
And vain pretending take a Fool’s advice;
Of the faux Braves I’ve had some little trial,
There’s nothing gives ‘em credit but Denial:
As when a Coward will pretend to Huffing,
Offer to fight, away sneaks Bully-Ruffian,
So when these Sparks, whose business is addressing,
In Love pursuits grow troublesom and pressing;
When they affect to keep still in your eye, |
When they send Grisons _every where to spy, |
And full of Coxcomb dress and ogle high; |
Seem to receive their Charge, and face about,
I’ll pawn my life they never stand it out.

Harry Bellmour, having killed his man in a duel, flies to Brussels, perforce leaving behind him Leticia, to whom he is affianced. During his absence Sir Feeble Fainwou’d, a doting old alderman and his rival, having procured his pardon from the King to prevent it being granted if applied for a second time, and keeping this stratagem secret, next forges a letter as if from the Hague which describes in detail Bellmour’s execution for killing a toper during a tavern brawl. He then plies his suit with such ardour that Leticia, induced by poverty and wretchedness, reluctantly consents to marry him. On the wedding morning Bellmour returns in disguise and intercepts a letter that conveys news of the arrival of Sir Feeble’s nephew, Frank, whom his uncle has never seen. The lover straightway resolves to personate the expected newcomer, and he is assisted in his design by his friend Gayman, a town gallant, who having fallen into dire need is compelled to lodge, under the name of Wasteall, with a smith in Alsatia. His estate has been mortgaged to an old banker, Sir Cautious Fulbank, whose wife Julia he loves, and to her he pretends to have gone to Northamptonshire to his uncle’s death bed. He is discovered, unknown to himself, in his slummy retreat by Bredwel, Sir Cautious’ prentice, who has to convey him a message with reference to the expiration of the mortgage, and who reveals the secret to Lady Fulbank. She promptly abstracts five hundred pounds from her husband’s strong box and forwards it to her lover by Bredwel, disguised as a devil, with an amorous message purporting to be from some unknown bidding him attend at a certain trysting place that night without fail. Gayman, now able to redeem his forfeited estates, dresses in his finest clothes and appears at Sir Feeble Fainwou’d’. wedding. Bellmour has meanwhile revealed himself to Leticia, who is plunged in despair at the nuptials. Lady Fulbank, who is present, greets Gayman and asks him to give her an assignation in the garden, but he excuses himself in order to keep his prior appointment, and she leaves him in dissembled anger. Bredwel then in his satanic masquerade meets Gayman, and bringing him a roundabout way, introduces him into Sir Cautious’ house, where, after having been entertained with a masque of dances and songs as by spirits, he is conducted to Lady Fulbank’s chamber by her maid disguised as an ancient crone, and admitted to his mistress’ embraces. Meanwhile Sir Feeble Fainwou’d, who just at the moment of entering the bridal chamber has been hurriedly fetched away by Bellmour under the pretext of an urgent message from Sir Cautious concerning some midnight plot and an outbreak in the city, arrives at the house in great terror, and Sir Cautious (not knowing the reason of so late a visit) and he sit opposite each other for a while, gaping and staring in amaze. Bredwel, to pass Gayman out undetected, ushers him through the room white-sheeted like a ghost, and the two old fools are well frightened, but eventually they conclude there has been some mistake or trick. Sir Feeble returns home to find Leticia with her jewels about to flee, but she succeeds in reassuring him. Gayman now visits Lady Fulbank and gives her some account of his adventures with the she-devil, all of which he half jestingly ascribes to magic. Sir Cautious and various guests enter, dice are produced and, luck favouring the gallant, Gayman wins one hundred pounds from the old Banker, and a like sum from several others of the company. As the niggardly Sir Cautious bewails his losses the victor offers to stake three hundred pounds against a night with Julia, the bargain, of course, being kept from the lady. After some rumination Sir Cautious accepts and Gayman wins the throw. That night he causes himself to be conveyed to Sir Cautious’ house in a chest and Sir Cautious leads him to Lady Fulbank in bed, she supposing him to be her husband. Meanwhile Sir Feeble being with Leticia is about to enter her bed when from behind the curtains Bellmour appears unmasqued, dressed in a torn and blood-stained shirt and brandishing a dagger. Sir Feeble flies in terror. The next morning Lady Fulbank discovers the trick which has been played upon her and rates both her husband and lover soundly. Bellmour and Leticia arriving throw themselves on her protection. Sir Feeble and Sir Cautious are at length obliged to acquiesce in the existing state of things and to resign their ladies to their two gallants. They are unable to protest even when Sir Feeble finds that his daughter Diana has married Bredwel instead of Sir Cautious’ nephew Bearjest for whom she was designed, whilst the choused fop is wedded to Pert, Lady Fulbank’s woman, to whom he had been previously contracted.

The plot of The Lucky Chance; or, An Alderman’s Bargain is original save for the details of Lady Fulbank’s design upon Gayman, when he is conveyed to her house by masqued devils and conducted to her chamber by Pert dressed as a withered beldame. In this Mrs. Behn exactly copies Shirley’s excellent comedy, The Lady of Pleasure, produced at the Private House in Drury Lane, October, 1635, (4to 1637). In the course of Lady Bornwell’s intrigue with Kickshaw he is taken blindfold to the house of the procuress, Decoy, who, in the guise of a doting crone, leads him to a chamber where he imagines he is to meet a succubus, whilst the Lady, unknown to him, entertains him herself.

The Lucky Chance; or, An Alderman’s Bargain, produced at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, in 1687, was, with the exception of the disapproval of a certain pudibond clique, received with great favour, and kept the stage for a decade or more. During the summer season of 1718 there was, on 24 July, a revival, ‘not acted twenty years,’ of this witty comedy at Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Gayman was played by Frank Leigh, son of the famous low comedian; Sir Feeble Fainwou’d by Bullock.

On 25 November, 1786, there was produced at Drury Lane a comedy by Mrs. Hannah Cowley (1743-1809), a prolific but mediocre dramatist, entitled, A School for Greybeards; or, The Mourning Bride (4to 1786 and 1787). Genest writes: ‘On the first night it struck me that I had seen something like the play before and when the 4th act came I was fully satisfied—that part of the plot which concerns Antonia, Henry, and Gasper [Donna Antonia (The Mourning Bride), Mrs. Crouch; Don Henry, Kemble; Don Gasper (a Greybeard), Parsons; Donna Seraphina, Miss Farren]; and even the outlines of Seraphina’s character, are taken from The Lucky Chance—as Mrs. Behn’s play, though a very good one is too indecent to be ever represented again. Mrs. Cowley might without any disgrace to herself have borrowed whatever she pleased provided she had made a proper acknowledgement—instead of which she says in her preface “—The idea of the business which concerns Antonia, Henry and Gasper was presented to me in an obsolete Comedy; I say the idea, for when it is known that in the original the scene lay among traders in London—and those traders of the lowest and most detestable manners, it will be conceived at once, that in removing it to Portugal and fixing the characters among the nobility, it was hardly possible to carry with me more than the idea”—the traders whom Mrs. Cowley mentions, are both Knights, the one an Alderman, the other a Banker.’ Genest then compares various scenes and expressions from The Lucky Chance with Mrs. Cowley and concludes ‘The other scenes though they may differ in the dialogue yet agree in essentials—the scene in the 5th act between Alexis and Gasper bears the strongest resemblance to that between Sir Feeble and Sir Cautious in The Lucky Chance. Mrs. Cowley was ashamed to advance a direct lie, but she was not ashamed to insinuate a falsehood—A Naeuio uel sumpsisti multa, si fateris; uel, si negas surripuisti—Cicero.’ The strictures of our stage historian are entirely apposite and correct. Henry, Don Gasper and Antonia of the Georgian comedy are none other but Bellmour, Sir Feeble, and Leticia. With regard to the reception of The School for Greybeards ‘the audience took needless offence at a scene in the 4th act, and an unfortunate expression in Young Bannister’s part [Don Sebastian. Bannister, jun., also spoke the prologue], revived the opposition in the last scene—no more was heard till King [Don Alexis] advanced to speak the last speech—some alteration was made on the 2nd night, and the play was acted 9 times or more in the course of the season, but never afterwards [It was played at Bath 28 October, 1813. Chatterley acted Don Gasper; Miss Greville (from the Pantheon theatre), Donna Seraphina. It had little success]—it is a good Comedy and was very well acted.’

The audience must indeed have been qualmish prudes. Of all plays it is the most harmless. The scene in the fourth Act to which exception was taken seems to have been No. II, after the marriage of Gasper and Antonia, a most trifling and inept business. In Act V, IV, Alexis says to Viola: ‘As for you Madam bread and water, and a dark chamber shall be your lot—’ but Sebastian (Bannister, jun.), who has married Viola, breaks in crying: ‘No, Sir,—I am the arbiter of her lot;—however, I confirm half your punishment; and a dark chamber she shall certainly have.’ To this speech in the 4to Mrs. Cowley appends the following note: ’.his is the expression, I am told, which had nearly prov’d fatal to the Comedy. I should not have printed it, but from the resolution I have religiously kept, of restoring every thing that was objected to.’ Imagination and ingenuity fail to fathom the cryptic indecency. The School for Greybeards is, in fine, a modest and mediocre comedy of little value.

12 December, 1786, Walpole, writing from Berkeley Square to the Countess of Upper Ossary, says: ‘To-night … I am going to Mrs. Cowley’s new play, which I suppose is as instructive as the Marriage of Figaro, for I am told it approaches to those of Mrs. Behn in spartan delicacy; but I shall see Miss Farren, who, in my poor opinion, is the first of all actresses.’ Writing three days later to the same lady he has: ‘The Greybeards have certainly been chastised, for we did not find them at all gross. The piece is farcical and improbable, but has some good things, and is admirably acted.’ Those ‘good things’ are entirely due to Mrs. Behn.

To the Right Honourable Laurence, Lord Hyde, Earl of Rochester, one of his Majesty’s most Honourable Privy Council, Lord High Treasurer of England, and Knight of the Noble Order of the Garter.

My Lord,

When I consider how Ancient and Honourable a Date Plays have born, how they have been the peculiar Care of the most Illustrious Persons of Greece and Rome, who strove as much to outdoe each other in Magnificence, (when by Turns they manag’d the great Business of the Stage, as if they had contended for the Victory of the Universe;) I say, my Lord, when I consider this, I with the greater Assurance most humbly address this Comedy to your Lordship, since by right of Antient Custom, the Patronage of Plays belong’d only to the great Men, and chiefest Magistrates. Cardinal Richelieu, that great and wise Statesman, said, That there was no surer Testimony to be given of the flourishing Greatness of a State, than publick Pleasures and Divertisements—for they are, says he—the Schools of Vertue, where Vice is always either punish’t, or disdain’d. They are secret Instructions to the People, in things that ‘tis impossible to insinuate into them any other Way. ‘Tis Example that prevails above Reason or DIVINE PRECEPTS. (Philosophy not understood by the Multitude;) ‘tis Example alone that inspires Morality, and best establishes Vertue, I have my self known a Man, whom neither Conscience nor Religion cou’d perswade to Loyalty, who with beholding in our Theatre a Modern Politician set forth in all his Colours, was converted, renounc’d his opinion, and quitted the Party.

The Abbot of Aubignac to show that Plays have been ever held most important to the very Political Part of Government, says, The Phylosophy of Greece, and the Majesty and Wisdom of the Romans, did equally concern their Great Men in making them Venerable, Noble, and Magnificent: Venerable, by their Consecration to their Gods: Noble, by being govern’d by their chiefest Men; and their Magnificency was from the publick Treasury, and the liberal Contributions of their Noble Men.

It being undeniable then, that Plays and publick Diversions were thought by the Greatest and Wisest of States, one of the most essential Parts of good Government, and in which so many great Persons were interested; suffer me to beg your Lordships Patronage for this little Endeavour, and believe it not below the Grandure of your Birth and State, the Illustrious Places you so justly hold in the Kingdom, nor your Illustrious Relation to the greatest Monarch of the World, to afford it the Glory of your Protection; since it is the Product of a Heart and Pen, that always faithfully serv’d that Royal Cause, to which your Lordship is by many Tyes so firmly fixt: It approaches you with that absolute Veneration, that all the World is oblig’d to pay you; and has no other Design than to express my sense of those excellent Vertues, that make your Lordship so truly admir’d and lov’d. Amongst which we find those two so rare in a Great Man and a Statesman, those of Gracious Speech and easie Access, and I believe none were ever sent from your Presence dissatisfied. You have an Art to please even when you deny; and something in your Look and Voice has an Air so greatly good, it recompences even for Disappointment, and we never leave your Lordship but with Blessings. It is no less our Admiration, to behold with what Serenity and perfect Conduct, that great Part of the Nations Business is carry’d on, by one single Person; who having to do with so vast Numbers of Men of all Qualitys, Interests, and Humours, nevertheless all are well satisfi’d, and none complain of Oppression, but all is done with Gentleness and Silence, as if (like the first Creator) you cou’d finish all by a Word. You have, my Lord, a Judgment so piercing and solid, a Wisdom so quick and clear, and a Fortitude so truly Noble, that those Fatigues of State, that wou’d even sink a Spirit of less Magnitude, is by yours accomplish’t without Toil, or any Appearance of that harsh and crabbed Austerity, that is usually put on by the buisy Great. You, my Lord, support the Globe, as if you did not feel its Weight; nor so much as seem to bend beneath it: Your Zeal for the Glorious Monarch you love and serve, makes all things a Pleasure that advance his Interest, which is so absolutely your Care. You are, my Lord, by your generous Candor, your unbyast Justice, your Sweetness, Affability, and Condescending Goodness (those never-failing Marks of Greatness) above that Envy which reigns in Courts, and is aim’d at the most elevated Fortunes and Noblest Favourites of Princes: And when they consider your Lordship, with all the Abilitys and Wisdom of a great Counsellor, your unblemisht Vertue, your unshaken Loyalty, your constant Industry for the Publick Good, how all things under your Part of Sway have been refin’d and purg’d from those Grossnesses, Frauds, Briberys, and Grievances, beneath which so many of his Majestys Subjects groan’d, when we see Merit establish’t and prefer’d, and Vice discourag’d; it imposes Silence upon Malice it self, and compells ‘em to bless his Majesty’s Choice of such a Pillar of the State, such a Patron of Vertue.

Long may your Lordship live to remain in this most Honourable Station, that his Majesty may be serv’d with an entire Fidelity, and the Nation be render’d perfectly Happy. Since from such Heads and Hearts, the Monarch reaps his Glory, and the Kingdom receives its Safety and Tranquility. This is the unfeign’d Prayer of,

                                         My Lord,
                                    Your Lordships most Humble
                                          And most Obedient Servant
                                                     A. Behn

The little Obligation I have to some of the witty Sparks and Poets of the Town, has put me on a Vindication of this Comedy from those Censures that Malice, and ill Nature have thrown upon it, tho in vain: The Poets I heartily excuse, since there is a sort of Self-Interest in their Malice, which I shou’d rather call a witty Way they have in this Age, of Railing at every thing they find with pain successful, and never to shew good Nature and speak well of any thing; but when they are sure ‘tis damn’d, then they afford it that worse Scandal, their Pity. And nothing makes them so thorough-stitcht an Enemy as a full Third Day, that’s Crime enough to load it with all manner of Infamy; and when they can no other way prevail with the Town, they charge it with the old never failing Scandal—That ‘tis not fit for the Ladys: As if (if it were as they falsly give it out) the Ladys were oblig’d to hear Indecencys only from their Pens and Plays and some of them have ventur’d to treat ‘em as Coursely as ‘twas possible, without the least Reproach from them; and in some of their most Celebrated Plays have entertained ‘em with things, that if I should here strip from their Wit and Occasion that conducts ’.m in and makes them proper, their fair Cheeks would perhaps wear a natural Colour at the reading them: yet are never taken Notice of, because a Man writ them, and they may hear that from them they blush at from a Woman—But I make a Challenge to any Person of common Sense and Reason—that is not wilfully bent on ill Nature, and will in spight of Sense wrest a double Entendre from every thing, lying upon the Catch for a Jest or a Quibble, like a Rook for a Cully; but any unprejudic’d Person that knows not the Author, to read any of my Comedys and compare ’.m with others of this Age, and if they find one Word that can offend the chastest Ear, I will submit to all their peevish Cavills; but Right or Wrong they must be Criminal because a Woman’s; condemning them without having the Christian Charity, to examine whether it be guilty or not, with reading, comparing, or thinking; the Ladies taking up any Scandal on Trust from some conceited Sparks, who will in spight of Nature be Wits and Beaus; then scatter it for Authentick all over the Town and Court, poysoning of others Judgments with their false Notions, condemning it to worse than Death, Loss of Fame. And to fortifie their Detraction, charge me with all the Plays that have ever been offensive; though I wish with all their Faults I had been the Author of some of those they have honour’d me with. For the farther Justification of this Play; it being a Comedy of Intrigue Dr. Davenant out of Respect to the Commands he had from Court, to take great Care that no Indecency should be in Plays, sent for it and nicely look’t it over, putting out anything he but imagin’d the Criticks would play with. After that, Sir Roger L’Estrange read it and licens’d it, and found no such Faults as ‘tis charg’d with: Then Mr. Killigrew, who more severe than any, from the strict Order he had, perus’d it with great Circumspection; and lastly the Master Players, who you will I hope in some Measure esteem Judges of Decency and their own Interest, having been so many Years Prentice to the Trade of Judging.

I say, after all these Supervisors the Ladys may be convinc’d, they left nothing that could offend, and the Men of their unjust Reflections on so many Judges of Wit and Decencys. When it happens that I challenge any one, to point me out the least Expression of what some have made their Discourse, they cry, That Mr. Leigh opens his Night Gown, when he comes into the Bride-chamber; if he do, which is a Jest of his own making, and which I never saw, I hope he has his Cloaths on underneath? And if so, where is the Indecency? I have seen in that admirable Play of Oedipus, the Gown open’d wide, and the Man shown, in his Drawers and Waist coat, and never thought it an Offence before. Another crys, Why we know not what they mean, when the Man takes a Woman off the Stage, and another is thereby cuckolded; is that any more than you see in the most Celebrated of your Plays? as the City Politicks, the Lady Mayoress, and the Old Lawyers Wife, who goes with a Man she never saw before, and comes out again the joyfull’st Woman alive, for having made her Husband a Cuckold with such Dexterity, and yet I see nothing unnatural nor obscene: ‘tis proper for the Characters. So in that lucky Play of the London Cuckolds, not to recite Particulars. And in that good Comedy of Sir Courtly Nice, the Taylor to the young Lady—in the fam’d Sir Fopling Dorimont and Bellinda, see the very Words—in Valentinian, see the Scene between the Court Bawds. And Valentinian all loose and ruffld a Moment after the Rape, and all this you see without Scandal, and a thousand others The Moor of Venice in many places. The Maids Tragedy—see the Scene of undressing the Bride, and between the King and Amintor, and after between the King and Evadne—All these I Name as some of the best Plays I know; If I should repeat the Words exprest in these Scenes I mention, I might justly be charg’d with course ill Manners, and very little Modesty, and yet they so naturally fall into the places they are designed for, and so are proper for the Business, that there is not the least Fault to be found with them; though I say those things in any of mine wou’d damn the whole Peice, and alarm the Town. Had I a Day or two’s time, as I have scarce so many Hours to write this in (the Play, being all printed off and the Press waiting,) I would sum up all your Beloved Plays, and all the Things in them that are past with such Silence by; because written by Men: such Masculine Strokes in me, must not be allow’d. I must conclude those Women (if there be any such) greater Critics in that sort of Conversation than my self, who find any of that sort in mine, or any thing that can justly be reproach’t. But ‘tis in vain by dint of Reason or Comparison to convince the obstinate Criticks, whose Business is to find Fault, if not by a loose and gross Imagination to create them, for they must either find the Jest, or make it; and those of this sort fall to my share, they find Faults of another kind for the Men Writers. And this one thing I will venture to say, though against my Nature, because it has a Vanity in it: That had the Plays I have writ come forth under any Mans Name, and never known to have been mine; I appeal to all unbyast Judges of Sense, if they had not said that Person had made as many good Comedies, as any one Man that has writ in our Age; but a Devil on’t the Woman damns the Poet.

Ladies, for its further Justification to you, be pleas’d to know, that the first Copy of this Play was read by several Ladys of very great Quality, and unquestioned Fame, and received their most favourable Opinion, not one charging it with the Crime, that some have been pleas’d to find in the Acting. Other Ladys who saw it more than once, whose Quality and Vertue can sufficiently justifie any thing they design to favour, were pleas’d to say, they found an Entertainment in it very far from scandalous; and for the Generality of the Town, I found by my Receipts it was not thought so Criminal. However, that shall not be an Incouragement to me to trouble the Criticks with new Occasion of affronting me, for endeavouring at least to divert; and at this rate, both the few Poets that are left, and the Players who toil in vain will be weary of their Trade.

I cannot omit to tell you, that a Wit of the Town, a Friend of mine at Wills Coffee House, the first Night of the Play, cry’d it down as much as in him lay, who before had read it and assured me he never ‘saw a prettier Comedy. So complaisant one pestilent Wit will be to another, and in the full Cry make his Noise too; but since ‘tis to the witty Few I speak, I hope the better Judges will take no Offence, to whom I am oblig’d for better Judgments; and those I hope will be so kind to me, knowing my Conversation not at all addicted to the Indecencys alledged, that I would much less practice it in a Play, that must stand the Test of the censoring World. And I must want common Sense, and all the Degrees of good Manners, renouncing my Fame, all Modesty and Interest for a silly Sawcy fruitless Jest, to make Fools laugh, and Women blush, and wise Men asham’d; My self all the while, if I had been guilty of this Crime charg’d to me, remaining the only stupid, insensible. Is this likely, is this reasonable to be believ’d by any body, but the wilfully blind? All I ask, is the Priviledge for my Masculine Part the Poet in me, (if any such you will allow me) to tread in those successful Paths my Predecessors have so long thriv’d in, to take those Measures that both the Ancient and Modern Writers have set me, and by which they have pleas’d the World so well: If I must not, because of my Sex, have this Freedom, but that you will usurp all to your selves; I lay down my Quill, and you shall hear no more of me, no not so much as to make Comparisons, because I will be kinder to my Brothers of the Pen, than they have been to a defenceless Woman; for I am not content to write for a Third day only. I value Fame as much as if I had been born a Hero; and if you rob me of that, I can retire from the ungrateful World, and scorn its fickle Favours.

or, An Alderman’s Bargain.

Spoken by Mr. Jevon.

_Since with old Plays you have so long been cloy’d,
As with a Mistress many years enjoy’d,
How briskly dear Variety you pursue;
Nay, though for worse ye change, ye will have New.
Widows take heed some of you in fresh Youth
Have been the unpitied Martyrs of this Youth.
When for a drunken Sot, that had kind hours,
And taking their own freedoms, left you yours;
’.was your delib’rate choice your days to pass
With a damn’d, sober, self-admiring Ass,
Who thinks good usage for the Sex unfit,
And slights ye out of Sparkishness and Wit.
But you can fit him—Let a worse Fool come,
If he neglect, to officiate in his room.
Vain amorous Coxcombs every where are found,
Fops for all uses, but the Stage abound.
Though you shou’d change them oftener than your Fashions,
There still wou’d be enough for your Occasions:
But ours are not so easily supplied,
All that cou’d e’er quit cost, we have already tried.
Nay, dear sometimes have bought the Frippery stuff. |
This, Widows, you—I mean the old and tough— |
Will never think, be they but Fool enough. |

Such will with any kind of Puppies play; |
But we must better know for what we pay: |
We must not purchase such dull Fools as they. |
Shou’d we shew each her own partic’lar Dear,
What they admire at home, they wou’d loath here.
Thus, though the Mall, the Ring, the Pit is full,
And every Coffee-House still swarms with Fool;
Though still by Fools all other Callings live,
Nay our own Women by fresh Cullies thrive,
Though your Intrigues which no Lampoon can cure,
Promise a long Succession to ensure;
And all your Matches plenty do presage:
Dire is the Dearth and Famine on the Stage.
Our Store’s quite wasted, and our Credit’s small,
Not a Fool left to bless our selves withal.
We re forc’t at last to rob, (which is great pity,
Though ‘tis a never-failing Bank) the City.

We show you one to day intirely new,
And of all Jests, none relish like the true.
Let that the value of our Play inhance,
Then it may prove indeed the_ Lucky Chance.

Sir Feeble Fainwou’d, an old Alderman to be married Mr. Leigh. to Leticia, Sir Cautious Fulbank, an old Banker married to Julia, Mr. Nokes. Mr. Gayman, a Spark of the Town, Lover of Julia, Mr. Betterton. Mr. Bellmour. contracted to Leticia. disguis’d, and passes for Sir Feeble’s Nephew, Mr. Kynaston. Mr. Bearjest, Nephew to Sir Cautious, a Fop, Mr. Jevon. Capt. Noisey, his Companion, Mr. Harris. Mr. Bredwel, Prentice to Sir Cautious, and Brother to Leticia, in love with Diana, Mr. Bowman. Rag, Footman to Gayman. Ralph, Footman to Sir Feeble. Dick, Footman to Sir Cautious. Gingle, a Music Master. A Post-man. Two Porters. A Servant.

WOMEN.

Lady Fulbank, in love with Gayman, honest and generous, Mrs. Barry. Leticia. contracted to _Bellmour, married to Sir Feeble, young and virtuous, Mrs. Cook. Diana, Daughter to Sir Feeble, in love with Bredwel; virtuous, Mrs. Mountford. Pert, Lady Fulbank’s Woman. Gammer Grime, Landlady to Gayman, a Smith’s Wife in Alsatia, Mrs. Powell. Susan, Servant to Sir Feeble. Phillis, Leticia’s Woman.

A Parson, Fidlers, Dancers and Singers.

The Scene, LONDON.

SCENE I. The Street, at break of Day.

Enter Bellmour disguis’d in a travelling Habit.

Bel. Sure ‘tis the day that gleams in yonder East,
The day that all but Lovers blest by Shade
Pay chearful Homage to:
Lovers! and those pursu’d like guilty me
By rigid Laws, which put no difference
’.wixt fairly killing in my own Defence,
And Murders bred by drunken Arguments,
Whores, or the mean Revenges of a Coward.
—This is Leticia’s Father’s House— [Looking about.
And that the dear Balcony
That has so oft been conscious of our Loves;
From whence she has sent me down a thousand Sighs,
A thousand looks of Love, a thousand Vows.
O thou dear witness of those charming Hours,
How do I bless thee, how am I pleas’d to view thee
After a tedious Age of Six Months Banishment.

Enter Mr. Gingle and several with Musick.

Fid. But hark ye, Mr. Gingle, is it proper to play before the Wedding?

Gin. Ever while you live, for many a time in playing after the first night, the Bride’s sleepy, the Bridegroom tir’d, and both so out of humour, that perhaps they hate any thing that puts ‘em in mind they are married.

[They play and sing.

Enter Phillis in the Balcony, throws ‘em Money.

  Rise, Cloris, _charming Maid, arise!
    And baffle breaking Day,
  Shew the adoring World thy Eyes
    Are more surprizing gay;

  The Gods of Love are smiling round,
    And lead the Bridegroom on,
  And_ Hymen _has the Altar crown’d.
    While all thy sighing Lovers are undone.

  To see thee pass they throng the Plain;
    The Groves with Flowers are strown,
  And every young and envying Swain
    Wishes the hour his own.
  Rise then, and let the God of Day,
    When thou dost to the Lover yield,
  Behold more Treasure given away
    Than he in his vast Circle e’er beheld_.

Bel. Hah, Phillis, Leticia’s Woman!

Ging. Fie, Mrs. Phillis, do you take us for Fiddlers that play for Hire? I came to compliment Mrs. Leticia on her Wedding-Morning because she is my Scholar.

Phil. She sends it only to drink her Health.

Ging. Come, Lads, let’s to the Tavern then— [Ex. Musick.

Bel. Hah! said he Leticia? Sure, I shall turn to Marble at this News: I harden, and cold Damps pass through my senseless Pores.—Hah, who’s here?

Enter Gayman wrapt in his Cloke.

Gay. ‘Tis yet too early, but my Soul’s impatient, And I must see Leticia. [Goes to the door.

Bel. Death and the Devil—the Bridegroom! Stay, Sir, by Heaven, you pass not this way. [Goes to the door as he is knocking, pushes him away, and draws.

Gay. Hah! what art thou that durst forbid me Entrance?—Stand off.

[They fight a little, and closing view each other.

Bel. Gayman!

Gay. My dearest Bellmour!

Bel. Oh thou false Friend, thou treacherous base Deceiver!

Gay. Hah, this to me, dear Harry?

Bel. Whither is Honour, Truth and Friendship fled?

Gay. Why, there ne’er was such a Virtue, ’.is all a Poet’s Dream.

Bel. I thank you, Sir.

Gay. I’m sorry for’t, or that ever I did any thing that could deserve it: put up your Sword—an honest man wou’d say how he’s offended, before he rashly draws.

Bel. Are not you going to be married, Sir?

Gay. No, Sir, as long as any Man in London is so, that has but a handsom Wife, Sir.

Bel. Are you not in love, Sir?

Gay. Most damnably,—and wou’d fain lie with the dear jilting Gipsy.

Bel. Hah, who would you lie with, Sir?

Gay. You catechise me roundly—’tis not fair to name, but I am no Starter, Harry; just as you left me, you find me. I am for the faithless Julia still, the old Alderman’s Wife.—’Twas high time the City should lose their Charter, when their Wives turn honest: But pray, Sir, answer me a Question or two.

Bel. Answer me first, what makes you here this Morning?

Gay. Faith, to do you service. Your damn’d little Jade of a Mistress has learned of her Neighbours the Art of Swearing and Lying in abundance, and is—

Bel. To be married! [Sighing.

Gay. Even so, God save the Mark; and she’ll be a fair one for many an Arrow besides her Husband’s, though he an old Finsbury Hero this threescore Years.

Bel. Who mean you?

Gay. Why, thy Cuckold that shall be, if thou be’st wise.

Bel. Away; Who is this Man? thou dalliest with me.

Gay. Why, an old Knight, and Alderman here o’th’ City, Sir Feeble Fainwou’d, a jolly old Fellow, whose Activity is all got into his Tongue, a very excellent Teazer; but neither Youth nor Beauty can grind his Dudgeon to an Edge.

Bel. Fie, what Stuff’s here!

Gay. Very excellent Stuff, if you have but the Grace to improve it.

Bel. You banter me—but in plain English, tell me, What made you here thus early, Entring yon House with such Authority?

Gay. Why, your Mistress Leticia, your contracted Wife, is this Morning to be married to old Sir Feeble Fainwou’d, induc’d to’t I suppose by the great Jointure he makes her, and the improbability of your ever gaining your Pardon for your high Duel—Do I speak English now, Sir?

Bel. Too well, would I had never heard thee.

Gay. Now I being the Confident in your Amours, the Jack-go-between— the civil Pimp or so—you left her in charge with me at your Departure.

Bel. I did so.

Gay. I saw her every day; and every day she paid the Tribute of a shower of Tears, to the dear Lord of all her Vows, young Bellmour: Till faith at last, for Reasons manifold, I slackt my daily Visits.

Bel. And left her to Temptation—was that well done?

Gay. Now must I afflict you and my self with a long tale of Causes why; Or be charg’d with want of Friendship.

Bel. You will do well to clear that Point to me.

Gay. I see you’re peevish, and you shall be humour’d.—You know my Julia play’d me e’en such another Prank as your false one is going to play you, and married old Sir Cautious Fulbank here i’th’ City; at which you know I storm’d, and rav’d, and swore, as thou wo’t now, and to as little purpose. There was but one way left, and that was cuckolding him.

Bel. Well, that Design I left thee hot upon.

Gay. And hotly have pursu’d it: Swore, wept, vow’d, wrote, upbraided, prayed and railed; then treated lavishly, and presented high—till, between you and I, Harry, I have presented the best part of Eight hundred a year into her Husband’s hands, in Mortgage.

Bel. This is the Course you’d have me steer, I thank you.

Gay. No, no, Pox on’t, all Women are not Jilts. Some are honest, and will give as well as take; or else there would not be so many broke i’th’ City. In fine, Sir, I have been in Tribulation, that is to say, Moneyless, for six tedious Weeks, without either Clothes, or Equipage to appear withal; and so not only my own Love-affair lay neglected—but thine too—and I am forced to pretend to my Lady, that I am i’th’ Country with a dying Uncle—from whom, if he were indeed dead, I expect two thousand a Year.

Bel. But what’s all this to being here this Morning?

Gay. Thus have I lain conceal’d like a Winter-Fly, hoping for some blest Sunshine to warm me into life again, and make me hover my flagging Wings; till the News of this Marriage (which fills the Town) made me crawl out this silent Hour, to upbraid the fickle Maid.

Bel. Didst thou?—pursue thy kind Design. Get me to see her; and sure no Woman, even possest with a new Passion, Grown confident even to Prostitution, But when she sees the Man to whom she’s sworn so very—very much, will find Remorse and Shame.

Gay. For your sake, though the day be broke upon us, And I’m undone, if seen—I’ll venture in— [Throws his Cloke over.

Enter Sir Feeble Fainwou’d, Sir Cautious Fulbank, Bearjest and Noisey. [Pass over the Stage, and go in.

Hah—see the Bridegroom! And with him my destin’d Cuckold, old Sir Cautious Fulbank.—Hah, what ail’st thou, Man?

Bel. The Bridegroom! Like Gorgon’s Head he’as turned me into Stone.

Gay. Gorgon’s Head—a Cuckold’s Head—’twas made to graft upon.

Bel. By Heaven, I’ll seize her even at the Altar, And bear her thence in Triumph.

Gay. Ay, and be borne to Newgate in Triumph, and be hanged in
Triumph—’twill be cold Comfort, celebrating your Nuptials in the
Press-Yard, and be wak’d next Morning, like Mr. Barnardine in the
Play—Will you please to rise and be hanged a little, Sir?

Bel. What wouldst thou have me do?

Gay. As many an honest Man has done before thee—Cuckold him— cuckold him.

Bel. What—and let him marry her! She that’s mine by sacred Vows already! By Heaven, it would be flat Adultery in her!

Gay. She’ll learn the trick, and practise it the better with thee.

Bel. Oh Heavens! Leticia marry him! and lie with him!— Here will I stand and see this shameful Woman, See if she dares pass by me to this Wickedness.

Gay. Hark ye, Harry—in earnest have a care of betraying your self; and do not venture sweet Life for a fickle Woman, who perhaps hates you.

Bel. You counsel well—but yet to see her married!
How every thought of that shocks all my Resolution!—
But hang it, I’ll be resolute and saucy,
Despise a Woman who can use me ill,
And think my self above her.

Gay. Why, now thou art thy self—a Man again. But see, they’re coming forth, now stand your ground.

Enter Sir Feeble, Sir Cautious, Bearjest, Noisey, Leticia sad, Diana, Phillis. [Pass over the Stage.

Bel. ‘Tis she; support me, Charles, or I shall sink to Earth, —Methought in passing by she cast a scornful glance at me; Such charming Pride I’ve seen upon her Eyes, When our Love-Quarrels arm’d ‘em with Disdain— I’ll after ‘em, if I live she shall not ‘scape me. [Offers to go, Gay. holds him.

Gay. Hold, remember you’re proscribed, And die if you are taken.

Bel. I’ve done, and I will live, but he shall ne’er enjoy her. —Who’s yonder, Ralph, my trusty Confident?

Enter Ralph.

Now though I perish I must speak to him.
—Friend, what Wedding’s this?

Ral. One that was never made in Heaven, Sir; ’.is Alderman Fainwou’d, and Mrs. Leticia Bredwel.

Bel. Bredwel—I have heard of her,—she was Mistress—

Ral. To fine Mr. Bellmour, Sir,—ay, there was a Gentleman —But rest his Soul—he’s hang’d, Sir. [Weeps.

Bel. How! hang’d?

Ral. Hang’d, Sir, hang’d—at the Hague in Holland.

Gay. I heard some such News, but did not credit it.

Bel. For what, said they, was he hang’d?

Ral. Why, e’en for High Treason, Sir, he killed one of their Kings.

Gay. Holland’s a Commonwealth, and is not rul’d by Kings.

Ral. Not by one, Sir, but by a great many; this was a Cheesemonger —they fell out over a Bottle of Brandy, went to Snicker Snee; Mr. Bellmour cut his Throat, and was hang’d for’t, that’s all, Sir.

Bel. And did the young Lady believe this?

Ral. Yes, and took on most heavily—the Doctors gave her over—and there was the Devil to do to get her to consent to this Marriage—but her Fortune was small, and the hope of a Ladyship, and a Gold Chain at the Spittal Sermon, did the Business—and so your Servant, Sir. [Ex. Ralph.

Bel. So, here’s a hopeful Account of my sweet self now.

Enter Post-man with Letters.

Post. Pray, Sir, which is Sir Feeble Fainwou’d’.?

Bel. What wou’d you with him, Friend?

Post. I have a Letter here from the Hague for him.

Bel. From the Hague! Now have I a curiosity to see it—I am his Servant—give it me—[Gives it him, and Exit.—Perhaps here may be the second part of my Tragedy, I’m full of Mischief, Charles—and have a mind to see this Fellow’s Secrets. For from this hour I’ll be his evil Genius, haunt him at Bed and Board; he shall not sleep nor eat; disturb him at his Prayers, in his Embraces; and teaze him into Madness. Help me, Invention, Malice, Love, and Wit: [Opening the Letter. Ye Gods, and little Fiends, instruct my Mischief. [Reads.

Dear Brother,

  _According to your desire I have sent for my Son from
  St. Omer’s, whom I have sent to wait on you in_ England;
  he is a very good Accountant, and fit for Business, and much
  pleased he shall see that Uncle to whom he’s so obliged, and
  which is so gratefully acknowledged by—Dear Brother, your
  affectionate Brother,
                              Francis Fainwou’d.

—Hum—hark ye, Charles, do you know who I am now?

Gay. Why, I hope a very honest Friend of mine, Harry Bellmour.

Bel. No, Sir, you are mistaken in your Man.

Gay. It may be so.

Bel. I am, d’ye see, Charles, this very individual, numerical young Mr.—what ye call ‘um Fainwou’d, just come from St. Omers into England—to my Uncle the Alderman. I am, Charles, this very Man.

Gay. I know you are, and will swear’t upon occasion.

Bel. This lucky Thought has almost calm’d my mind. And if I don’t fit you, my dear Uncle, May I never lie with my Aunt.

Gay. Ah, Rogue—but prithee what care have you taken about your Pardon? ‘twere good you should secure that.

Bel. There’s the Devil, Charles,—had I but that—but I have had a very good Friend at work, a thousand Guyneys, that seldom fails; but yet in vain, I being the first Transgressor since the Act against Duelling. But I impatient to see this dear delight of my Soul, and hearing from none of you this six weeks, came from Brussels in this disguise—for the Hague I have not seen, though hang’d there—but come—let’s away, and compleat me a right St. Omer’s Spark, that I may present my self as soon as they come from Church.

[Exeunt.

Enter Lady Fulbank, Pert and Bredwel. Bredwel gives her a Letter.

Lady Fulbank reads.

Did my Julia know how I languish in this cruel Separation, she would afford me her pity, and write oftner. If only the Expectation of two thousand a year kept me from you, ah! Julia, how easily would I abandon that Trifle for your more valued sight; but that I know a fortune will render me more agreeable to the charming Julia, I should quit all my Interest here, to throw my self at her Feet, to make her sensible how I am intirely her Adorer. Charles Gayman.

—Faith, Charles, you lie—you are as welcome to me now,
Now when I doubt thy Fortune is declining,
As if the Universe were thine.

Pert. That, Madam, is a noble Gratitude. For if his Fortune be declining, ‘tis sacrificed to his Passion for your Ladyship. —’Tis all laid out on Love.

L. Ful. I prize my Honour more than Life,
Yet I had rather have given him all he wish’d of me,
Than be guilty of his Undoing.

Pert. And I think the Sin were less.

L. Ful. I must confess, such Jewels, Rings and Presents as he made me, must needs decay his Fortune.

Bred. Ay, Madam, his very Coach at last was turned into a Jewel for your Ladyship. Then, Madam, what Expences his Despair have run him on —As Drinking and Gaming, to divert the Thought of your marrying my old Master.

L. Ful. And put in Wenching too.—

Bred. No, assure your self, Madam—

L. Ful. Of that I would be better satisfied—and you too must assist me, as e’er you hope I should be kind to you in gaining you Diana. [To Bredwel.

Bred. Madam, I’ll die to serve you.

Pert. Nor will I be behind in my Duty.

L. Ful. Oh, how fatal are forc’d Marriages!
How many Ruins one such Match pulls on!
Had I but kept my Sacred Vows to Gayman,
How happy had I been—how prosperous he!
Whilst now I languish in a loath’d embrace,
Pine out my Life with Age—Consumptions, Coughs.
—But dost thou fear that Gayman is declining?

Bred. You are my Lady, and the best of Mistresses— Therefore I would not grieve you, for I know You love this best—but most unhappy Man.

L. Ful. You shall not grieve me—prithee on.

Bred. My Master sent me yesterday to Mr. Crap, his Scrivener, to send to one Mr. Wasteall, to tell him his first Mortgage was out, which is two hundred pounds a Year—and who has since ingaged five or six hundred more to my Master; but if this first be not redeem’d, he’ll take the Forfeit on’t, as he says a wise Man ought.

L. Ful. That is to say, a Knave, according to his Notion of a wise
Man.

Bred. Mr. Crap, being busy with a borrowing Lord, sent me to Mr. Wasteall, whose Lodging is in a nasty Place called Alsatia, at a Black-Smith’s.

L. Ful. But what’s all this to Gayman?

Bred. Madam, this Wasteall was Mr. Gayman.

L. Ful. Gayman! Saw’st thou Gayman?

Bred. Madam, Mr. Gayman, yesterday.

L. Ful. When came he to Town?

Bred. Madam, he has not been out of it.

L. Ful. Not at his Uncle’s in Northamptonshire?

Bred. Your Ladyship was wont to credit me.

L. Ful. Forgive me—you went to a Black-Smith’s—

Bred. Yes, Madam; and at the door encountred the beastly thing he calls a Landlady; who lookt as if she had been of her own Husband’s making, compos’d of moulded Smith’s Dust. I ask’d for Mr. Wasteall, and she began to open—and did so rail at him, that what with her Billinsgate, and her Husband’s hammers, I was both deaf and dumb—at last the hammers ceas’d, and she grew weary, and call’d down Mr. Wasteall; but he not answering—I was sent up a Ladder rather than a pair of Stairs; at last I scal’d the top, and enter’d the inchanted Castle; there did I find him, spite of the noise below, drowning his Cares in Sleep.

L. Ful. Whom foundst thou? Gayman?

Bred. He, Madam, whom I waked—and seeing me, Heavens, what Confusion seiz’d him! which nothing but my own Surprize could equal. Asham’d—he wou’d have turn’d away; But when he saw, by my dejected Eyes, I knew him, He sigh’d, and blusht, and heard me tell my Business: Then beg’d I wou’d be secret; for he vow’d his whole Repose and Life depended on my silence. Nor had I told it now, But that your Ladyship may find some speedy means to draw him from this desperate Condition.

L. Ful. Heavens, is’t possible?

Bred. He’s driven to the last degree of Poverty— Had you but seen his Lodgings, Madam!

L. Ful. What were they?

Bred. ‘Tis a pretty convenient Tub, Madam. He may lie a long in’t, there’s just room for an old join’d Stool besides the Bed, which one cannot call a Cabin, about the largeness of a Pantry Bin, or a Usurer’s Trunk; there had been Dornex Curtains to’t in the days of Yore; but they were now annihilated, and nothing left to save his Eyes from the Light, but my Landlady’s Blue Apron, ty’d by the strings before the Window, in which stood a broken six-penny Looking-Glass, that shew’d as many Faces as the Scene in Henry the Eighth, which could but just stand upright, and then the Comb-Case fill’d it.

L. Ful. What a leud Description hast thou made of his Chamber?

Bred. Then for his Equipage, ‘tis banisht to one small Monsieur, who (saucy with his Master’s Poverty) is rather a Companion than a Footman.

L. Ful. But what said he to the Forfeiture of his Land?

Bred. He sigh’d and cry’d, Why, farewel dirty Acres; It shall not trouble me, since ‘twas all but for Love!

L. Ful. How much redeems it?

Bred. Madam, five hundred Pounds.

L. Ful. Enough—you shall in some disguise convey this Money to him, as from an unknown hand: I wou’d not have him think it comes from me, for all the World: That Nicety and Virtue I’ve profest, I am resolved to keep.

Pert. If I were your Ladyship, I wou’d make use of Sir Cautious’s Cash: pay him in his own Coin.

Bred. Your Ladyship wou’d make no Scruple of it, if you knew how this poor Gentleman has been us’d by my unmerciful Master.

L. Ful. I have a Key already to his Counting-House; it being lost, he had another made, and this I found and kept.

Bred. Madam, this is an excellent time for’t, my Master being gone to give my Sister Leticia at Church.

L. Ful. ‘Tis so, I’ll go and commit the Theft, whilst you prepare to carry it, and then we’ll to dinner with your Sister the Bride.

[Exeunt.

   Enter Sir Feeble, Leticia, Sir Cautious, Bearjest, Diana, Noisey.
   Sir Feeble sings and salutes ‘em.

Sir Feeb. Welcome, Joan Sanderson, welcome, welcome. [Kisses the
Bride. Ods bobs, and so thou art, Sweet-heart. [So to the rest.

Bear. Methinks my Lady Bride is very melancholy.

Sir Cau. Ay, ay, Women that are discreet, are always thus upon their
Wedding-day.

Sir Feeb. Always by day-light, Sir Cautious.

   But when bright Phoebus does retire,
   To Thetis’ Bed to quench his fire.
   And do the thing we need not name,
   We Mortals by his influence do the same.
   Then then the blushing Maid lays by
   Her simpering, and her Modesty;
   And round the Lover clasps and twines
   Like Ivy, or the circling Vines.

Sir Feeb. Here, Ralph, the Bottle, Rogue, of Sack, ye Rascal; hadst thou been a Butler worth hanging, thou wou’dst have met us at the door with it.—Ods bods, Sweet-heart, thy health.

Bear. Away with it, to the Bride’s Haunce in Kelder.

Sir Feeb. Gots so, go to, Rogue, go to, that shall be, Knave, that shall be the morrow morning; he—ods bobs, we’ll do’t, Sweet heart; here’s to’t. [Drinks again.

Let. I die but to imagine it, wou’d I were dead indeed.

Sir Feeb. Hah—hum—how’s this? Tears upon the Wedding day? Why, why—you Baggage, you, ye little Thing, Fools-face—away, you Rogue, you’re naughty, you’re naughty. [Patting and playing, and following her. Look—look—look now,—buss it—buss it—buss it—and Friends; did’ums, did’ums beat its none silly Baby—away, you little Hussey, away, and pledge me— [She drinks a little.

Sir Cau. A wise discreet Lady, I’ll warrant her; my Lady would prodigally have took it off all.

Sir Feeb. Dear’s its nown dear Fubs; buss again, buss again, away, away—ods bobs, I long for Night—look, look, Sir Cautious, what an Eye’s there!

Sir Cau. Ay, so there is, Brother, and a modest Eye too.

Sir Feeb. Adad, I love her more and more, Ralph—call old Susan hither—come, Mr. Bearjest, put the Glass about. Ods bobs, when I was a young Fellow, I wou’d not let the young Wenches look pale and wan—but would rouse ‘em, and touse ‘em, and blowze ‘em, till I put a colour in their Cheeks, like an Apple John, affacks—Nay, I can make a shift still, and Pupsey shall not be jealous.

Enter Susan, Sir Feeble whispers her, she goes out.

Let. Indeed, not I; Sir. I shall be all Obedience.

Sir Cau. A most judicious Lady; would my Julia had a little of her
Modesty; but my Lady’s a Wit.

Enter Susan with a Box.

Sir Feeb. Look here, my little Puskin, here’s fine Playthings for its nown little Coxcomb—go—get you gone—get you gone, and off with this St. Martin’s Trumpery, these Play-house Glass Baubles, this Necklace, and these Pendants, and all this false Ware; ods bobs, I’ll have no Counterfeit Geer about thee, not I. See—these are right as the Blushes on thy Cheeks, and these as true as my Heart, my Girl. Go, put’em on, and be fine. [Gives ‘em her.

Let. Believe me, Sir, I shall not merit this kindness.

Sir Feeb. Go to—More of your Love, and less of your Ceremony—give the old Fool a hearty buss, and pay him that way—he, ye little wanton Tit, I’ll steal up—and catch ye and love ye—adod, I will—get ye gone—get ye gone.

Let. Heavens, what a nauseous thing is an old Man turn’d Lover! [Ex. Leticia and Diana.

Sir Cau. How, steal up, Sir Feeble—I hope not so; I hold it most indecent before the lawful hour.

Sir Feeb. Lawful hour! Why, I hope all hours are lawful with a Man’s own Wife.

Sir Cau. But wise Men have respect to Times and Seasons.

Sir Feeb. Wise young Men, Sir Cautious; but wise old Men must nick their Inclinations; for it is not as ‘twas wont to be, for it is not as ’.was wont to be— [Singing and Dancing.

Enter Ralph.

Ral. Sir, here’s a young Gentleman without wou’d speak with you.

Sir Feeb. Hum—I hope it is not that same Bellmour come to forbid the
Banes—if it be, he comes too late—therefore bring me first my long
Sword, and then the Gentleman.
                       [Exit Ralph.

Bear. Pray, Sir, use mine, it is a travell’d Blade I can assure you, Sir.

Sir Feeb. I thank you, Sir.

Enter Ralph and Bellmour disguised, gives him a Letter, he reads.

How—my Nephew! Francis Fainwou’d! [Embraces him.

Bel. I am glad he has told me my Christian name.

Sir Feeb. Sir Cautious, know my Nephew—’tis a young St. Omers
Scholar—but none of the Witnesses.

Sir Cau. Marry, Sir, and the wiser he; for they got nothing by’t.

Bea. Sir, I love and honour you, because you are a Traveller.

Sir Feeb. A very proper young Fellow, and as like old Frank Fainwou’d as the Devil to the Collier; but, Francis, you are come into a very leud Town, Francis, for Whoring, and Plotting, and Roaring, and Drinking; but you must go to Church, Francis, and avoid ill Company, or you may make damnable Havock in my Cash, Francis, —what, you can keep Merchants Books?

Bel. That’s been my study, Sir.

Sir Feeb. And you will not be proud, but will be commanded by me, Francis?

Bel. I desire not to be favour’d as a Kinsman, Sir, but as your humblest Servant.

Sir Feeb. Why, thou’rt an honest Fellow, Francis,—and thou’rt heartily welcome—and I’ll make thee fortunate. But come, Sir Cautious, let you and I take a turn i’th’ Garden, and get a right understanding between your Nephew Mr. Bearjest, and my Daughter Dye.

Sir Cau. Prudently thought on, Sir, I’ll wait on you.—

[Ex. Sir Feeble, and Sir Cautious.

Bea. You are a Traveller, I understand.

Bel. I have seen a little part of the World, Sir.

Bea. So have I, Sir, I thank my Stars, and have performed most of my Travels on Foot, Sir.

Bel. You did not travel far then, I presume, Sir?

Bea. No, Sir, it was for my diversion indeed; but I assure you, I travell’d into Ireland a-foot, Sir.

Bel. Sure, Sir, you go by shipping into Ireland?

Bea. That’s all one, Sir, I was still a-foot, ever walking on the Deck.

Bel. Was that your farthest Travel, Sir?

Bea. Farthest—why, that’s the End of the World—and sure a Man can go no farther.

Bel. Sure, there can be nothing worth a Man’s Curiosity?

Bea. No, Sir, I’ll assure you, there are the Wonders of the World, Sir: I’ll hint you this one. There is a Harbour which since the Creation was never capable of receiving a Lighter, yet by another Miracle the King of France was to ride there with a vast Fleet of Ships, and to land a hundred thousand Men.

Bel. This is a swinging Wonder—but are there store of Mad-men there, Sir?

Bea. That’s another Rarity to see a Man run out of his Wits.

Noi. Marry, Sir, the wiser they I say.

Bea. Pray, Sir, what store of Miracles have you at St. Omers?

Bel. None, Sir, since that of the wonderful Salamanca Doctor, who was both here and there at the same Instant of time.

Bea. How, Sir? why, that’s impossible.

Bel. That was the Wonder, Sir, because ‘twas impossible.

Noi. But ‘twas a greater, Sir, that ‘twas believed.

Enter L. Fulb. and Pert, Sir Cau. and Sir Feeb.

Sir Feeb. Enough, enough, Sir Cautious, we apprehend one another.
Mr. Bearjest, your Uncle here and I have struck the Bargain, the Wench
is yours with three thousand Pound present, and something more after
Death, which your Uncle likes well.

Bea. Does he so, Sir? I’m beholding to him; then ‘tis not a Pin matter whether I like or not, Sir.

Sir Feeb. How, Sir, not like my Daughter Dye?

Bea. Oh, Lord, Sir,—die or live, ‘tis all one for that, Sir—I’ll stand to the Bargain my Uncle makes.

Pert. Will you so, Sir? you’ll have very good luck if you do. [Aside.

Bea. Prithee hold thy Peace, my Lady’s Woman.

L. Ful. Sir, I beg your pardon for not waiting on you to Church—
I knew you wou’d be private.

Enter Let_. fine in Jewels_.

Sir Feeb. You honour us too highly now, Madam.
                                 [Presents his Wife, who salutes her.

L. Ful. Give you Joy, my dear Leticia! I find, Sir, you were resolved for Youth, Wit and Beauty.

Sir Feeb. Ay, ay, Madam, to the Comfort of many a hoping Coxcomb: but Lette,—Rogue Lette—thou wo’t not make me free o’th’ City a second time, wo’t thou entice the Rogues with the Twire and the wanton Leer —the amorous Simper that cries, come, kiss me—then the pretty round Lips are pouted out—he, Rogue, how I long to be at ‘em!—well, she shall never go to Church more, that she shall not.

L. Ful. How, Sir, not to Church, the chiefest Recreation of a City
Lady?

Sir Feeb. That’s all one, Madam, that tricking and dressing, and prinking and patching, is not your Devotion to Heaven, but to the young Knaves that are lick’d and comb’d and are minding you more than the Parson—ods bobs, there are more Cuckolds destin’d in the Church, than are made out of it.

Sir Cau. Hah, ha, ha, he tickles ye, i’faith, Ladies. [To his Lady.

Bel. Not one chance look this way—and yet
I can forgive her lovely Eyes,
Because they look not pleas’d with all this Ceremony;
And yet methinks some sympathy in Love
Might this way glance their Beams—I cannot hold—
Sir, is this fair Lady my Aunt?

Sir Feeb. Oh, Francis! Come hither, Francis. Lette, here’s a young Rogue has a mind to kiss thee. [Puts them together, she starts back. —Nay, start not, he’s my own Flesh and Blood, My Nephew—Baby—look, look how the young Rogues stare at one another; like will to like, I see that.

Let. There’s something in his Face so like my Bellmour, it calls my Blushes up, and leaves my Heart defenceless.

Enter Ralph.

Ralph. Sir, Dinner’s on the Table.

Sir Feeb. Come, come—let’s in then—Gentlemen and Ladies,
And share to day my Pleasures and Delight,
But—
Adds bobs, they must be all mine own at Night.

[Exeunt.

SCENE I. Gayman’s Lodging.

_Enter Gayman in a Night-Cap, and an old Campaign Coat tied about him, very melancholy_.

Gay. Curse on my Birth! Curse on my faithless Fortune!
Curse on my Stars, and curst be all—but Love!
That dear, that charming Sin, though t’have pull’d
Innumerable Mischiefs on my head,
I have not, nor I cannot find Repentance for.
Nor let me die despis’d, upbraided, poor:
Let Fortune, Friends and all abandon me—
But let me hold thee, thou soft smiling God,
Close to my heart while Life continues there.
Till the last pantings of my vital Blood,
Nay, the last spark of Life and Fire be Love’s!

Enter Rag.

—How now, Rag, what’s a Clock?

Rag. My Belly can inform you better than my Tongue.

Gay. Why, you gormandizing Vermin you, what have you done with the Three pence I gave you a fortnight ago.

Rag. Alas, Sir, that’s all gone long since.

Gay. You gutling Rascal, you are enough to breed a Famine in a Land. I have known some industrious Footmen, that have not only gotten their own Livings, but a pretty Livelihood for their Masters too.

Rag. Ay, till they came to the Gallows, Sir.

Gay. Very well, Sirrah, they died in an honourable Calling—but hark ye, Rag,—I have business, very earnest business abroad this Evening; now were you a Rascal of Docity, you wou’d invent a way to get home my last Suit that was laid in Lavender—with the Appurtenances thereunto belonging, as Perriwig, Cravat, and so forth.

Rag. Faith, Master, I must deal in the black Art then, for no human means will do’t—and now I talk of the black Art, Master, try your Power once more with my Landlady.

Gay. Oh! name her not, the thought on’t turns my Stomach—a sight of her is a Vomit; but he’s a bold Hero that dares venture on her for a kiss, and all beyond that sure is Hell it self—yet there’s my last, last Refuge—and I must to this Wedding—I know not what,—but something whispers me,—this Night I shall be happy—and without Julia ’.is impossible!

Rag. Julia, who’s that? my Lady Fulbank, Sir?

Gay. Peace, Sirrah—and call—a—no—Pox on’t, come back—and yet—yes—call my fulsome Landlady.

[Exit Rag.

Sir Cautious knows me not by Name or Person.
And I will to this Wedding, I’m sure of seeing Julia there.
And what may come of that—but here’s old Nasty coming.
I smell her up—hah, my dear Landlady.

_Enter Rag and _Landlady.

Quite out of breath—a Chair there for my Landlady.

Rag. Here’s ne’er a one, Sir.

Land. More of your Money and less of your Civility, good Mr. Wasteall.

Gay. Dear Landlady—

Land. Dear me no Dears, Sir, but let me have my Money—Eight Weeks Rent last Friday; besides Taverns, Ale-houses, Chandlers, Landresses’ Scores, and ready Money out of my Purse; you know it, Sir.

Gay. Ay, but your Husband don’t; speak softly.

Land. My Husband! what, do you think to fright me with my Husband?— I’d have you to know I’m an honest Woman, and care not this—for my Husband. Is this all the thanks I have for my kindness, for patching, borrowing and shifting for you; ‘twas but last Week I pawn’d my best Petticoat, as I hope to wear it again, it cost me six and twenty shillings besides Making; then this Morning my new Norwich Mantua followed, and two postle Spoons, I had the whole dozen when you came first; but they dropt, and dropt, till I had only Judas left for my Husband.

Gay. Hear me, good Landlady.

Land. Then I’ve past my word at the George Tavern, for forty Shillings for you, ten Shillings at my Neighbour Squabs for Ale, besides seven Shillings to Mother Suds for Washing; and do you fob me off with my Husband?

Gay. Here, Rag, run and fetch her a Pint of Sack—there’s no other way of quenching the Fire in her flabber Chops.

[Exit Rag.

—But, my dear Landlady, have a little Patience.

Land. Patience! I scorn your Words, Sir—is this a place to trust in? tell me of Patience, that us’d to have my money before hand; come, come, pay me quickly—or old Gregory Grimes house shall be too hot to hold you.

Gay. Is’t come to this, can I not be heard?

Land. No, Sir, you had good Clothes when you came first, but they dwindled daily, till they dwindled to this old Campaign—with tan’d coloured Lining—once red—but now all Colours of the Rain-bow, a Cloke to sculk in a Nights, and a pair of piss-burn’d shammy Breeches. Nay, your very Badge of Manhood’s gone too.

Gay. How, Landlady! nay then, i’faith, no wonder if you rail so.

Land. Your Silver Sword I mean—transmogrified to this two-handed Basket Hilt—this old Sir Guy of Warwick—which will sell for nothing but old Iron. In fine, I’ll have my money, Sir, or i’faith, Alsatia shall not shelter you.

Enter Rag.

Gay. Well, Landlady—if we must part—let’s drink at parting; here, Landlady, here’s to the Fool—that shall love you better than I have done. [Sighing, drinks.

Land. Rot your Wine—dy’e think to pacify me with Wine, Sir?

[She refusing to drink, he holds open her Jaws, Rag throws a Glass of Wine into her Mouth.

—What, will you force me?—no—give me another Glass, I scorn to be so uncivil to be forced, my service to you, Sir—this shan’t do, Sir.

[She drinks, he, embracing her, sings.

    Ah, Cloris, ’.is in vain you scold,
    Whilst your Eyes kindle such a Fire.
    Tour Railing cannot make me cold,
    So fast as they a Warmth inspire.

Land. Well, Sir, you have no reason to complain of my Eyes nor my Tongue neither, if rightly understood. [Weeps.

Gay. I know you are the best of Landladies, As such I drink your Health— [Drinks. But to upbraid a Man in Tribulation—fie—’tis not done like a Woman of Honour, a Man that loves you too.

[She drinks.

Land. I am a little hasty sometimes, but you know my good Nature.

Gay. I do, and therefore trust my little wants with you. I shall be rich again—and then, my dearest Landlady—

Land. Wou’d this Wine might ne’er go through me, if I wou’d not go, as they say, through Fire and Water—by Night or by Day for you. [She drinks.

Gay. And as this is Wine I do believe thee. [He drinks.

Land. Well—you have no money in your Pocket now, I’ll warrant you— here—here’s ten Shillings for you old Greg’ry knows not of. [Opens a great greasy purse.

Gay. I cannot in Conscience take it, good Faith, I cannot—besides, the next Quarrel you’ll hit me in the Teeth with it.

Land. Nay, pray no more of that; forget it, forget it. I own I was to blame—here, Sir, you shall take it.

Gay. Ay,—but what shou’d I do with Money in these damn’d Breeches? —No, put it up—I can’t appear abroad thus—no, I’ll stay at home, and lose my business.

Land. Why, is there no way to redeem one of your Suits?

Gay. None—none—I’ll e’en lay me down and die.

Land. Die—marry, Heavens forbid—I would not for the World—let me see—hum—what does it lie for?

Gay. Alas! dear Landlady, a Sum—a Sum.

Land. Well, say no more, I’ll lay about me.

Gay. By this kiss but you shall not—Assafetida, by this Light.

Land. Shall not? that’s a good one, i’faith: shall you rule, or I?

Gay. But shou’d your Husband know it?—

Land. Husband—marry come up, Husbands know Wives secrets? No, sure, the World’s not so bad yet—where do your things lie? and for what?

Gay. Five Pounds equips me—Rag can conduct you—but I say you shall not go, I’ve sworn.

Land. Meddle with your matters—let me see, the Caudle Cup that Molly’s Grandmother left her, will pawn for about that sum—I’ll sneak it out—well, Sir, you shall have your things presently—trouble not your head, but expect me.

[Ex. Landlady and Rag.

Gay. Was ever man put to such beastly shifts? ‘Sdeath, how she stunk— my senses are most luxuriously regal’d—there’s my perpetual Musick too—

[Knocking of Hammers on a Anvil.

The ringing of Bells is an Ass to’t.

Enter Rag.

Rag. Sir, there’s one in a Coach below wou’d speak to you.

Gay. With me, and in a Coach! who can it be?

Rag. The Devil, I think, for he has a strange Countenance.

Gay. The Devil! shew your self a Rascal of Parts, Sirrah, and wait on him up with Ceremony.

Rag. Who, the Devil, Sir?

Gay. Ay, the Devil, Sir, if you mean to thrive. [Exit Rag. Who can this be—but see he comes to inform me—withdraw.

Enter Bredwel drest like a Devil.

Bred. I come to bring you this— [Gives him a Letter.

Gayman reads.

  Receive what Love and Fortune present you with, be grateful
  and be silent, or ‘twill vanish like a dream, and leave you
  more wretched that it found You.
                                       Adieu.

—Hah—
                                [Gives him a bag of Money.

Bred. Nay, view it, Sir, ‘tis all substantial Gold.

Gay. Now dare not I ask one civil question for fear it vanish all— [Aside. But I may ask, how ‘tis I ought to pay for this great Bounty.

Bred. Sir, all the Pay is Secrecy—

Gay. And is this all that is required, Sir?

Bred. No, you’re invited to the Shades below.

Gay. Hum, Shades below!—I am not prepared for such a Journey, Sir.

Bred. If you have Courage, Youth or Love, you’ll follow me:
When Night’s black Curtain’s drawn around the World,
And mortal Eyes are safely lockt in sleep, [In feign’d Heroick Tone.
And no bold Spy dares view when Gods caress,
Then I’ll conduct thee to the Banks of Bliss.
—Durst thou not trust me?

Gay. Yes, sure, on such substantial security. [Hugs the Bag.

Bred. Just when the Day is vanish’d into Night, And only twinkling Stars inform the World, Near to the Corner of the silent Wall, In Fields of Lincoln’s-Inn, thy Spirit shall meet thee. —Farewell. [Goes out.

Gay. Hum—I am awake sure, and this is Gold I grasp.
I could not see this Devil’s cloven Foot;
Nor am I such a Coxcomb to believe,
But he was as substantial as his Gold.
Spirits, Ghosts, Hobgoblins, Furies, Fiends and Devils,
I’ve often heard old Wives fright Fools and Children with,
Which, once arriv’d to common Sense, they laugh at.
—No, I am for things possible and Natural:
Some Female Devil, old and damn’d to Ugliness,
And past all Hopes of Courtship and Address,
Full of another Devil called Desire,
Has seen this Face—this Shape—this Youth,
And thinks it’s worth her Hire. It must be so:
I must moil on in the damn’d dirty Road,
And sure such Pay will make the Journey easy:

  And for the Price of the dull drudging Night,
  All Day I’ll purchase new and fresh Delight.

[Exit.

Enter Leticia, pursu’d by Phillis.

Phil. Why, Madam, do you leave the Garden, For this retreat to Melancholy?

Let. Because it suits my Fortune and my Humour; And even thy Presence wou’d afflict me now.

Phil. Madam, I was sent after you; my Lady Fulbank has challeng’d Sir Feeble at Bowls, and stakes a Ring of fifty Pound against his new Chariot.

Let. Tell him I wish him Luck in every thing, But in his Love to me— Go tell him I am viewing of the Garden.

[Ex. Phillis.

Enter Bellmour at a distance behind her.

—Blest be this kind Retreat, this ‘lone Occasion,
That lends a short Cessation to my Torments,
And gives me leave to vent my Sighs and Tears. [Weeps.

Bel. And doubly blest be all the Powers of Love, That give me this dear Opportunity.

Let. Where were you, all ye pitying Gods of Love?
That once seem’d pleas’d at Bellmour’s Flame and mine,
And smiling join’d our Hearts, our sacred Vows,
And spread your Wings, and held your Torches high.

Bel. Oh—
               [She starts, and pauses.

Let. Where were you now? When this unequal Marriage
Gave me from all my Joys, gave me from Bellmour;
Your Wings were flag’d, your Torches bent to Earth,
And all your little Bonnets veil’d your Eyes;
You saw not, or were deaf and pitiless.

Bel. Oh my Leticia!

Let. Hah, ‘tis there again; that very voice was Bellmour’s: Where art thou, Oh thou lovely charming Shade? For sure thou canst not take a Shape to fright me. —What art thou?—speak! [Not looking behind her yet for fear.

Bel. Thy constant true Adorer, Who all this fatal Day has haunted thee To ease his tortur’d Soul. [Approaching nearer.

Let. My Heart is well acquainted with that Voice, But Oh, my Eyes dare not encounter thee. [Speaking with signs of fear.

Bel. Is it because thou’st broken all thy Vows? —Take to thee Courage, and behold thy Slaughters.

Let. Yes, though the Sight wou’d blast me, I wou’d view it. [Turns. —’Tis he—’tis very Bellmour! or so like— I cannot doubt but thou deserv’st this Welcome. [Embraces him.

Bel. Oh my Leticia!

Let. I’m sure I grasp not Air; thou art no Fantom: Thy Arms return not empty to my Bosom, But meet a solid Treasure.

Bel. A Treasure thou so easily threw’st away; A Riddle simple Love ne’er understood.

Let. Alas, I heard, my Bellmour, thou wert dead.

Bel. And was it thus you mourn’d my Funeral?

Let. I will not justify my hated Crime: But Oh! remember I was poor and helpless, And much reduc’d, and much impos’d upon.

[Bellmour weeps.

Bel. And Want compell’d thee to this wretched Marriage—did it?

Let. ‘Tis not a Marriage, since my Bellmour lives; The Consummation were Adultery. I was thy Wife before, wo’t thou deny me?

Bel. No, by those Powers that heard our mutual Vows, Those Vows that tie us faster than dull Priests.

Let. But oh my Bellmour, thy sad Circumstances Permit thee not to make a publick Claim: Thou art proscribed, and diest if thou art seen.

Bel. Alas!

Let. Yet I wou’d wander with thee o’er the World, And share thy humblest Fortune with thy Love.

Bel. Is’t possible, Leticia, thou wou’dst fly To foreign Shores with me?

Let. Can Bellmour doubt the Soul he knows so well?

Bel. Perhaps in time the King may find my Innocence, and may extend his Mercy: Mean time I’ll make provision for our Flight.

Let. But how ‘twixt this and that can I defend My self from the loath’d Arms of an impatient Dotard, That I may come a spotless Maid to thee?

Bel. Thy native Modesty and my Industry
Shall well enough secure us.
Feign your nice Virgin-Cautions all the day;
Then trust at night to my Conduct to preserve thee.
—And wilt thou yet be mine? Oh, swear a-new,
Give me again thy Faith, thy Vows, thy Soul;
For mine’s so sick with this Day’s fatal Business,
It needs a Cordial of that mighty strength;
Swear—swear, so as if thou break’st—
Thou mayst be—any thing—but damn’d, Leticia.

Let. Thus then, and hear me, Heaven! [Kneels.

Bel. And thus—I’ll listen to thee. [Kneels.

Enter Sir Feeble, L. Fulbank, Sir Cautious.

Sir Feeb. Lette, Lette, Lette, where are you, little Rogue, Lette?
—Hah—hum—what’s here—

Bel. snatches her to his Bosom, as if she fainted.

Bel. Oh Heavens, she’s gone, she’s gone!

Sir Feeb. Gone—whither is she gone?—it seems she had the Wit to take good Company with her—

[The Women go to her, take her up.

Bel. She’s gone to Heaven, Sir, for ought I know.

Sir Cau. She was resolv’d to go in a young Fellow’s Arms, I see.

Sir Feeb. Go to, Francis—go to.

L. Ful. Stand back, Sir, she recovers.

Bel. Alas, I found her dead upon the Floor, —Shou’d I have left her so—if I had known your mind—

Sir Feeb. Was it so—was it so?—Got so, by no means, Francis.—

Let. Pardon him, Sir, for surely I had died, Bur for his timely coming.

Sir Feeb. Alas, poor Pupsey—was it sick—look here—here’s a fine thing to make it well again. Come, buss, and it shall have it—oh, how I long for Night. Ralph, are the Fidlers ready?

Ral. They are tuning in the Hall, Sir.

Sir Feeb. That’s well, they know my mind. I hate that same twang, twang, twang, fum, fum, fum, tweedle, tweedle, tweedle, then scrue go the Pins, till a man’s Teeth are on an edge; then snap, says a small Gut, and there we are at a loss again. I long to be in bed with a—hey tredodle, tredodle, tredodle,—with a hay tredool, tredodle, tredo— [Dancing and playing on his Stick like a Flute.

Sir Cau. A prudent Man would reserve himself—Good-facks, I danc’d so on my Wedding-day, that when I came to Bed, to my Shame be it spoken, I fell fast asleep, and slept till morning.

L. Ful. Where was your Wisdom then, Sir Cautious? But I know what a wise Woman ought to have done.

Sir Feeb. Odsbobs, that’s Wormwood, that’s Wormwood—I shall have my young Hussey set a-gog too; she’ll hear there are better things in the World than she has at home, and then odsbobs, and then they’ll ha’t, adod, they will, Sir Cautious. Ever while you live, keep a Wife ignorant, unless a Man be as brisk as his Neighbours.

Sir Cau. A wise Man will keep ‘em from baudy Christnings then, and
Gossipings.

Sir Feeb. Christnings and Gossipings! why, they are the very Schools that debauch our Wives, as Dancing-Schools do our Daughters.

Sir Cau. Ay, when the overjoy’d good Man invites ‘em all against that time Twelve-month: Oh, he’s a dear Man, cries one—I must marry, cries another, here’s a Man indeed—my Husband—God help him—

Sir Feeb. Then he falls to telling of her Grievance, till (half maudlin) she weeps again: Just my Condition, cries a third: so the Frolick goes round, and we poor Cuckolds are anatomiz’d, and turn’d the right side outwards; adsbobs, we are, Sir Cautious.

Sir Cau. Ay, ay, this Grievance ought to be redrest, Sir Feeble; the grave and sober part o’th’ Nation are hereby ridicul’d,—Ay, and cuckolded too for ought I know.

L. Ful. Wise Men knowing this, should not expose their Infirmities, by marrying us young Wenches; who, without Instruction, find how we are impos’d upon.

Enter Fiddles playing, Mr. Bearjest and Diana dancing; Bredwel, Noisey, &c.

L. Ful. So, Cousin, I see you have found the way to Mrs. Dy’s Heart.

Bea. Who, I, my dear Lady Aunt? I never knew but one way to a Woman’s Heart, and that road I have not yet travelled; for my Uncle, who is a wise Man, says Matrimony is a sort of a—kind of a—as it were, d’ye see, of a Voyage, which every Man of Fortune is bound to make one time or other: and Madam—I am, as it were—a bold Adventurer.

Dia. And are you sure, Sir, you will venture on me?

Bea. Sure!—I thank you for that—as if I could not believe my Uncle; For in this case a young Heir has no more to do, but to come and see, settle, marry, and use you scurvily.

Dia. How, Sir, scurvily?

Bea. Very scurvily, that is to say, be always fashionably drunk, despise the Tyranny of your Bed, and reign absolutely—keep a Seraglio of Women, and let my Bastard Issue inherit; be seen once a Quarter, or so, with you in the Park for Countenance, where we loll two several ways in the gilt Coach like Janus, or a Spread-Eagle.

Dia. And do you expect I shou’d be honest the while?

Bea. Heaven forbid, not I, I have not met with that Wonder in all my Travels.

L. Ful. How, Sir, not an honest Woman?

Bea. Except my Lady Aunt—Nay, as I am a Gentleman and the first of my Family—you shall pardon me, here—cuff me, cuff me soundly. [Kneels to her.

Enter Gayman richly drest.

Gay. This Love’s a damn’d bewitching thing—Now though I should lose my Assignation with my Devil, I cannot hold from seeing Julia to night: hah—there, and with a Fop at her Feet.—Oh Vanity of Woman! [Softly pulls her.

L. Ful. Oh, Sir, you’re welcome from Northamptonshire.

Gay. Hum—surely she knows the Cheat. [Aside.

L. Ful. You are so gay, you save me, Sir, the labour of asking if your
Uncle be alive.

Gay. Pray Heaven she have not found my Circumstances!
But if she have, Confidence must assist me— [Aside.
—And, Madam, you’re too gay for me to inquire
Whether you are that Julia which I left you?

L. Ful. Oh, doubtless, Sir—

Gay. But why the Devil do I ask—Yes, you are still the same; one of those hoiting Ladies, that love nothing like Fool and Fiddle; Crouds of Fops; had rather be publickly, though dully, flatter’d, than privately ador’d: you love to pass for the Wit of the Company, by talking all and loud.

L. Ful. Rail on, till you have made me think my Virtue at so low Ebb, it should submit to you.

Gay. What—I’m not discreet enough;
I’ll babble all in my next high Debauch,
Boast of your Favours, and describe your Charms
To every wishing Fool.

L. Ful. Or make most filthy Verses of me—
Under the name of Cloris—you Philander,
Who in leud Rhimes confess the dear Appointment;
What Hour, and where, how silent was the Night,
How full of Love your Eyes, and wishing mine.
Faith, no; if you can afford me a Lease of your Love,
Till the old Gentleman my Husband depart this wicked World,
I’m for the Bargain.

Sir Cau. Hum—what’s here, a young Spark at my Wife?
                                           [Goes about ‘em.

Gay. Unreasonable Julia, is that all,
My Love, my Sufferings, and my Vows must hope?
Set me an Age—say when you will be kind,
And I will languish out in starving Wish:
But thus to gape for Legacies of Love,
Till Youth be past Enjoyment,
The Devil I will as soon—farewel.
                            [Offers to go.

L. Ful. Stay, I conjure you stay.

Gay. And lose my Assignation with my Devil. [Aside.

Sir Cau. ‘Tis so, ay, ay, ‘tis so—and wise Men will perceive it; ‘tis here—here in my forehead, it more than buds; it sprouts, it flourishes.

Sir Feeb. So, that young Gentleman has nettled him, stung him to the quick: I hope he’ll chain her up—the Gad-Bee’s in his Quonundrum—in Charity I’ll relieve him—Come, my Lady Fulbank, the Night grows old upon our hands; to dancing, to jiggiting—Come, shall I lead your Ladyship?

L. Ful. No, Sir, you see I am better provided— [Takes Gayman’s hand.

Sir Cau. Ay, no doubt on’t, a Pox on him for a young handsome Dog.

[They dance all.

Sir Feeb. Very well, very well, now the Posset; and then—ods bobs, and then—

Dia. And then we’ll have t’other Dance.

Sir Feeb. Away, Girls, away, and steal the Bride to Bed; they have a deal to do upon their Wedding-nights; and what with the tedious Ceremonies of dressing and undressing, the smutty Lectures of the Women, by way of Instruction, and the little Stratagems of the young Wenches —odds bobs, a Man’s cozen’d of half his Night: Come, Gentlemen, one Bottle, and then—we’ll toss the Stocking.

[Exeunt all but L. Ful. Bred, who are talking, and Gayman.

L. Ful. But dost thou think he’ll come?

Bred. I do believe so, Madam—

L. Ful. Be sure you contrive it so, he may not know whither, or to whom he comes.

Bred. I warrant you, Madam, for our Parts. [Exit Bredwel, stealing out Gayman.

L. Ful. How now, what, departing?

Gay. You are going to the Bride-Chamber.

L. Ful. No matter, you shall stay—

Gay. I hate to have you in a Croud.

L. Ful. Can you deny me—will you not give me one lone hour i’th’
Garden?

Gay. Where we shall only tantalize each other with dull kissing, and part with the same Appetite we met—No, Madam; besides, I have business—

L. Ful. Some Assignation—is it so indeed?

Gay. Away, you cannot think me such a Traitor; ‘tis more important business—

L. Ful. Oh, ‘tis too late for business—let to morrow serve.

Gay. By no means—the Gentleman is to go out of Town.

L. Ful. Rise the earlier then—

Gay.—But, Madam, the Gentleman lies dangerously—sick—and should he die—

L. Ful. ‘Tis not a dying Uncle, I hope, Sir?

Gay. Hum—

L. Ful. The Gentleman a dying, and to go out of Town to morrow?

Gay. Ay—a—he goes—in a Litter—’tis his Fancy, Madam—Change of Air may recover him.

L. Ful. So may your change of Mistress do me, Sir—farewel.
                                                       [Goes out.

Gay. Stay, Julia—Devil, be damn’d—for you shall tempt no more,
I’ll love and be undone—but she is gone—
And if I stay, the most that I shall gain
Is but a reconciling Look, or Kiss.
No, my kind Goblin—

  I’ll keep my Word with thee, as the least Evil;
  A tantalizing Woman’s worse than Devil.

[Exit.