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  TO THE READER. 

I Printed this Play with all the impatient haste one ought to do, who would be vindicated from the most unjust and silly aspersion, Woman could invent to cast on Woman; and which only my being a Woman has procured me; That it was Baudy, the least and most Excusable fault in the Men writers, to whose Plays they all crowd, as if they came to no other end than to hear what they condemn in this: but from a Woman it was unnaturall: but how so Cruell an unkindness came into their imaginations I can by no means guess; unless by those whose Lovers by long absence, or those whom Age or Ugliness have rendered a little distant from those things they would fain imagin here—But if such as these durst profane their Chast ears with hearing it over again, or taking it into their serious Consideration in their Cabinets; they would find nothing that the most innocent Virgins can have cause to blush at: but confess with me that no Play either Ancient or Modern has less of that Bug-bear Bawdry in it. Others to show their breeding (as Bays sayes) cryed it was made out of at least four French Plays, when I had but a very bare hint from one, the Malad Imagenere, which was given me translated by a Gentleman infinitely to advantage; but how much of the French is in this, I leave to those who do indeed understand it and have seen it at the Court. The play had no other Misfortune but that of coming out for a Womans: had it been owned by a Man, though the most Dull Unthinking Rascally Scribler in Town, it had been a most admirable Play. Nor does it’s loss of Fame with the Ladies do it much hurt, though they ought to have had good Nature and justice enough to have attributed all its faults to the Authours unhappiness, who is forced to write for Bread and not ashamed to owne it, and consequently ought to write to please (if she can) an Age which has given severall proofs it was by this way of writing to be obliged, though it is a way too cheap for men of wit to pursue who write for Glory, and a way which even I despise as much below me.

SIR PATIENT FANCY.

PROLOGUE,

Spoken by Mr. Betterton.

ACT I.

Scene I. A Room in Lady Knowell’s House.

Enter Lucretia with Isabella.

Isab. ’Tis much I owe to Fortune, my dear Lucretia, for being so kind to make us Neighbours, where with Ease we may continually exchange our Souls and Thoughts without the attendance of a Coach, and those other little Formalities that make a Business of a Visit; it looks so like a Journey, I hate it.

Lucr. Attendance is that Curse to Greatness that confines the Soul, and spoils good Humour; we are free whilst thus alone, and can laugh at the abominable Fopperies of this Town.

Isab. And lament the numberless Impertinences wherewith they continually plague all young Women of Quality.

Lucr. Yet these are the precious things our grave Parents still chuse out to make us happy with, and all for a filthy Jointure, the undeniable argument for our Slavery to Fools.

Isab. Custom is unkind to our Sex, not to allow us free Choice; but we above all Creatures must be forced to endure the formal Recommendations of a Parent, and the more insupportable Addresses of an odious Fop; whilst the Obedient Daughter stands—thus—with her Hands pinn’d before her, a set Look, few Words, and a Mein that cries—Come marry me: out upon’t.

Lucr. I perceive then, whatever your Father designs, you are resolv’d to love your own way.

Isab. Thou mayst lay thy Maidenhead upon’t, and be sure of the Misfortune to win.

Lucr. My Brother Lodwick’s like to be a happy Man then.

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Isab. Faith, my dear Lodwick or no body in my heart, and I hope thou art as well resolv’d for my Cousin Leander.

Lucr. Here’s my Hand upon’t, I am; yet there’s something sticks upon my stomach, which you must know.

Isab. Spare the Relation, for I have observ’d of late your Mother to have order’d her Eyes with some softness, her Mouth endeavouring to sweeten it self into Smiles and Dimples, as if she meant to recal Fifteen again, and gave it all to Leander, for at him she throws her Darts.

Lucr. Is’t possible thou should’st have perceived it already?

Isab. Long since.

Lucr. And now I begin to love him, ’twould vex me to see my Mother marry him—well, I shall never call him Father.

Isab. He’ll take care to give himself a better Title.

Lucr. This Devonshire Knight too, who is recommended to my Mother as a fit Husband for me, I shall be so tormented with—My Brother swears he’s the pertest, most unsufferable Fool he ever saw; when he was at my Uncle’s last Summer, he made all his Diversion.

Isab. Prithee let him make ours now, for of all Fops your Country Fop is the most tolerable Animal; those of the Town are the most unmanagable Beasts in Nature.

Lucr. And are the most noisy, keeping Fops.

Isab. Keeping begins to be as ridiculous as Matrimony, and is a greater Imposition upon the Liberty of Man; the Insolence and Expence of their Mistresses has almost tir’d out all but the Old and Doting part of Mankind: The rest begin to know their value, and set a price upon a good Shape, a tolerable Face and Mein:—and some there are who have made excellent Bargains for themselves that way, and will flatter ye and jilt ye an Antiquated Lady as artfully as the most experienc’d Miss of ’em all.

Lucr. Lord, Lord! what will this World come to?—but this Mother of mine—Isabella. Sighs.

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Isab. Is discreet and virtuous enough, a little too affected, as being the most learned of her Sex.

Lucr. Methinks to be read in the Arts, as they call ’em, is the peculiar Province of the other Sex.

Isab. Indeed the Men would have us think so, and boast their Learning and Languages; but if they can find any of our Sex fuller of Words, and to so little purpose as some of their Gownmen, I’ll be content to change my Petticoats for Pantaloons, and go to a Grammar-school.

Lucr. Oh, they’re the greatest Babelards in Nature.

Isab. They call us easy and fond, and charge us with all weakness; but look into their Actions of Love, State or War, their roughest business, and you shall find ’em sway’d by some who have the luck to find their Foibles; witness my Father, a Man reasonable enough, till drawn away by doting Love and Religion: what a Monster my young Mother makes of him! flatter’d him first into Matrimony, and now into what sort of Fool or Beast she pleases to make him.

Lucr. I wonder she does not turn him to Christianity; methinks a Conventicle should ill agree with her Humour.

Isab. Oh, she finds it the only way to secure her from his Suspicion, which if she do not e’er long give him cause for, I am mistaken in her Humour.—

Enter L. Knowell and Leander.

But see your Mother and my Cousin Leander, who seems, poor man, under some great Consternation, for he looks as gravely as a Lay-Elder conducting his Spouse from a Sermon.

L. Kno. Oh, fy upon’t. See, Mr. Fancy, where your Cousin and my Lucretia are idling: Dii boni, what an insupportable loss of time’s this?

Lean. Which might be better imploy’d, if I might instruct ’em, Madam.

L. Kno. Ay, Mr. Fancy, in Consultation with the 14 Antients.—Oh the delight of Books! when I was of their age, I always imploy’d my looser Hours in reading—if serious, ’twas Tacitus, Seneca, Plutarch’s Morals, or some such useful Author; if in an Humour gay, I was for Poetry, Virgil, Homer or Tasso. Oh that Love between Renaldo and Armida, Mr. Fancy! Ah the Caresses that fair Corcereis gave, and received from the young Warrior, ah how soft, delicate and tender! Upon my Honour I cannot read them in the Excellence of their Original Language, without I know not what Emotions.

Lean. Methinks ’tis very well in our Mother Tongue, Madam.

L. Kno. O, Faugh, Mr. Fancy, what have you said, Mother Tongue! Can any thing that’s great or moving be express’d in filthy English?—I’ll give you an Energetical proof, Mr. Fancy; observe but divine Homer in the Grecian Language—Ton d’ apamibominous prosiphe podas ochus Achilleus! Ah how it sounds! which English’t dwindles into the most grating stuff:—Then the swift-foot Achilles made reply: oh, faugh.

Lucr. So now my Mother’s in her right Sphere.

L. Kno. Come, Mr. Fancy, we’ll pursue our first design of retiring into my Cabinet, and reading a leaf or two in Martial; I am a little dull, and wou’d fain laugh.

Lean. Methinks, Madam, Discourse were much better with these young Ladies. Dear Lucretia, find some way to release me. Aside.

L. Kno. Oh, how I hate the impertinence of Women, who for the generality have no other knowledge than that of dressing; I am uneasy with the unthinking Creatures.

Lucr. Indeed ’tis much better to be entertaining a young Lover alone; but I’ll prevent her, if possible. Aside.

L. Kno. No, I am for the substantial pleasure of an Author. Philosophemur! is my Motto,—I’m strangely fond of you, Mr. Fancy, for being a Scholar.

Lean. Who, Madam, I a Scholar? the greatest Dunce 15 in Nature—Malicious Creatures, will you leave me to her mercy? To them aside.

Lucr. Prithee assist him in his misery, for I am Mudd, and can do nothing towards it. Aside.

Isab. Who, my Cousin Leander a Scholar, Madam?

Lucr. Sure he’s too much a Gentleman to be a Scholar.

Isab. I vow, Madam, he spells worse than a Country Farrier when he prescribes a Drench.

Lean. Then, Madam, I write the leudest hand.

Isab. Worse than a Politician or a States-man.

Lucr. He cannot read it himself when he has done.

Lean. Not a word on’t, Madam.

L. Kno. This agreement to abuse him, I understand— Aside.

—Well, then, Mr. Fancy, let’s to my Cabinet—your hand.

Lean. Now shall I be teas’d unmercifully,—I’ll wait on you, Madam. Exit Lady.

—Find some means to redeem me, or I shall be mad. Exit Lean.

Enter Lodwick.

Lod. Hah, my dear Isabella here, and without a Spy! what a blessed opportunity must I be forc’d to lose, for there is just now arriv’d my Sister’s Lover, whom I am oblig’d to receive: but if you have a mind to laugh a little—

Isab. Laugh! why, are you turn’d Buffoon, Tumbler, or Presbyterian Preacher?

Lod. No, but there’s a Creature below more ridiculous than either of these.

Lucr. For love’s sake, what sort of Beast is that?

Lod. Sir Credulous Easy, your new Lover just come to town Bag and Baggage, and I was going to acquaint my Mother with it.

Isab. You’ll find her well employ’d with my Cousin Leander.

Lucr. A happy opportunity to free him: but what shall I do now, Brother?

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Lod. Oh, let me alone to ruin him with my Mother: get you gone, I think I hear him coming, and this Apartment is appointed for him.

Lucr. Prithee haste then, and free Leander, we’ll into the Garden. Exeunt Luc. and Isab.

A Chair and a Table. Enter Sir Credulous in a riding habit. Curry his Groom carrying a Portmantle.

Lod. Yes—’tis the Right Worshipful, I’ll to my Mother with the News. Ex. Lod.

Sir Cred. Come undo my Portmantle, and equip me, that I may look like some body before I see the Ladies—Curry, thou shalt e’en remove now, Curry, from Groom to Footman; for I’ll ne’er keep Horse more, no, nor Mare neither, since my poor Gillian’s departed this Life.

Cur. ’Ds diggers, Sir, you have griev’d enough for your Mare in all Conscience; think of your Mistress now, Sir, and think of her no more.

Sir Cred. Not think of her! I shall think of her whilst I live, poor Fool, that I shall, though I had forty Mistresses.

Cur. Nay, to say truth, Sir, ’twas a good-natur’d civil beast, and so she remain’d to her last gasp, for she cou’d never have left this World in a better time, as the saying is, so near her Journey’s End.

Sir Cred. A civil Beast! Why, was it civilly done of her, thinkest thou, to die at Branford, when had she liv’d till to morrow, she had been converted into Money and have been in my Pocket? for now I am to marry and live in Town, I’ll sell off all my Pads; poor Fool, I think she e’en died for grief I wou’d have sold her.

Cur. ’Twas unlucky to refuse Parson Cuffet’s Wife’s Money for her, Sir.

Sir Cred. Ay, and to refuse her another kindness too, that shall be nameless which she offer’d me, and which wou’d have given me good luck in Horse-flesh too; Zoz, I was a modest fool, that’s truth on’t.

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Cur. Well, well, Sir, her time was come you must think, and we are all Mortal as the saying is.

Sir Cred. Well, ’twas the lovingst Tit:—but Grass and Hay, she’s gone—where be her Shoes, Curry?

Cur. Here, Sir, her Skin went for good Ale at Branford. Gives him the Shoes.

Sir Cred. Ah, how often has she carry’d me upon these Shoes to Mother Jumbles; thou remember’st her handsome Daughter, and what pure Ale she brew’d; between one and t’other my Rent came short home there; but let that pass too, and hang sorrow, as thou sayst, I have something else to think on. Takes his things out, lays them upon the Table.

And, Curry, as soon as I am drest, go you away to St. Clement’s Church-yard, to Jackson the Cobler there.

Cur. What, your Dog-tutor, Sir?

Sir Cred. Yes, and see how my Whelp proves, I put to him last Parliament.

Cur. Yes, Sir.

Enter Leander, and starts back seeing Sir Cred.

Sir Cred. And ask him what Gamesters come to the Ponds now adays, and what good Dogs.

Cur. Yes, Sir.

Lean. This is the Beast Lodwick spoke of; how could I laugh were he design’d for any but Lucretia! Aside.

Sir Cred. And dost hear, ask him if he have not sold his own Dog Diver with the white Ear; if I can purchase him, and my own Dog prove right, I’ll be Duke of Ducking-Pond, ads zoz. Sir Cred. dresses himself.

Well, I think I shall be fine anon, he.

Cur. But zo, zo, Sir, as the saying is, this Suit’s a little out of fashion, ’twas made that very year I came to your Worship, which is five Winters, and as many Summers.

Sir Cred. What then Mun, I never wear it, but when I go to be drunk, and give my Voice for a Knight o’th’ 18 Shire, and here at London in Term time, and that but eight times in Eight Visits to Eight several Ladies to whom I was recommended.

Cur. I wonder that amongst eight you got not one, Sir.

Sir Cred. Eight! Zoz, I had Eight score, Mun; but the Devil was in ’em, they were all so forward, that before I cou’d seal and deliver, whip, quoth Jethro, they were either all married to some body else, or run quite away; so that I am resolv’d if this same Lucretia proves not right, I’ll e’en forswear this Town and all their false Wares, amongst which, zoz, I believe they vent as many false Wives as any Metropolitan in Christendom, I’ll say that for’t, and a Fiddle for’t, i’faith:—come give me my Watch out,—so, my Diamond Rings too: so, I think I shall appear pretty well all together, Curry, hah?

Lean. Like some thing monstrously ridiculous, I’ll be sworn. Aside.

Cur. Here’s your Purse of broad Gold, Sir, that your Grandmother gave you to go a wooing withal, I mean to shew, Sir.

Sir Cred. Ay, for she charg’d me never to part with it;—so, now for the Ladies. Shakes his Ribbons.

Enter Lodwick.

Lod. Leander, what mak’st thou here, like a Holy-day Fool gazing at a Monster?

Lean. Yes; And one I hope I have no great reason to fear.

Lod. I am of thy opinion; away, my Mother’s coming; take this opportunity with my Sister, she’s i’th’ Garden, and let me alone with this Fool, for an Entertainment that shall shew him all at once: away— Exit Lean. Lod. goes in to Sir Cred.

Sir Cred. Lodwick, my dear Friend! and little Spark of Ingenuity—Zoz, Man, I’m but just come to Town. Embrace.

Lod. ’Tis a joyful hearing, Sir.

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Sir Cred. Not so joyful neither, Sir, when you shall know poor Gillian’s dead, my little grey Mare; thou knew’st her, mun: Zoz, ’thas made me as melancholy as the Drone of a Lancashire Bag-pipe. But let that pass; and now we talk of my Mare, Zoz, I long to see this Sister of thine.

Lod. She’ll be with you presently, Sir Credulous.

Sir Cred. But hark ye, Zoz, I have been so often fob’d off in these matters, that between you and I, Lodwick, if I thought I shou’d not have her, Zoz, I’d ne’er lose precious time about her.

Lod. Right, Sir; and to say truth, these Women have so much Contradiction in ’em, that ’tis ten to one but a Man fails in the Art of pleasing.

Sir Cred. Why, there’s it:—therefore prithee, dear Lodwick, tell me a few of thy Sister’s Humors, and if I fail,—then hang me, Ladies, at your Door, as the Song says.

Lod. Why, faith, she has many odd Humors hard enough to hit.

Sir Cred. Zoz, let ’em be as hard as Hercules his Labors in the Vale of Basse, I’ll not be frighted from attempting her.

Lod. Why, she’s one of those fantastick Creatures that must be courted her own way.

Sir Cred. Why, let’s hear her way.

Lod. She must be surpriz’d with strange Extravagancies wholly out of the Road and Method of common Courtship.

Sir Cred. Shaw, is that all? Zoz, I’m the best in Christendom at your out-of-the-way bus’nesses.—Now do I find the Reason of all my ill Success; for I us’d one and the same method to all I courted, whatever their Humors were; hark ye, prithee give me a hint or two, and let me alone to manage Matters.

Lod. I have just now thought of a way that cannot but take—

Sir Cred. Zoz, out with it, Man.

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Lod. Why, what if you should represent a dumb Ambassador from the Blind God of Love.

Sir Cred. How, a dumb Ambassador? Zoz, Man, how shall I deliver my Embassy then, and tell her how much I love her?—besides, I had a pure Speech or two ready by heart, and that will be quite lost. Aside.

Lod. Fy, fy! how dull you are! why, you shall do it by Signs, and I’ll be your Interpreter.

Sir Cred. Why, faith, this will be pure; I understand you now, Zoz, I am old excellent at Signs;—I vow this will be rare.

Lod. It will not fail to do your business, if well manag’d—but stay, here’s my Sister, on your life not a syllable.

Enter Lean. Lucr. and Isab.

Sir Cred. I’ll be rackt first, Mum budget,—prithee present me, I long to be at it, sure. He falls back, making Faces and Grimaces.

Lod. Sister, I here present you with a worthy Knight, struck dumb with Admiration of your Beauty; but that’s all one, he is employ’d Envoy Extraordinary from the blind God of Love: and since, like his young Master, he must be defective in one of his Senses, he chose rather to be dumb than blind.

Lucr. I hope the small Deity is in good Health, Sir?

Isab. And his Mistress Psyche, Sir? He smiles and bows, and makes Signs.

Lod. He says that Psyche has been sick of late, but somewhat recovered, and has sent you for a Token a pair of Jet Bracelets, and a Cambrick Handkerchief of her own spinning, with a Sentence wrought in’t, Heart in hand, at thy command. Looking every word upon Sir Credulous as he makes signs.

Sir Cred. Zoz, Lodwick, what do you mean? I’m the Son of an Egyptian if I understand thee. Pulls him, he signs to him to hold his peace.

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Lod. Come, Sir, the Tokens, produce, produce— He falls back making damnable signs.

How! Faith, I’m sorry for that with all my heart,—he says, being somewhat put to’t on his Journey, he was forced to pawn the Bracelets for half a Crown, and the Handkerchief he gave his Landlady on the Road for a Kindness received,—this ’tis when People will be fooling—

Sir Cred. Why, the Devil’s in this Lodwick, for mistaking my Signs thus: hang me if ever I thought of Bracelets or a Handkerchief, or ever received a Civility from any Woman Breathing,—is he bewitcht trow? Aside.

Lean. Lodwick, you are mistaken in the Knight’s meaning all this while. Look on him, Sir,—do not you guess from that Look, and wrying of his Mouth, that you mistook the Bracelets for Diamond Rings, which he humbly begs, Madam, you would grace with your fair Hand?

Lod. Ah, now I perceive it plain.

Sir Cred. A Pox of his Compliment. Why, this is worse than t’other.—What shall I do in this case?—should I speak and undeceive them, they would swear ’twere to save my Jems: and to part with ’em—Zoz, how simply should I look!—but hang’t, when I have married her, they are my own again. Gives the Rings, and falls back into Grimaces. Leander whispers to Lodwick.

Lod. Enough—Then, Sister, she has sent you a Purse of her own knitting full of Broad Gold.

Sir. Cred. Broad Gold! why, what a Pox does the Man conjure?

Lod. Which, Sister, faith, you must accept of, you see by that Grimace how much ’twill grieve him else.

Sir Cred. A pretty civil way this to rob a Man.—Why, Lodwick,—why, what a Pox, will they have no mercy?—Zoz, I’ll see how far they’ll drive the Jest. Gives the Gold and bows, and scrapes and screws.

Lod. Say you so, Sir? well I’ll see what may be done.—Sister, behold him, and take pity on him; he has but 22 one more humble request to make you, ’tis to receive a Gold Watch which he designs you from himself.

Sir Cred. Why, how long has this Fellow been a Conjurer? for he does deal with the Devil, that’s certain,—Lodwick— Pulls him.

Lod. Ay do, speak and spoil all, do.

Sir Cred. Speak and spoil all, quoth he! and the Duce take me if I am not provok’d to’t; why, how the Devil should he light slap-dash, as they say, upon every thing thus? Well, Zoz, I’m resolv’d to give it her, and shame her if she have any Conscience in her. Gives his Watch with pitiful Grimaces.

Lod. Now, Sister, you must know there’s a Mystery in this Watch, ’tis a kind of Hieroglyphick that will instruct you how a Married Woman of your Quality ought to live.

Sir Cred. How, my Watch Mysteries and Hieroglyphicks! the Devil take me, if I knew of any such Virtues it had. They are all looking on the Watch.

Lod. Beginning at Eight, from which down to Twelve you ought to imploy in dressing, till Two at Dinner, till Five in Visits, till Seven at the Play, till Nine i’th’ Park, Ten at Supper with your Lover, if your Husband be not at home, or keep his distance, which he’s too well bred not to do; then from Ten to Twelve are the happy Hours the Bergere, those of intire Enjoyment.—

Sir Cred. Say you so? hang me if I shall not go near to think I may chance to be a Cuckold by the shift.

Isab. Well, Sir, what must she do from Twelve till Eight again?

Lod. Oh! those are the dull Conjugal Hours for sleeping with her own Husband, and dreaming of Joys her absent Lover alone can give her.

Sir Cred. Nay, an she be for Sleeping, Zoz, I am as good at that as she can be for her Heart; or Snoring either.

Lod. But I have done; Sir Credulous has a dumb Oration to make you by way of farther Explanation.

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Sir Cred. A dumb Oration! now do I know no more how to speak a dumb Speech than a Dog.

Luc. Oh, I love that sort of Eloquence extremely.

Lod. I told you this would take her.

Sir Cred. Nay, I know your silent Speeches are incomparable, and I have such a Speech in my Head.

Lod. Your Postures, your Postures, begin, Sir. He puts himself into a ready Posture as if he would speak, but only makes Faces.

Enter Page.

Pag. Sir, my Lady desires to speak with you. To Lean.

Lean. I’ll wait on her,—a Devil on’t.—

Pag. I have command to bring you, Sir, instantly.

Lean. This is ill luck, Madam, I cannot see the Farce out; I’ll wait on you as soon as my good Fortune will permit me. Exit with Page.

Luc. He’s going to my Mother, dear Isabella, let’s go and hinder their Discourse: Farewel, Sir Ambassador, pray remember us to Psyche, not forgetting the little blind Archer, ha, ha, ha.— Ex. Lucr. and Isab. laughing.

Sir Cred. So, I have undone all, they are both gone, flown I protest; why, what a Devil ail’d em? Now have I been dumb all this while to no purpose, you too never told her my meaning right; as I hope to breathe, had any but yourself done this, I should have sworn by Helicon and all the rest of the Devils, you had had a design to have abus’d me, and cheated me of all my Moveables too.

Lod. What a hopeful Project was here defeated by my mistake! but courage, Sir Credulous, I’ll put you in a way shall fetch all about again.

Sir Cred. Say you so? ah, dear Lodwick, let me hear it.

Lod. Why, you shall this Night give your Mistress a Serenade.

Sir Cred. How! a Serenade!

Lod. Yes, but it must be perform’d after an Extravagant 24 manner, none of your dull amorous Night-walking Noises so familiar in this Town; Lucretia loves nothing but what’s great and extravagant, and passes the reach of vulgar practice.

Sir Cred. What think you of a silent Serenade? Zoz, say but the word and it shall be done, Man, let me alone for Frolicks, i’faith.

Lod. A silent one! no, that’s to wear a good humour to the Stumps; I wou’d have this want for no Noise; the extremes of these two Addresses will set off one another.

Sir Cred. Say you so? what think you then of the Bagpipe, Tongs, and Gridiron, Cat-calls, and loud-sounding Cymbals?

Lod. Naught, naught, and of known use; you might as well treat her with Viols and Flute-doux, which were enough to disoblige her for ever.

Sir Cred. Why, what think you then of the King of Bantam’s own Musick.

Lod. How! the King of Bantam’s Musick?

Sir Cred. Ay, Sir, the King of Bantam’s: a Friend of mine had a Present sent him from thence, a most unheard of curiosity I’ll assure you.

Lod. That, that by all means, Sir.

Sir Cred. Well, I’ll go borrow ’em presently.

Lod. You must provide your self of a Song.

Sir Cred. A Song! hang’t, ’tis but rummaging the Play-Books, stealing thence is lawful Prize—Well, Sir, your Servant. Exit.

Enter Leander.

Lod. I hope ’twill be ridiculous enough, and then the Devil’s in’t if it do not do his Business with my Mother, for she hates all impertinent Noises but what she makes herself. She’s now going to make a Visit to your Uncle, purposely to give me an opportunity to Isabella.

Lean. And I’m ingag’d to wait on her thither, she 25 designs to carry the Fiddles too; he’s mad enough already, but such a Visit will fit him for Bedlam.

Lod. No matter, for you have all a leud Hand with him; between his continual imaginary Sickness, and perpetual Physic, a Man might take more Pleasure in an Hospital. What the Devil did he marry a young Wife for? and they say a handsome Creature too.

Lean. To keep up his Title of Cuckold I think, for she has Beauty enough for Temptation, and no doubt makes the right use on’t: wou’d I cou’d know it, that I might prevent her cheating my Uncle longer to my undoing.

Lod. She’ll be cunning enough for that, if she have Wit: but now thou talk’st of Intrigues, when didst see Wittmore? that Rogue has some lucky Haunt which we must find out.—But my Mother expects your attendance; I’ll go seek my Sister, and make all the Interest there I can for you, whilst you pay me in the same Coin to Isabella. Adieu.

Lean. Trust my Friendship.—

Ex. severally.

ACT II.

Scene I. A Garden to Sir Patient Fancy’s House.

Enter Lady Fancy, Wittmore, and Maundy.

Wit. Enough, my charming Mistress, you’ve set my Soul at Peace, and chas’d away those Fears and Doubts my Jealousy created there.

Maun. Mr. Wittmore’s satisfy’d of your Constancy, Madam; though had I been your Ladyship, I should have given him a more substantial Proof, which you might yet do, if you wou’d make handsome use of your time.

Wit. Maundy advises well; my dearest, let’s withdraw to yonder Covert Arbour, whose kind Shades will secure us a Happiness that Gods might envy. Offers to lead her out.

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L. Fan. I dare not for the world, Sir Patient is now asleep, and ’tis to those few Minutes we are oblig’d for this Enjoyment, which shou’d Love make us transgress, and he shou’d wake and surprize us, we are undone for ever: no, let us employ this little time we have in consulting how we may be often happy, and securely so: Oh, how I languish for the dear opportunity!

Wit. And cou’d you guess what Torments I have suffer’d in these few fatal Months that have divided us, thou wou’dst pity me.

L. Fan. —But to our Business; for though I am yet unsuspected by my Husband, I am eternally plagu’d with his Company; he’s so fond of me, he scarce gives me time to write to thee, he waits on me from room to room, hands me in the Garden, shoulders me in the Balcony, nay, does the office of my Women, dresses and undresses me, and does so smirk at his handywork: In fine, dear Wittmore, I am impatient till I can have less of his Company, and more of thine.

Wit. Does he never go out of Town?

L. Fan. Never without me.

Wit. Nor to Chuch?

L. Fan. To a Meeting-house you mean, and then too carries me, and is as vainly proud of me as of his rebellious Opinion, for his Religion means nothing but that, and Contradiction; which I seem to like too, since ’tis the best Cloke I can put on to cheat him with.

Wit. Right, my fair Hypocrite.

L. Fan. But, dear Wittmore, there’s nothing so comical as to hear me cant, and even cheat those Knaves, the Preachers themselves, that delude the ignorant Rabble.

Wit. What Miracles cannot your Eyes and Tongue perform!

L. Fan. Judge what a fine Life I lead the while, to be set up with an old formal doting sick Husband, and a Herd of snivelling grinning Hypocrites, that call themselves 27 the teaching Saints; who under pretence of securing me to the number of their Flock, do so sneer upon me, pat my Breasts, and cry fie, fie upon this fashion of tempting Nakedness. Through the Nose.

Wit. Dear Creature, how cou’d we laugh at thy new way of living, had we but some Minutes allow’d us to enjoy that Pleasure alone.

L. Fan. Think, dear Wittmore, think, Maundy and I have thought over all our Devices to no purpose.

Wit. Pox on’t, I’m the dullest dog at plotting, thinking, in the world; I should have made a damnable ill Town Poet: Has he quite left off going to the Change?

L. Fan. Oh, he’s grown cautiously rich, and will venture none of his substantial Stock in transitory Traffick.

Wit. Has he no mutinous Cabal, nor Coffee-houses, where he goes religiously to consult the Welfare of the Nation?

L. Fan. His imagin’d Sickness has made this their Rendesvouz.

Wit. When he goes to his blind Devotion, cannot you pretend to be sick? that may give us at least two or three opportunities to begin with.

L. Fan. Oh! then I should be plagu’d with continual Physick and Extempore Prayer till I were sick indeed.

Wit. Damn the humorous Coxcomb and all his Family, what shall we do?

L. Fan. Not all, for he has a Daughter that has good Humour, Wit, and Beauty enough to save her,—stay—that has jogg’d a Thought, as the Learned say, which must jog on, till the motion have produc’d something worth my thinking.—

Enter Roger running.

Maun. Ad’s me, here’s danger near, our Scout comes in such haste.

L. Fan. Roger, what’s the matter?

28

Rog. My Master, Madam, is risen from sleep, and is come in to the Garden.—See, Madam, he’s here.

L. Fan. What an unlucky Accident was this?

Wit. What shall I do, ’tis too late to obscure my self?

L. Fan. He sees you already, through the Trees,—here—keep your distance, your Hat under your Arm; so, be very ceremonious, whilst I settle a demure Countenance.—

Maun. Well, there never came good of Lovers that were given to too much talking; had you been silently kind all this while, you had been willing to have parted by this time.

Enter Sir Patient in a Night-Gown, reading a Bill.

Sir Pat. Hum,—Twelve Purges for this present January—as I take it, good Mr. Doctor, I took but Ten in all December.—By this Rule I am sicker this Month, than I was the last.—And, good Master Apothecary, methinks your Prizes are somewhat too high: at this rate no body wou’d be sick.—Here, Roger, see it paid however,—Ha, hum. Sees ’em, and starts back. What’s here, my Lady Wife entertaining a leud Fellow of the Town? a flaunting Cap and Feather Blade.

L. Fan. Sir Patient cannot now be spoken with. But, Sir, that which I was going just now to say to you, was, that it would be very convenient in my opinion to make your Addresses to Isabella,—’twill give us opportunities. Aside. We Ladies love no Imposition; this is Counsel my Husband perhaps will not like, but I would have all Women chuse their Man, as I have done,—my dear Wittmore. Aside.

Sir Pat. I profess ingenuously an excellent good Lady this of mine, though I do not like her Counsel to the young Man, who I perceive would be a Suitor to my Daughter Isabella.

Wit. Madam, should I follow my inclinations, I should pay my Vows no where but there,—but I am inform’d Sir Patient is a Man so positively resolv’d.—

29

L. Fan. That you should love his Wife. Aside.

Wit. And I’ll comply with that Resolve of his, and neither love nor marry Isabella, without his Permission; and I doubt not but I shall by my Respects to him gain his Consent,—to cuckold him. Aside.

Sir Pat. I profess ingenuously, a very discreet young Man.

Wit. But, Madam, when may I promise my self the satisfaction of coming again? For I’m impatient for the Sight and Enjoyment of the fair Person I love.

L. Fan. Sir, you may come at night, and something I will do by that time shall certainly give you that access you wish for.

Wit. May I depend upon that Happiness?

L. Fan. Oh, doubt not my power over Sir Patient.

Sir Pat. My Lady Fancy, you promise largely.

L. Fan. Sir Patient here!

Wit. A Devil on him, wou’d I were well off: now must I dissemble, profess, and lye most confoundedly.

Sir Pat. Your Servant, Sir, your Servant.—My Lady Fancy, your Ladyship, is well entertain’d I see; have a care you make me not jealous, my Lady Fancy.

L. Fan. Indeed I have given you cause, Sir Patient, for I have been entertaining a Lover, and one you must admit of too.

Sir Pat. Say you so, my Lady Fancy?—Well, Sir, I am a Man of Reason, and if you shew me good causes why, can bid you welcome, for I do nothing without Reason and Precaution.

Wit. Sir, I have—

Sir Pat. I know what you wou’d say, Sir; few Words denoteth a Wise Head,—you wou’d say that you have an Ambition to be my Son-in-Law.

Wit. You guess most right, Sir.

Sir Pat. Nay, Sir, I’ll warrant I’ll read a Man as well as the best, I have studied it.

30

Wit. Now, Invention, help me or never.

Sir Pat. Your Name, I pray? Putting off his Hat gravely at every Word.

Wit. Fainlove, Sir.

Sir Pat. Good Mr. Fainlove, your Country?

Wit. Yorkshire, Sir.

Sir Pat. What, not Mr. Fainlove’s Son of Yorkshire, who was knighted in the good days of the late Lord Protector? Off his Hat.

Wit. The same, Sir.—I am in, but how to come off again the Devil take me if I know. Aside.

Sir Pat. He was a Man of admirable parts, believe me, a notable Head piece, a publick-spirited Person, and a good Commonwealths-man, that he was, on my word.—Your Estate, Sir, I pray? Hat off.

Wit. I have not impair’d it, Sir, and I presume you know its value:—For I am a Dog if I do. Aside.

Sir Pat. O’ my Word, ’tis then considerable, Sir; for he left but one Son, and fourteen hundred Pounds per Annum, as I take it: which Son, I hear, is lately come from Geneva, whither he was sent for virtuous Education. I am glad of your Arrival, Sir.—Your Religion, I pray?

Wit. You cannot doubt my Principles, Sir, since educated at Geneva.

Sir Pat. Your Father was a discreet Man: ah, Mr. Fainlove, he and I have seen better days, and wish we cou’d have foreseen these that are arriv’d.

Wit. That he might have turn’d honest in time, he means, before he had purchas’d Bishops Lands.

Sir Pat. Sir, you have no Place, Office, Dependance or Attendance at Court, I hope?

Wit. None, Sir,—Wou’d I had—so you were hang’d. Aside.

L. Fan. Nay, Sir, you may believe, I knew his Capacities and Abilities before I would encourage his Addresses.

Sir Pat. My Lady Fancy, you are a discreet Lady;—Well, 31 I’ll marry her out of hand, to prevent Mr. Lodwick’s hopes: for though the young man may deserve well, that Mother of his I’ll have nothing to do with, since she refused to marry my Nephew. Aside.

Enter Fanny.

Fan. Sir Father, here’s my Lady Knowell, and her Family come to see you.

Sir Pat. How! her whole Family! I am come to keep open House; very fine, her whole Family! she’s Plague enough to mortify any good Christian,—Tell her, my Lady and I am gone forth; tell her any thing to keep her away.

Fan. Shou’d I tell a lye, Sir Father, and to a Lady of her Quality?

Sir Pat. Her Quality and she are a Couple of Impertinent things, which are very troublesome, and not to be indur’d I take it.

Fan. Sir, we shou’d bear with things we do not love sometimes, ’tis a sort of Trial, Sir, a kind of Mortification fit for a good Christian.

Sir Pat. Why, what a notable talking Baggage is this! How came you by this Doctrine?

Fan. I remember, Sir, you preach’d it once to my Sister, when the old Alderman was the Text, whom you exhorted her to marry, but the wicked Creature made ill use on’t.

Sir Pat. Go your way for a prating Huswife, go, and call your Sister hither. Exit Fanny. —Well, I’m resolv’d to leave this Town, nay, and the World too, rather than be tormented thus.

L. Fan. What’s the matter, Dear, thou dost so fret thy self?

Sir Pat. The matter! my House, my House is besieged with Impertinence; the intolerable Lady, Madam Romance, that walking Library of profane Books is come to visit me.

32

L. Fan. My Lady Knowell?

Sir Pat. Yes, that Lady of eternal Noise and hard Words.

L. Fan. Indeed ’tis with pain I am oblig’d to be civil to her, but I consider her Quality, her Husband was too an Alderman, your Friend, and a great Ay and No Man i’ th’ City, and a painful Promoter of the good Cause.

Sir Pat. But she’s a Fop, my Lady Fancy, and ever was so, an idle conceited she Fop; and has Vanity and Tongue enough to debauch any Nation under civil Government: but, Patience, thou art a Virtue, and Affliction will come.—Ah, I’m very sick, alas, I have not long to dwell amongst the Wicked, Oh, oh.—Roger, is the Doctor come?

Enter Roger.

Rog. No, Sir, but he has sent you a small draught of a Pint, which you are to take, and move upon’t.

Sir Pat. Ah,—Well, I’ll in and take it;—Ah—Sir, I crave your Patience for a moment, for I design you shall see my Daughter, I’ll not make long work on’t, Sir: alas, I would dispose of her before I die: Ah,—I’ll bring her to you, Sir, Ah, Ah.— Goes out with Roger.

L. Fan. He’s always thus when visited, to save Charges,—But how, dear Wittmore, cam’st thou to think of a Name and Country so readily?

Wit. Egad, I was at the height of my Invention, and the Alderman civilly and kindly assisted me with the rest; but how to undeceive him—

L. Fan. Take no care for that, in the mean time you’ll be shreudly hurt to have the way laid open to our Enjoyment, and that by my Husband’s procurement too: But take heed, dear Wittmore, whilst you only design to feign a Courtship, you do it not in good earnest.

Wit. Unkind Creature!

L. Fan. I would not have you endanger her Heart neither: for thou hast Charms will do’t.—Prithee do not 33 put on thy best Looks, nor speak thy softest Language; for if thou dost, thou canst not fail to undo her.

Wit. Well, my pretty Flatterer, to free her Heart and thy Suspicions, I’ll make such aukward Love as shall persuade her, however she chance to like my Person, to think most leudly of my Parts.—But ’tis fit I take my leave, for if Lodwick or Leander see me here, all will be ruin’d; death, I had forgot that.

L. Fan. Leander’s seldom at home, and you must time your Visits: but see Sir Patient’s return’d, and with him your new Mistress.

Enter Sir Patient and Isabella.

Sir Pat. Here’s my Daughter Isabella, Mr. Fainlove: she’ll serve for a Wife, Sir, as times go; but I hope you are none of those.—Sweet-heart, this Gentleman I have design’d you, he’s rich and young, and I am old and sickly, and just going out of the World, and would gladly see thee in safe Hands.

Maun. He has been just going this twenty Years. Aside.

Sir Pat. Therefore I command you to receive the tenders of his Affection.

Enter Fanny.

Fan. Sir Father, my Lady Knowell’s in the Garden.

L. Fan. My Dear, we must go meet her in decency.

Sir Pat. A hard case, a Man cannot be sick in quiet. Exit with L. Fan.

Isab. A Husband, and that not Lodwick! Heaven forbid. Aside.

Wit. Now Foppery assist to make me very ridiculous,—Death, she’s very pretty and inviting; what an insensible Dog shall I be counted to refuse the Enjoyment of so fair, so new a Creature, and who is like to be thrown into my Arms too whether I will or not?—but Conscience and 34 my Vows to the fair Mother: No, I will be honest.—Madam,—as Gad shall save me, I’m the Son of a Whore, if you are not the most Belle Person I ever saw, and if I be not damnably in love with you; but a pox take all tedious Courtship, I have a free-born and generous Spirit; and as I hate being confin’d to dull Cringing, Whining, Flattering, and the Devil and all of Foppery, so when I give an Heart, I’m an Infidel, Madam, if I do not love to do’t frankly and quickly, that thereby I may oblige the beautiful Receiver of my Vows, Protestations, Passions, and Inclination.

Isab. You’re wonderful ingaging, Sir, and I were an Ingrate not to facilitate a return for the Honour you are pleas’d to do me.

Wit. Upon my Reputation, Madam, you’re a civil well-bred Person, you have all the Agreemony of your Sex, la belle Taille, la bonne Mine, & Reparteeé bien, and are tout oure toore, as I’m a Gentleman, fort agreeable.—If this do not please your Lady, and nauseate her, the Devil’s in ’em both for unreasonable Women.— To Maun.

Fan. Gemini, Sister, does the Gentleman conjurer?

Isab. I know not, but I’m sure I never saw a more affected Fop.

Maun. O, a damnable impertinent Fop! ’tis pity, for he’s a proper Gentleman.

Wit. Well, if I do hold out, Egad, I shall be the bravest young Fellow in Christendom: But, Madam, I must kiss your Hand at present, I have some Visits to make, Devoirs to pay, necessities of Gallantry only, no Love Engagements, by Jove, Madam; it is sufficient I have given my Parole to your Father, to do him the honour of my Alliance; and an unnecessary Jealousy will but disoblige, Madam, your Slave.—Death, these Rogues see me, and I’m undone.— Exit.

35

Enter Lady Fancy, Lady Knowell, Sir Credulous and Lucretia, with other Women and Men, Roger attending.

L. Kno. Isabella, your Servant, Madam: being sensible of the insociable and solitary Life you lead, I have brought my whole Family to wait on your Ladyship, and this my Son in Futuro, to kiss your Hands, I beseech your Ladyship to know him for your humble Servant: my Son and your Nephew, Madam, are coming with the Musick too, we mean to pass the whole Day with your Ladyship:—and see they are here.

Enter Lodwick pulling in Wittmore, Leander with them.

Lod. Nay, since we have met thee so luckily, you must back with us.

Wit. You must excuse me, Gentlemen.

Lod. We’ll shew you two or three fine Women.

Wit. Death, these Rogues will ruin me—but I have Business, Gentlemen, that—

Lean. That must not hinder you from doing Deeds of Charity: we are all come to teeze my Uncle, and you must assist at so good a Work;—come, gad, thou shall make love to my Aunt.—I wou’d he wou’d effectually. Aside.

Lod. Now I think on’t, what the Devil dost thou make here?

Wit. Here!—oh, Sir—a—I have a design upon the Alderman.

Lod. Upon his handsome Wife thou meanest; ah, Rogue!

Wit. Faith, no,—a—’tis to—borrow Mony of him; and as I take it, Gentlemen, you are not fit Persons for a Man of Credit to be seen with, I pass for a graver Man.

Lod. Well, Sir, take your Course—but, egad, he’ll sooner lend thee his Wife than his Money.

Exit Wittmore, they come in.

Lean. Aunt, I have taken the boldness to bring a Gentleman of my Acquaintance to kiss your Ladyship’s Hands.

36

Lod. Thy Aunt!—death, she’s very handsome.—Madam, your most humble Servant. Kisses the L. Fan.

Lean. Prithee imploy this Fool, that I may have an opportunity to entertain thy Sister.

Lod. Sir Credulous, what, not a Word? not a Compliment? Hah,—be brisk, Man, be gay and witty, talk to the Ladies.

Sir Cred. Talk to ’em! why, what shall I say to ’em?

Lod. Any thing, so it be to little purpose.

Sir Cred. Nay, Sir, let me alone for that matter—but who are they, prithee?

Lod. Why, that’s my Lady Fancy, and that’s her Daughter-in-Law, salute ’em, Man.—

Sir Cred. Fair Lady,—I do protest and vow, you are the most beautiful of all Mothers-in-Law, and the World cannot produce your equal.

Lod. The Rogue has but one method for all Addresses. They laugh.

L. Kno. Oh, absurd! this, Sir, is the beautiful Mother-in-Law. To L. Fan.

Enter Sir Patient.

Sir Cred. Most noble Lady, I cry your mercy. Then, Madam, as the Sun amongst the Stars, or rather as the Moon not in conjunction with the Sun, but in her opposition, when one rises the other sets, or as the Vulgar call it, Full Moon—I say, as the Moon is the most beautiful of all the sparkling Lights, even so are you the most accomplish’d Lady under the Moon—and, Madam, I am extremely sensible of your Charms and celestial Graces. To Isabella.

Sir Pat. Why, this is abominable and insupportable.

Lucr. I find, Sir, you can talk to purpose when you begin once.

Sir Cred. You are pleased to say so, noble Lady: but I must needs say, I am not the worst bred Gentleman for a Country Gentleman that ever you saw; for you must 37 know, incomparable Lady, that I was at the University three Years, and there I learnt my Logick and Rhetorick, whereby I became excellent at Repartee, sweet Lady. As for my Estate, my Father died since I came of Age, and left me a small younger Brother’s Portion, dear Lady.

Lucr. A younger Brother’s, Sir?

Sir Cred. Ha, ha, I know what you would infer from that now: but you must know, delicious Lady, that I am all the Children my Father had.

Lucr. Witty, I protest.

Sir Cred. Nay, Madam, when I set on’t I can be witty.

Lean. Cruel Lucretia, leave ’em, and let us snatch this opportunity to talk of our own Affairs.

Sir Cred. For you must know, bright Lady, though I was pleas’d to railly my self, I have a pretty competent Estate of about 3000l. a Year, and am to marry Madam Lucretia.

L. Fan. You are a happy Man, Sir.

Sir Cred. Not so happy neither, inestimable Lady, for I lost the finest Mare yesterday,—but let that pass: were you never in Devonshire, Madam?

L. Fan. Never, Sir.

Sir Cred. In troth, and that’s pity, sweet Lady; for if you lov’d Hawking, Drinking, and Whoring,—oh, Lord, I mean Hunting; i’faith, there be good Fellows would keep you Company, Madam.

Sir Pat. This is a Plot upon me, a mere Plot.—My Lady Fancy, be tender of my Reputation, Foppery’s catching, and I had as lieve be a Cuckold as Husband to a vain Woman.

Sir Cred. Zoz, and that may be as you say, noble Sir. Lady, pray what Gentleman’s this?—Noble Sir, I am your most humble Servant.

Sir Pat. Oh, cry your mercy, Sir. Walks away.

Sir Cred. No Offence, dear Sir, I protest: ’slife, I believe ’tis the Master of the House, he look’d with such 38 Authority;—why, who cares, let him look as big as the four Winds, East, West, North and South, I care not this,—therefore I beg your Pardon, noble Sir.

Sir Pat. Pray spare your Hat and Legs, Sir, till you come to Court, they are thrown away i’th’ City.

Sir Cred. O Lord! dear Sir, ’tis all one for that, I value not a Leg nor an Arm amongst Friends, I am a Devonshire Knight, Sir, all the World knows, a kind of Country Gentleman, as they say, and am come to Town, to marry my Lady Knowell’s Daughter.

Sir Pat. I’m glad on’t, Sir. Walks away, he follows.

Sir Cred. She’s a deserving Lady, Sir, if I have any Judgment; and I think I understand a Lady, Sir, in the Right Honourable way of Matrimony.

Sir Pat. Well, Sir, that is to say, you have been married before, Sir; and what’s all this to me, good Sir?

Sir Cred. Married before! incomparable, Sir! not so neither, for there’s difference in Men, Sir.

Sir Pat. Right, Sir, for some are Wits, and some are Fools.

Sir Cred. As I hope to breathe, ’twas a saying of my Grandmother’s, who us’d to tell me, Sir, that bought Wit was best. I have brought Money to Town for a small purchase of that kind; for, Sir, I wou’d fain set up for a Country Wit.—Pray, Sir, where live the Poets, for I wou’d fain be acquainted with some of them.

Sir Pat. Sir, I do not know, nor do I care for Wits and Poets. Oh, this will kill me quite; I’ll out of Town immediately.

Sir Cred. But, Sir, I mean your fine railing Bully Wits, that have Vinegar, Gall and Arsenick in ’em, as well as Salt and Flame, and Fire, and the Devil and all.

Sir Pat. Oh, defend me! and what is all this to me, Sir?

Sir Cred. Oh, Sir, they are the very Soul of Entertainment; and, Sir, it is the prettiest sport to hear ’em rail and haul at one another—Zoz, wou’d I were a Poet.

39

Sir Pat. I wish you were, since you are so fond of being rail’d at.—If I were able to beat him, I would be much angry,—but Patience is a Virtue, and I will into the Country. Aside.

Sir Cred. ’Tis all one case to me, dear Sir,—but I should have the pleasure of railing again, cum privilegio; I love fighting with those pointless Weapons.—Zoz, Sir, you know if we Men of Quality fall out— (for you are a Knight I take it) why, there comes a Challenge upon it, and ten to one some body or other is run through the Gills; why, a Pox on’t, I say, this is very damnable, give me Poet’s Licence.—

L. Fan. Take him off in pity. To Leander.

Lod. Indeed Railing is a Coin only current among the Poets, Sir Credulous.

Sir Pat. Oh blest Deliverance!—what a profane Wretch is here, and what a leud World we live in—Oh London, London, how thou aboundest in Iniquity! thy young Men are debauch’d, thy Virgins defloured, and thy Matrons all turn’d Bauds! My Lady Fancy, this is not Company for you, I take it, let us fly from this vexation of Spirit, on the never-failing Wings of Discretion.— Going to lead Lady Fancy off,—the Lady Knowell speaking to Isabella all this while.

L. Kno. How! marry thee to such a Fop, say’st thou? Oh egregious!—as thou lovest Lodwick, let him not know his Name, it will be dangerous, let me alone to evade it.

Isab. I know his fiery Temper too well to trust him with the secret.

L. Kno. Hark ye, Sir, and do you intend to do this horrible thing?—

Sir Pat. What thing, my Lady Knowell?

L. Kno. Why, to marry your Daughter, Sir.

Sir Pat. Yes, Madam.

L. Kno. To a beastly Town Fool? Monstrum horrendum!

40

Sir Pat. To any Fool, except a Fool of your Race, of your Generation.—

L. Kno. How! a Fool of my Race, my Generation! I know thou meanest my Son, thou contumelious Knight, who, let me tell thee, shall marry thy Daughter invito te, that is, (to inform thy obtuse Understanding) in spite of thee; yes, shall marry her, though she inherits nothing but thy dull Enthusiasms, which had she been legitimate she had been possest with.

Sir Pat. Oh abominable! you had best say she is none of my Daughter, and that I was a Cuckold.—

L. Kno. If I should, Sir, it would not amount to Scandalum Magnatum: I’ll tell thee more, thy whole Pedigree,—and yet for all this, Lodwick shall marry your Daughter, and yet I’ll have none of your Nephew.

Sir Pat. Shall he so, my Lady Knowell? I shall go near to out-trick your Ladyship, for all your politick Learning. ’Tis past the Canonical Hour, as they call it, or I wou’d marry my Daughter instantly; I profess we ne’er had good days since these Canonical Fopperies came up again, mere Popish Tricks to give our Children time for Disobedience,—the next Justice wou’d ha’ serv’d turn, and have done the Business at any Hour: but Patience is a Virtue—Roger, go after Mr. Fainlove, and tell him I wou’d speak with him instantly. Exit Roger.

L. Kno. Come, come, Ladies, we lose fleeting time, upon my Honour, we do; for, Madam, as I said, I have brought the Fiddles, and design to sacrifice the intire Evening to your Ladyship’s Diversion.

Sir Cred. Incomparable Lady, that was well thought on; Zoz, I long to be jigging.

Sir Pat. Fiddles, good Lord! why, what am I come to?—Madam, I take it, Sir Patient Fancy’s Lady is not a proper Person to make one at immodest Revellings, and profane Masqueradings.

L. Fan. Why; ah, ’tis very true, Sir, but we ought 41 not to offend a Brother that is weak, and consequently, a Sister.

Sir Pat. An excellent Lady this, but she may be corrupted, ah, she may fall; I will therefore without delay, carry her from this wicked Town.

L. Kno. Come, come, Gentlemen, let’s in; Mr. Fancy, you must be my Man;—Sir Credulous, come, and you, sweet Sir, come, Ladies,—Nunc est saltandum, &c.

Exeunt.

Scene II. Changes to a Chamber.

Enter Sir Patient as before, Lady Fancy, Wittmore, Maundy, and Roger with things.

Sir Pat. Maundy, fetch my Clothes, I’ll dress me and out of Town instantly,—persuade me not. To Wit.

Roger, is the Coach ready, Roger?

Rog. Yes, Sir, with four Horses.

L. Fan. Out of Town! Oh, I’m undone then, there will be no hopes of ever seeing Wittmore. Aside. —Maundy, oh, help me to contrive my stay, or I’m a dead Woman.—Sir, sure you cannot go and leave your Affairs in Town.

Sir Pat. Affairs! what Affairs?

L. Fan. Why, your Daughter’s Marriage, Sir:—and—Sir,—not, Sir, but that I desire of all things in the World the Blessing of being alone with you, far from the Noise and leud Disorders of this filthy Town.

Sir Pat. Most excellent Woman! ah, thou art too good for sinful Man, and I will therefore remove thee from the Temptations of it.—Maundy, my Clothes—Mr. Fainlove, I will leave Isabella with my Lady Fidget, my Sister, who shall to morrow see you married, to prevent farther Inconveniences.

L. Fan. What shall I do?

Maun. Madam, I have a Design, which considering his Spleen, must this time do our Business,—’tis— Whispers.

42

L. Fan. I like it well, about it instantly, hah— Ex. Maundy.

Alas, Sir, what ails your Face? good Heaven,—look, Roger.

Sir Pat. My Face! why, what ails my Face? hah!

L. Fan. See, Mr. Fainlove, oh, look on my Dear, is he not strangely alter’d?

Wit. Most wonderfully.

Sir Pat. Alter’d, hah—why, where, why, how alter’d?—hah, alter’d say you?

Wit. Lord, how wildly he stares!

Sir Pat. Hah, stare wildly!

Rog. Are you not very sick, Sir?

L. Fan. Sick! oh, Heavens forbid!—How does my dearest Love?

Sir Pat. Methinks I feel myself not well o’th’ sudden—ah—a kind of shivering seizes all my Limbs,—and am I so much chang’d?

Wit. All over, Sir, as big again as you were.

L. Fan. Your Face is frightfully blown up, and your dear Eyes just starting from your Head; oh, I shall sound with the apprehension on’t. Falls into Wittmore’s Arms.

Sir Pat. My Head and Eyes so big, say you: oh, I’m wondrous sick o’th’ sudden,—all over say you—oh, oh—Ay, I perceive it now, my Senses fail me too.

L. Fan. How, Sir, your Senses fail you?

Wit. That’s a very bad sign, believe me.

Sir Pat. Oh, ay, for I can neither feel nor see this mighty growth you speak of. Falls into a Chair, with great signs of Disorder.

Wit. Alas, I’m sorry for that, Sir.

Rog. Sure, ’tis impossible, I’ll run and fetch a Glass, Sir. Offers to go.

L. Fan. Oh, stay, I wou’d not for the world he should see what a Monster he is,—and is like to be before to morrow. Aside.

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Rog. I’ll fit him with a Glass,—I’ll warrant ye, it shall advance our Design. Exit Roger.

Enter Maundy with the Clothes, she starts.

Maun. Good Heaven, what ails you, Sir?

Sir Pat. Oh—oh—’tis so.

Maun. Lord, how he’s swoln! see how his Stomach struts.

Sir Pat. Ah, ’tis true, though I perceive it not.

Maun. Not perceive it, Sir! put on your Clothes and be convinc’d,—try ’em, Sir. She pulls off his Gown, and puts on his Doublet and Coat, which come not near by a handful or more.

Sir Pat. Ah, it needs not,—mercy upon me!— Falls back.

I’m lost, I’m gone! Oh Man, what art thou but a Flower? I am poison’d, this talking Lady’s Breath’s infectious; methought I felt the Contagion steal into my Heart; send for my Physicians, and if I die I’ll swear she’s my Murderer: oh, see, see, how my trembling increases, oh, hold my Limbs, I die.—

Enter Roger with a magnifying Glass, shews him the Glass; he looks in it.

Rog. I’ll warrant I’ll shew his Face as big as a Bushel. Aside.

Sir Pat. Oh, oh,—I’m a dead Man, have me to Bed, I die away, undress me instantly, send for my Physicians, I’m poison’d, my Bowels burn, I have within an Ætna, my Brains run round, Nature within me reels. They carry him out in a Chair.

Wit. And all the drunken Universe does run on Wheels, ha, ha, ha.

Ah, my dear Creature, how finely thou hast brought him to his Journy’s end!

L. Fan. There was no other way but this to have secur’d my Happiness with thee; there needs no more than that 44 you come anon to the Garden Back-gate, where you shall find admittance;—Sir Patient is like to lie alone to night.

Wit. Till then ’twill be a thousand Ages.

ACT III.

Scene I.

Scene draws off to a room in Sir Patient Fancy’s house, and discovers Lady Knowell, Isabella, Lucretia, Lodwick, Leander, Wittmore, Sir Credulous, other Men and Women, as going to dance.

L. Kno. Come, one Dance more, and then I think we shall have sufficiently teaz’d the Alderman, and ’twill be time to part.—Sir Credulous, where’s your Mistress?

Sir Cred. Within a Mile of an Oak, dear Madam, I’ll warrant you.—Well, I protest and vow, sweet Lady, you dance most nobly,—Why, you dance—like—like a—like a hasty Pudding, before Jove.

They dance some Antick, or Rustick Antick. Lodwick speaking to Isabella.

SONG made by a Gentleman.

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Lod. Well, have you consider’d of that Business yet, Isabella?

Isab. What business?

Lod. Of giving me admittance to night.

Isab. And may I trust your honesty?

Lod. Oh, doubt me not, my mother’s resolv’d it shall be a match between you and I, and that very consideration will secure thee: besides, who would first sully the Linen they mean to put on?

Isab. Away, here’s my Mother.

Enter Lady Fancy and Maundy.

L. Fan. Madam, I beg your pardon for my absence, the effects of my Obedience, not Will; but Sir Patient is taken very ill o’th’ sudden, and I must humbly intreat your Ladyship to retire, for Rest is only essential to his Recovery.

L. Kno. Congruously spoken, upon my Honour. Oh, the impudence of this Fellow your Ladyship’s Husband, to espouse so fair a Person only to make a Nurse of!

L. Fan. Alas, Madam!—

L. Kno. A Slave, a very Houshold Drudge.—Oh, faugh, come never grieve;—for, Madam, his Disease is nothing but Imagination, a Melancholy which arises from the Liver, Spleen, and Membrane call’d Mesenterium; the Arabians name the Distemper Myrathial, and we here in England, Hypochondriacal Melancholy; I cou’d prescribe a most potent Remedy, but that I am loth to stir the Envy of the College.

L. Fan. Really, Madam, I believe—

L. Kno. But as you say, Madam, we’ll leave him to his Repose; pray do not grieve too much.

Lod. Death! wou’d I had the consoling her, ’tis a charming Woman!

L. Kno. Mr. Fancy, your Hand; Madam, your most faithful Servant.—Lucretia, come, Lucretia.—Your Servant, Ladies and Gentleman.

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L. Fan. A Devil on her, wou’d the Nimbleness of her Ladyship’s Tongue were in her Heels, she wou’d make more haste away: oh, I long for the blest minute.

Lod. Isabella, shall I find admittance anon?

Isab. On fair Conditions.

Lod. Trust my Generosity.—Madam, your Slave. Ex. To L. Fan. gazing on her, goes out.

Sir Cred. Madam, I wou’d say something of your Charms and celestial Graces, but that all Praises are as far below you, as the Moon in her Opposition is below the Sun;—and so, luscious Lady, I am yours: Now for my Serenade—

Ex. all but L. Fan. and Maundy.

L. Fan. Maundy, have you commanded all the Servants to bed?

Maun. Yes, Madam, not a Mouse shall stir, and I have made ready the Chamber next the Garden for your Ladyship.

L. Fan. Then there needs no more but that you wait for Wittmore’s coming to the Garden-Gate, and take care no Lights be in the House for fear of Eyes.

Maun. Madam, I understand Lovers are best by dark, and shall be diligent: the Doctor has secur’d Sir Patient by a sleeping Pill, and you are only to expect your approaching Happiness.

Exeunt.

Scene II. Lady Knowell’s Chamber.

Enter Lady Knowell and Leander.

L. Kno. Leander, raise your Soul above that little trifle Lucretia;—cannot you guess what better Fate attends you? fy, how dull you are! must I instruct you in plain right-down Terms? and tell you, that I propose you Master of my Fortune.—Now possibly you understand me.

Enter Lucretia, and peeps.

Lucr. All that will not do your Business. Aside.

L. Kno. Yet you wou’d have my Daughter take you with all these Faults; they’re Virtues there, but to the name of Mother, they all turn retrograde: I can endure a Man

Lean. Madam, you have enough to engage any unconquer’d Heart; but ’twas, I thought, with your allowance I dispos’d of mine, and ’tis a Heart that knows not how to change.

L. Kno. Then ’tis a foolish unambitious Heart, unworthy of the Elevation it has not glorious Pride enough to aim at:—Farewel, Sir,—when you are wiser, you may find admittance. Goes out.

Lean. Stay, Madam—

Enter Lucretia.

Lucr. For what? to hear your Penitence! Forgive me, Madam, I will be a Villain, forget my Vows of Love, made to Lucretia.

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Lean. Do, triumph o’er a wretched Man, Lucretia.

Lucr. How! wretched in loving me so entirely, or that you cannot marry my Mother, and be Master of her mighty Fortune? ’Tis a Temptation indeed so between Love and Interest, hang me if ever I saw so simple a Look as you put on when my Mother made love to you.

Lean. You may easily guess the Confusion of a Man in my Circumstances, to be languishing for the lov’d Daughter, and pursu’d by the hated Mother, whom if I refuse will ruin all my hopes of thee.

Lucr. Refuse her! I hope you have more Wit.

Lean. Lucretia, cou’d she make a Monarch of me, I cou’d not marry her.

Lucr. And you wou’d be so wise to tell her so?

Lean. I wou’d no more abuse her, than I cou’d love her.

Lucr. Yet that last must be done.

Lean. How!

Lucr. Dost believe me so wicked to think I mean in earnest? No, tell her a fine Story of Love and Liking, gaze on her, kiss her Hands, and sigh, commend her Face and Shape, swear she’s the Miracle of the Age for Wit, cry up her Learning, vow you were an Ass not to be sensible of her Perfections all this while; what a Coxcomb, to doat upon the Daughter when such Charms were so visible in the Mother? Faith, she’ll believe all this.

Lean. It may be so, but what will all this serve for?

Lucr. To give us time and opportunity to deceive her, or I’m mistaken.

Lean. I cannot teach my Tongue so much Deceit.

Lucr. You may be a Fool, and cry, Indeed forsooth I cannot love, for alas I have lost my Heart, and am unworthy of your proffer’d Blessings—do, and see her marry me in spite to this Fop Easy, this Knight of Nonsense: no, no, dissemble me handsomely and like a Gentleman, and then expect your good Fortune.

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Enter Antick.

Ant. Madam, your Mother’s coming.

Lucr. Away then, she must not see us together, she thinks you gone.

Lean. But must I carry off no Comfort with me?

Lucr. Will you expose me to the incens’d Jealousy of a Parent? go, or I shall hate ye.

Thrusts him out.

  Scene III. A Garden. 

Enter Maundy by dark: Opens the Garden-Door.

Maun. Now am I return’d to my old Trade again, fetch and carry my Lady’s Lovers; I was afraid when she had been married, these Night-works wou’d have ended; but to say truth, there’s a Conscience to be used in all things, and there’s no reason she should languish with an old Man when a Young Man may be had.—The Door opens, he’s come.—

Enter Lodwick.

I see you’re a punctual Lover, Sir, pray follow me as softly as you can.

Lod. This is some one whom I perceive Isabella has made the Confident to our Amours.

Exeunt.

Scene IV. Draws off, and discovers L. Fancy in her Night-gown, in a Chamber as by the dark.

L. Fan. Oh, the agreeable Confusion of a Lover high with expectation of the approaching Bliss! What Tremblings between Joy and Fear possess me? All my whole Soul is taken up with Wittmore; I’ve no Ideas, no Thoughts but of Wittmore, and sure my Tongue can speak no other Language, but his Name.—Who’s there?

Enter Maundy leading Lodwick.

Maun. Madam, ’tis I, and your expected Lover here—I put him into your hands, and will wait your Commands in the next Chamber. Exit Maun.

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Lod. Where are you, my dearest Creature?

L. Fan. Here—give me your Hand, I’ll lead you to those Joys we both so long have sigh’d for.

Lod. Hah! to Joys; sure she doth but dally with me. Aside.

L. Fan. Why come you not on, my dear?

Lod. And yet, why this Admission, and is th’ dark too, if she design’d me none but virtuous Favours?—What damn’d Temptation’s this?

L. Fan. Are you bewitch’d? what is’t that frights you?

Of an insuing Infamy—I hate to cuckold my own Expectations.

L. Fan. Heavens! what can you mean?

Lod. Death, what’s this?—sure ’tis not Virtue in me,—Pray Heaven it be not Impotence!—Where got I this damn’d Honesty, which I never found my self master of till now!—why shou’d it seize me when I had least need on’t?

L. Fan. What ails you? are you mad?—we are safe, and free as Winds let loose to ruffle all the Groves; what is’t delays you then? Soft.

Lod. Pox o’ this thought of Wife, the very Name destroys my appetite.

L. Fan. Tell me the Mystery of this sudden Coldness: have I kept my Husband in Town for this? Nay, persuaded him to be very sick to serve our purpose, and am I thus rewarded—ungrateful Man!

Lod. Hah,—’tis not Isabella’s Voice,—your Husband, say you? Takes hold greedily of her Hand.

L. Fan. Follow me then with careful Silence,—for Isabella’s Chamber joins to this, and she may hear us.

Exeunt.

Scene V. Changes again to a Garden.

Enter Isabella and Fanny in their Night-gowns.

Isab. Well, I have no mind to let this dear mad Devil Lodwick in to night.

Fan. Why, Sister, this is not the first Venture you have made of this kind, at this Hour, and in this Place; these Arbours were they tell-tales, cou’d discover many pretty stories of your Loves, and do you think they’ll be less faithful now? pray trust them once again. Oh, I do so love to hear Mr. Lodwick protest, and vow, and swear, and dissemble, and when you don’t believe him, rail at you,—avads, ’tis the prettiest Man—

Isab. I have a strange apprehension of being surpriz’d to night.

Fan. I’ll warrant you, I’ll sit on yon Bank of Pinks, and when I hear a Noise I’ll come and tell you; so Lodwick may slip out at the back Gate, and we may be walking up and down as if we meant no harm.

Isab. You’ll grow very expert in the Arts of Love, Fanny.

Fan. When I am big enough I shall do my Endeavour, for I have heard you say, Women were born to no other 52 end than to love: And ’tis fit I should learn to live and die in my calling.—Come, open the Gate, or you’ll repent it, we shall have my Father marry you within a day or two to that ugly Man that speaks hard Words,—avads, I can’t abide him.

Isab. What Noise is that?

Fan. Why, ’tis Mr. Lodwick at the Garden-Door;—let him in whilst I’ll to my flowry Bank, and stand Centinel.— Runs off. Isabella opens the Gate.

Enter Wittmore.

Wit. Who’s there?

Isab. Speak low, who shou’d it be but the kind Fool her self, who can deny you nothing but what you dare not take?

Wit. Hah! Isabella! Death, I have made sweet work,—stay, gentle Maid,—she’ll ruin all if she go:—stay—she knew me, and cunningly drew me to this Discovery; I’ll after her and undeceive her.

Runs after her.

A confused Noise of the Serenade, the
Scene VI draws off to Lady Fancy’s Anti-chamber.

Enter Isabella groping as in the dark.

Isab. Pray Heaven I get undiscover’d to my Chamber, where I’ll make Vows against this perjured Man; hah, sure he follows still; no Wood-Nymph ever fled before a Satyr, with half that trembling haste I flew from Lodwick.—Oh, he has lost his Virtue, and undone me.

Goes out groping, and the noise of Serenade again.

Scene VII. Changes to Lady Fancy’s Bed-chamber, discovers her as before; Lodwick as just risen in Disorder from the Bed, buttoning himself, and setting himself in order; and Noise at the Door of unlatching it.

Enter Isabella groping, Sir Patient without.

L. Fan. It is this Door that open’d, and which I thought I had secur’d.

Sir Pat. Within. Oh, insupportable, abominable, and not to be indur’d!

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Isab. Hah, my Father! I’m discover’d and pursu’d,—grant me to find the Bed.

L. Fan. Heavens! ’twas my Husband’s Voice, sure we’re betray’d. It must be so, for what Devil but that of Jealousy cou’d raise him at this late hour?

Isab. Hah, where am I, and who is’t that speaks— To her self.

Lod. So, he must know that I have made a Cuckold of him. Aside.

Sir Pat. Within. Call up my Men, the Coachman, Groom, and Butler, the Footmen, Cook, and Gardiner; bid ’em all rise and arm, with long Staff, Spade and Pitchfork, and sally out upon the Wicked.

Lod. S’heart! what a Death shall I die:—is there no place of safety hereabouts—for there is no resisting these unmerciful Weapons.

Isab. A Man’s Voice!

L. Fan. I know of none, nor how to prevent your Discovery.

Sir Pat. Within. Oh, oh, lead me forward, I’ll lie here on the Garden-side, out of the hearing of this Hellish Noise.

L. Fan. Hah, Noise!—what means he?

Lod. Nay, I know not, is there no escaping?—

Isab. Who can they be that talk thus? sure I have mistook my Chamber.

L. Fan. Oh, he’s coming in—I’m ruin’d; what shall we do? here—get into the Bed—and cover your self with the Clothes—quickly—oh, my Confusion will betray me.

Lodwick gets into the Bed, Isabella hides behind the Curtain very near to him.

Enter Sir Patient, led by Nurse and Maundy, with Lights.

Maun. Pray go back, Sir, my poor Lady will be frighted out of her Wits at this danger you put your self into, the Noise shall be still’d.

55

L. Fan. Oh, what’s the matter with my Love? what, do you mean to murder him? oh, lead him instantly back to his Bed.

Sir Pat. Oh, oh, no, I’ll lie here,—put me to bed, oh, I faint,—my Chamber’s possest with twenty thousand Evil Spirits.

L. Fan. Possest! what sickly Fancy’s this?

Sir Pat. Ah, the House is beset, surrounded and confounded with profane tinkling, with Popish Horn-Pipes, and Jesuitical Cymbals, more Antichristian and Abominable than Organs, or Anthems.

Nurse. Yea verily, and surely it is the spawn of Cathedral Instruments plaid on by Babylonish Minstrels, only to disturb the Brethren.

Sir Pat. Ay, ’tis so, call up my Servants, and let them be first chastiz’d and then hang’d; accuse ’em for French Papishes, that had a design to fire the City, or any thing:—oh, I shall die—lead me gently to this Bed.

L. Fan. To hinder him will discover all:—stay, Sir.—

Sir Pat. Hah, my Lady turn’d rebellious!—put me to Bed I say;— Throws himself forward to the Bed. —hah—what’s here?—what are thou,—a Man,—hah, a Man, Treason! betray’d! my Bed’s defil’d, my Lady polluted, and I am cornuted; oh thou vile Serpent of my Bosom!

She stands with her Face towards the Stage in signs of fear.

Isab. A Man, and in my virtuous Lady Mother’s Chamber! how fortunate was I to light on this discovery!

L. Fan. Well, Sir, since you have seen him, I beseech you for my sake, Dear, pardon him this one time. Coakesing him.

Sir Pat. Thou beg his Pardon! Oh, was ever heard such Impudence!

L. Fan. Indeed, my Love, he is to blame; but we that are judicious should bear with the Frailities of Youth.

Sir Pat. Oh insupportable Audacity!—what canst thou say, false Woman?

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L. Fan. Truly not much in his Defence, my Dear.

Isab. Oh cunning Devil!—

L. Fan. But, Sir, to hide the weakness of your Daughter, I have a little strain’d my Modesty.—

Isab. Heavens! what says she?—

L. Fan. ’Tis Isabella’s Lover, Sir, whom I’ve conceal’d.

Lod. A good hint to save both our Credits.

Sir Pat. How, Mr. Fainlove mean you?

Lodwick rises and comes a little more forward, Isabella does the like, till both meet at the feet of the Bed, and start, Lodwick looking simply.

L. Fan. Ay, my dear, Mr. Fainlove.

Lod. Isabella here! must she know too what a fine inconstant Dog I am?—

Isab. Lodwick! and in my Mother’s Chamber! may I believe my Eyes!

Sir Pat. But how got he hither?—tell me that: oh Youth, Youth, to what degree of Wickedness art thou arriv’d?

L. Fan. She appointed him to come this Night, Sir, and he going to her Chamber, by mistake came into mine, it being the next to her’s.

Maun. But, Lord, Sir, had you heard how my Lady school’d him, whilst I ran down to fetch a Light!

Lod. Now does my Conscience tell me, I am a damn’d Villain.— Aside, looking pitifully on Isabella.

L. Fan. But the poor Man presently perceiv’d his mistake, and beg’d my pardon in such feeling Terms—that I vow I had not the heart to deny it him.

Isab. Oh Traytor! wou’d thou hadst been that Ravisher I took thee for, rather than such a Villain—false! and with my Mother too!

L. Fan. And just then, Sir, you came to the Door, and lest you shou’d see him, intreated me to hide him from your Anger,—the Offence is not so heinous, Sir, considering he is so soon to marry her.

57

Sir Pat. Well, Sir, and what have you to say in your Defence?—hah, how, Mr. Knowell,—worse and worse,—why, how came you hither, Sir? hah.—

L. Fan. Not Wittmore! oh, I am ruin’d and betray’d. Falls almost in a swoon.

Sir Pat. Hah, Isabella here too!

Isab. Yes, Sir, to justify her Innocence.

Sir Pat. Hah! Innocence! and justify! take her away; go out of my sight, thou Limb of Satan,—take her away, I say, I’ll talk with you to morrow, Lady Finetricks—I will.—

Isab. —And I’ll know before I sleep, the mystery of all this, and who ’twas this faithless Man sent in his room to deceive me in the Garden. Goes out.

Lod. A plague of all ill-luck—how the Devil came she hither? I must follow and reconcile her. Going out, Sir Patient stays him.

Sir Pat. Nay, Sir, we must not part so till I have known the truth of this Business, I take it.

Lod. Truth, Sir! oh, all that your fair Lady has said, Sir; I must confess her Eyes have wounded me enough with Anger, you need not add more to my Shame.—

L. Fan. Some little comfort yet, that he prov’d indeed to be Isabella’s Lover: Oh, that I should mistake so unluckily! Aside.

Sir Pat. Why, I thought it had been Mr. Fainlove.

L. Fan. By all that’s good, and so did I.

Lod. I know you did, Madam, or you had not been so kind to me: Your Servant, dear Madam.— Going, Sir Patient stays him.

L. Fan. Pray, Sir, let him go; oh, how I abominate the sight of a Man that cou’d be so wicked as he has been!

Sir Pat. Ha,—good Lady, excellent Woman: well, Sir, for my Lady’s sake I’ll let you pass with this, but if I catch you here again, I shall spoil your Intrigues, Sir, marry, shall I, and so rest ye satisfied, Sir.—

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Lod. At this time, I am, Sir—Madam, a thousand Blessings on you for this Goodness.

L. Fan. Ten thousand Curses upon thee,—go, boast the Ruin you have made. Aside to Lod.

Sir Pat. Come, no more Anger now, my Lady; the Gentleman’s sorry you see, I’ll marry my pert Huswife to morrow for this.—Maundy, see the Gentleman safe out:—ah, put me to Bed; ah, this Night’s Work will kill me, ah, ah.

Exeunt Lodwick and Maundy.

The Scene draws over Sir Patient and Lady: draws again and discovers
Scene VIII. The Garden, Wittmore, Fanny, and Isabella.

Isab. How, Mr. Fainlove, it cannot be.

Fan. Indeed, Sister, ’tis the same, for all he talks so; and he told me his coming was but to try your Virtue only.

Enter Lodwick and Maundy as passing over, but stand.

Isab. That Fainlove! whom I am so soon to marry! and but this day courted me in another Dialect!

Wit. That was my Policy, Madam, to pass upon your Father with. But I’m a Man that knows the value of the Fair, and saw Charms of Beauty and of Wit in you, that taught me to know the way to your Heart was to appear my self, which now I do. Why did you leave me so unkindly but now?

Lod. Hah, what’s this? whilst I was grafting Horns on another’s Head, some kind Friend was doing that good Office for me.

Maun. Sure ’tis Wittmore!—oh that Dissembler—this was his Plot upon my Lady, to gain time with Isabella. Aside.

Wit. And being so near my Happiness, can you blame me, if I made a trial whether your Virtue were agreeable to your Beauty, great, and to be equally ador’d?

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Lod. Death, I’ve heard enough to forfeit all my Patience!—Draw, Sir, and make a trial of your Courage too.—

Wit. Hah, what desperate Fool art thou? Draws.

Lod. One that will see thee fairly damn’d, e’er yield his Interest up in Isabella—oh thou false Woman!

They fight out, Isabella, Fanny, and Maundy run off.

Scene IX. Changes to the long Street, a Pageant of an Elephant coming from the farther end with Sir Credulous on it, and several others playing on strange confused Instruments.

Sir Cred. This sure is extraordinary, or the Devil’s in’t, and I’ll ne’er trust Serenade more. Come forward, and all play again.

—Hold, hold, now for the Song, which because I wou’d have most deliciously and melodiously sung, I’ll sing my self; look ye,—hum—hum.—

Sir Credulous should have sung.

—Well, this won’t do, for I perceive no Window open, nor Lady bright appear, to talk obligingly:—perhaps the Song does not please her: you Ballad-singers, have you no good Songs of another fashion?

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1 Man. Yes, Sir, Several, Robin—Hark how the Waters fall, fall, fall!

Sir Cred. How, Man! Zoz, remove us farther off, for fear of wetting.

1 Man. No, no, Sir, I only gave my Fellow a hint of an excellent Ballad that begins—Ill-wedded Joys, how quickly do you fade! Sings.

Sir Cred. Ay, ay, that, we’ll have that,—Ill-wedded Joys, how quickly do you fade,— Sings. That’s excellent! Oh, now the Windows open, now, now shew your capering Tricks. Vaulting. They all play again.

Enter Roger and a Company of Fellows as out of Sir Patient’s House, led on by Abel a precise Clerk, all armed with odd Weapons.

Abel. Verily, verily, here be these Babes of Perdition, these Children of Iniquity.

Rog. A pox of your Babes and Children, they are Men, and Sons of Whores, whom we must bang confoundedly, for not letting honest godly People rest quietly in their Beds at Midnight.

Sir Cred. Who’s there?

Rog. There, with a Pox to you; cannot a Right-worshipful Knight, that has been sick these Twenty Years with taking Physick, sleep quietly in his own House for you; and must we be rais’d out of our Beds to quiet your Hell-pipes, in the Devil’s name?

Abel. Down with Gog and Magog, there; there’s the rotten Bell weather that leads the rest astray, and defiles the whole Flock.

Rog. Hang your preaching, and let’s come to him, we’ll maul him. Beat Sir Cred.

Sir Cred. Oh, Quarter, Quarter, Murder, Help, Murder, Murder!

61

Enter Lodwick.

Lod. Damn these Rascals, who e’er they were, that so unluckily redeem’d a Rival from my Fury,—Hah, they are here,—Egad, I’ll have one touch more with ’em,—the Dogs are spoiling my design’d Serenade too—have amongst ye.— Fights and beats ’em off. Sir Credulous, how is’t?

Sir Cred. Who’s there? Lodwick? Oh dear Lad, is’t thou that hast redeem’d me from the inchanted Cudgels that demolish’d my triumphant Pageant, and confounded my Serenade? Zoz, I’m half kill’d, Man,—I have never a whole Bone about me sure.

Lod. Come in with me—a plague upon the Rascal that escap’d me.

Exeunt.

ACT IV.

Scene I. Lady Knowell’s House.

Enter Lucretia, followed by Sir Credulous.

Lucr. Marry’d to morrow! and leave my Mother the possession of Leander! I’ll die a thousand Deaths first.—How the Fool haunts me! Aside.

Sir Cred. Nay, delicious Lady, you may say your Pleasure; but I will justify the Serenade to be as high a piece of Gallantry as was ever practised in our Age, though not comparable to your Charms and celestial Graces, which shou’d I praise as I ought, ’twou’d require more time than the Sun employs in his natural Motion between the Tropicks; that is to say, a whole Year, (for by the way, I am no Copernican) for, Dear Madam, you must know, my Rhetorick Master,—I say, my Rhetorick Master, who was—

Lucr. As great a Coxcomb as your self;—pray leave me, I am serious—I must go seek out Lodwick.

Sir Cred. Leave ye! I thank you for that, i’faith, before I have spoke out my Speech; therefore I say, Divine Lady—because my Rhetorick Master commanded the frequent 62 use of Hypallages, Allegories, and the richest Figures of that beauteous Art,—because my Rhetorick—

Lucr. I must leave the Fool, follow if you dare, for I have no leisure to attend your Nonsense. Goes out.

Enter Lady Knowell.

L. Kno. What, alone, Sir Credulous? I left you with Lucretia.

Sir Cred. Lucretia! I’m sure she makes a very Tarquinius Sextus of me, and all about this Serenade,—I protest and vow, incomparable Lady, I had begun the sweetest Speech to her—though I say’t, such Flowers of Rhetorick—’twou’d have been the very Nosegay of Eloquence, so it wou’d; and like an ungrateful illiterate Woman as she is, she left me in the very middle on’t, so snuffy I’ll warrant.

L. Kno. Be not discourag’d, Sir, I’ll adapt her to a reconciliation: Lovers must sometimes expect these little Belli fugaces; the Grecians therefore truly named Love Glucupicros Eros.

Sir Cred. Nay, bright Lady, I am as little discourag’d as another, but I’m sorry I gave so extraordinary a Serenade to so little purpose.

L. Kno. Name it no more, ’twas only a Gallantry mistaken; but I’ll accelerate your Felicity, and to morrow shall conclude the great dispute, since there is such Volubility and Vicissitude in mundane Affairs. Goes out.

Enter Lodwick, stays Sir Credulous as he is going out the other way.

Lod. Sir Credulous, whither away so fast?

Sir Cred. Zoz, what a Question’s there? dost not know I am to unty the Virgin Zone to morrow, that is, barter Maiden-heads with thy Sister, that is, to be married to her, Man, and I must to Lincolns-Inn to my Counsel about it?

Lod. My Sister just now told me of it; but, Sir, you must not stir.

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Sir Cred. Why, what’s the matter?

Lod. Have you made your Will?

Sir Cred. My Will! no, why my Will, Man?

Lod. Then, for the good of your Friends and Posterity, stir not from this place.

Sir Cred. Good Lord, Lodwick, thou art the strangest Man,—what do you mean to fright a body thus?

Lod. You remember the Serenade last night?

Sir Cred. Remember it? Zoz, I think I do, here be the marks on’t sure.— Pulls off his Peruke, and shews his Head broke.

Lod. Ads me, your Head’s broke.

Sir Cred. My Head broke! why, ’twas a hundred to one but my Neck had been broke.

Lod. Faith, not unlikely,—you know the next House is Sir Patient Fancy’s; Isabella too, you know, is his Daughter.

Sir Cred. Yes, yes, she was by when I made my dumb Oration.

Lod. The same,—this Lady has a Lover, a mad, furious, fighting, killing Hector, (as you know there are enough about this Town) this Monsieur supposing you to be a Rival, and that your Serenade was address’d to her—

Sir Cred. Enough, I understand you, set those Rogues on to murder me.

Lod. Wou’d ’twere no worse.

Sir Cred. Worse! Zoz, Man, what the Devil can be worse?

Lod. Why, he has vow’d to kill you himself wherever he meets you, and now waits below to that purpose.

Sir Cred. Sha, sha, if that be all, I’ll to him immediately, and make Affidavit I never had any such design. Madam Isabella! ha, ha, alas, poor man, I have some body else to think on.

Lod. Affidavit! why, he’ll not believe you, should you swear your Heart out: some body has possess’d him that 64 you are a damn’d Fool, and a most egregious Coward, a Fellow that to save your Life will swear any thing.

Sir Cred. What cursed Luck’s this!—why, how came he to know I liv’d here?

Lod. I believe he might have it from Leander, who is his Friend.

Sir Cred. Leander! I must confess I never lik’d that Leander since yesterday.

Lod. He has deceiv’d us all, that’s the truth on’t; for I have lately found out too, that he’s your Rival, and has a kind of a—

Sir Cred. Smattering to my Mistress, hah, and therefore wou’d not be wanting to give me a lift out of this World; but I shall give her such a go-by—my Lady Knowell understands the difference between three Thousand a Year, and—prithee what’s his Estate?

Lod. Shaw—not sufficient to pay Surgeons Bills.

Sir Cred. Alas, poor Rat, how does he live then?

Lod. Hang him, the Ladies keep him; ’tis a good handsome Fellow, and has a pretty Town-Wit.

Sir Cred. He a Wit! what, I’ll warrant he writes Lampoons, rails at Plays, curses all Poetry but his own, and mimicks the Players—ha.

Lod. Some such common Notions he has that deceives the ignorant Rabble, amongst whom he passes for a very smart Fellow,—’life, he’s here.

Enter Leander.

Sir Cred. Why, what shall I do, he will not affront me before Company? hah!

Lod. Not in our House, Sir,—bear up and take no notice on’t. Lod. whispers Lean.

Sir Cred. No notice, quoth he? why, my very Fears will betray me.

Lean. Let me alone—Lodwick, I met just now with an Italian Merchant, who has made me such a Present!

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Lod. What is’t prithee?

Lean. A Sort of specifick Poison for all the Senses, especially for that of smelling; so that had I a Rival, and I should see him at any reasonable distance, I could direct a little of this Scent up to his Brain so subtlely, that it shall not fail of Execution in a day or two.

Sir Cred. How—Poison! Shewing great Signs of Fear, and holding his Nose.

Lean. Nay, shou’d I see him in the midst of a thousand People, I can so direct it, that it shall assault my Enemy’s Nostrils only, without any effects on the rest of the Company.

Sir Cred. Oh,—I’m a dead Man!

Lod. Is’t possible?

Lean. Perhaps some little sneezing or so, no harm; but my Enemy’s a dead Man, Sir, kill’d.

Sir Cred. Why, this is the most damn’d Italian Trick I ever heard of; why, this outdoes the famous Poisoner Madam Brenvilliers; well, here’s no jesting, I perceive that, Lodwick.

Lod. Fear nothing, I’ll secure you. Aside to him.

Enter Wittmore.

—Wittmore! how is’t, Friend! thou lookest cloudy.

Wit. You’ll hardly blame me, Gentlemen, when you shall know what a damn’d unfortunate Rascal I am.

Lod. Prithee what’s the matter?

Wit. Why, I am to be marry’d, Gentlemen, marry’d to day.

Lod. How, marry’d! nay, Gad, then thou’st reason; but to whom prithee?

Wit. There’s the Devil on’t again, to a fine young fair, brisk Woman, that has all the Temptations Heaven can give her.

Lod. What pity ’tis they shou’d be bestow’d to so wicked an end! Is this your Intrigue, that has been so long conceal’d from your Friends?

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Lean. We thought it had been some kind Amour, something of Love and Honour.

Lod. Is she rich? if she be wondrous rich, we’ll excuse thee.

Wit. Her Fortune will be suitable to the Jointure I shall make her.

Lod. Nay then ’tis like to prove a hopeful Match; what a Pox can provoke thee to this, dost love her?

Wit. No, there’s another Plague, I am cursedly in love elsewhere; and this was but a false Address, to hide that real one.

Lod. How, love another? in what quality and manner?

Wit. As a Man ought to love, with a good substantial Passion, without any design but that of right-down honest Injoyment.

Lod. Ay, now we understand thee, this is something. Ah Friend, I had such an Adventure last Night.—You may talk of your Intrigues and substantial Pleasures, but if any of you can match mine,—Egad, I’ll forswear Womankind.

Lean. An Adventure! prithee where?

Sir Cred. What, last Night, when you rescued me from the Bilbo-Blades! indeed ye look’d a little furiously.

Lod. I had reason, I was just then come out of a Garden from fighting with a Man whom I found with my Mistress; and I had at least known who’t had been, but for the coming of those Rascals that set on you, who parted us, whilst he made his escape in the Croud.

Wit. Death! that was I, who for fear of being known got away: was’t he then that I fought with, and whom I learnt lov’d Isabella? Aside.

Lod. You must know, Gentlemen, I have a sort of a matrimonial Kindness for a very pretty Woman, she whom I tell you I disturb’d in the Garden, and last night she made me an Assignation in her Chamber: when I came to the Garden-door by which I was to have admittance, I found a kind of Necessary call’d a Baudy 67 Waiting-Woman, whom I follow’d, and thought she wou’d have conducted me to the right Woman; but I was luckily and in the dark led into a Lady’s Chamber, who took me for a Lover she expected: I found my happy mistake, and wou’d not undeceive her.

Wit. This could be none but Lucia. Aside.

—Well, Sir, and what did you do there?

Lod. Do! why, what dost think? all that a Man inspir’d by Love cou’d do, I followed all the dictates of Nature, Youth, and Vigor.

Wit. Oh, hold, my Heart—or I shall kill the Traitor. Aside.

Sir Cred. Follow’d all the dictates of Nature, Youth and Vigor! prithee what’s that?

Lod. I kiss’d a thousand times her balmy Lips, and greedily took in the nimble Sighs she breath’d into my Soul.

Wit. Oh, I can scarce contain my self. Aside.

Sir Cred. Pshaw, is that all, Man?

Sir Cred. Bless us, the Man’s in a Rapture!

Wit. Damnation on them both.

Sir Cred. Well, to the point, Man: what didst do all this while?

Lean. Faith, I fancy he did not sleep, Sir Credulous.

Lod. No, Friend, she had too many Charms to keep me waking.

Sir Cred. Had she so? I shou’d have beg’d her Charms pardon, I tell her that though.

Wit. Curse on my Sloth, Oh, how shall I dissemble? Aside.

Lean. Thy Adventure was pretty lucky—but, Wittmore, thou dost not relish it.

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Wit. My Mind’s upon my Marriage, Sir; if I thought he lov’d Isabella, I wou’d marry her to be reveng’d on him, at least I’ll vex his Soul, as he has tortur’d mine.—Well, Gentlemen, you’ll dine with me,—and give me your opinion of my Wife.

Lod. Where dost thou keep the Ceremony?

Wit. At Sir Patient Fancy’s, my Father-in-law. 

Lod. How! Sir Patient Fancy to be your Father-in-law?

Lean. My Uncle?

Wit. He’s fir’d,—’tis his Daughter, Sir, I am to marry.—

Lod. Isabella! Leander, can it be? can she consent to this? and can she love you?

Wit. Why, Sir, what do you see in me, shou’d render me unfit to be belov’d? Angry.

Lod. Marry’d to day! by Heaven, it must not be, Sir. Draws him aside.

Wit. Why, Sir, I hope this is not the kind Lady who was so soft, so sweet and charming last night.

Lod. Hold, Sir,—we yet are Friends.—

Wit. And might have still been so, hadst thou not basely rob’d me of my Interest.

Lod. Death, do you speak my Language? Ready to draw.

Wit. No, take a secret from my angry Heart, which all its Friendship to thee cou’d not make me utter;—it was my Mistress you surpriz’d last night.

Lod. Hah, my Lady Fancy his Mistress? Curse on my prating Tongue. Aside.

Sir Cred. What a Devil’s all this, hard Words, Heart-burnings, Resentments, and all that?

Lean. You are not quarrelling, I hope, my Friends?

Lod. All this, Sir, we suspected, and smok’d your borrowing Money last night; and what I said was to gain the mighty secret that had been so long kept from your Friends:—but thou hast done a baseness— Lays his Hand on his Sword.

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Lean. Hold, what’s the matter?

Wit. Did you not rob me of the Victory then I’ve been so long a toiling for?

Lod. If I had, ’twould not have made her guilty, nor me a Criminal; she taking me for one she lov’d, and I her for one that had no Interest in my Friend: and who the Devil wou’d have refus’d so fine a Woman? Nor had I but that I was prevented by her Husband.—But Isabella, Sir, you must resign.

Wit. I will, provided that our Friendship’s safe; I am this day to marry her, and if you can find a means to do’t in my room, I shall resign my Interest to my Friend; for ’tis the lovely Mother I adore.

Lod. And was it you I fought with in the Garden?

Wit. Yes, and thereby hangs a tale of a mistake almost equal to thine, which I’ll at leisure tell you. Talks to Lod. and Lean.

Sir Cred. I’m glad they’re Friends; Zoz, here was like to have been a pretty Business; what damnable work this same Womankind makes in a Nation of Fools that are Lovers?

Wit. Look ye, I am a damn’d dull Fellow at Invention, I’ll therefore leave you to contrive matters by your selves, whilst I’ll go try how kind Fortune will be to me this Morning, and see in what readiness my Bride is. What you do must be thought on suddenly; I’ll wait on you anon, and let you know how matters go.—I’m as impatient to know the truth of this, as for an opportunity to enjoy Lucia. Goes out.

Lod. Leander, what shall I do?

Lean. You were best consult your Mother and Sister; Women are best at Intrigues of this kind: But what becomes of me?

Lod. Let me alone to dispatch this Fool, I long to have him out of the way, he begins to grow troublesome:—but now my Mother expects you.

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Lean. Prithee be careful of me.— Exit Lean.

Sir Cred. What was this long Whisper, something about me?

Lod. Why, yes, faith, I was persuading him to speak to his Friend about this Business; but he swears there’s no hopes of a Reconciliation: you are a dead Man, unless some cleanly conveyance of you be soon thought on.

Sir Cred. Why, I’ll keep within doors, and defy Malice and foul Weather.

Lod. Oh, he means to get a Warrant, and search for stolen Goods, prohibited Commodities or Conventicles; there’s a thousand Civil Pretences in this Town to commit Outrages—let me see.— They both pause a while.

Sir Cred. Well, I have thought,—and of such a Business, that the Devil’s in’t if you don’t say I am a man of Intrigue.

Lod. What is’t?

Sir Cred. Ha, ha, ha, I must have leave to laugh to think how neatly I shall defeat this Son of a Whore of a thunder thumping Hector.

Lod. Be serious, Sir, this is no laughing matter; if I might advise, you should steal into the Country, for two or three days, till the Business be blown over.

Sir Cred. Lord, thou art so hasty and conceited of thy own Invention, thou wilt not give a Man leave to think in thy company: why, these were my very thoughts; nay more, I have found a way to get off clever, though he watch me as narrowly as an enraged Serjeant upon an Escape.

Lod. That indeed wou’d be a Master-piece.

Sir Cred. Why, look ye, do you see that great Basket there?

Lod. I do,—this you mean.— Pulls in a Basket.

Sir Cred. Very well, put me into this Basket, and cord me down, send for a couple of Porters, hoist me away with a Direction, to an old Uncle of mine, one Sir Anthony Bubleton at Bubleton-Hall in Essex; and then whip slap-dash, as Nokes says in the Play, I’m gone, and who’s the wiser?

Lod. I like it well.

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Sir Cred. Nay, lose no time in applauding, I’ll in, the Carrier goes this Morning; farewel, Lodwick.— Goes Into the Basket.

I’ll be here again on Thursday. Lod. writes a Direction.

Enter Boy.

Lod. By all means, Sir,—Who’s there,—call a couple of Porters. Exit Boy.

Sir Cred. One word more, the Carrier lies at the Bell in Friday-street, pray take care they set me not on my Head.— Pops in again.

Enter Boy and two Porters.

Lod. Come hither, cord up this Basket, and carry it where he shall direct.—Leander will never think he’s free from a Rival, till he have him in his possession—To Mr. Leander Fancy’s at the next door; say ’tis things for him out of the Country.—Write a Direction to him on the Basket-lid. Aside to the Boy.

Porters going to carry off the Basket on a long Pole between ’em.

Enter Lady Knowell.

L. Kno. What’s this? whither goes this Basket?

Sir Cred. Ah Lord! they are come with the Warrant. Peeps out of the Basket.

Lod. Only Books, Madam, offer’d me to buy, but they do not please me.

L. Kno. Books! nay then set down the Basket, Fellows, and let me peruse ’em; who are their Authors, and what their Language?

Sir Cred. A pox of all Learning, I say,—’tis my Mother-in-law. Porters going to set down the Basket.

Lod. Hold, hold, Madam, they are only English and some Law-French.

L. Kno. Oh, faugh, how I hate that vile sort of Reading! up with ’em again, Fellows, and away. The Porters take up and go out.

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Lod. God-a-mercy, Law-French. Aside.

L. Kno. Law-French! out upon’t, I cou’d find in my heart to have the Porters bring it back, and have it burnt for a Heresy to Learning.

Lod. Or thrown into the Thames, that it may float back to Normandy, to have the Language new modell’d.

L. Kno. You say well; but what’s all this ad Iphicli bonis, where’s Sir Credulous all this while? his Affairs expect him.

Lod. So does Leander your Ladyship within.

L. Kno. Leander! Hymen, Hymenæ, I’ll wait on him, Lodwick; I am resolv’d you shall marry Isabella too; I have a design in my head that cannot fail to give you the possession of her within this two or three hours.

Lod. Such an Indulgence will make me the happiest of Men, and I have something to say to your Ladyship that will oblige you to hasten the design.

L. Kno. Come in, and let me know it.

Exeunt.

Scene II. A Chamber in Sir Patient Fancy’s House.
A Table and Chairs.

Enter Lady Fancy in a Morning-dress, Maundy with Pen, Ink and Paper.

L. Fan. Wittmore in the Garden, sayst thou, with Isabella! Oh perjur’d Man! it was by his contrivance then I was betray’d last night.

Maun. I thought so too at first, Madam, till going to conduct Mr. Knowell through the Garden, he finding Mr. Wittmore there with Isabella drew on him, and they both fought out of the Garden: what mischief’s done I know not.—But, Madam, I hope Mr. Knowell was not uncivil to your Ladyship. I had no time to ask what pass’d between you.

L. Fan. Oh, name it not: I gave him all I had reserv’d for Wittmore. I was so possess’d with the thoughts of that 73 dear false one, I had no sense free to perceive the cheat:—but I will be reveng’d.—Come let me end my Letter, we are safe from interruption.

Maun. Yes, Madam, Sir Patient is not yet up, the Doctors have been with him, and tell him he is not so bad as we persuaded him.

L. Fan. And was he soft and kind?—By all that’s good, she loves him, and they contriv’d this meeting.—My Pen and Ink—I am impatient to unload my Soul of this great weight of Jealousy.— Sits down, and writes.

Enter Sir Patient, looking over her Shoulder a tip-toe.

Maun. Heaven! here’s Sir Patient, Madam.

L. Fan. Hah,—and ’tis too late to hide the Paper; I was just going to subscribe my Name.

Sir Pat. Good morrow, my Lady Fancy, your Ladyship is well employ’d, I see.

L. Fan. Indeed I was, and pleasantly too: I am writing a Love-letter, Sir.—But, my Dear, what makes you so soon up?

Sir Pat. A Love-letter!—let me see’t. Goes to take it.

L. Fan. I’ll read it to you, Sir.

Maun. What mean you, Madam? Aside.

Lady Fancy reads.

It was but yesterday you swore you lov’d me, and I poor easy Fool believ’d; but your last Night’s Infidelity has undeceiv’d my Heart, and render’d you the falsest Man that ever Woman sigh’d for. Tell me, how durst you, when I had prepared all things for our Enjoyment, be so great a Devil to deceive my languishing Expectations? and in your room send one that has undone

Your—

Maun. Sure she’s mad to read this to him.

Sir Pat. Hum,—I profess ingenuously—I think it is 74 indeed a Love-letter. My Lady Fancy, what means all this? as I take it, here are Riddles and Mysteries in this Business.

L. Fan. Which thus, Sir, I’ll unfold.— Takes the Pen, and writes Isabella.

Sir Pat. How! undone—Your—Isabella, meaning my Daughter?

L. Fan. Yes, my Dear, going this morning into her Chamber, she not being there, I took up a Letter that lay open on her Table, and out of curiosity read it; as near as I can remember ’twas to this purpose: I writ it out now, because I had a mind thou shou’dst see’t; for I can hide nothing from thee.

Sir Pat. A very good Lady, I profess! to whom is it directed?

L. Fan. Why,—Sir—What shall I say, I cannot lay it now on Lodwick— Aside.

I believe she meant it to Mr. Fainlove, for whom else cou’d it be design’d? she being so soon to marry him.

Sir Pat. Hah,—Mr. Fainlove! so soon so fond and amorous!

L. Fan. Alas, ’tis the excusable fault of all young Women, thou knowst I was just such another Fool to thee, so fond—and so in love.—

Sir Pat. Ha,—thou wert indeed, my Lady Fancy, indeed thou wert.—But I will keep the Letter however, that this idle Baggage may know I understand her Tricks and Intrigues. Puts up the Letter.

L. Fan. Nay then ’twill out: No, I beseech you, Sir, give me the Letter, I wou’d not for the World Isabella shou’d know of my theft, ’twou’d appear malicious in me:—Besides, Sir, it does not befit your Gravity to be concern’d in the little Quarrels of Lovers.

Sir Pat. Lovers! Tell me not of Lovers, my Lady Fancy; with Reverence to your good Ladyship, I value not whether there be Love between ’em or not. Pious 75 Wedlock is my Business,—nay, I will let him know his own too, that I will, with your Ladyship’s permission.

L. Fan. How unlucky I am!—Sir, as to his Chastisement, use your own discretion, in which you do abound most plentifully. But pray let not Isabella hear of it; for as I wou’d preserve my Duty to thee, by communicating all things to thee, so I wou’d conserve my good Opinion with her.

Sir Pat. Ah, what a Blessing I possess in so excellent a Wife! and in regard I am every day descending to my Grave.—ah—I will no longer hide from thee the Provision I have made for thee, in case I die.—

L. Fan. This is the Musick that I long’d to hear.—Die!—Oh, that fatal Word will kill me— Weeps.

Name it no more, if you’d preserve my Life.

Sir Pat. Hah—now cannot I refrain joining with her in affectionate Tears.—No, but do not weep for me, my excellent Lady, for I have made a pretty competent Estate for thee. Eight thousand Pounds, which I have conceal’d in my Study behind the Wainscot on the left hand as you come in.

L. Fan. Oh, tell me not of transitory Wealth, for I’m resolv’d not to survive thee. Eight thousand Pound say you?—Oh, I cannot endure the thoughts on’t. Weeps.

Sir Pat. Eight thousand Pounds just, my dearest Lady.

L. Fan. Oh, you’ll make me desperate in naming it,—is it in Gold or Silver?

Sir Pat. In Gold, my dearest, the most part, the rest in Silver.

L. Fan. Good Heavens! why should you take such pleasure in afflicting me? Weeps. —Behind the Wainscot say you?

Sir Pat. Behind the Wainscot, prithee be pacified,—thou makest me lose my greatest Virtue, Moderation, to see thee thus: alas, we’re all born to die.—

L. Fan. Again of dying! Uncharitable Man, why do 76 you delight in tormenting me?—On the left hand, say you as you go in?

Sir Pat. On the left hand, my Love: had ever Man such a Wife?

L. Fan. Oh, my Spirits fail me—lead me, or I shall faint,—lead me to the Study, and shew me where ’tis,—for I am able to hear no more of it.

Sir Pat. I will, if you will promise indeed and indeed, not to grieve too much. Going to lead her out.

Enter Wittmore.

Wit. Heaven grant me some kind opportunity to speak with Lucia! hah, she’s here,—and with her the fond Cuckold her Husband.—Death, he has spy’d me, there’s no avoiding him.—

Sir Pat. Oh, are you there, Sir?—Maundy, look to my Lady,—I take it, Sir, you have not dealt well with a Person of my Authority and Gravity. Gropes for the Letter in his pocket.

Wit. So this can be nothing less than my being found out to be no Yorkshire Esq; a Pox of my Geneva Breeding; it must be so, what the Devil shall I say now?

Sir Pat. And this disingenuous dealing does ill become the Person you have represented, I take it.

Wit. Represented! ay, there ’tis, wou’d I were handsomely off o’ this Business; neither Lucia nor Maundy have any intelligence in their demure looks that can instruct a Man.—Why, faith, Sir,—I must confess,—I am to blame—and that I have—a—

L. Fan. Oh, Maundy, he’ll discover all, what shall we do?

Sir Pat. Have what, Sir?

Wit. From my violent Passion for your Daughter—

L. Fan. Oh, I’m all Confusion.—

Wit. Egad, I am i’th wrong, I see by Lucia’s Looks.

Sir Pat. That you have, Sir, you wou’d say, made 77 a Sport and May-game of the Ingagement of your Word; I take it, Mr. Fainlove, ’tis not like the Stock you come from.

Wit. Yes, I was like to have spoil’d all, ’sheart, what fine work I had made—but most certainly he has discover’d my Passion for his Wife.—Well, Impudence assist me—I made, Sir, a trifle of my Word, Sir! from whom have you this Intelligence?

Sir Pat. From whom shou’d I, Sir, but from my Daughter Isabella?

Wit. Isabella! The malicious Baggage understood to whom my first Courtship was address’d last Night, and has betray’d me.

Sir Pat. And, Sir, to let you see I utter nothing without Precaution, pray read that Letter.

Wit. Hah—a Letter! what can this mean,—’tis Lucia’s Hand, with Isabella’s Name to’t.—Oh, the dear cunning Creature, to make her Husband the Messenger too.—How, I send one in my room! He reads.

L. Fan. Yes, Sir, you think we do not know of the Appointment you made last Night; but having other Affairs in hand than to keep your Promise, you sent Mr. Knowell in your room,—false Man.

Wit. I send him, Madam! I wou’d have sooner died.

Sir Pat. Sir, as I take it, he cou’d not have known of your Designs and Rendezvous without your Informations.—Were not you to have met my Daughter here to night, Sir?

Wit. Yes, Sir, and I hope ’tis no such great Crime, to desire a little Conversation with the fair Person one loves, and is so soon to marry, which I was hinder’d from doing by the greatest and most unlucky Misfortune that ever arriv’d: but for my sending him, Madam, credit me, nothing so much amazes me and afflicts me, as to know he was here.

Sir Pat. He speaks well, ingenuously, he does.—Well, Sir, for your Father’s sake, whose Memory I reverence, 78 I will for once forgive you. But let’s have no more Night-works, no more Gambols, I beseech you, good Mr. Fainlove.

Wit. I humbly thank ye, Sir, and do beseech you to tell the dear Creature that writ this, that I love her more than Life or Fortune, and that I wou’d sooner have kill’d the Man that usurp’d my place last Night, than have assisted him.

L. Fan. Were you not false, then?—Now hang me if I do not credit him. Aside.

Sir Pat. Alas, good Lady! how she’s concern’d for my Interest, she’s even jealous for my Daughter. Aside.

Wit. False! charge me not with unprofitable Sins; wou’d I refuse a Blessing, or blaspheme a Power that might undo me? wou’d I die in my full vigorous Health, or live in constant Pain? All this I cou’d, sooner than be untrue.

Sir Pat. Ingenuously, my Lady Fancy, he speaks discreetly, and to purpose.

L. Fan. Indeed, my Dear, he does, and like an honest Gentleman: and I shou’d think my self very unreasonable not to believe him.—And, Sir, I’ll undertake your Peace shall be made with your Mistress.

Sir Pat. Well, I am the most fortunate Man in a Wife, that ever had the blessing of a good one.

Wit. Madam, let me fall at your Feet, and thank you for this Bounty.—Make it your own case, and then consider what returns ought to be made to the most passionate and faithful of Lovers. Kneels.

Sir Pat. I profess a wonderful good natur’d Youth, this; rise, Sir, my Lady Fancy shall do you all the kind Offices she can, o’ my word, she shall.

L. Fan. I’m all Obedience, Sir, and doubtless shall obey you.

Sir Pat. You must, indeed you must; and, Sir, I’ll defer your Happiness no longer, this Day you shall be marry’d.

Wit. This Day, Sir!—why, the Writings are not made.

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Sir Pat. No matter, Mr. Fainlove; her Portion shall be equivalent to the Jointure you shall make her, I take it, that’s sufficient.

Wit. A Jointure, quoth he! it must be in new Eutopian Land then.—And must I depart thus, without a kind Word, a Look, or a Billet, to signify what I am to expect. Looking on her slily.

Sir Pat. Come, my Lady Fancy, shall I wait on you down to Prayer! Sir, you will get your self in order for your Marriage, the great Affair of human Life; I must to my Morning’s Devotion: Come, Madam. She endeavours to make Signs to Wittmore.

L. Fan. Alas, Sir, the sad Discourse you lately made me, has so disorder’d me, and given me such a Pain in my Head, I am not able to endure the Psalm-singing.

Sir Pat. This comes of your Weeping; but we’ll omit that part of th’ Exercise, and have no Psalm sung.

L. Fan. Oh, by no means, Sir, ’twill scandalize the Brethren; for you know a Psalm is not sung so much out of Devotion, as ’tis to give notice of our Zeal and pious Intentions: ’tis a kind of Proclamation to the Neighbourhood, and cannot be omitted.—Oh, how my Head aches!

Wit. He were a damn’d dull Lover, that cou’d not guess what she meant by this. Aside.

Sir Pat. Well, my Lady Fancy, your Ladyship shall be obey’d,—come, Sir, we’ll leave her to her Women. Exit Sir Pat.

As Wittmore goes out, he bows and looks on her; she gives him a Sign.

Wit. That kind Look is a sufficient Invitation. Exit.

L. Fan. Maundy, follow ’em down, and bring Wittmore back again.— Exit Maun. There’s now a necessity of our contriving to avoid this Marriage handsomly,—and we shall at least make two Hours our own; I never wish’d well to long Prayers till this Minute.

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Enter Wittmore.

Wit. Oh my dear Lucia!

L. Fan. Oh Wittmore! I long to tell thee what a fatal Mistake had like to have happened last Night.

Wit. My Friend has told me all, and how he was prevented by the coming of your Husband from robbing me of those sacred Delights I languish for. Oh, let us not lose inestimable Time in dull talking; but haste to give each other the only Confirmation we can give, how little we are our own.

L. Fan. I see Lodwick’s a Man of Honour, and deserves a Heart if I had one to give him.

Exeunt.

Scene III. A Hall.

Enter Sir Patient and Roger.

Sir Pat. Roger, is Prayer ready, Roger?

Rog. Truly nay, Sir, for Mr. Gogle has taken too much of the Creature this Morning, and is not in case, Sir.

Sir Pat. How mean you, Sirrah, that Mr. Gogle is overtaken with Drink?

Rog. Nay, Sir, he hath over-eaten himself at Breakfast only.

Sir Pat. Alas, and that’s soon done, for he hath a sickly Stomach as well as I, poor Man. Where is Bartholomew the Clerk? he must hold forth then to day.

Rog. Verily he is also disabled: for going forth last Night by your Commandment to smite the Wicked, he received a blow over the Pericranium.—

Sir Pat. Why, how now, Sirrah, Latin! the Language of the Beast! hah—and what then, Sir?

Rog. Which Blow, I doubt, Sir, hath spoil’d both his Praying and his Eating.

Sir Pat. Hah! What a Family’s here? no Prayer to day!

Enter Nurse and Fanny.

Nurs. Nay verily it shall all out, I will be no more the dark Lanthorn to the deeds of Darkness.

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Sir Pat. What’s the matter here? Exit Roger.

Nurs. Sir, this young Sinner has long been privy to all the daily and nightly meetings between Mr. Lodwick and Isabella; and just now I took her tying a Letter to a String in the Garden, which he drew up to his Window: and I have born it till my Conscience will bear it no longer.

Sir Pat. Hah, so young a Baud!—Tell me, Minion—private meeting! tell me truth, I charge ye, when? where? how? and how often? Oh, she’s debauch’d!—her Reputation ruin’d, and she’ll need a double Portion. Come, tell me truth, for this little Finger here has told me all.

Fan. Oh Geminy, Sir, then that little Finger’s the hougesest great Lyer as ever was.

Sir Pat. Huzzy, huzzy—I will have thee whip’d most unmercifully: Nurse, fetch me the Rod.

Fan. Oh, pardon me, Sir, this one time, and I’ll tell all. Kneels.

—Sir—I have seen him in the Garden, but not very often.

Sir Pat. Often! Oh, my Family’s dishonoured. Tell me truly what he us’d to do there, or I will have thee whipt without cessation. Oh, I’m in a cold Sweat; there’s my fine Maid, was he with her long?

Fan. Long enough.

Sir Pat. Long enough!—oh, ’tis so, long enough,—for what, hah? my dainty Miss, tell me, and didst thou leave ’em?

Fan. They us’d to send me to gather Flowers to make Nosegays, Sir.

Sir Pat. Ah, Demonstration; ’tis evident if they were left alone that they were naught, I know’t.—And where were they the while? in the close Arbour?—Ay, ay—I will have it cut down, it is the Pent-house of Iniquity, the very Coverlid of Sin.

Fan. No, Sir, they sat on the Primrose Bank.

Sir Pat. What, did they sit all the while, or stand—or—lie—or—oh, how was’t?

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Fan. They only sat indeed, Sir Father.

Sir Pat. And thou didst not hear a Word they said all the while?

Fan. Yes, I did, Sir, and the Man talk’d a great deal of this, and of that, and of t’other, and all the while threw Jessamine in her Bosom.

Sir Pat. Well said, and did he nothing else?

Fan. No, indeed, Sir Father, nothing.

Sir Pat. But what did she say to the Man again?

Fan. She said, let me see.—Ay, she said, Lord, you’ll forget your self, and stay till somebody catch us.

Sir Pat. Ah, very fine,—then what said he?

Fan. Then he said, Well if I must be gone, let me leave thee with this hearty Curse, A Pox take thee all over for making me love thee so confoundedly.

Sir Pat. Oh horrible!

Fan. —Oh, I cou’d live here for ever,—that was when he kist her—her Hand only. Are you not a damn’d Woman for making so fond a Puppy of me?

Sir Pat. Oh unheard-of Wickedness!

Fan. Wou’d the Devil had thee, and all thy Family, e’er I had seen thy cursed Face.

Sir Pat. Oh, I’ll hear no more, I’ll hear no more!—why, what a blasphemous Wretch is this?

Fan. Pray, Sir Father, do not tell my Sister of this, she’ll be horribly angry with me.

Sir Pat. No, no, get you gone.—Oh, I am Heart-sick—I’ll up and consult with my Lady what’s fit to be done in this Affair. Oh, never was the like heard of.—

Goes out, Fanny and Nurse go the other way.

  Scene IV. The Lady Fancy’s Bed-Chamber; she’s discover’d with Wittmore in disorder. A Table, Sword, and Hat.

Maun. Entering. O Madam, Sir Patient’s coming up.

L. Fan. Coming up, say you!

Maun. He’s almost on the top of the Stairs, Madam.

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Wit. What shall I do?

L. Fan. Oh, damn him, I know not; if he see thee here after my pretended Illness, he must needs discover why I feign’d.—I have no excuse ready,—this Chamber’s unlucky, there’s no avoiding him; here—step behind the Bed; perhaps he has only forgot his Psalm-Book and will not stay long. Wittmore runs behind the Bed.

Enter Sir Patient.

Sir Pat. Oh, oh, pardon this Interruption, my Lady Fancy—Oh, I am half killed, my Daughter, my Honour—my Daughter, my Reputation.

L. Fan. Good Heavens, Sir, is she dead?

Sir Pat. I wou’d she were, her Portion and her Honour would then be sav’d. But oh, I’m sick at Heart, Maundy, fetch me the Bottle of Mirabilis in the Closet,—she’s wanton, unchaste.

Enter Maundy with the Bottle.

Oh, I cannot speak it; oh, the Bottle— Drinks. she has lost her Fame, her Shame, her Name.—Oh, Drinks. that is not the right Bottle, that with the red Cork Drinks. Exit Maundy.

and is grown a very t’other-end-of-the-Town Creature, a very Apple of Sodom, fair without and filthy within, what shall we do with her? she’s lost, undone; hah!

Enter Maundy.

let me see, Drinks. this is Drinks. not as I take it— Drinks. —no, ’tis not the right,—she’s naught, she’s leud, Drinks. —oh, how you vex me— Drinks. This is not the right Bottle yet,— Drinks. No, no, here. Gives her the Bottle.

Maun. You said that with the red Cork, Sir. Goes out.

Sir Pat. I meant the blue;—I know not what I say.— In fine, my Lady, let’s marry her out of hand, for she is fall’n, fall’n to Perdition; she understands more Wickedness than had she been bred in a profane Nunnery, a Court,

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Enter Maundy.

or a Play-house, Drinks. —therefore let’s marry her instantly, out of hand Drinks. Misfortune on Misfortune. Drinks. —But Patience is a wonderful Virtue, Drinks. —Ha—this is very comfortable,—very consoling—I profess if it were not for these Creatures, ravishing Comforts, sometimes, a Man were a very odd sort of an Animal Drinks. But ah—see how all things were ordain’d for the use and comfort of Man.  Drinks.

L. Fan. I like this well: Ah, Sir, ’tis very true, therefore receive it plentifully and thankfully.

Sir Pat. Drinks. Ingenuously—it hath made me marvellous lightsome; I profess it hath a very notable Faculty,—very knavish—and as it were, waggish,—but hah, what have we there on the Table? a Sword and Hat? Sees Wittmore’s Sword and Hat on the Table, which he had forgot.

L. Fan. Curse on my Dulness.—Oh, these, Sir, they are Mr. Fainlove’s—he being so soon to be marry’d and being straitned for time, sent these to Maundy to be new trim’d with Ribbon, Sir—that’s all. Take ’em away, you naughty Baggage, must I have Mens things seen in my Chamber?

Sir Pat. Nay, nay, be not angry, my little Rogue; I like the young Man’s Frugality well. Go, go your ways, get you gone, and finefy your Knacks and Tranghams, and do your Business—go.

Smiling on Maundy, gently beating her with his Hand: she goes out, he bolts the Door after her, and sits down on the Bed’s feet.

L. Fan. Heavens, what means he!

Sir Pat. Come hither to me, my little Ape’s Face,—Come, come I say—what, must I come fetch you?—Catch her, catch her—catch her, catch her, catch her. Running after her.

L. Fan. Oh, Sir, I am so ill I can hardly stir.

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Sir Pat. I’ll make ye well, come hither, ye Monky-face, did it, did it, did it? alas for it, a poor silly Fool’s Face, dive it a blow, and I’ll beat it.

L. Fan. You neglect your Devotion, Sir.

Sir Pat. No, no, no Prayer to day, my little Rascal,—no Prayer to day—poor Gogle’s sick.—Come hither, why, you refractory Baggage you, come or I shall touze you, ingenuously I shall; tom, tom, or I’ll whip it.

L. Fan. Have you forgot your Daughter, Sir, and your Disgrace?

Sir Pat. A fiddle on my Daughter, she’s a Chick of the old Cock I profess; I was just such another Wag when young.—But she shall be marry’d to morrow, a good Cloke for her Knavery; therefore come your ways, ye Wag, we’ll take a nap together: good faith, my little Harlot, I mean thee no harm.

L. Fan. No, o’ my Conscience.

Sir Pat. Why then, why then, you little Mungrel?

L. Fan. His precise Worship is as it were disguis’d, the outward Man is over-taken—pray, Sir, lie down, and I’ll come to you presently.

Sir Pat. Away, you Wag, will you? will you?—Catch her there, catch her.

L. Fan. I will indeed,—Death, there’s no getting from him,—pray lie down—and I’ll cover thee close enough I’ll warrant thee.— Aside. He lies down, she covers him.

Had ever Lovers such spiteful luck! hah—surely he sleeps, bless the mistaken Bottle.—Ay, he sleeps,—whilst, Wittmore—

He coming out falls; pulls the Chair down, Sir Patient flings open the Curtain.

Wit. Plague of my over-care, what shall I do?

Sir Pat. What’s that, what Noise is that? let me see, we are not safe; lock up the Doors, what’s the matter? What Thunder-Clap was that?

Wittmore runs under the Bed; she runs to Sir Patient, and holds him in his Bed.

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L. Fan. Pray, Sir, lie still, ’twas I was only going to sit down, and a sudden Giddiness took me in my Head, which made me fall, and with me the Chair; there is no danger near ye, Sir—I was just coming to sleep by you.

Sir Pat. Go, you’re a flattering Huswife; go, catch her, catch her, catch her. Lies down, she covers him.

L. Fan. Oh, how I tremble at the dismal apprehension of being discover’d! Had I secur’d my self of the eight thousand Pound, I wou’d not value Wittmore’s being seen. But now to be found out, wou’d call my Wit in question, for ’tis the Fortunate alone are wise.—

Wittmore peeps from under the Bed; she goes softly to the Door to open it.

Wit. Was ever Man so plagu’d?—hah—what’s this?—confound my tell-tale Watch, the Larum goes, and there’s no getting to’t to silence it.—Damn’d Misfortune! Sir Patient rises, and flings open the Curtains.

Sir Pat. Hah, what’s that?

L. Fan. Heavens! what’s the matter? we are destin’d to discovery. She runs to Sir Patient, and leaves the Door still fast.

Sir Pat. What’s that I say, what’s that? let me see, let me see, what ringing’s that, Oh, let me see what ’tis. Strives to get up, she holds him down.

L. Fan. Oh, now I see my Fate’s inevitable! Alas, that ever I was born to see’t. Weeps.

Wit. Death, she’ll tell him I am here: Nay, he must know’t, a Pox of all Invention and Mechanicks, and he were damn’d that first contriv’d a Watch.

Sir Pat. Hah, dost weep?—why dost weep? I say, what Noise is that? what ringing? hah.—

L. Fan. ’Tis that, ’tis that, my Dear, that makes me weep. Alas, I never hear this fatal Noise, but some dear Friend dies.

Sir Pat. Hah, dies! Oh, that must be I, ay, ay, Oh.

L. Fan. I’ve heard it, Sir, this two Days, but wou’d not tell you of it.

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Sir Pat. Hah! heard it these two Days! Oh, what is’t a Death-watch?—hah.—

L. Fan. Ay, Sir, a Death-watch, a certain Larum Death-watch, a thing that has warn’d our Family this hundred Years, oh,—I’m the most undone Woman!

Wit. A Blessing on her for a dear dissembling Jilt—Death and the Devil, will it never cease?

Sir Pat. A Death-watch! ah, ’tis so, I’ve often heard of these things—methinks it sounds as if ’twere under the Bed.— Offers to look, she holds him.

L. Fan. You think so, Sir, but that ’tis about the Bed is my Grief; it therefore threatens you: Oh wretched Woman!

Sir Pat. Ay, ay, I’m too happy in a Wife to live long: Well, I will settle my House at Hogsdowne, with the Land about it, which is 500l. a Year upon thee, live or die,—do not grieve.— Lays himself down.

L. Fan. Oh, I never had more Cause; come try to sleep, your Fate may be diverted—whilst I’ll to Prayers for your dear Health.— Covers him, draws the Curtains. I have almost run out all my stock of Hypocrisy, and that hated Art now fails me.—Oh all ye Powers that favour distrest Lovers, assist us now, and I’ll provide against your future Malice. She makes Signs to Wittmore, he peeps.

Wit. I’m impatient of Freedom, yet so much Happiness as I but now injoy’d without this part of Suffering had made me too blest.—Death and Damnation! what curst luck have I?

Makes Signs to her to open the Door: whilst he creeps softly from under the Bed to the Table, by which going to raise himself, he pulls down all the Dressing-things: at the same instant Sir Patient leaps from the Bed, and she returns from the Door, and sits on Wittmore’s Back as he lies on his Hands and Knees, and makes as if she swooned.

Sir Pat. What’s the matter? what’s the matter? has 88 Satan broke his everlasting Chain, and got loose abroad to plague poor Mortals? hah—what’s the matter? Runs to his Lady.

L. Fan. Oh, help, I die—I faint—run down, and call for help.

Sir Pat. My Lady dying? oh, she’s gone, she faints,—what ho, who waits? Cries and bauls.

L. Fan. Oh, go down and bring me help, the Door is lock’d,—they cannot hear ye,—oh—I go—I& die.— He opens the Door, and calls help, help.

Wit. Damn him! there’s no escaping without I kill the Dog. From under her, peeping.

L. Fan. Lie still, or we are undone.—

Sir Patient returns with Maundy.

Maun. Hah, discover’d!

Sir Pat. Help, help, my Lady dies.

Maun. Oh, I perceive how’tis.—Alas, she’s dead, quite gone; oh, rub her Temples, Sir.

Sir Pat. Oh, I’m undone then,— Weeps. Oh my Dear, my virtuous Lady!

L. Fan. Oh, where’s my Husband, my dearest Husband—Oh, bring him near me.

Sir Pat. I’m here, my excellent Lady.—

She takes him about the Neck, and raises her self up, gives Wittmore a little kick behind.

Wit. Oh the dear lovely Hypocrite, was ever Man so near discovery?— Goes out.

Sir Pat. Oh, how hard she presses my Head to her Bosom!

Maun. Ah, that grasping hard, Sir, is a very bad Sign.

Sir Pat. How does my good, my dearest Lady Fancy?

L. Fan. Something better now, give me more Air,—that dismal Larum Death-watch had almost kill’d me.

Sir Pat. Ah precious Creature, how she afflicts her self for me.—Come, let’s walk into the Dining-room, ’tis 89 more airy, from thence into my Study, and make thy self Mistress of that Fortune I have design’d thee, thou best of Women.

Exeunt, leading her.

ACT V.

Scene I. A Room in Sir Patient Fancy’s House. A Table, and six Chairs.

Enter Isabella reading a Letter, Betty tricking her.

Isab. How came you by this Letter?

Bet. Miss Fanny receiv’d it by a String from his Window, by which he took up that you writ to him this Morning.

Isab. What means this nicety? forbear I say.— Puts Betty from her.

Bet. You cannot be too fine upon your Wedding-day.

Isab. Thou art mistaken, leave me,—whatever he says here to satisfy my Jealousy, I am confirm’d that he was false: yet this assurance to free me from this intended Marriage, makes me resolve to pardon him, however guilty.—

Enter Wittmore.

How now! what means this Insolence? How dare you, having so lately made your guilty approaches, venture again into my presence?

Wit. Why? Is there any danger, but what’s so visible in those fair Eyes?

Isab. And there may lie enough, Sir, when they’re angry. By what Authority do you make this saucy Visit?

Wit. That of a Husband, Madam; I come to congratulate the mighty Joy this Day will bring you.

Isab. Thou darst not marry me, there will be danger in’t.

Wit. Why, sure you do not carry Death in your Embraces, I find no Terror in that lovely Shape, no Daggers in that pretty scornful Look; that Breath that utters so 90 much Anger now, last night was sweet as new-blown Roses are,—and spoke such Words, so tender and so kind.

Isab. And canst thou think they were address’d to thee?

Wit. No, nor cou’d the Shade of Night hide the Confusion which disorder’d you, at the discovery that I was not he, the blessed he you look’d for.

Isab. Leave me, thou hated Object of my Soul.

Wit. This will not serve your turn, for I must marry you.

Isab. Then thou art a Fool, and drawest thy Ruin on; why, I will hate thee,—hate thee most extremely.

Wit. That will not anger me.

Isab. Why, I will never let thee touch me, nor kiss my Hand, nor come into my sight.

Wit. Are there no other Women kind, fair, and to be purchas’d? he cannot starve for Beauty in this Age, that has a stock to buy.

Isab. Why, I will cuckold thee, look to’t, I will most damnably.

Wit. So wou’d you, had you lov’d me, in a year or two; therefore like a kind civil Husband, I’ve made provision for you, a Friend, and one I dare trust my Honour with,—’tis Mr. Knowell, Madam.

Isab. Lodwick! What Devil brought that Name to his knowledge?—Canst thou know him, and yet dare hope to marry me?

Wit. We have agreed it, and on these conditions.

Isab. Thou basely injurest him, he cannot do a Deed he ought to blush for: Lodwick do this! Oh, do not credit it,—prithee be just and kind for thy own Honour’s sake; be quickly so, the hasty minutes fly, and will anon make up the fatal Hour that will undo me.

Wit. ’Tis true, within an hour you must submit to Hymen, there’s no avoiding it.

Isab. Nay, then be gone, my poor submissive Prayers, and all that dull Obedience Custom has made us Slaves to.—Do sacrifice me, lead me to the Altar, and see if 91 all the holy mystick Words can conjure from me the consenting Syllable: No, I will not add one word to make the Charm complete, but stand as silent in the inchanting Circle, as if the Priests were raising Devils there.

Enter Lodwick.

Lod. Enough, enough, my charming Isabella, I am confirm’d.

Isab. Lodwick! what good Angel conducted thee hither?

Lod. E’en honest Charles Wittmore here, thy Friend and mine, no Bug-bear Lover he.

Isab. Wittmore! that Friend I’ve often heard thee name? Now some kind mischief on him, he has so frighted me, I scarce can bring my Sense to so much order, to thank him that he loves me not.

Lod. Thou shalt defer that payment to more leisure; we’re Men of business now. My Mother, knowing of a Consultation of Physicians which your Father has this day appointed to meet at his House, has bribed Monsieur Turboone his French Doctor in Pension, to admit of a Doctor or two of her recommending, who shall amuse him with discourse till we get ourselves married; and to make it the more ridiculous, I will release Sir Credulous from the Basket, I saw it in the Hall as I came through, we shall have need of the Fool.

Exit Wittmore.

Enter Wittmore, pulling in the Basket.

Wit. ’Twill do well.

Lod. Sir Credulous, how is’t, Man? Opens the Basket.

Sir Cred. What, am I not at the Carrier’s yet?—Oh Lodwick, thy Hand, I’m almost poison’d—This Basket wants airing extremely, it smells like an old Lady’s Wedding Gown of my acquaintance.—But what’s the danger past, Man?

Lod. No, but there’s a necessity of your being for some time disguis’d to act a Physician.

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Sir Cred. How! a Physician! that I can easily do, for I understand Simples.

Lod. That’s not material, so you can but banter well, be very grave, and put on a starch’d Countenance.

Sir Cred. Banter! what’s that, Man?

Lod. Why, Sir, talking very much, and meaning just nothing; be full of Words without any connection, sense or conclusion. Come in with me, and I’ll instruct you farther.

Sir Cred. Pshaw, is that all? say no more on’t, I’ll do’t, let me alone for Bantering—But this same damn’d Rival—

Lod. He’s now watching for you without and means to souse upon you; but trust to me for your security; come away, I have your Habit ready. Goes out. —This day shall make thee mine, dear Isabella.— Exit Lodwick and Wittmore.

Enter Sir Patient, Leander, and Roger.

Sir Pat. Marry Lucretia! is there no Woman in the City fit for you, but the Daughter of the most notorious fantastical Lady within the Walls?

Lean. Yet that fantastical Lady you thought fit for a Wife for me, Sir.

Sir Pat. Yes, Sir, Foppery with Money had been something; but a poor Fop, hang’t, ’tis abominable.

Lean. Pray hear me, Sir.

Sir Pat. Sirrah, Sirrah, you’re a Jackanapes, ingenuously you are, Sir: marry Lucretia, quoth he?

Lean. If it were so, Sir, where’s her fault?

Sir Pat. Why, Mr. Coxcomb, all over. Did I with so much care endeavour to marry thee to the Mother, only to give thee opportunity with Lucretia?

Enter Lady Knowell.

Lean. This Anger shews your great Concern for me.

Sir Pat. For my Name I am, but ’twere no matter if thou wert hang’d, and thou deservest it for thy leud 93 cavaliering Opinion.—They say thou art a Papist too, or at least a Church-of-England Man, and I profess there’s not a Pin to chuse.—Marry Lucretia!

L. Kno. Were I querimonious, I shou’d resent the Affront this Balatroon has offer’d me.

Isab. Dear Madam, for my sake do not anger him now. Aside to her.

L. Kno. Upon my Honour, you are very free with my Daughter, Sir.

Sir Pat. How! she here! now for a Peal from her eternal Clapper; I had rather be confin’d to an Iron-mill.

L. Kno. Sure Lucretia merits a Husband of as much worth as your Nephew, Sir.

Sir Pat. A better, Madam, for he’s the leudest Hector in the Town; he has all the Vices of Youth, Whoring, Swearing, Drinking, Damning, Fighting,—and a thousand more, numberless and nameless.

L. Kno. Time, Sir, may make him more abstemious.

Sir Pat. Oh, never, Madam! ’tis in’s Nature, he was born with it, he’s given over to Reprobation, ’tis bred i’th’ bone,—he’s lost.

Lean. This is the first good Office that ever he did me.

L. Kno. What think you, Sir, if in defiance of your Inurbanity, I take him with all these Faults my self?

Sir Pat. How, Madam!

L. Kno. Without more Ambages, Sir, I have consider’d your former Desires, and have consented to marry him, notwithstanding your Exprobrations.

Sir Pat. May I believe this, Madam? and has your Ladyship that Goodness?—and hast thou, my Boy, so much Wit? Why, this is something now.—Well, he was ever the best and sweetest-natur’d Youth.—Why, what a notable Wag’s this? and is it true, my Boy, hah?

Lean. Yes, Sir, I had told you so before, had you permitted me to speak.

Sir Pat. Well, Madam, he is only fit for your excellent 94 Ladyship, he is the prettiest civillest Lad.—Well, go thy ways; I shall never see the like of thee; no—Ingenuously, the Boy’s made for ever; two thousand Pounds a Year, besides Money, Plate and Jewels; made for ever.—Well, Madam, the satisfaction I take in this Alliance, has made me resolve to give him immediately my Writings of all my Land in Berkshire, five hundred Pounds a year, Madam: and I wou’d have you married this Morning with my Daughter, so one Dinner and one Rejoicing will serve both.

L. Kno. That, Sir, we have already agreed upon.

Sir Pat. Well, I’ll fetch the Writings. Come, Isabella, I’ll not trust you out of my sight to day. Ex. Sir Pat. and Isab.

Lean. Well then, Madam, you are resolv’d upon this business of Matrimony.

L. Kno. Was it not concluded between us, Sir, this Morning? and at the near approach do you begin to fear?

Lean. Nothing, Madam, since I’m convinc’d of your Goodness.

L. Kno. You flatter, Sir, this is mere Adulation.

Lean. No, I am that wild Extravagant my Uncle render’d me, and cannot live confin’d.

L. Kno. To one Woman you mean? I shall not stand with you for a Mistress or two; I hate a dull morose unfashionable Blockhead to my Husband; nor shall I be the first example of a suffering Wife, Sir. Women were created poor obedient things.

Lean. And can you be content to spare me five or six nights in a week?

L. Kno. Oh, you’re too reasonable.

Lean. And for the rest, if I get drunk, perhaps I’ll give to you: yet in my drink I’m damn’d ill-natur’d too, and may neglect my Duty; perhaps shall be so wicked, to call you cunning, deceitful, jilting, base, and swear you have undone me, swear you have ravish’d from my faithful Heart all that cou’d make it bless’d or happy.

95

Enter Lucretia weeping.

L. Kno. How now, Lucretia!

Lucr. Oh Madam, give me leave to kneel before, and tell you, if you pursue the Cruelty I hear you’re going to commit, I am the most lost, most wretched Maid that breathes; we two have plighted Faiths, and shou’d you marry him, ’twere so to sin as Heaven would never pardon.

L. Kno. Rise, Fool.

Lucr. Never till you have given me back Leander, or leave to live no more.—Pray kill me, Madam; and the same Flowers that deck your nuptial Bed,

L. Kno. Rise; I still design’d him yours.—I saw with pleasure, Sir, your reclination from my Addresses.—I have proved both your Passions, and ’twere unkind not to crown ’em with the due Præmium of each others Merits. Gives her to Lean.

Lean. Can Heaven and you agree to be so bountiful?

L. Kno. Be not amaz’d at this turn, Rotat omne fatum.—But no more,—keep still that mask of Love we first put on, till you have gain’d the Writings: for I have no Joy beyond cheating that filthy Uncle of thine.—Lucretia, wipe your Eyes, and prepare for Hymen, the Hour draws near. Thalessio, Thalessio, as the Romans cry’d.

Lucr. May you still be admir’d as you deserve!

Enter Sir Patient with Writings, and Isabella.

Sir Pat. How, Madam Lucretia, and in Tears?

L. Kno. A little disgusted, Sir, with her Father-in-law, Sir.

Sir Pat. Oh, is that all? hold up thy Head, Sweet-heart, thy turn’s next.—Here, Madam, I surrender my Title, with these Writings, and with ’em my Joy, my Life, my Darling, my Leander.—Now let’s away, where’s Mr. Fainlove?

96

Isab. He’s but stept into Cheapside, to fit the Ring, Sir, and will be here immediately.

Sir Pat. I have Business anon about eleven of the Clock, a Consultation of Physicians, to confer about this Carcase of mine.

Lean. Physicians, Sir, what to do?

Sir Pat. To do! why, to take their advice, Sir, and to follow it.

Lean. For what, I beseech you, Sir?

Sir Pat. Why, Sir, for my Health.

Lean. I believe you are not sick, Sir, unless they make you so.

Sir Pat. They make me so!—Do you hear him, Madam—Am not I sick, Sir? not I, Sir Patient Fancy, sick?

L. Kno. He’ll destroy my Design.—How, Mr. Fancy, not Sir Patient sick? or must he be incinerated before you’ll credit it?

Sir Pat. Ay, Madam, I want but dying to undeceive him, and yet I am not sick!

Lean. Sir, I love your Life, and wou’d not have you die with Fancy and Conceit.—

Sir Pat. Fancy and Conceit! do but observe him, Madam,—what do you mean, Sir, by Fancy and Conceit?

L. Kno. He’ll ruin all;—why, Sir,—he means—

Sir Pat. Nay, let him alone, let him alone, (with your Ladyship’s pardon)—Come, Sir,—Fancy and Conceit, I take it, was the Question in debate.—

Lean. I cannot prove this to you, Sir, by force of Argument, but by Demonstration I will, if you will banish all your cozening Quacks, and take my wholesome Advice.

Sir Pat. Do but hear him, Madam: not prove it!

L. Kno. Sir, he means nothing.—Not sick! alas, Sir, you’re very sick.

Sir Pat. Ay, ay, your Ladyship is a Lady of profound Knowledge.—Why, have I not had the advice of all the Doctors in England, and have I not been in continual 97 Physick this twenty Years:—and yet I am not sick! Ask my dear Lady, Sir, how sick I am, she can inform you. L. Kno. goes and talks to Isab.

Lean. She does her endeavour, Sir, to keep up the Humour.

Sir Pat. How, Sir?

Lean. She wishes you dead, Sir.

Sir Pat. What said the Rascal? wishes me dead!

Lean. Sir, she hates you.

Sir Pat. How! hate me! what, my Lady hate me?

Lean. She abuses your Love, plays tricks with ye, and cheats ye, Sir.

Sir Pat. Was ever so profane a Wretch! What, you will not prove this neither?

Lean. Yes, by demonstration too.

Sir Pat. Why, thou saucy Varlet, Sirrah, Sirrah, thank my Lady here I do not cudgel thee.—Well, I will settle the rest of my Estate upon her to morrow, I will, Sir; and thank God you have what you have, Sir, make much on’t.

Lean. Pardon me, Sir, ’tis not my single Opinion, but the whole City takes notice on’t: that I tell it you, Sir, is the Effect of my Duty, not Interest. Pray give me leave to prove this to you, Sir.

Sir Pat. What, you are at your Demonstration again?—come—let’s hear.

Lean. Why, Sir, give her frequent opportunities,—and then surprize her;—or, by pretending to settle all upon her,—give her your Power, and see if she do not turn you out of Doors;—or—by feigning you are sick to death—or indeed by dying.

Sir Pat. I thank you, Sir,—this indeed is Demonstration, I take it. Pulls off his Hat.

Lean. I mean but feigning, Sir; and be a witness your self of her Sorrow, or Contempt.

Sir Pat. Pauses. Hah—hum,—why, ingenuously, this may be a very pretty Project.—Well, Sir, suppose I follow 98 your advice?—nay, I profess I will do so, not to try her Faith, but to have the pleasure to hear her conjugal Lamentations, feel her Tears bedew my Face, and her sweet Mouth kissing my Cheeks a thousand times; verily a wonderful Comfort.—And then, Sir, what becomes of your Demonstration?—

Enter Wittmore with the Ring.

Oh—Mr. Fainlove, come, come, you’re tardy, let’s away to Church.

Enter Roger.

Rog. Sir, here is Doctor Turboon, and those other Doctors your Worship expected.

Enter Lady Fancy and Bartholomew.

Sir Pat. The Doctors already!—well, bring ’em up; come, Madam, we have waited for your Ladyship,—bring up the Doctors, Roger. Exit Roger.

L. Fan. Wittmore, I have now brought that design to a happy Conclusion, for which I married this formal Ass; I’ll tell thee more anon,—we are observ’d.

L. Kno. Oh, Lodwick’s come!

Enter Lodwick, Monsieur Turboon, Fat Doctor, Amsterdam, Leyden, Sir Credulous.

Sir Pat. Doctor Turboon, your Servant, I expected you not this two hours.

Turb. Nor had ee com, Sir, bot for dese wordy Gentlemen, whos Affairs wode not permit dem to come at your hoar.

Sir Pat. Are they English pray?

Turb. Dis is, Sir,— Pointing to Lod. an admirable Physician, and a rare Astrologer.—Dis speaks good English, bot a Collender born. Points to Sir Cred.

Sir Cred. What a pox, does the Fellow call me a Cullender?

Lod. He means a High-Dutch-man of the Town of Collen, Sir.

99

Sir Pat. Sir, I have heard of your Fame.—Doctor, pray entertain these Gentlemen till my return, I’ll be with you presently.

Lod. Sir, I hope you go not forth to day. Gazing on his Face.

Sir Pat. Not far, Sir.

Lod. There is a certain Star has rul’d this two days, Sir, of a very malignant Influence to Persons of your Complection and Constitution.—Let me see—within this two hours and six minutes, its Malice will be spent, till then it will be fatal.

Sir Pat. Hum, reign’d this two Days?—I profess and things have gone very cross with me this two Days,—a notable Man this.

L. Kno. Oh, a very profound Astrologer, Sir, upon my Honour, I know him.

Sir Pat. But this is an Affair of that Importance, Sir,—

Lod. If it be more than Health or Life, I beg your pardon, Sir.

Sir Pat. Nay, no Offence, Sir, I beseech you, I’ll stay, Sir.

L. Kno. How! Sir Patient not see us married?

Sir Pat. You shall excuse me, Madam.

L. Fan. This was lucky; Oh Madam, wou’d you have my Dear venture out, when a malignant Star reigns! not for the World.

Sir Pat. No, I’ll not stir; had it been any Star but a malignant Star, I had waited on your Ladyship: but these malignant Stars are very pernicious Stars. Nephew, take my Lady Knowell, Mr. Fainlove my Daughter; and Bartholomew do you conduct my Lady, the Parson stays for you, and the Coaches are at the Door.

Exeunt L. Kno. Lean. Wit. and Isab. L. Fancy and Bartholomew.

Enter Boy.

Boy. Sir, my Lady has sent for you. Exit.

100

Lod. Sir, I’ll be with you presently; Sir Credulous, be sure you lug him by the Ears with any sort of Stuff till my return. I’ll send you a Friend to keep you in countenance.

Sir Pat. Please you to sit, Gentlemen? Exit Lod.

Amst. Please you, Sir. To Sir Cred. who bows and runs back.

Sir Cred. Oh Lord, sweet Sir, I hope you do not take me—Nay, I beseech you, Noble Sir—Reverend Sir. Turning from one to t’other.

Leyd. By no means, Sir, a Stranger.

Sir Cred. I beseech you—Scavantissimi Doctores,—incomparable Sir,—and you—or you.

Fat D. In troth, Sir, these Compliments are needless, I am something corpulent, and love my ease. Sits.

Sir Cred. Generous Sir, you say well; therefore Conlicentia, as the Grecians have it. Sits.

Amst. —Brother.—

Leyd. Nay, good Brother,—Sir Patient—

Sir Pat. Ingenuously, not before you, Mr. Doctor.

Leyd. Excuse me, Sir, an Alderman, and a Knight.—

Sir Pat. Both below the least of the learned Society.

Leyd. Since you will have it so. All sit and cry hum,—and look gravely.

Sir Cred. Hum—hum, most Worthy, and most Renowned—Medicinæ Professores, qui hic assemblati estis, & vos altri Messiores; I am now going to make a Motion for the publick Good of us all, but will do nothing without your Doctorships Approbation.

Sir Pat. Judiciously concluded.

Sir Cred. The question then is, Reverentissimi Doctores, whether—for mark me, I come to the matter in hand, hating long Circumstances of Words; there being no necessity, as our learned Brother Rabelais observes in that most notorious Treatise of his call’d Garagantua; there is, says he, no necessity of going over the Hedge when the Path lies fair before ye: therefore, as I said before, 101 I now say again, coming to my Question; for as that admirable Welch Divine says, in that so famous Sermon of his, upon her Creat Cranfather Hadam and her Creat Cranmother Heeve concerning the Happell,—and her will, warrant her, her will keep her to her Text still,—so I stick close to my question, which is, Illustrissimi Doctores, whether it be not necessary to the Affair in hand—to take—a Bottle; and if your Doctorships are of my opinion—hold up your Thumbs. All hold up their Thumbs.

—Look, Sir, you observe the Votes of the learned Cabalists.

Sir Pat. Which shall be put in Act forthwith—I like this Man well, he does nothing without mature Deliberation.

Enter Brunswick.

Brun. By your leaves, Gentlemen—Sir Credulous— Whispers.

Sir Cred. Oh—’tis Lodwick’s Friend, the Rascal’s dress’d like Vanderbergen in the Strand:—Sir Patient, pray know this glorious Doctor, Sir.

Sir Pat. A Doctor, Sir?

Sir Cred. A Doctor, Sir! yes, and as eloquent a Doctor, Sir, as ever set Bill to Post: why, ’tis—the incomparable—Brunswick, High-Dutch Doctor.

Sir Pat. You’re welcome, Sir,—Pray sit; ah.—Well, Sir, you are come to visit a very crazy sickly Person, Sir.

Brun. Pray let me feel your Pulse, Sir;—what think you, Gentlemen, is he not very far gone?— Feels his Pulse, they all feel.

Sir Cred. Ah, far, far.—Pray, Sir, have you not a certain wambling Pain in your Stomach, Sir, as it were, Sir, a—a pain, Sir.

Sir Pat. Oh, very great, Sir, especially in a Morning fasting.

Sir Cred. I knew it by your stinking Breath, Sir—and are you not troubled with a Pain in your Head, Sir?

Sir Pat. In my Head, Sir?

102

Sir Cred. I mean a—kind of a—Pain,—a kind of a Vertigo, as the Latins call it; and a Whirligigoustiphon, as the Greeks have it, which signifies in English, Sir, a Dizzie-swimming kind—of a do ye see—a thing—that—a—you understand me.

Sir Pat. Oh, intolerable, intolerable!—why, this is a rare Man!

Fat D. Your Reason, Sir, for that? To Sir Cred.

Sir Cred. My Reason, Sir? why, my Reason, Sir, is this, Haly the Moore, and Rabbi Isaac, and some thousands more of learned Dutchmen, observe your dull Wall Eye and your Whir—Whirligigoustiphon, to be inseparable.

Brun. A most learned Reason!

Fat D. Oh, Sir, inseparable.

Sir Cred. And have you not a kind of a—something—do ye mark me, when you make Water, a kind of a stopping—and—a—do ye conceive me, I have forgot the English Term, Sir, but in Latin ’tis a Stronggullionibus.

Sir Pat. Oh, Sir, most extremely, ’tis that which makes me desperate, Sir.

Sir Cred. Your ugly Face is an infallible Sign; your Dysurie, as the Arabicks call it, and your ill-favour’d Countenance, are constant Relatives.

All. Constant, constant.

Sir Cred. Pray how do you eat, Sir?

Sir Pat. Ah, Sir, there’s my distraction. Alas, Sir, I have the weakest Stomach—I do not make above four Meals a-day, and then indeed I eat heartily—but alas, what’s that to eating to live?—nothing, Sir, nothing.—

Sir Cred. Poor Heart, I pity him.

Sir Pat. And between Meals, good Wine, Sweet-meats, Caudles,—Cordials and Mirabilises, to keep up my fainting Spirits.

Sir Cred. A Pox of his Aldermanship: an the whole Bench were such notable Swingers, ’twould famish the City sooner than a Siege.

103

Amst. Brothers, what do you think of this Man?

Leyd. Think, Sir? I think his Case is desperate.

Sir Cred. Shaw, Sir, we shall soon rectify the quiblets and quillities of his Blood, if he observes our Directions and Diet, which is to eat but once in four or five days.

Sir Pat. How, Sir, eat but once in four or five days? such a Diet, Sir, would kill me; alas, Sir, kill me.

Sir Cred. Oh no, Sir, no; for look ye, Sir, the Case is thus, do you mind me—so that the Business lying so obvious, do ye see, there is a certain Method, do ye mark me—in a—Now, Sir, when a Man goes about to alter the course of Nature,—the case is very plain, you may as well arrest the Chariot of the Sun, or alter the Eclipses of the Moon; for, Sir, this being of another Nature, the Nature of it is to be unnatural, you conceive me, Sir?—therefore we must crave your absence, Sir, for a few Minutes, till we have debated this great Affair.

Sir Pat. With all my heart, Sir, since my Case is so desperate, a few hours were not too much. Ex. Sir Pat.

Sir Cred. Now, Sir, my service to you. Drinks.

Enter Fanny.

Fan. Oh living heart! what do all these Men do in our House? sure they are a sort of new-fashion’d Conventiclers:—I’ll hear ’em preach. They drink round the while.

Amst. Sir, my service to you, and to your good Lady, Sir.

Leyd. Again to you, Sir, not forgetting your Daughters: they are fine Women, Sir, let Scandal do its worst. Drinks.

Turb. To our better trading, Sir.

Brun. Faith, it goes but badly on, I had the weekly Bill, and ’twas a very thin Mortality; some of the better sort die indeed, that have good round Fees to give.

Turb. Verily, I have not kill’d above my five or six this Week.

104

Brun. How, Sir, kill’d?

Turb. Kill’d, Sir! ever whilst you live, especially those who have the grand Verole; for ’tis not for a Man’s Credit to let the Patient want an Eye or a Nose, or some other thing. I have kill’d ye my five or six dozen a Week—but times are hard.

Brun. I grant ye, Sir, your Poor for Experiment and Improvement of Knowledge: and to say truth, there ought to be such Scavengers as we to sweep away the Rubbish of the Nation. Sir Cred. and Fat seeming in Discourse.

Sir Cred. Nay, an you talk of a Beast, my service to you, Sir— Drinks. Ay, I lost the finest Beast of a Mare in all Devonshire.

Fat D. And I the finest Spaniel, Sir.

Here they all talk together till you come to —purpose, Sir.

Turb. Pray, what News is there stirring?

Brun. Faith, Sir, I am one of those Fools that never regard whether Lewis or Philip have the better or the worst.

Turb. Peace is a great Blessing, Sir, a very great Blessing.

Brun. You are i’th right, Sir, and so my service to you, Sir.

Leyd. Well, Sir, Stetin held out nobly, though the Gazettes are various.

Amst. There’s a world of Men kill’d they say; why, what a shame ’tis so many thousands should die without the help of a Physician.

Leyd. Hang ’em, they were poor Rogues, and not worth our killing; my service to you, Sir, they’ll serve to fill up Trenches.

Sir Cred. Spaniel, Sir! no Man breathing understands Dogs and Horses better than my self.

Fat D. Your pardon for that, Sir.

Sir Cred. For look ye, Sir, I’ll tell you the Nature of Dogs and Horses.

Fat D. So can my Groom and Dog-keeper; but what’s this to th’ purpose, Sir?

Here they leave off.

105

Sir Cred. To th’ purpose, Sir! good Mr. Hedleburgh, do you understand what’s to th’ purpose? you’re a Dutch Butter-ferkin, a Kilderkin, a Double Jug.

Fat D. You’re an ignorant Blockhead, Sir.

Sir Cred. You lye, Sir, and there I was with you again.

Amst. What, quarrelling, Men of your Gravity and Profession.

Sir Cred. That is to say, Fools and Knaves: pray, how long is’t since you left Toping and Napping, for Quacking, good Brother Cater-tray?—but let that pass, for I’ll have my Humour, and therefore will quarrel with no Man, and so I drink.— Goes to fill again.

Brun. —But, what’s all this to the Patient, Gentlemen?

Sir Cred. Ay,—the Wine’s all out,—and Quarrels apart, Gentlemen, as you say, what do you think of our Patient? for something I conceive necessary to be said for our Fees.

Fat D. I think that unless he follows our Prescriptions he’s a dead Man.

Sir Cred. Ay, Sir, a dead Man.

Fat D. Please you to write, Sir, you seem the youngest Doctor. To Amst.

Amst. Your Pardon, Sir, I conceive there maybe younger Doctors than I at the Board.

Sir Cred. A fine Punctilio this, when a Man lies a dying Aside. —Sir, you shall excuse me, I have been a Doctor this 7 Years. They shove the Pen and Paper from one to the other.

Amst. I commenc’d at Paris twenty years ago.

Leyd. And I at Leyden, almost as long since.

Fat D. And I at Barcelona thirty.

Sir Cred. And I at Padua, Sir.

Fat D. You at Padua?

Sir Cred. Yes, Sir, I at Padua; why, what a pox, do ye think I never was beyond Sea?

Brun. However, Sir, you are the youngest Doctor, and must write.

106

Sir Cred. I will not lose an inch of my Dignity.

Fat D. Nor I.

Amst. Nor I.

Leyd. Nor I. Put the Paper from each other.

Brun. Death, what Rascals are these?

Sir Cred. Give me the Pen—here’s ado about your Paduas and Punctilioes. Sets himself to write.

Amst. Every morning a Dose of my Pills Merda queorusticon, or the Amicable Pill.

Sir Cred. Fasting?

Leyd. Every Hour sixscore drops of Adminicula Vitæ.

Sir Cred. Fasting too? Sir Cred. writes still.

Fat D. At Night twelve Cordial Pills, Gallimofriticus.

Turb. Let Blood once a Week, a Glister once a day.

Brun. Cry Mercy, Sir, you’re a French Man.—After his first Sleep, threescore restorative Pills, call’d Cheatus Redivivus.

Sir Cred. And lastly, fifteen Spoonfuls of my Aqua Tetrachymagogon, as often as ’tis necessary; little or no Breakfast, less Dinner, and go supperless to Bed.

Fat D. Hum, your Aqua Tetrachymagogon?

Sir Cred. Yes, Sir, my Tetrachymagogon; for look ye, do you see, Sir, I cur’d the Arch-Duke of Strumbulo of a Gondileero, of which he dy’d, with this very Aqua Tetrachymagogon.

Enter Sir Patient.

Sir Pat. Well, Gentlemen, am I not an intruder?

Fat D. Sir, we have duly consider’d the state of your Body; and are now about the Order and Method you are to observe.

Brun. Ay, this Distemper will be the occasion of his Death.

Sir Cred. Hold, Brothers, I do not say the occasion of his Death; but the occasional Cause of his Death. Sir Pat. reads the Bill.

107

Sir Pat. Why, here’s no time allow’d for eating, Gentlemen.

Amst. Sir, we’ll justify this Prescription to the whole College.

Leyd. If he will not follow it, let him die.

All. Ay, let him die.

Enter Lodwick and Leander.

Lod. What, have you consulted without me, Gentlemen? Lod. reads the Bill.

Sir Pat. Yes, Sir, and find it absolutely necessary for my Health, Sir, I shou’d be starv’d: and yet you say I am not sick, Sir. To Lean.

Lod. Very well, very well.

Sir Pat. No Breakfast, no Dinner, no Supper?

Sir Cred. Little or none, but none’s best.

Sir Pat. But, Gentlemen, consider, no small thing?

All. Nothing, nothing.

Sir Cred. Sir, you must write for your Fee. To Lod.

Lod. Now I think on’t, Sir, you may eat Writes.

a roasted Pippin cold upon a Vine-leaf, at night.

Lean. Do you see, Sir, what damn’d canting Rascals these Doctors are?

Sir Pat. Ay, ay, if all Doctors were such, ingenuously, I shou’d soon be weary of Physick.

Lean. Give ’em their Fees, Sir, and send ’em to the Devil for a Company of Cheats.

Sir Pat. Truth is, there is no faith in ’em,—well, I thank you for your Care and Pains. Gives ’em Fees.

Sir Cred. Sir, if you have any occasion for me, I live at the red-colour’d Lanthorn, with eleven Candles in’t, in the Strand; where you may come in privately, and need not be ashamed, I having no Creature in my House but my self, and my whole Family.—

That’s a top of my Bill, sweet Sir. Exeunt Doctors.

108

Fan. Lord, Sir Father, why do you give ’em Money?

Lean. For talking Nonsense this Hour or two upon his Distemper.

Fan. Oh lemini, Sir, they did not talk one word of you, but of Dogs and Horses, and of killing Folks, and of their Wives and Daughters; and when the Wine was all out, they said they wou’d say something for their Fees.

Sir Pat. Say you so!—Knaves, Rogues, Cheats, Murderers! I’ll be reveng’d on ’em all,—I’ll ne’er be sick again,—or if I be, I’ll die honestly of my self without the assistance of such Rascals,—go, get you gone.— To Fan. who goes out.

Lean. A happy resolution! wou’d you wou’d be so kind to your self as to make a trial of your Lady too; and if she prove true, ’twill make some kind of amends for your so long being cozen’d this way.

Sir Pat. I’ll about it, this very minute about it,—give me a Chair.— He sits.

Lean. So, settle your self well, disorder your Hair,—throw away your Cane, Hat and Gloves,—stare, and rowl your Eyes, squeeze your Face into Convulsions,—clutch your Hands, make your Stomach heave, so, very well,—now let me alone for the rest—Oh, help, help, my Lady, my Aunt, for Heavens sake, help,—come all and see him die. Weeps.

Enter Wittmore, Lady Fancy, Isabella, Lucretia, Lady Knowell, Roger, and Nurse.

Wit. Leander, what’s the matter?

Lean. See, Madam, see my Uncle in the Agonies of Death.

L. Fan. My dearest Husband dying, Oh! Weeps.

Lean. How hard he struggles with departing Life!

Isab. Father, dear Father, must I in one day receive a Blessing with so great a Curse? Oh,—he’s just going, Madam.— Weeps.

109

L. Fan. Let me o’ertake him in the Shades below, why do you hold me, can I live without him? do I dissemble well?— Aside to Wit.

Sir Pat. Not live without me!—do you hear that, Sirrah? Aside to Lean.

Lean. Pray mark the end on’t, Sir,—feign,—feign.—

L. Kno. We left him well, how came he thus o’th’ sudden?

Lean. I fear ’tis an Apoplexy, Madam.

L. Fan. Run, run for his Physician; but do not stir a foot. Aside to Roger.

Look up, and speak but one kind word to me.

Sir Pat. What crys are these that stop me on my way?

L. Fan. They’re mine,—your Lady’s—oh, surely he’ll recover. Aside.

Your most obedient Wife’s.

Sir Pat. My Wife’s, my Heir, my sole Executrix.

L. Fan. Hah, is he in’s Senses? Aside to Wit.

Oh my dear Love, my Life, my Joy, my All, Crys.

Oh, let me go; I will not live without him. Seems to faint in Wittmore’s Arms. All run about her.

Sir Pat. Do ye hear that, Sirrah?

Lean. Have yet a little Patience, die away,—very well—Oh, he’s gone,—quite gone. L. Fan. swoons.

L. Kno. Look to my Lady there, Swoons again.

—Sure she can but counterfeit. Aside.

They all go about her.

Sir Pat. Hah, my Lady dying!

Lean. Sir, I beseech you wait the event. Death! the cunning Devil will dissemble too long and spoil all,—here—carry the dead Corps of my dearest Uncle to his Chamber. Nurse, to your Care I commit him now.

Exeunt with Sir Pat. in a Chair.

All follow but Wittmore; who going the other way, meets Sir Credulous and Lodwick, as before.

Wit. Lodwick! the strangest unexpected News, Sir Patient’s dead!

110

Sir Cred. How, dead! we have play’d the Physicians to good purpose, i’faith, and kill’d the Man before we administer’d our Physick.

Wit. Egad, I fear so indeed.

Lod. Dead!

Wit. As a Herring, and ’twill be dangerous to keep these habits longer.

Sir Cred. Dangerous! Zoz, Man, we shall all be hang’d, why, our very Bill dispatch’d him, and our Hands are to’t,—Oh, I’ll confess all.— Offers to go.

Lod. Death, Sir, I’ll cut your Throat if you stir.

Sir Cred. Wou’d you have me hang’d for Company, Gentlemen? Oh, where shall I hide my self, or how come at my Clothes?

Lod. We have no time for that; go get you into your Basket again, and lie snug, till I have convey’d you safe away,—or I’ll abandon you.— Aside to him.

’Tis not necessary he shou’d be seen yet, he may spoil Leander’s Plot. Aside.

Sir Cred. Oh, thank ye, dear Lodwick,—let me escape this bout, and if ever the Fool turn Physician again, may he be choak’d with his own Tetrachymagogon.

Wit. Go, haste and undress you, whilst I’ll to Lucia. Exeunt Lod. and Sir Cred.

As Wittmore is going out at one Door, enter Sir Patient and Leander at the other Door.

Lean. Hah, Wittmore there! he must not see my Uncle yet. Puts Sir Pat. back.

Exit Wit.

Sir Pat. Nay, Sir, never detain me, I’ll to my Lady, is this your Demonstration?—Was ever so virtuous a Lady—Well, I’ll to her, and console her poor Heart; ah, the Joy ’twill bring her to see my Resurrection!—I long to surprize her. Going off cross the Stage.

Lean. Hold, Sir, I think she’s coming,—blest sight, and with her Wittmore! Puts Sir Pat. back to the Door.

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Enter Lady Fancy and Wittmore.

Sir Pat. Hah, what’s this?

L. Fan. Now, my dear Wittmore, claim thy Rites of Love without controul, without the contradiction of wretched Poverty or Jealousy: Now undisguised thou mayst approach my Bed, and reign o’er all my Pleasures and my Fortunes, of which this Minute I create thee Lord, And thus begin my Homage.— Kisses him.

Sir Pat. Sure ’tis some Fiend! this cannot be my Lady.

Lean. ’Tis something uncivil before your face, Sir, to do this.

Wit. Thou wondrous kind, and wondrous beautiful; that Power that made thee with so many Charms, gave me a Soul fit only to adore ’em; nor wert thou destin’d to another’s Arms, but to be render’d still more fit for mine.

Sir Pat. Hah, is not that Fainlove, Isabella’s Husband? Oh Villain! Villain! I will renounce my Sense and my Religion. Aside.

Sir Pat. Oh Woman! Woman! damn’d dissembling Woman. Aside.

L. Fan. Come, let me lead thee to that Mass of Gold he gave me to be despis’d;

Draw in the Basket which I told you of, and is amongst the Rubbish in the Hall. Exit Wittmore. That which the Slave so many Years was toiling for, I in one moment barter for a Kiss, as Earnest of our future Joys.

Sir Pat. Was ever so prodigal a Harlot? was this the Saint? was this the most tender Consort that ever Man had?

Lean. No, in good faith, Sir.

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Enter Wittmore pulling in the Basket.

L. Fan. This is it, with a direction on’t to thee, whither I design’d to send it.

L. Fan. O Heavens! what thing art thou?

Sir Cred. O, Pardon, Pardon, sweet Lady, I confess I had a hand in’t.

L. Fan. In what, thou Slave?—

Sir Cred. Killing the good believing Alderman;—but ’twas against my Will.

L. Fan. Then I’m not so much oblig’d to thee,—but where’s the Money, the 8000l. the Plate and Jewels, Sirrah?

Wit. Death, the Dog has eat it.

Sir Cred. Eat it! Oh Lord, eat 8000l. Wou’d I might never come out of this Basket alive, if ever I made such a Meal in my Life.

Wit. Ye Dog, you have eat it; and I’ll make ye swallow all the Doses you writ in your Bill, but I’ll have it upward or downward. Aside.

Sir Pat. Hah, one of the Rogues my Doctors.

Sir Cred. Oh, dear Sir, hang me out of the way rather.

Enter Maundy.

Maun. Madam, I have sent away the Basket to Mr. Wittmore’s Lodgings.

L. Fan. You might have sav’d your self that Labour, I now having no more to do, but to bury the stinking Corps of my quandom Cuckold, dismiss his Daughters, and give thee quiet possession of all. To Wit.

Sir Pat. Fair Lady, you’ll take me along with you? Snaps, pulls off his Hat, and comes up to her.

L. Fan. My Husband!—I’m betray’d—

Sir Pat. Husband! I do defy thee, Satan, thou greater 113 Whore than she of Babylon; thou Shame, thou Abomination to thy Sex.

L. Fan. Rail on, whilst I dispose my self to laugh at thee.

Sir Pat. Leander, call all the House in to be a Witness of our Divorce. Exit Lean.

L. Fan. Do, and all the World, and let ’em know the Reason.

Sir Pat. Methinks I find an Inclination to swear,—to curse my self and thee, that I cou’d no better discern thee; nay, I’m so chang’d from what I was, that I think I cou’d even approve of Monarchy and Church-Discipline, I’m so truly convinc’d I have been a Beast and an Ass all my Life.

Enter Lady Knowell, Isabella, Lucretia, Leander, Lodwick, Fanny, &c.

L. Kno. Hah, Sir Patient not dead?

Sir Pat. Ladies and Gentlemen, take notice that I am a Cuckold, a crop-ear’d snivelling Cuckold.

Sir Cred. A Cuckold! sweet Sir, shaw, that’s a small matter in a Man of your Quality.

Sir Pat. And I beg your pardon, Madam, for being angry that you call’d me so. To L. Kno. And yours, dear Isabella, for desiring you to marry my good Friend there Points to Wit. whose name I perceive I was mistaken in:—and yours, Leander, that I wou’d not take your Advice long since: and yours, fair Lady, for believing you honest,—’twas done like a credulous Coxcomb:—and yours, Sir, for taking any of your Tribe for wise, learned or honest. To Sir Credulous.

Wit. Faith, Sir, I deceiv’d ye only to serve my Friend; and, Sir, your Daughter is married to Mr Knowell: your Wife had all my stock of Love before, Sir. Lod. and Isab. kneel.

Sir Pat. Why, God-a-mercy—some comfort that,—God bless ye.—I shall love Disobedience while I live for’t.

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Lod. I am glad on’t, Sir, for then I hope you will forgive Leander, who has married my Sister, and not my Mother.

Sir Pat. How! has he served me so?—I’ll make him my Heir for’t, thou hast made a Man of me, my Boy, and, faith, we will be merry,—Fair Lady, you may depart in peace, fair Lady, restoring my Money, my Plate, my Jewels and my Writings, fair Lady.—

L. Fan. You gave me no Money, Sir, prove it if you can; and for your Land, ’twas not settled with this Proviso, if she be honest?

Sir Pat. ’Tis well thou dost confess I am a Cuckold, for I wou’d have it known, fair Lady.

L. Fan. ’Twas to that end I married you, good Alderman.

Sir Pat. I’faith, I think thou didst, Sweet-heart, i’faith, I think thou didst.

Wit. Right, Sir, we have long been Lovers, but want of Fortune made us contrive how to marry her to your good Worship. Many a wealthy Citizen, Sir, has contributed to the maintenance of a younger Brother’s Mistress; and you are not the first Man in Office that has been a Cuckold, Sir.

Sir Pat. Some comfort that too, the Brethren of the Chain cannot laugh at me.

Sir Cred. A very pleasant old Fellow this: faith, I cou’d be very merry with him now, but that I am damnable sad.—Madam, I shall desire to lay the Saddle on the right Horse. To L. Kno.

L. Kno. What mean you, Sir?

Sir Cred. Only, Madam, if I were as some Men are, I should not be as I am.

L. Kno. It may be so, Sir.

Sir Cred. I say no more, but matters are not carried so swimmingly, but I can dive into the meaning on’t. Sir Patient talks this while to Lodwick.

L. Kno. I hate this hypothetical way of arguing, answer me categorically.

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Sir Cred. Hypothetical and Categorical! what does she mean now? Aside. —Madam, in plain English, I am made a John-a-Nokes of, Jack-hold-my-staff, a Merry Andrew Doctor, to give Leander time to marry your Daughter; and ’twas therefore I was hoisted up in the Basket;—but as the play says, ’tis well ’tis no worse: I’d rather lose my Mistress than my Life.

Sir Pat. But how came this Rascal Turboon to admit you?

Lod. For the Lucre of our Fees, Sir, which was his recompence.

Sir Pat. I forgive it you, and will turn Spark, they live the merriest Lives—keep some City Mistress, go to Court, and hate all Conventicles.

EPILOGUE,

Spoken by Mrs. Gwin.

PROLOGUE.

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ACT I.

Scene I. The Chamber of Cloris.

Enter Cloris drest in her Night Attire, with Frederick dressing himself.

Clo. Sir, I must see the last of you.

Fred. I dare not disobey; adieu till Evening. Exit.

Enter Lucia.

Clo. Yes, he is gone, and with him too has taken— Sighs.

Luc. What has he taken? I’ll swear you frighten me.

Clo. My heart, Lucia.

Luc. Your Heart, I am glad ’tis no worse.

Clo. Why, what dost think he should have taken?

Clo. Lock up this Box of Jewels for me.

Luc. Oh rare! what, did these come to night?

Clo. Yes, yes, away.

Exeunt.

Scene II. A Grove.

Enter Curtius and Pietro.

Exit Pietro.

Enter Frederick.

Cur. Sir, you are welcome from Cloris’s Arms.

Exit.

Scene III. The Apartment of Antonio.

Enter Lorenzo pulling in of Isabella.

Enter Alberto.

Lor. Well, who can help it? I cannot walk invisible.

Alb. Lorenzo, what, making Love to Isabella?

Lor. She’l serve, my Lord, for want of a better.

Isab. That’s but a coarse Complement.

Alb. ’Twas wittily resolv’d.

Lor. Are you for the Presence this Morning?

Alb. No, I have business here with Antonio.

Lor. Your Servant, my Lord. Exit.

Enter Isabella.

Isab. My Lord, you need not stand upon Ceremonies. Exit Alberto.

Enter Clarina and Ismena, dress’d like one another in every thing, laughing and beholding one another.

They retire.

Scene IV. The Same.

Enter Antonio and Alberto. Clarina and Ismena listen.

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Enter Ismena and Isabella.

Ism. Sir, I am all obedience.

Exit Antonio, she pulls off her Veil; Alberto salutes her with seeming lowness.

Enter Antonio, and listens at the Door.

Ant. I’ll see a little how he behaves himself. Aside.

Enter Antonio, and stays him.

Exeunt severally.

ACT II.

Scene I. The Apartment of Frederick.

Enter Frederick with a Letter, and Galliard.

Enter Lorenzo drunk.

Enter Galliard, whispers.

Exit.

Scene II. Antonio’s House.

Enter Ismena and Isabella.

Enter Page.

Page. Madam, Alberto is without.

148

Exit Page.

Enter Alberto.

Ism. I’m glad he’s gone before Antonio’s return.

Enter Laura weeping.

—What, Laura, all in Tears! the reason, pray.

151

Ex. Isab.

Scene III. The Street.

Enter Lorenzo drunk, with a Page, and Musick, as in the dark.

Enter Antonio.

Enter Isabella.

Enter Alberto.

SONG.

Ex. Musick.

154

Enter Isabella.

Alb. How! a Woman’s Voice! ’tis dark, I’ll advance.

Lor. Thou Simpleton, I told thee there was somebody.

Pag. Lord, Sir, ’tis only Isabella that calls you.

Lor. Away, Sirrah, I find by my fears ’tis no Woman. Goes out with the Page.

Isab. Why don’t you come? here’s nobody.

Alb. Here I am.

Isab. Where?

Alb. Here. Gives her his Hand.

Isab. It is not Lorenzo, what shall I do? She steals in.

Enter Lorenzo and Page.

Enter Antonio.

Sir, as you are a Gentleman, assist a stranger set upon by Thieves.

They fight, Antonio with Alberto, Alberto falls, is wounded. Lor. and Page run away the while.

Exeunt.

156

Scene IV. Antonio’s House.

Enter Clarina, Ismena, and Isabella weeping.

157

Enter Isabella with the Veil.

Ex. Clar. and Isab.

Scene V. A Chamber in Alberto’s House.

Discovers Alberto and Antonio.

Enter Page.

Pag. I know not, Sir, she’s veiled. Exit Page.

Enter Ismena weeping.

Exit.

ACT III.

Scene I. A Room in Salvator’s House.

Enter Frederick and Laura.

Enter Maid.

Enter Curtius.

Cur. How! the Prince! arm’d against Laura too! Draws.

Fred. Traitor, dost draw upon thy Prince?

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Enter Salvator.

Salv. Go, Mrs. Minks, get you in.

Ex. Salv. and Lau.

Scene II. A Street.

Enter Frederick passing in Anger over the Stage, meets Lorenzo.

Enter Curtius.

Enter Alberto.

Alb. Curtius, I’ve something to deliver to your Ear. Whispers.

Cur. Any thing from Alberto is welcome.

Lor. But harkye, Curtius, by your favour, this is but a Scurvy Tale to carry to your Mistress;

I hope you are not in earnest.

Cur. Yes.

Lor. Yes! why, what a foolish idle humour’s this in you? I vow ’twill go near to break the poor Girl’s Heart;—

Come, be advis’d, Man.

Cur. Perhaps I may consider on’t for that reason.

Lor. Well, that’s a comfort yet.

Exeunt.

Scene III. A Wood.

Enter Cloris dressed like a Country-Boy, follow’d by Guilliam a Clown; Cloris comes reading a Letter.

Enter Frederick.

Enter Curtius.

Cur. I must obey you then. Exit.

Enter Cloris.

Enter Guilliam with Galliard.

Clo. I will wait on you, Sir.

Exeunt all but Guil.

Enter Lorenzo and his Page. Peeps first.

174

Enter Page and Musick.

Exit.

ACT IV.

Scene I. Antonio’s House.

Enter Ismena and Isabella.

Isab. She counterfeits rarely. Aside.

Madam, indeed I have observ’d this truth.

Ism. See who ’tis knocks. One knocks.

Ant. What will this come to? Aside.

Isab. Madam, ’tis Alberto.

Enter Alberto. Bows.

Alb. Madam, I go, surpriz’d with Love and Wonder. Ex. Alb.

Ism. You’ll be more surpriz’d, when you know Aside.

That you are cheated too as well as Antonio.

Exeunt.

Scene II. A Street.

Enter Curtius disguis’d in a black Peruke and Beard, with Pietro disguised also.

180

Enter Lorenzo and Guilliam dressed in fineish Clothes, but the same high-crown’d Hat.

Guil. Because she was a Woman—and that’s all. Ex. Guil.

Exeunt.

Scene III. Frederick’s Chamber.

Enter Frederick, and Cloris finely dress’d.

Enter Cloris with Musick.

She bids them play, and dances a Jig.

This was wondrous kind, my pretty Philibert.

Exeunt Musick.

186

Enter Page.

Page. Lorenzo, my Lord, begs admittance.

Fred. He may come in. Exit Page.

Enter Lorenzo.

Exeunt.

Scene IV. A Street.

Enter Lorenzo, meets Guilliam, who passes by him, and takes no notice of him.

Lor. How now, Manners a few?

Guil. I cry you heartily, Sir, I did not see you.

Lor. Well, Sirrah, the News.

Guil. Sir, the Gentlewoman whom you sent me to says That she’ll meet you here.

Lor. That’s well, thou mayst come to be a States-man In time, thou art a fellow of so quick dispatch: But hark ye, Sirrah, there are a few Lessons I must learn you, 188 Concerning Offices of this nature; But another time for that: but— Whispers.

Enter Isabella, and Antonio’s Valet.

Isab. Here he is; and prithee, when thou seest him in My Chamber, go and tell my Lord, Under pretence of the care you have of the Honour of his House.

Val. I warrant you, let me alone for a Tale, And a Lye at the end on’t; which shall not over-much Incense him, nor yet make him neglect coming. Ex. Val.

Lor. Oh, are you there, Mistress? what have you now To say for your last Night’s Roguery? Are not you a Baggage? confess.

Isab. You have a mind to lose your opportunity again, As you did last Night, have ye not? Pray God your own Shadow scare you not, As it did then; and you will possibly believe No body meant you harm then, nor now.

Lor. Art thou in earnest?

Isab. Are you in earnest?

Lor. Yes, that I am, and that Clarina shall find, If I once come to her.

Isab. Come, leave your frippery Jests, and come in.

Lor. Guilliam, be sure you attend me here, And whoever you see, say nothing; the best on’t is, Thou art not much known. Isab. and Lor. go in.

Guil. Well, I see there is nothing but foutering In this Town; wou’d our Lucia were here too for me, For all the Maids I meet with are so giglish And scornful, that a Man, as I am, Gets nothing but flouts and flings from them. Oh, for the little kind Lass that lives Under the Hill, of whom the Song was made; Which because I have nothing else to do, I will sing over now; hum, hum.

189

The Song for Guilliam. To some Tune like him.

’Tis something cold, I’ll go take a Niperkin of Wine,  Goes out.

Enter Isab. and Lor. above, as frighted into the Balcony.

Exeunt.

Scene V. Antonio’s House.

Enter Ismena with a Veil.

Enter Alberto.

Exeunt severally.

ACT V.

Scene I. Laura’s Chamber.

Enter Laura and Cloris like a Boy, as before.

Clo. You shall command me any thing.

Lor. Prithee how long hast thou been set up for thy self, Hah?

Clo. As how, Sir?

Lor. Poh, thou understand’st me.

Clo. Indeed I do not, Sir; what is’t you mean?

Exeunt.

Scene II. A Grove.

Enter Alberto melancholy.

Enter Antonio.

Ant. Alberto, I have such a Project for thee!

198

Alb. Hah— Gazes.

Ant. What ails thee, art thou well?

Alb. No.

Ant. Where art thou sick?

Exeunt.

Scene III. The Lodgings of Curtius.

Enter Curtius and Pietro, disguis’d as before.

202

Enter Lorenzo.

Ex. Cur. and Piet.

Enter the Prince, conducted by two Women in Masquerade, with Lights, he endeavouring to take off their Masks.

Ex. two Women. He walks about while this Song is singing.

Fred. What’s this the Preparation?

Musick for the Dance.

Enter Antonio with Ismena, Alberto with Clarina, Laura and Cloris with two Men more, and all dress’d in Masquerade, with Vizards; they dance. The Prince sets down: the Dance being done, they retire to one side; and Alberto comes and presents him Clarina, and bows and retires; who puts off her Mask, and puts it on again, and retires.

Enter Pietro.

Cur. That, Sir, you draw in vain; stand off— Offers a Pistol.

Fred. What new conceited Preparation’s this?

Cur. Sir, when you know this Face, it will inform you. Pulls off his false Beard.

Fred. Curtius! I am betray’d, oh Villain! Offers to fight.

Cur. Ho, within there—

He calls, and all the masked Men come out, and offer their Pistols at Frederick.

Fred. Yes, Cloris, and thus low I beg thy pardon Kneels.

For all the Fears that I have made thee suffer.

Enter all the rest, first Antonio and Alberto, without their Vizors.

Alb. Who’s this?

Ant. Ismena, whom I promis’d thee.

Alb. It is Clarina; do you mock my Pain? Shows Ismena.

Ant. By Heaven, not I; this is Clarina, Sir.

Enter Prince, Lorenzo, and Guilliam, who comes up scraping to Cloris.

Enter Salvator.

Isab. But, Sir, I’m in earnest with you.

Fred. This is not Philibert.

Isab. No, Sir, but Isabella—that was Philibert. Pointing to Cloris.

Curtain Falls.

EPILOGUE,

Spoken by Cloris.

Guilliam advances.

214