Sir Antony Love: OR, The Rambling Lady.
A COMEDY.
As it was Acted at the THEATRE-ROYAL by Their MAJESTIES Servants.
Written by THO. SOƲTHERNE.
LONDON, Printed for R. Wellington at the Lute in St. Paul's Church-yard. MDCXCVIII.
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Dramatis Personae.
- Sir Antony Love.
- Valentine.
- Ilford.
- Sir Gentle Golding.
- An Abbe.
- Count Canaile his Brother.
- Count Verole.
- Palmer, a Pilgrim.
- Wait-well, Sir Antony's Governour and [...] fident.
- Traffique, a Merchant.
- Cortant, a Taylor's Man.
- Bravo's belonging to Count Verole.
- Servants.
- Servant to Sir Gentle.
- Servant to Ilford.
- Mrs. Montford.
- Mr. Montford.
- Mr. Williams.
- Mr. Bowen.
- Mr. Antho. Leig.
- Mr. Hodgson.
- Mr. Sandford.
- Mr. Powel. Jun.
- Mr. Cibber.
- Tho. Kent.
- Floriante Daughters to Count Canaile.
- Charlott Daughters to Count Canaile.
- Volante, the Abbe's Niece and Charge.
- Mrs. Butler.
- Mrs. Bracegirdle.
- Mrs. Knight.
SCENE, Mompelier.
To my FRIEND Tho. Skipwith, Esq
THere is that certain Argument of Poverty in Poetry, that its Offspring must always be laid at somebodies Door; and indeed, the greatest Master of this Art, will scarce be able to support the Issue of his Brain, upon the narrow Income of a single Reputation.
From the very Start of my Design upon this Play, I had a Design upon you, like a rich Godfather, to ease the Parish of a Charge, and the Parent of a Care, in maintaining it.
You know the Original of Sir Antony, and therefore can best judge how the Copy is drawn; tho' it won't be to my Advantage to have 'em too narrowly compar'd; her Wit is indeed inimitable, not to be painted: Yet I must say, there's something in my Draught of her, that carries a Resemblance, and makes up a very tolerable Figure: And since I have this occasion of mentioning Mrs. Montford, I am pleased, by way of Thanks, to do her that publick Justice in Print, which some of the best Judges of these Performances, have, in her Praise, already done her, in publick places; That they never saw any part more masterly play'd: And as I made every Line for her, she has mended every Word for me; and by a Gaiety and Air, particular to her Action, turn'd every thing into the Genius of the Character.
You have here Seven hundred Lines more in the Print, than was upon the Stage, which I cut out in the apprehension and dread of a long Play.
The Abbe's Character languishes in the Fifth Act for want of the Scene between him and Sir Antony, which I plainly saw before, but was contented to leave a Gap in the Action, and to lose the advantage of Mr. Lee's Playing (which, tho' his Part, that place only gvve him an occasion to shew) then run the venture of offending the Women; not that there is one indecent Expression in it; but the over-fine Folk might run it into a design I never had in my head: my meaning was, to expose the Vice; and I thought it cou'd not be more contemptibly expos'd, than in the Person of a wanton Old Man, that must make ev'n the most fashionable Pleasure ridiculous.
I am gratefully sensible of the general good Nature of the Town to me, which you must give me leave to value my self upon, since the Pride proceeds from an Opinion, that I have deserv'd no otherwise from any Man. But I must make my boast (tho' with the most acknowledging respect) of the Favours for the Fair Sex (I may call 'em Favours, and I may boast of Ladies Favours, when there are so many concern'd) in so visibly promoting my Interest, on those Days chiefly (the Third, and the Sixth) when I had the tenderest relation to the welfare of my Play. I won't from their Encouragement imagine I am the better Poet, but I will for the future, endeavour not to give 'em cause of repenting so seasonable a piece of good Nature; and if I can't give 'em a good Comedy, I won't give 'em a very bad one: This has had its Fate, and a very favourable one. And I cannot but have the better esteem of it, for bringing so many of my Well-wishers together.
So far for Prefacing.
Now, Sir, as to my Dedication: I fear my Credit in this place, is as little worth, as in Lumbard-street; you may take up Money upon it, as soon as a Reputation: But the Blessing of the Fortune lies in having as little need of your Friend's Purse in the City, as your Friend's Praise in Coven-Garden: They who know you, will take you upon your own Word; and they who don't, will hardly upon mine. However, this I must say, if there be a quickness in the Dialogue, and Conversation of this Comedy, I owe it in a great measure to my familiarity with you; which in the freedom of several Years, has giv'n me a thousand occasions of Envy and Admiration; and at last perswaded me to an Imitation of what I have heard with so much pleasure and pain. I wou'd not flatter a Friend: But I have often thought, and sometimes told you, That were it as much in your inclination, as 'tis in your power, to write Comedy, no Man cou'd better succeed in't, because no Man can be more naturally design'd for the Ʋndertaking. I don't pretend to add any thing to the Character of a Man so very well known: If I have a design, behind the pleasing my self, in Dedicating this Play to you, 'tis to secure the Esteem of being thought your Friend: As I have the Title, I desire to continue the Thing; being very much
Sir Antony Love: OR, The Rambling Lady.
WELL, Governour, I think I have Atchiev'd, under thy Conduct, as considerable a Character in as short a time—
Nay, you come on amain.
And, though I say it, have done as much—
And suffer'd as much.
For the Credit of my Country men, and the Reputation of a Whoremaster, as the erran'st Rake-hell of 'em all.
You're a pretty Proficient indeed, and so perfectly act the Cavalier, that cou'd you put on our Sex with your Breeches, o' my Conscience, you wou'd carry all the Women before you.
And drive all the Men before me; I am for Universal Empire, and wou'd not be stinted to one Province; I wou'd be fear'd, as well as lov'd:
You're in the way to't; you change your Men as often as you do your Women; and have every day a new Mistress, and a new Quarrel.
Why, 'tis only the Fashion of the World, that gives your Sex a better Title than we have, to the wearing a Sword; my constant Exercise with my Fencing Master, and Conversation among Men, who make little of the matter, have at last not only made me adroit, but despise the Danger of a Quarrel too.
A Lady-like Reputation, truly. But how preposterously Fortune places her Favours, when no body is the better for 'em.
Why how now, Governour?
She seldom gives a Man an Estate, who has either the Conscience or Youth to enjoy it—
But he may leave it to one who has.
An honest Man might be thankful for half your Fortune with the Women. But what pleasure can you find in following 'em?
The same that some of the Men find.
You can't enjoy 'em.
But I may make 'em ready for those who can.
Are there such Sports-men?
Very many, who beat about more for Company, than the pleasure of the Sport; and if they do start any thing, are better pleas'd with the accidents of the Chase, the Hedges, and Ditches, than the close Pursuit of the Game; and these are sure never to come into the Quarry.
This is so like you now: Why Love shou'd be your business; and you make a business of your Love: You are young and handsome in Petticoats; yet are contented to part with the Pleasures of your own Sex, to ramble into the Troubles of ours. In my Opinion, you might be better employ'd.
I do it to be better employ'd; to recommend me to Valentine, for whose dear sake I first engag'd in the Adventure; robb'd my Keeper, that nauseous Fool Golding, of Five hundred Pounds, and under thy Discretion, came a Collonelling after him here into France.
Why do you lose time then? Why don't you tell him so?
Thou wou'dst have had me, with the true Conduct of an English Mistress, upon the first inclination, cloy'd him with my Person, without any assurance of his relishing me; enough to raise his Appetite to a second taste: No, now I am sure he likes me; and likes me so well in a Man, he'll love me in a Woman; and let him make the Discovery if he dares.
Let me [...].
To the Lodgings you shall; those I saw, and lik't; they're Private, and Convenient, make 'em ready; I'll tell thee all anon— And do you hear— my Female Wardrobe too must be produc'd, my Womans Equipage—
For as the Conduct of Affairs now goes, I'm best disguis'd in my own Sex, and Cloaths. Hey, I had forgot; bring me the Fifty Pieces I spoke of, the Five hundred are in good Health yet, Governour.
But sicken at that sound.
Valentine and Ilford are disappointed of their Bills, and in spite of their good Estates want Money; now, tho' I lend upon the old consideration of borrowing a greater Sum, Fifty Pieces are convenient.
And will be welcome to 'em at this time—
Most certainly; and take this along with you, Governour; You must make your Conversation necessary sometimes, as well as agreeable, to preserve a Friendship with an English-man.
How's this, Sir Antony? under the Discipline of your Governour, and his Wisdom, this Morning?
Like a good Christian, Valentine, clearing old Accounts, that I may begin a new Score, with a better Conscience.
Confessing, and repenting past Enormities—
About the pitch of thy Piety, Ilford, repenting only, because they are past.
So far you may repent with Honour.
Nay, I Confess my self a Child of this World; for at this moment [Page 3]I have a Hint from my Constitution, that tells me the pleasure of thy Example—
Thou art above Example, or Imitation—
Will go near to overthrow the Wisdom of his Precepts; the Morality of thy Beard, Governour—
But, Sir, it wou'd be well.
It wou'd be better, Sir, thou pitiful Preacher, wou'dst thou but follow thy Pimping; 'tis a better Trade, and becomes thy Discretion as well: You'll find me hereabouts—
You have Compounded for Whoring then, Sir Antony?
Any thing but Fighting; he has swing'd me away for my Quarrel yesterday i'th' Tennis-Court.
You deserv'd to be swing'd for't—
I shou'd chide you too, though 'twas upon my account.
To run a Gentleman thro' the Arm, for not witnessing all you said in Commendation of Valentine—
When he was not so much as acquainted with my Person—
Was—
Something more bold than welcome, I grant you; but I had not fought a great while, my hand was in, and I was pushing at Reputation. For, I Gad, I look upon Courage to proceed more from Habit and Practice, than any Virtue of the Mind.
How [...] Sir Anthony [...] something in Family [...]—
Wooden Legs, in a great many, Valentine.
Courage often runs in a Blood—
They say so of the Pox, indeed. The Sins of the Fathers may run in the Blood sometimes, and visit the third and fourth Generation: But their Virtues dye with the Men. And if the Example, and Custom of the World (supported by good eating and drinking) had not infus'd a nobler Spirit into the Blood, than any deriv'd from the Father; most Men had continu'd like those, who stay with their Fathers; Elder Brothers all; and had never offer'd at an Intrigue, above a red Petticoat; or a Quarrel, above a Rubber at Cuffs.
'Tis sensibly extravagant, and wild!
Inimitably new! But how do you to avoid Drinking?
Why that avoids me, thanks to the Custom of the Countrey, and the better Diversions of this Place; not but I can arrive at a Bottle too.
If you were in London—
There I grant you— Where the young Fellows begin the Reputation of their Humour and Wit in a Pint Glass, carrying 'em, without intermission of sense or jest, to the end of the third Bottle; and then thro' the publick places, and folly of the Town.
There you wou'd be at a loss.
I shou'd indeed; where they go to Taverns, to swallow a Drunkenness; and then to a Play, to talk over their Liquor.
I thought that folly fell off with their Fathers—
The Entertainment of it did indeed.
Who, as they began it in their Frolick, supported it in their Wit.
And since the Sons are so plainly disinherited of the Sense, they have no Title to the Sins of their Fathers.
Unless they kept 'em more in Countenance.
Yet they would do something, like their Fathers.
As an ignorant Player in England, whom I saw undertaking to Copy a Master Actor of his time; began at his Infirmity in his Feet; and growing famous for the imitation of his Gout, he cou'd walk like him, when he cou'd do nothing else like him.
The Gout, and the Pox take him for't—
And all those, I say, who, only from their Opinion of themselves, are encourag'd to meddle in other Men's matters, without ever bringing any thing about of their own.
Aye, those medling Fools, Ilford! who are in all places, yet ever out of their way—
And not only out of their own way, but always in other Mens—
And still as ridiculous as a Fellow of thy Severity and Reserve wou'd be in the fantastical Figure of a Lover.
Whoever has the Woman; you have your Wit, Sir Antony—
They go together, Sir— You'll find it so.
Whom have we here?
A [...]about him!
One of that travelling Tribe, without their Circumcision.
Of Christian Appellation, a Pilgrim.
'Tis a senseless Constitution of Men!
Who make themselves Mad, to make the rest of the World Fools, by finding a Faith for all their Fopperies.
How can they pass upon the World?
As other Constitutions, and Orders of Men as senseless, pass; that are founded too in as much Cozenage and Roguery as this can be.
You are an Enemy of Forms, Sir Antony.
Oh, Sir, the Virtue of the Habit often covers the Vices of the Man: There's Field enough in England to find this in, without the Abby-lands, Gentlemen.
Weeds are the general growth of every Soil.
How many Fools in the State, and Atheists in the Church, carry themselves currant thro' their Congregations and Clients, to great Emyloyments; and, being arm'd only with the Authority and Countenance of their Cloathing, secure themselves from the discovery and sensure of the Court and Town?
These are Disguises, I grant you, worth a sensible Man's putting on; but a Pilgrim's Habit is as ridiculous as his Pretence; and I wou'd no more wear a Fools Coat, to be thought devout; than be devout for the sake of the Livery.
Fools are the Guts of all Churches, and make the Bulk of every Opinion.
Hang him, let him pass; spare him for the sake of the Church, and spare the Church for the sake of our Abbe.
Who is, indeed, a most considerable Pillar of it, to his own profit, and our pleasurable living in this Town.
He is a very Pope in Mompelier, the Head here—
And a fit Head he is for such sinful Members as we are.
We Members! You are a Protestant, Sir Antony.
You may be surly enough to tell 'em you are one; but I am always of the Religion of the Government I am in—
And of the Women you converse with, Knight.
And when I can't convince 'em, I conform.
A very civil Character of a fashionable Conscience.
Of a sensible Man, I think: Why must your Capacity be the Measure of another Man's Understanding? And all Men be in the wrong, who don't dance i'th' Circle of your Thoughts?
Every Man a Villain, or a Fool, who does not fall into your Notion of things?
No Opinion ever sprung out of an Universal Consent; Truth can no more be comprehended, than Beauty: We have our several Reasons for the one, and Fancies for the other. And as Beauty has not the same influence upon all Complexions; so Reason has not the same Force upon all Understandings: We embrace what pleases us in both, secure our selves in a probability, and guess out the rest.
Ilford is one of those Fellows, whom if you divide from in one thing, will never close with you in any. Tho the Abbe and you do differ about the way to Heav'n, you may go to the Devil together, I warrant you.
However wide we may be from his Opinion of t'other World, I'm sure he joyns with us in our Opinion of this.
For my part, I regard the Man, not his Religion; and if he does my Business in this World, let him do his own in the next.
Nay, Gentlemen, I have as honourable an Opinion of the Abbe, as you can have: I know there's nothing to be done without him—
That the Conversation of the best Families in Mompelier runs thro' his Reformation—
That some of our Fortunes—
All our Fortunes—
Yours particularly with Floreante, at present depending upon his Favour, against the Authority of her Father—
And the Quality of my Rival, Count Verole.
No Dancings, no Balls, no Masquerades, in a sweet Circle of Society, as it has been, from one Good House to another, without his Introduction and Gravity to qualifie the Scandal.
Substantial Reasons for our Respect.
Weighty Motives all for our Attendance.
Are they so, Sir? No more of your Protestant then, if you wou'd not be damn'd for a Heretick, by the Women in a Catholick Countrey.
We shou'd ha' been at our Patron's Levy, Gentlemen.
He'll bate us us the Ceremony: You're going to visit him?
You must along with us.
I'll follow you.
You are his Favourite; we are no body without you—
The support of our interest with him.
Business, Business, Gentlemen.
Pox o' your Business—
'Twill end in that—prithee let him go; a Whore I warrant you— Whore; more prostituted too, to Knaves and Fools: Yet my grave Friend, you'll have a share in both, or I mistake your Nature.
You are answer'd.
Indeed my little Friend is so far right, Money, and Whore, make one anothers use; either is dull alone.
This Pilgrim here again!
He follows us; what wou'd he have?
Your Charity, good Gentlemen.
Prithee leave us; there's Charity in my Advice to thee, not to lose thy labour; besides, we are English-men; and never think of the Poor out of our own Parish.
Nor there neither, but according to Law, and when we cannot help it.
Charity is a Free-will-Offering, and we part with nothing we can keep, I assure you—
Not so much as our sins.
Especially at this time—
Unless it be to live upon 'em.
Alas! what pity 'tis, that Gentlemen so much in debt—
That we shall never pay—
To Heaven—
And other Creditors.
Of Youth so sweet, of Form so excellent—
You or me, Ilford? Who does he mean?
So finish'd, by the great Creator's Hand, I worship him in thee.
As thou do'st the King's Picture in his Coyn—
In hopes of getting by it.
You are so fashion'd—
For a Sinner.
And by Natures Hand design'd—
A Whoremaster.
You can't want—
Women? No, Pilgrim, I shan't want 'em, in thy Acquaintance, I'm sure.
You can't want Grace, the Beauty of the Soul, the Accomplishment of Virtue to the work: You can't wan't Chairty; for Charity is call'd our Gratitude to Heav'n—
You call it so.
You would not be Ungrateful?
I wou'd not be a Fool, nor imagine such an Ass as thou art cou'd ever be Commission'd, a' God's Name, to collect the Revenues of this World—
Nor to Convert (those Deodands of Devotion) the publick Charitable Endowments of Bigotted, or Dying Fools, to the private Luxury of your own Lazy Tribe.
We build no Churches, Pilgrim, nor found Hospitals, but in our own Countrey; nor there neither, but to Father our own Bastards.
Your Mendicant Women-Saints, we allow off indeed: All our Charity runs thro' their Devotion.
Soft little Hands become an Offering, and those we often fill.
Are you so lost.
To all that thou can'st say.
Thy Godliness may Convert others, tho' it does nothing upon us.
What can I do for you?
Pimp for us.
I will Pray for you.
Do't in a Corner alone then,
Be as Godly as thou wou't by thy self; and leave us to our Devotions.
I may joyn with you in yours, before I have done; the Abbe won't fail me.
I have my hands full, Gentlemen; but my Trade is settled, my Correspondence easie, my Factors employ'd, and my Returns will be quick.
Pray make 'em so; and come as soon as you can to us.
I sail with every wind, in the Teeth of Fortune sometimes.
Have a care of being bit, Sir Antony.
I [...] older Sinner. Valentine I warrant you—
You may venture him: He has nothing to lose, that I know of, but his Youth; and that wonnot long support the expence of the life he leads.
He loses no time, indeed.
But misemploys a great deal, in my Opinion.
Youth will have its Sallies.
The Sallies of his Youth will sooner lead him to Repentance and the Pox, than to his Mannor of Love-dale, as he calls it.
His Mansion-house in Glocestershire.
His Castle in the Air, which no Man ever heard of, till he was pleas'd to fancy, and Christen it, for the Seat of his Family.
Then you don't believe him a Barronet, of twelve hundred pounds a year, under Age, and upon an Allowance for his Travel, from his Guardians?
I believe he may have been some Court Page, spoil'd first by the Confidance of his Lady, in knowing her Secrets; then coming early into the iniquity of the Town, by the merit of his Person, and impudence, has since made a fashionable Livelihood, out of Women and Fools.
I don't know who he is, or wat he has: If he be no Knight, he's a pretty Fellow, and that's better: And if he has not Twelve Hundred Pounds a Year, he deserves it, and does not want it: Which is more than you can say of most of your Knights, that have that Estate, I'm sure.
Nay, that I grant you too.
He lives as like a Gentleman, has all things as well about him; is as much respected by the Men, and better receiv'd by the Women, than any of us.
He's a pretty Womans Man indeed.
And a merry Man's Man too, Sir; for you must own, he has a great deal of Wit.
Pretty good Natural Parts, I confess; but a Fool has the keeping 'em, no Judgment in the World; and what he says, comes as much by chance—
As Epicurus's World did; Perfect, and Uniform, without a Design.
He flies too much at random to please any Man of Discretion.
There is indeed the Quarrel of Twelve Years difference, between thy Discretion, and his Wit. He may live up to thy Discretion, George, but we shall neither of us arrive at his Wit.
How long will his Wit support him?
That must be his Care, and not our Business: I never examine any man's Pockets, that is not troublesome to mine.
If he be not troublesome, his Necessities may throw him upon some scandalous Action—
That may require thy Bailing him?
That may reflect upon us.
O! thou wer't always tender of thy Reputation, when thou wer't to pay for the Scandal, I'll say that for thee, Ilford: But if want of Money be a Crime; Heav'n help the guilty: We are disappointed of our Bills at present too.
But we have Letters of Credit, and may use 'em upon occasion.
And [...], which he may use too, upon Occasion; for I am so far from apprehending he may, that I am resolv'd he shall want nothing I can oblige him in, Pocket or Person.
O! Sir, you need not doubt his giving you an opportunity of shewing your Gallantry in that part of your Friendship; he'll borrow Money of you, warrant you.
And he shall have it, tho' I borrow it for him. But, Sir, you had not always this slight Opinion of Sir Antony.
I did not always know him.
Nor he the Abbe's Niece.
I found him out but lately.
For your Rival.
His Vanity, Extravagance, and general Pretension to Women, are intolerable—
Especially when the gayety of that Humour is likely to get the better of your formality, in Volante's esteem: He is your Rival.
My Rival!
And I don't wonder, you don't like him.
He's a general Undertaker, indeed; and in that part of his Conversation, is as impertinent to the Women, as in other things he is troublesome to the Men: So I think it wou'd be our common good Fortune to get rid of him.
I am not of your mind: And here he comes to convince you.
Just as I left you! You scorn to stir an inch out of your quality, to put your selves in the way of Fortune, tho' you know her to be blind.
You meet her at every turn, Sir Antony.
She must come home to you to be welcome.
When do you bring her home?
But you may be sullen, and sour, domineer, threaten your Stewards, and talk loud at a Disappointment; you are in possession, Gentlemen:
My Guardians won't be so serv'd: My Governour teaches me to provide against Accidents: What I want of my Age, I must supply with my Diligence.
And have your labour for your pains.
I can take pains, Sir, and the profit of my pains, Sir; Fifty pieces in a Morning, Sir, the price of my pains, and give the Lady a penniworth into the Bargain.
How! Fifty Pieces?
From a Woman, Sir Antony?
Nothing, Sir, a trifle.
Your Mistress pays like a Widow—
That had lost her Youth upon a Husband, and the hopes of a Joynture—
And just deliver'd, wou'd redeem the folly of the past, by the enjoyment of what's to come—
In a sober Resolution, of making the price of her pennance, the purchase of her pleasure—
By refunding upon a young Fellow, what she had wheadl'd from an old one.
I warrant her old, and ugly, by her Pension.
She's young enough to be a Maid, handsome enough to be a Mistress, cunning enough to be a Wife, and rich enough to be a Widow.
Faith, she comes down—
Deeper than I can, I assure you.
She pays well, I'll say that for her.
And is well— I'll say that for her.
And does every thing well.
You wou'd say that for her, Valentine? And she does every thing well; that way she is a Widow, I promise you.
Take us into your Assistance.
We are Friends, and will stand by you.
We are out of Employment that way—
And wou'd Journey-work under you.
Any thing to be wicked, Gentlemen: But, Ilford, thou art honourably in Love, and hast it too much in thy head, to have it any where else. Besides, she's so much of my humour, she'll never relish thine.
She must not go out of our Family.
She's handsome and convenient; as able to answer all our wants, as all we are to satisfie the importunity of hers.
Well; I am satisfy'd, I am her Man.
Or any Woman's Man, who wants to be satisfy'd.
She must like me, for being of her Opinion, in liking thee.
That indeed may do something, and time may bring it about: In short, this is the English Lady you have heard me speak of: I allow her the favour of my Person; and she allows me the freedom of her Purse: And I am glad I command it so luckily, to answer the Occasions of my Friends.
You can command nothing we can have occasion for.
By your Pardon, Sir, you may be too proud to be oblig'd; but I have occasion for the Money and Woman too, so as you were saying, Sir Antony—
Why, I still say a true bred English-man is ever out of humour when he's out of Pocket: He knows no more how to want Money, than how to borrow it—
And when he does, is as surly in borrowing, as others are in lending Money.
'Tis almost as dangerous too, to offer him Money, as to lend Money to another Man: For he is as likely, out of a want of Sense, to suffer your Courtesie; as a Stranger, out of a want of Honesty, never to return it.
That way, indeed, our Countrymen take care, never to think themselves oblig'd: We can be ungrateful—
And cheat our Benefactors of their good Offices, by an Ingratitude, almost natural to us; and that makes a tolerable amends for our want of the more [...] Villanies of warmer Countries.
But the Lady, Sir Antony—
More of the Lady at leisure; in the mean time, here are Fifty Pieces of hers, too keep up your Fancy: If your Occasions require a greater Sum— she shall supply you—
And I'll supply her.
Upon your Bond, for the payment of the whole to her in England—
By all means.
A Blank Bond, because she wou'd not be known here.
With all my Heart, but won't she take a Gentleman's Word?
O yes, when she has his Bond for the performance. When our surly Friend is Civil enough to be oblig'd, I have a Twin-Purse at his Service too.
You are very much out of his Favour of late.
So I find: What's the Matter with the Fool?
How have you disoblig'd him?
But he's in Love, and consequently an Ass.
And I believe Jealous of you.
Faith I'll give him Cause. Volante is as fit for my purpose of Tormenting him that way, as I could wish. Shall we to the Abbe, Gentlemen?
Golding! An English-Man?
So his Servants tell me, Sir.
Just come to Town, say'st thou?
He has not peep'd abroad, since his coming, Sir.
Do you know any such Gentleman, Valentine?
I did; a considerable Coxcomb of that Name, in England; a Knight, Sir Gentle Golding. Sir Antony, you may have known him too.
I have heard of him. If this shou'd prove my Coxcomb Governour.
But Damn him, he has not Courage enough to cross the Channel.
I know he is in France, I heard of him at Paris.
Faith, Sir, it must be the Man—
Whom we must manage then.
Why do'st think so?
Your Description is so like him, Sir.
Why, hast thou found him out—
For his Father's Son, and his Mother's Fool.
And our Fool, Gentlemen: If he be a Fool, I'll have my Snack of him.
There's enough for you all, without wronging the Family, as he will quickly convince you. He knows you, Sir—
Then 'tis the very Fool.
And designs to wait upon you.
At his Peril be't: I owe him a Revenge, for Lucia's sake.
Is this the Spark?
That bought her of her Aunt—
Now for my Character.
When she was yet too young, to Judge between the Fortune and the Fool.
That's some Excuse however.
A little time shew'd her, her senseless Bargain.
So I hear.
Which, she repenting, gave you the cheaper Penniworth of her Person: Then was the time—
That I was in France; out of the reach of any other Pleasure, had she design'd me any, than the bare News, that she had found him out, loath'd, and abhorr'd him.
Loathing and Abhorring, are Tokens of Mortification indeed: But Pennance is not enough for such a Fault; 'tis generally as short liv'd, as the Sin that begot it. What marks of Amendment has she since given?
What marks of Amendment wou'd you have?
I know nothing of her Amendment.
Wou'd you have her Snivle, like a Girl; more afraid of her Mother, than the Sin; and cry, forgive me this one slip, I'll do so no more—
Repent upon the first Intrigue—
Turn Honest, and disparage the Pleasure, by leaving the Trade.
That must not be.
By no means, Valentine.
Wou'd you have her already fall off—
Become a Civil Person—
And take up—
With some body that better deserves her; that way I wou'd have her a Civil Person, and fall off from her Fool.
Indeed a Woman never repents of a Fool so heartily, as in the Arms of a Man of Sense.
How Fortune has dispos'd of her, I know not; but I lik'd her once so [Page 12]well, I wou'd have her still preserve my good Opinion of her Conduct: If she has manag'd her Monster, as he deserv'd, she has made Money and Mirth of him; and me some Amends for the loss of her, by mending her Condition.
If that will preserve your good Opinion of her, she will continue it: For I hear she has us'd him as ill, as you cou'd desire from your Revenge; or the Town expect from their Hopes of a Libel.
Then I honour her.
She has robb'd him of Five Hundred Pounds, run away from him; and so expos'd him, that he has been the common Rhyming Theam, the Hackney Pegasus for the Puny Poets to set out upon, in their vast Ambition, of arriving at a Lampoon.
And that perhaps has sent him into France.
Well, I will have her Knighted.
Of what Order? A Knight Errant, or an Errant Knight?
A Knight Errant, of thy Order, she must be.
That she is already.
And thee a Right Honourable, for thy News.
You may depend upon it.
If ever I light on her, I'll thank her for this Justice to us all.
Golding may tell us more of her.
But he and I must clear another score.
ACT II.
SCENE I. A Garden.
BRother, you may forget your self, and your Rank, as much as you please, in our Niece Volante: I have nothing to do with her, but to wish her well.
'Tis very well.
You are her Guardian: Her Person, her Fortune, and her Conduct are in your Care.
I'll take Care of 'em.
You must answer for 'em.
I will answer for 'em.
But my Daughters are under my Government; and whilst they are, they must, nay shall do nothing to dishonour me.
They will do nothing to dishonour you.
I'll put it out of their Power, had they a mind to't.
They ha' no such Mind.
That's more than I can tell, from the Liberties you give these English-men in our Family—
They are Gentlemen.
I apprehend a Danger, tho' you won't.
Pugh, pugh, there is no danger.
I'll prevent it, if there were.
All Men of Fortune, in their Countrey.
They are not Men of Quality. Wou'd Count Verola were come.
Don't do so rash a thing.
I'll rid my self of all my fears at once; dispose my youngest Daughter in a Nunnery, and instantly marry Floriante—
To make her more miserable.
Suitable to her Birth.
To a Fool, the worst of Fools; a Singular, Opinionated, Obstinate, Crooked-temper'd, Jealous-pated Fool.
If he were so, that Fool's a Count; and the Count makes amends for the Fool.
Then he is welcome—
Virtue created first Nobility; but in our honourable Ignorance Nobility makes Virtue.
What says the Abbe?
Sir, you are most welcome.
I shall be glad to find it from the Man I so much honour—
Ah, Monsieur L'Abbe.
You have prevented us.
We were going to visit you.
In Nomine Domine, Amen.
The Abbe making his Will!
Amen to our Abbe's Devotions.
You fall as naturally as a Parish-Clerk, into the close of a Prayer.
I love to bring things to a good end.
Nay I have done; my Devotion won't tire your Attention.
You are like the Prelate, that being dignify'd for long Prayers, hated them ever after.
Long Prayers are for poor Priests that want Preferment, Men of Quality rise without 'em.
In Men of your Rank they are Pharisaical, and always to carry on a Design.
I neither have a Faith in them nor their Followers; and therefore I seldom or never pray at all.
How! never Pray at all?
The Church and I are agreed upon the Bargain; and few words are best, when the Parties are of a mind.
But the Church may better your Bargain.
I am mortify'd to the Dignities and Designs of the Church; have laid aside the Pomp and Pride of my Profession, I am contented to sit down in a Sine-Cure; and, with the poor pittance of 2000 Pistols a year, make the most of a good Conscience and good Company.
A good Conscience is good Company indeed.
I mean, Sir, I'll make a Conscience of good Company—
Make the best of the Blessing, and enjoy it as long as you can.
Ah! my little Knight understands me, tho' you won't, Sir.
You'll anger him—
He jumps into the Point with me.
And into the Company too, dear Abbe; I must make one.
Make one, thou mak'st all; thou'rt all in all; the whole Company thy self; thou art every thing with every body; a Man among the Women, and a Woman among the Men.
How Abbe! Sir Antony a Woman?
One might indeed mistake him, by his Face.
He wou'd mistake him, I believe.
Somewhere else.
But there's no faith in Faces; the Women have found him out, and won't trust him.
Ay, ay, the Women Abbe, the Ladies—
As mad as ever they were, my Nieces you mean!
I long to be among 'em.
Nay, they long too, if that wou'd do 'em any good. And think it long.
I have not spoke to a Woman this half hour.
We are all idle without you.
Sin has been as silent among us.
As in the first Session of a Parliament, in fear of a Reformation.
Ah! very well, I faith, my little Man. But no, no Reformation, I warrant you; matters shall not be much mended by my Management; Sin must sometimes get the better of the Saint.
Or the Devil may still wear black, Sir.
Let him wear what he will: We have had him in our Family this Morning.
What's the matter?
My Brother has discover'd something between you, and his Eldest Daughter.
That's unlucky.
Which to prevent, he designs to Marry her instantly to Count Verole.
That's bad indeed.
What is there to be done?
Nothing that I know of.
What's to be done? Any thing's to be done?
What if I run away with her?
With all my heart.
Or if I cut his Throat.
With all my heart.
Or Bed-rid him with a beating.
With all my heart.
If none of these will do, let him Marry her.
And I must say with all my Heart.
If you can't make her your Wife, make him your Cuckold.
With all my heart.
Ah! if I durst but hope that way.
Hope, you must hope Man, and you must dare Man, if you wou'd do any thing with the Women.
Can you encourage me?
Why, Faith, what-ever her Father designs, shes does not design to Marry him: And Disobedience may make way for other Sins.
I know she hates him.
And I know she likes you. And if I have any Authority from the Church—
Which is not to be disputed.
Or any Interest from my Estate—
Which must be considerable—
Not to be oppos'd—
And which must furnish the better part of her Fortune, he sha'nt have her.
That's gaining time at least.
He's naturally jealous.
And has settled that Nature by a Spanish Education, they say.
He was bred in Spain indeed.
A miserable Woman she must be then.
I wou'd not have a Niece of mine marry'd into a Family, or Nation, where, if she dislike her own Man, she can have no body else.
Our Women are the happy Women, Sir.
Why, indeed your English-men are the fittest Men for Husbands in the World! Wou'd all my Female Relations were married into your Countrey!
Wou'd they thought as well of us, as you do.
There is a Lady quarrels at her Condition, or likes another Man better than her Husband; which sometimes may happen, you know.
Such things have happen'd indeed.
There they say Cuckoldom is in fashion.
Nay, more than in fashion, Sir, 'tis according to Law; Cuckoldom is the Liberty, and a seperate Maintenance, the Property of the Freeborn Women of England.
We give our Women fair play for't.
And scorn any Tie upon 'em, more than their Inclinations.
Why, what wou'd a Lady ask more in Marriage? I'll maintain it, such a Priviledge is better than her Dower; and in a prudent Woman's thoughts, must take place of any other Consideration.
'Tis as much before a Dower in Profit too, as in time; for a Husband may cheat a Wife of her Dower.
Or wear out her Title by out-living her; and then she is bob'd of her Reversion.
Or leave her so old, she may be past having any good from it.
Unless she lays it out in redeeming some younger Brother—
That had spent his Annuity in a Lord's Company—
Or in following a Common Whore—
Or in following as Common a Mistress, the Court.
And being reduc'd to the last Fifty, had ventur'd it prudently on a Birth-day Coat, and the Hopes of an Employment.
One, who in spight of having been once undone, will have no more profit from his Experience, than to fall into the same folly agen, with the same occasion.
Then hang him for a Fool, enough of him— I am convinc'd with what you say, Gentlemen: And you shall have my Niece, you have her Consent, and my Consent, and Sir Antony's good Word; which I promise you, goes a great way with the Women.
Your Niece Volante is her Confident.
I'll make her your Friend.
I'll secure her for you.
Why you secure her?
For such a favour, Sir, I think I may.
Your Interest is mighty.
So far I can engage her.
You engage her!
Nay, oblige her.
Her Friendship may oblige her, but not you.
Pray don't quarrel about obliging her; Volante is my Favourite, she shall please her self, and I believe wou'd please Sir Antony —Gentlemen, you are three, and my Nieces are three; I wo'nt meddle in your Choice; agree among your selves; win 'em, and wear 'em; I had rather you shou'd have 'em, than my Brother dispose of 'em.
Sir, you oblige us all.
Our Dinner stays for us, we'll settle those things within: I have almost forgot the extraordinary Part of my Entertainment, I have a Pilgrim for you.
We have had him already.
And our share of laughing at him too, Sir.
He pretends to be a Man of extraordinary Sanctity; I medled with that as little as I cou'd, for fear of raising a Spirit I cou'd not lay; besides, I had matters of more moment to mind then.
How did you get rid of him?
With much ado I put him and his History off, telling him, some English Hereticks were to Dine with me—
We are oblig'd to you, Sir.
And if he pleas'd to spare that miraculous Account, (which he will be sure to give of himself) for the Conversion of the Wicked, he might then have a proper occasion for so great a Design.
I should think the worse of my Constitution as long as I liv'd, if I shou'd grow qualmish of any thing he cou'd say to me.
I knew I must hear him, and therefore provided your Conversation to qualify his.
The Novelty may divert us.
He professes more Charity, than to force his Nonsence upon you.
That Punishment I must go through, before he will go away, and pay for my Penance too.
At the expence of his Vow of Poverty.
Why, there our Christian Liberty's confest.
Wou'd we had ne're a more imposing Priest.
One word before you go.
Prithee come along— no Cautioning in such a slight Affair—
I am glad you think it such a slight Affair.
Meer merriment.
I never thought it more.
Matter of Mirth, and Jest.
Nay, that's too much.
Upon a foolish Pilgrim.
Upon Volante.
Volante! Thou talk'st of Volante, and I answer thee, the Pilgrim: Why thou art distracted, Man; and I shall suspect my self to be no wiser than I shou'd be, for keeping thee Company.
Sir, however you think to carry it, I must tell you—
With a very Grave Face—
This is no jesting time—
Because 'tis a ridiculous Subject.
That I am in love—
In serious sadness.
With that Lady.
That never was sad, nor serious in her life: Prithee, no more of this, Ilford, in Love! Thou art a very honest Fellow, and hast a great many good Qualities, but thy Talent lies quite another way.
Sir, I am serious enough to be angry, if you laugh at me.
But you are in Love with her, you say: Why every body that sees her, is in Love with her, if that wou'd do any good; but is she in Love with you?
I think my Estate may recommend my Person to a Welcome, whereever I pretend.
Do's she think so?
Why do you ask the Question?
Volante is too Witty, to be very Wise; and requires no Settlement, but her Man.
And why may not I be her Man, pray?
Fy, Fy, Sir, more Modesty might become a Man of your Gravity! You her Man! No, no, she's otherwise dispos'd of, I assure you.
What, you follow her!
Nay, you follow her; she does not put me to the trouble.
No, Sir— I shall put you to more trouble, if you don't quit your Pretensions to her—
Quit my Pretensions to her!
And promise me—
I will promise you—
O, will you so, Sir?
That (whatever I would have done by fair means) I will now follow her in spight of your Teeth—
In spight of my Teeth—
Pursue her, till she yield to my Desires—
The Devil you will!
And lye with her under your Nose.
You shall be Damn'd first.
Nay, then have at the Lady.
This was a Trick to save his Cowardice.
I had rather part with my Pretension to a Quarrel, than to my Mistress at any time.
I hope you are not hurt.
Sir, you assert a Priviledge, the Lady never gave you, of Treating her at that Familiar rate.
At what familiar rate?
Sir, you may be respectful, look simply, and bow at a distance, in a Modest Dispair, of ever coming nearer to please; but I am for a closer Conversation, when I like my Company.
I am sorry, Sir, my Carriage gives Offence; but I must think you treat me more familiarly, that saucily shou'd dare to censure me, limit my Actions, and prescribe me Rules.
A Foolish Fellow, Madam, not worth your Anger; leave him to his Repentance, and your Scorn.
I must bear it all.
But pray, how came this Difference?
'Twas your Quarrel, Madam.
I am sorry for it.
You may judge what a Husband he'll make, who (being but a Servant) dares assume an Authority over you—
Which I never gave him, that I remember.
I told you, you were out of the Road of her Favour.
The Report of this Quarrel, and the Occasion of it, will be but a scandalous addition to my Fame, when it comes to be the Tattle of the Town.
It shall go no further for me.
I suppose the folly on't will keep you silent; you may be asham'd on't indeed.
I beg you Pardon for it.
Beg, Sir Antony's; for till he pardons you, I am sure, I won't.
There is no Remedy, you must submit.
I am a Woman's Fool, and must obey.
'Tis many a Wise Man's Fortune.
We are Friends.
If you have Favours to expect from me, deserve 'em by fair means.
Or come to me, and I'll speak a good word for thee to the Lady.
You Triumph, Sir.
Till when, we take our leaves.
Is not that Sir Antony?
They are proper Counsellors for our purpose of Disobedience—
As we cou'd ha' met withal.
You'll be no Nun, Sister?
Nor you no Countess?
I wou'd be as willingly enclos'd in the Walls of a Monastery, as in the Arms of that Count Verole; and in the Arms of Death rather than in either.
Well; I'm not so difficult; I had rather be alive upon any Terms, than dead upon the best; I had rather be a Nun, than be nothing at all; tho' there's nothing I had not rather be, than be a Nun.
Any Man's Company, rather than the Company of all Women.
'Tis more to my Humour, I confess to you, among the rest of my Venial Offences; But Valentine! he is your Man, Sister; wou'd I had the fellow of him—
For your Confessour, Sister?
I cou'd confess something to him that wou'd make him enjoyn me another kind of Penance, than my Prayers.
What! Absolve you from your Devotion?
And perswade him to make a Sinner of me, rather than suffer my Father to make me a Saint, so much before my time.
You are a mad Girl: But what of Valentine?
He shou'd not be out of our Design.
I'll answer for him, he won't.
His Interest's so concern'd, he should not be wanting in any occasion of abusing our Father.
Or of using the Count as he deserves.
They're both behind us, Mum—
My Lord, that goes a great way with me, I assure you.
If he wou'd hang himself—
For what, young Lady?
For your kind Care of me.
I'm glad you're sensible I mean you well.
A Nunnery is Virtue's best Retreat from a bad World.
Fy, Charlott, you'll tell all.
How cou'd she guess at that?
Bring Sir Antony to my rescue, I beseech thee.
To make it but more yours.
Out of the Rank, he means, of commen Men; and indeed, he scarcely looks of Humane Kind.
What do I look like then?
There's nothing like you, you are your self.
I wou'd be nothing else.
What, not of God's Creation?
I am of his Creation.
Of the King's you may be; but he who makes a Count, ne're made a Man; remember that, and fall that mighty Crest.
It seems you know me then.
By that coy, cock't-up Nose, that hinders you from seeing any Man, that does not stand upon the Shoulders of his Ancestors, for long Descents of farr-fam'd Heraldry: I take you for a Thing, they call a Count; for had you not been a Count, you had been nothing, at least I'm sure you had been nothing here.
I would be nothing, if I were no Count.
Pray more respect.
This is the Count Verole.
O, is it so?
That's to Marry my Cozen.
I have been too bold, pray Ladies joyn with me—
To laugh at him.
To ask his Pardon.
For the future, know me, and know your self, I ask no more.
Then I am pardon'd, for I know my self, and think I know your Worship. Can you fight?
Ha! What do you mean?
Why faith I come but upon a [...] Embassie; and a sinical Phrase that wou'd fit the fineness of your Quality, wou'd not become my business.
What does the Gentleman mean?
Walk but aside with me, I'll tell you what I mean.
You have no Secret for me?
Why then it shall be none.
He won't draw before the Women, sure.
Since the Ladies must be by, as they must be the Judges at last, you must know then, I come to you from a Gentleman—
Is he no more?
He's every thing in that, that makes a Man.
You may go, as you came, for me, Sir, if he be but a Gentleman.
His name is Valentine, your Rival in that Lady.
My Rival is my Equal; I am born above his Rank, he cannotrival me.
He does rival you, and will rival you.
Envy he may my Fortune with that Lady.
Well! Envy then, if that must be the Word; he envies you; and only wants an opportunity of telling you, how much he envies you.
A modest Request truly.
He can't deny it him—
Before his Mistress too.
Now Sir, if you will be so courteous, as by me, who am to be his Second, to favour him with knowing where, and when he may wait upon you, you will oblige me by this Civility to serve your Friend, as he designs to serve you.
How may that be, pray?
To Cut your Throat, Sir.
O Sir, I'll spare his Compliment.
My Friend's an English Man, and never loses a Mistress for want of fighting for her, I assure you: Nay, I have known some of my Countrymen, rather than not make a Quarrel in the Families they made love in, have beat their very Women into good Nature, and Consent.
It shou'd be good Nature for another then.
Such Arguments wou'd not prevail on us.
Unless to Cuckold 'em.
How will our Count get rid of this business?
I wait your Answer, Sir.
My Answer is, when I am as angry as your Friend is, which, at present, I have no reason to be; nor to a day, can certainly say when I shall be—
You must be made angry then.
When I am under a defeat of my hopes about that Lady, as he may be, and, in an absolute despair of better success, and have nothing else to do with my self, I may be angry, and then I may fight with him.
Must you be angry when you fight?
Or Mad, or Drunk; 'tis no Employment for a sober Man.
Have you no Notion of Courage?
Notion indeed, young Man; for Courage is no more, than just such a degree of Heat, to some Complexions natural; but those Men, who want that Heat, may raise their Spirits to't.
I marry! there's a Receipt indeed.
Passion will fire the coldest Elements; the Lees of Wine ferment the dullest Phlegm to Froth and Vapour; I've seen a Drunkard in this Fit, attempt dangers to Rival Caesar: If such Extravagancies make the Brave, Madmen are Heroes.
This won't do my business. Will you fight?
'Tis common Soldiers work.
You must fight with him.
Not while I can hire Ruffians to take the trouble off my Hands.
You must expect to be us'd very scurvily, where-ever he meets you.
I shall be provided for him.
O, here he comes himself.
If you're for mustring your Friends, I have your Father of my Party.
The Ladies never want an entertainment, when they have Sir Antony to encourage the Mirth. Pray what particular Diversion has he given you?
Very particular indeed.
You were a Party concern'd.
And only wanting to make up the Farce.
Yes, this is he, my very, very Fool!
Very handsom Gentlewoman indeed, all three of 'em: and that's Sir Antony, that the Abbe commended so much.
The very same, Sir.
I will be acquainted with him—
Sir Antony.—
Sir you most humble Servant.
Do you know me, Sir?
Not I, but I'm an English-man, and the English always keep together Abroad, they say, for fear of being cheated.
Of their Money, or Manners?
Of their Mother Tongue.
Of their Mother-Church, their Religion. Now I designing to continue, as I am—
A Fool.
Have a mind to spend my Money among my Country-men.
You're very welcome—
To be cheated only by your Friends.
There's Valentine, a very pretty Fellow; but I have known him a great while; I am for Variety, and fresh Faces: Here's honest Ilford, my very good Friend, of half an hours acquaintance, will recommend me.
You recommend your self, Sir.
Truly I hear you are an Extraordinary Person, and a Knight, Sir; I am a Knight my self, Sir!
And an extraordinary Person truly: Pray of what Family, Sir?
Of what Family? Of my Father's Family before me; the Family of the Goldings, of which, I am your Servant, and Sir Gentle Golding.
This is Sir Gentle Golding—
Sir, as I may say, I may thank you for this favour.
If you are for this sport, I'll find you Game, Sir.
O, of all things Ilove the Women.
Sir Gentle declares that by his Dressing.
You shan't dress in vain, I'll find you employment among 'em.
I'll depend upon you then, and from this time forward, we must be intimate as Men of the same Brother-hood, and Worship— ought to be.
See, see, our Count has rally'd again!
With your Father in his Tail, to sustain him.
We must not stay till they come. At Night I may expect you?
If any thing extraordinary happens—
I'll come express with the Tidings.
You shall hear from us.
Your servant, your servant.
You see, Sir Gentle, we make a shift.
Make Shift! We make a Carnival; all the Year a Carnival: Every Man his Woman, and a new one at every Town we come at.
Ah, wou'd I could say so too!
You say so, Sir Gentle? Fye, fye, you don't desire to say so, to my knowledge.
That's very fine i'faith.
You only rally your Country Men.
Not I, as I hope to be sav'd, Val, tho' I love a Joke, I never rally a Friend.
You a Mistress! Why, you have forsworn the Sex!
O Lord, O Lord! that's a likely business indeed! I forswear the Sex! I wou'd as soon forswear my own Sex, as the Womens; why, I have made it my indeavour, ever since I was a Man of Estate, to be accounted a Knight of Intrigue; so you never were more mistaken since you were born, Sir.
Why, what a lying World we live in! I was told you were so scurvily us'd in England—
Softly, softly, Man.
By Lucia—
A Jilting Jade! You knew her, not worth remembring.
That you were resolved never to venture on the Sex agen.
Prithee, dear Val, no more on't: There's some ill Nature in my part of the Story; I wou'd not have it go further for my own sake.
It goes no further for our hearing it.
We know it already.
Ay, it may be so; I confess, poor Creature, I gave her a Jealousie of another Woman.
And that perhaps, in her Despair of pleasing you much longer, might be a Reason of doing what she did.
Why truly very likely.
And therefore she robb'd you.
Of 500 Pounds.
She might ha' shew'd a Conscience in her cheating though! Five Hundred Pounds was too much in reason—
Sir Antony, you are my Friend upon all occasions; but the truth is, I gave her an Opportunity; left my Cabinet open on purpose; and was glad to get rid of her for the Money.
You shall pay as round a Sum for this Lie, before I part with your Vanity.
And this is all?
The short and long of the story.
Leave the silly Creature to her Garret, where she will be in a little time: she'll hang her self in her Garters when the Money is spent.
I warrant her, will she, and be glad to come off so too.
So, forgetting Disasters at home, you travel—
To drive and old Mistress out of his Head.
And recover here, what he had lost in England by the Gallantry of a French Intrigue—
Which I come qualified for, Gentlemen; being able to bid up to the Price of any of 'em.
If you shew your Money, we may borrow.
You may borrow, but I never lend; you are acquainted, and have your good Breeding and Behaviour to recommend you to the Ladies.
You shew your Wisdom in your good Husbandry, Sir Gentle; you are a Stranger, and must be oblig'd to your Pocket for what you must expect from 'em.
And therefore, Sir Antony, I will part with my new Acquaintances, my Luidores, to none but the Ladies.
Money does every thing with the Women in France, Sir.
I won't spare it upon them, Sir Antony: I rely upon you for a Mistress then.
You shall see her this Evening.
Bills and Business, Gentlemen; but now we live together, no Ceremony: Adieu for a moment; and dear Sir Antony, yours.
You are in his favour.
And will be in his Pocket: Leave him to me.
Our Abbe and the Pilgrim agen! This Visit is to you.
He has a mind to make a Convert of me, that's certain; but whether in the Flesh or the Spirit, is the question.
He's for the outward Man, I warrant him.
And his Arguments of this World, whatever the Pilgrim's may be.
Ah my little Man! you have lost a mighty Satisfaction; the Pilgrim has wrought Wonders upon us all within.
Much above my Expectation, indeed.
His Story staggers me, I confess; and has cur'd me of an old Diffidence I had of all Religious Pretenders.
Well, he's a Rogue; and you han't found him.
You are the only Infidel in the Company.
You dissemble a Belief; 'tis necessary to the Church, and you get by the Trade; but none of you remove Mountains, that I hear of.
Do but hear what he can say.
'Tis a work of the Spirit indeed; and the Spirit works unseen of Human Eyes; therefore in private wou'd do very well.
Do as I order you.
There is an obstinacy in Sin, that won't be confuted before Company; Reproof may return into our own Teeth a Rebuke and a Reproach unto our selves. For which Reason I am assured, that a Privacy in Communication, and a Retirement from the eyes of the World (when the Cause is Conscientious) are always necessary to a Conviction, and Conversion of the Wicked.
Those Necessaries thou shalt have at my Lodging; I follow thee, Pilgrim: Farewel Gentlemen, if I am convinced in this Point, and live to set foot in England agen, I shall satisfie those Heretical Unbelievers, that I have seen one Miracle in a Catholick Country.
ACT III.
SCENE I. Waitwell placing Bottles on the Table.
THis is a dry Subject, Pilgrim; there's no engaging in't with out a Bottle.
You'll have your own ways here.
Have you infus'd the Opiate in his Wine?
I warrant him he sleeps for't; your's is half Water.
If I don't find him a Knave, I'll make him a Fool, for troubling me with his Impertinence: But chiefly, for the dear Jest of exposing his Reverence to the Laughter of the Trophane.
Nay, I will have no Blessing upon our Endeavours, but a Bumper—this will banish Crosses: Here's to the falling of the Flesh, and the rising of the Spirit.
'Tis a mysterious Health, of sacred sense; ev'n to the pulling down of Satan's Throne.
A little Wine does well to qualifie the Water you drink in your Pilgrimage.
Sometimes without offence, Wine may be us'd; tho' our whole Life is but a Pilgrimage—
That's as you please to make it. Come Sir, this is the Searcher of Hearts; here's to the opening of ours—
Hearts and Eyes, that we may see our Errors. This Wine will warm him, sure.
Confession is a step to Repentance, you say.
The ready Road—
Then drink off your Glass, Pilgrim: How do you like your Wine?
'Tis warm, I promise you—
Able to distinguish a Saint from a Sinner; and will keep you out of the Mire, better than your wooden Shoes.
'Twill rather leave us there. But to our purpose now—
Another Glass to strengthen my Attention; I shall edifie the better by it.
Sure he can't make me drunk.
I expected you wou'd ha' drunk to my Conversion.
I shou'd ha' began it in Charity, indeed; but I'll make you what Reparation I may, and drink a full Glass for my forgetfulness.
I warrant him my own.
To your Conversion be it—
This is the way to't, and the pleasantest Road you can travel in: For let me tell you, the World is bad enough at the best; we need not take Pains to make it worse.
Too many do indeed.
Such foolish Apostles as thou art then: Why, I begin to despair of thee: I took thee for a sanguine, sensual Sinner, a Man of Sense, and an Hypocrite. But I find thee a peaking Penitent, and an Ass.
You sit in the Seat of the Scorner.
Tho' you pass upon the Abbe, and other Fools, I expected you wou'd have open'd your self to me: I profess my self, what I thought you were under your Habit, a Rogue: We might have been of use to one another. But since you are for cheating no body but your self,
I'll make an end of my Bottle and Business, and leave you to say Grace to the next Courtesie I offer you.
I must not lose this Opportunity.
Now I begin to believe all the silly things you have said of your self; your being weary of, and leaving the World, when you had a good Share of it your own; your parting with the Pleasures (which you call the Vanities) of it, at a time, when you were in a condition of enjoying 'em, by a senseless resigning up your Birthright.
My Service to you.
Of a considerable Quality and Fortune to a Younger Brother; who indeed needed no other Expectation for his Wants, than the abundance of your Folly to live upon.
You censure me too rashly.
I speak my Thoughts, and am so far from imitating you any way, that when an Elder Brother stood between me and a good Estate, I made bold to remove him.
By no violent means.
Something before his time. I had a Joynture too incumber'd me; but a Physician after my own Heart eas'd me, and my good Lady-Grandmother.
And dare you own it?
Not at a Barr of Justice.
So horrid a Villany!
Never troubles me: I don't proclaim it but in my Cups, and where I think I'm safe to Men of my own Kidney—
You confess your self a Villain?
Any kind of Rogue that serves my turn; for I am of a Principle, that levels every thing in the way of my Pleasure or Profit.
A Worthy Principle!
I cheat the Men, and lye with the Women, as many as I can get in my Power.
Sir, I honour you; pray sit down agen.
To hear you preach agen?
And are you really this Rogue you pretend to be?
Are you the Fool you pretend to be?
I must come nearer you.
How, Jewels!
I bring my Welcom with me.
Enough to set up a Saint: The Lady of Loretto may keep her Chamber; thou hast spoyl'd her Holy-days, by robbing her Shrine: For thou hast robb'd hers, or some other, that's certain.
'Tis certain I have the Jewels: How I came by 'em, and why I put on this Habit—
Then you are no Pilgrim?
No more than you are a Priest. I am as errant a Rogue as you can be; a Shifter of Shapes and Names; have travell'd through every Profession, and cheated in all; so having by my Industry gathered a handsom Fortune, I converted that into Jewels, and my self into a Pilgrim, for the safer conveyance of both into Spain, whither I was going till I lit upon you.
I saw you through your Weeds, and had a mind to discover you.
Well, now you have discovered me—
Why, now I like you.
But are you sure you like me?
Like you extreamly.
If you can like me, you may love me too; for a Woman I know you are.
Am I discover'd too—
Have you a Mistress to be convinc'd to the contrary?
We were made for one anothers Conversation; here's that shall keep it in humour.
I have heard of Mark Antony's Pearl Cordial.
You shall drink nothing else but Pearl dissolv'd: Ha! What's the matter with me?
Now, now my Dose begins— you grow indifferent—
My Senses vanish all.
What fall a-sleep before me?
By and by I'll come agen to you.
He looks as he were drunk-dead, or dead-drunk.
Examine his Pockets, lets see what Credentials he has for his Character, tho' you see I have treated him like an Embassador without 'em.
Here are Tablets full of Memorandums, to avoid such and such places where he has done his Rogueries.
Very well; these, when he awakes, will make good, if he should have the impudence to dispute my Title to the Theft.
You won't keep all the Jewels?
A round Ransom may redeem 'em; but him I must expose, Governour; when I send for him, bring him in a Chair to the Abbe's.
Most carefully.
And if Sir Gentle enquire for me, as I expect he will, direct him thither.
I won't fail.
I have a Mistress for him.
SCENE changes to the Street.
Volante is so busie for another, she has nothing to do for her self; so closely employ'd for Valantine, she has no Employment for any Body; or when she has, 'tis partially design'd for that Boy-Knight, in prejudice of every Man that may with more reason pretend—
Sir Antony— Sir Antony— a word with you—
Prithee let me go; I am big with a Jest, and shall certainly miscarry with the first grave Word you say to me.
Be deliver'd of your Burthen then, lay it at my door; I'll Father it for a Friend.
As some Men wou'd a Bastard, for the Reputation of getting it.
I have thought better of this Rivalling business between us; I see plainly Volante declares for you—
I think the poor Creature loves me indeed.
And 'tis to no purpose to proceed—
None in the World, Sir.
In the measures I had taken in making my way to her; therefore now I come, like a Friend, to desire a Favour of you.
Now you say something, Ilford.
And like a Friend to advise you; you're a very pretty Fellow, and have a great many dancing years to trip over, before you come to be setious.
I hope so, Sir.
You shou'd Ramble before you Settle—
For fear of rambling after—
You are too great a Good, among the Women, to think of being particular; a dozen years too gay for the Condition—
Too gay for a Lover.
Too gay for a Husband.
Ay, marry Sir, a Husband!
How Sir?
I make Love sometimes, but do not often Marry.
What do you follow Volante for then?
Can't you tell for what? For as good a thing you may swear, Ilford: You guess at her Inclinations, poor Rogue; and a Lady shall never lose her Longing upon me; I design to Lie with her.
Without marrying her?
Without asking any Consent but her own; I am not for many words, when I have a mind to be doing.
So impudent a thing I never heard!
Quarrelling agen Gentlemen!
Upon the old Subject.
I hate the Employment and Character of an Informer: But you come so upon the scandalous minute, I must tell you what; that young Gentleman—
Sir Antony has no Friend of you, Sir.
Nor you of him, Madam; as you will find, when you hear what he says of you.
Pray what's the matter?
He has the Impudence not only to design it, but ev'n to me his Rival, who love and honour you—
Your Story, Oh, your Story!
He dares notoriously tell me to my Face, That he never design'd to marry you; but because you were in love with him, poor Creature, he wou'd do you the favour to Lie with you.
Madam, you know he hates me upon your Account; and this is one of the poor Endeavours of his Malice to ruin me: You can't think I wou'd be such a Villain—
I won't think it, Sir Antony.
Such an Ideot, if I cou'd have it in my head, to declare it to my Rival.
Oh no— it is not probable.
By Heav'n and Earth he said it.
I wou'd not believe it for Earth and Heav'n, if he did.
Nay then 'tis labour lost.
If you'll deliver this Letter to Valentine, you'll do him more service, [ Gives Ilford a Letter.] than you have me with your News— I won't leave you behind me, Sir Antony.
I'm going to the Abbe's, Madam.
Well! I cou'd almost wish, he wou'd lie with her, to convince her, tho' she won't believe me, she will him; and that, in time, will be a sufficient Revenge upon her Folly.
The Count has his Gurd du Corps, Valentine.
Sir Antony has Alarm'd him.
He is in a state of War, fit to give Battle already.
What he wants in his Person, he has in his Equipage: But they threaten too much, to do any Harm.
Do you secure your Person; Volante shall secure your Mistress against him, I warrant her.
Here's a Letter she gave me for you.
SCENE, The Abbe's House.
Down with your Burthen; and place him in that Chair. So, this is as proper a Scene to recommend our Farce to the Family, as we can have—
Sir Gentle Golding is below, and wou'd speak with you.
I know your Design upon him; and I'll be gone to put things in Order to receive him—
To receive Valentine: He shall be welcome to me; but to deceive Sir Gentle.
You are as busie [...] a Projector, some of your Plots must miscarry,
Ha! he begins to stir: How long will the Opiate hold him?
If he wakes before the Company comes, you lose your pleasure of laughing at him.
But I have a sudden Though, may give us a better Diversion.
Sir Antony, your most incomparable humble Servant.
Sir Gentle, I've done your Business.
With the Lady you promis'd me?
With that very Lady; I've secur'd an Appointment for you; but being a Woman of Quality—
There you oblige me for ever.
Tho' something decay'd, and fall'n in her Fortune— She must be humour'd in little things; she will have her Forms.
I warrant her; and very fit she shou'd. A Person of Quality is known by her Forms.
They last but till the Evening, then I'll carry you to wait on her. Shews the Pilgrim.] Here's a drunken Pilgrim will afford you Merriment enough to entertain some part of the time.
Dead drunk, as I intend to live sober.
Do me the favour to stay; and secure him, if he shou'd wake. I'll but bring the Abbe and his Family to share in abusing him, and be with you again.
Why what an Unlucky, Hypocritical Rogue is this, to be discover'd, [Page 32]and to lye at the mercy of Sir Antony! If he were but half as Holy, as he pretended, he might 'scape by Miracle; but he sleeps so sound, no Revelation can Wake him.
Boy, Draw the Curtain, Sirrah—
Is the Light in your Eyes, Sir? What pains he takes to come to himself! Gad, I'll play the Rogue with him—I'll be the Midwife to his Labour—Stay, let me see, a stiff Straw wou'd do rarely, to probe his Sobriety. If his Brain be touch't, he'll take up the more time in his Cure, and 'tis well if ever he be his own Man again. Now for the Experiment.
Ha! Am I alive? Where have I been? Where am I now? How came I here? Who are you? What wou'd you have?
Have! My self in a Wish to England. Wou'd I were in my Mothers Belly again.
Speak, I conjure you, speak to me.
He's as heartily frightned, as I can be; I'll pluck up a Spirit, and speak to him.
Some ill thing has possess'd me.
Yes, possess'd thou art, by the lowd Spirit of powerful Wine possess'd. A drunken Devil.
A Bottle, and Sir Antony I remember, and the Discoveries I made him.
You are discovered, and in the Abbe's House—
In the Abbe's House!
Where now your business is to be laugh'd at, and expos'd; and the whole Family are coming to make your Holiness a Ridiculous Visit to that purpose.
That young Rogue Sir Antony! Has he done nothing else to me?
Undone, undone! I'm robb'd, and ruin'd: My Jewels gone! my Table-book gone too! That may do me more harm, than the Jewels can do any Body good.
Have you lost your Learning? How cou'd you miss it so soon? A Table-book?
Sir, I am robb'd; and I took you very suspiciously about my Pockets; you shall answer the Robbery.
Why, do I look like a Pick-pocket? I'd have you to know, I scorn your Words: But that Trick shan't serve your turn—
Serve my turn, Sir—
You must not 'scape me so.
Look you, Sir, here's the Inside of my Pockets; I have nothing about me, but Bills of Exchange, and this Purse of Elizabeth Broad Gold: You shall search me, if you please.
I have search'd you, and found you, and must go by you too—
O Lord Sir, I don't hinder you—
No, no, you had not best.
Pray take it away: I have a natural Aversion to the smell of Gun-powder—
Tho' 'twill be difficult to get away, for the Servants are order'd to stop you.
How! to stop me!
Now he wont offer to go.
The Servants ordered to stop me, do you say?
If you be the Pilgrim.
Then I'll be the Pilgrim no longer—
What will you be then pray?
Ev'n Sir Gentle Golding; I will get off in your Person, since I can't in my own; I must change Out-sides with you—
O Lord Sir, there's no Occasion for it: I know nothing of a Design upon you.
That's more than I know.
Faith and troth now, what I said, was only to play the Rogue with you.
And what I do, is to play the Fool with you. You must strip Sir.
O, but this is carrying the Jest too far.
Look you, you may keep your Worship and Wit for your own wearing; but I must borrow your Cloaths.
At any other time, and welcom; I should be pleas'd with the Humour on't; but this is my first day of wearing 'em; besides, there's a Mistress in the Case—
As long as you live, prefer a Friend to a Mistress, Sir Gentle; Come Sir, a little of your Assistance.
But I am to see her this Evening; and one wou'd be well drest you know, the first time.
If you must see your Mistress, Visit her in Masquerade; 'tis a fashionable way of beginning an Intrigue— and a Pilgrims Habit— is as Fantastical, as you can contrive— to give a Lady a Curiosity— of knowing more of you— And that I know is your Business.
That is my Business indeed: But if I lose my time—
Don't make a noise, nor follow me; If you wou'd see her, or little England again, know your Friends, and give thanks Sir—
SCENE Changes to the Street.
Sir, I have accepted these Bills already.
I know you have: But my Occasions falling out more Extraordinary than I expected, I am forc'd to press you for this Bill of 100 Pistols, before the Day.
I have so often suffer'd, for those Complemental Payments, that I have resolv'd against 'em: But my Correspondent gives me an account of Sir Gentle Golding; you shall have what Credit you please with me.
A hundred Pistols I have present use for.
If my Cashier were at home, you shou'd have 'em along with you; but in the Morning, as soon as you please—
I'll send my Servant to you— pray Sir, what news have you in the City?
The newest Sir, is of a Pilgrim, that is suspected of something; I am Imperfect in the Particulars; but there are Warrants out to apprehend him, that I know.
There's no believing Out-sides; Sir, your Servant.
So I think too; And therefore I will be better Inform'd, whether you are Sir Gentle Golding or no, before I leave you.
The hundred Pistols, if I had receiv'd 'em, had carry'd me off cleverly, and for some time, supported my Designs, in another place, till an Opportunity had favour'd me in making a handsome Composition with Sir Antony about my Jewels— However, I make a pretty good Figure still; Here's a good Suit of Cloats to begin the World with again—
Bless your Worship, Sir Gentle, long may you live to wear 'em; How do your Cloaths fit you, Sir?
Very well Friend, very well.
Have you forgot me, Master?
No, no, I han't forgot thee; for I never saw thee before.
I am poor Courtaut, your Taylor's Finisher; I brought your Honour's Cloaths home to you this Morning—
Did you so, did you so?
By the same token, you said, you wou'd give me something to drink you health; but you were pleas'd to forget it.
I remember I gave thee nothing indeed; but the next time—
Aye, an't like your Honour, I am contented to stay, if my Master wou'd: But he has beaten me black and blew for leaving the Cloaths behind me, without Money.
Gad forgive me; that I shou'd forget that too! But come to my Lodging an Hour hence—
Please you, I'll wait upon you now to your Lodging—
How shall I shake him off?
For I dare not go home without the Money, or some part on't?
Here, take this Purse, 'tis more than the Debt, but take the rest for thy self, now I remember thee—
The Elizabeth broad Gold has deliver'd me.
Yes, Master Monsieur, that is my Master, Sir Gentle Golding. You shall see me speak to him—
Young Man, a word with you.
More Debts to pay! I shall fall like an Executor without Assets.
Sir, I have been about your Business, with the Messenger, as you order'd me—
This is one of my English Servants it seems; I'll answer him in French to get rid of him.
If you were at leisure—
How's this? I durst ha' sworn it had been my Master; but I am sure he has no more Languages than Tongues and that his Mother gave him: Besides he's too good an Englishman, to learn any thing in another Country.
Je ne vous en tens pas, je ne parle pas Anglois.
It seems I was mistaken, Sir, this is some out-landish man; he can't speak English.
How, not speak English!
I'm sure he paid me for the Suit upon his back, but just now, in very good English—
And wou'd have borrow'd a hundred Pistols of me, in as Civil English—
I can speak English Gentlemen, I spoke French, only to try, if that Fellow had learn't any thing, since he came into the Country.
I'll have a tryal with you. This is some Rogue that has murder'd my Master—
And stole his Cloaths—
And robb'd him of his Bills of Exchange.
Murder, Murder; Roguery, Thievery, stop him.
Nay the Pilgrim was in the right, in getting off before your Evidence came upon him.
I never heard of so Extraordinary a Rogue, as he confesses himself to be in these Tablets.
But that our gentle Knight, shou'd neither hinder him from going, nor be forth-coming himself, makes me believe some Ridiculous Accident has light upon him.
Let it be but Ridiculous enough, and I may forgive him.
The Ports are shut, and for the Pilgrim, if he be in the City, we shall have him again.
What's that sneaks by us so?
Our very, very Saint.
Good morrow Pilgrim!
Won't you know your Friends?
We were too late for your Levy. [...] men of your Austerity and Life never indulge the Flesh, by sleeping long; you are an early Stirrer.
Pray look up: You can do nothing sure to cast you down.
Ev'n the very same.
What do you in this Habit?
'Tis whimsical and odd; I had a mind to try if you cou'd know me in this Disguise.
O yes, we know you in any Disguise.
But there's a Warrant out against the Pilgrim; you'll be taken up for him.
Why? you don't take me for the Pilgrim.
But the Government will.
The Government then, will take me for as very Rascal as lives unhang'd in it.
But what's become of him?
You were last with him—
You have convey'd him away.
Or murder'd him—
You must answer for him, for you have his Cloaths.
Nay if it be so, I'll tell you how I came by 'em—
The whole Truth, and nothing but the Truth.
I'll see him hang'd, before I tell a lye for a Rogue, that has us'd me so scurvily—
How scurvily, dear Knight?
Why, when you left me you know, alone with him, he took his time, when my Back was turn'd; and clapt a Pistol to my Breast—
Bless the Mark! a Pistol!
A Pistol, Sir Gentle!
A double Barrel'd Pistol.
A brace of Bullets in each, I warrant you.
I warrant you there were: for he swore he wou'd shoot me thro' the Head—
The Pistol was at your Breast, Sir Gentle.
Breast, did I say— Did I say, at my Breast Gentlemen? But Breast or Head Sir— He swore he wou'd murder me, if I did not give him my Cloaths, to make his escape in.
And so, you gave him your Cloaths?
No I thank you; that were to make my self Accessory; I put him to the trouble of taking 'em.
And very wisely done, Sir.
So he stript you?
To my very Shirt, I'll make Oath on't, before a Magistrate.
You put on his Cloaths then, as one may say, in your own defence?
You may say so indeed.
Stick there Sir, Se defendendo will bring you off.
I must ha' gone home Naked else.
And cou'd you have pass'd sullenly by us, and conceal'd such an occasion of Laughing at you?
Prithee Sir Antony, no more on't.
Bring him along: Bring him along—
What Rabble have we here?
We are enow to hang one Rogue, or we deserve to beat Hemp for one another.
Where are you haleing the Gentleman?
Sir Antony, I am in your Power; stand but my Friend in this Business, and bring me off, you shall make your own Conditions about the Jewels—
I'll swear point-blank my Master's Murder upon him.
Who is your Master, Friend▪
Sir Gentle Golding, and like you; and I am his Man.
Aye, 'tis my Man indeed, wou'd I were his Master again.
You my Master, you Rascal! my Master's a Knight—
Now Abbe, I am even with you and your Pilgrim: But since I have brought him so far into his Business, 'tis matter of Conscience to bring him out agen. I was provided for his Impertinence; and since I cou'd not make him drunk, I gave him an Opiate to expose him as if he were; for that purpose I remov'd him to your House: But coming to himself before I expected, he scap'd that Design—
And finding the Disgrace ready to fall on me, and in your House, I made bold to change Cloaths with Sir Gentle Golding—
'Tis true indeed, Gentlemen.
But since Matters are brought to a clearing, I am ready to return 'em to the Gentleman.
As you had 'em, I hope?
Every thing but his Purse; which I was forc'd to give his Taylor there to get rid of him.
Return the Purse.
For Sir Gentle Golding, I only hasten'd you.
Why, how did you know I wanted such a Sum?
It shall be pay'd to you, or your order.
Pray pay it to no body else.
You've done your Duty, Gentlemen; 'tis very well. Pilgrim, a word with you.—
How this fooling has run away with the time!
I'll be for you immediately.
Within a quarter of Ten already!
I shou'd ha' been glad to ha' made one, Valentine.
I thank you; but Numbers may discover us, and Sir Antony won't be out of the business.
Do me but this piece of Service, and I won't only pardon you, but reward you well when you ha' don't. Besides, 'tis a kind of Revenge upon Sir Antony.
I am at your Mercy, and you shall command me any thing.
Sir Gentle says, you drew a Pistol upon him.
That was not according to the Law of Arms.
I can't tell how his Fear represented it, but it was an Inkhorn that disarm'd him.
You won't fail, when I send for you?
I'll but change Cloaths with that Gentleman, and be ready as soon as you please.
Now Valentine have with you—
'Tis near upon your appointment with my Niece: I'll secure her Father within, the better to favour her running away from him.
I wish you well, Gentlemen.
SCENE changes to the Back-side of a Great House with Gardens.
Villains and Murderers, I hope you are not hurt.
Thank your Assistance, Sir.
If I am not a Man in this point, I'll never wear Breeches more.
I know 'twas Count Verole.
He has not rais'd himself in my Esteem by this base Action—
What do you out of doors?
I cou'd not stay within, knowing your Danger.
'Tis over, now retire.
Pray pardon me; if I have done any undecent thing, my Duty caus'd it in my Fears for you.
I'm sorry I have allarm'd your Family.
I dare swear for him he is
So far 'tis well, Sir: If you think your self oblig'd for what is past, shew it in what's to come; forbear my House, my Daughter is dispos'd of: So good-night.
Very good Advice, Valentine: Since you can't make it a good Night with his Daughter, make it as good as you can with some body else.
Why Faith, the Expectation of her has rais'd me into a desire of any thing in Petticoats.
What think you of my English Lady?
You owe me a Favour there, Sir Antony.
To Night I'll pay it then; I have an Appointment upon me now; but not being in so perfect a Condition to oblige her, you shall make an End of my Quarrel.
With all my Heart.
I'll send my Governor to conduct you.
He, like other wise men, makes no scruple of Pimping, when he gets by the Employment.
Then you are not one of those fine Gentlemen, who because they are in love with one Woman, can lie with no body else?
Not I, Faith Knight; I may be a Lover, but I must be a Man.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
SIR Antony not being able to wait upon you in Person, as design'd, has desir'd me his Friend—
Sir, your most humble Servant.
To shew you the way.
I'll shew my good Breeding, and follow you.
The Lady is at present in private; when she has dispatch'd her own Business, she'll be ready for yours.
Then she's a Woman of Business.
And of Dispatch too, Sir: If you love Pictures, there's a Gallery will take up your Thoughts till the Lady's at leisure to employ 'em better. I'll let her know you're here.
How Ceremony disguises any thing! I can't take this civil Gentleman for a Pimp, tho' I have Occasion for him; nor this House for a Bawdyhouse, tho' I have a mind to make it one. Wou'd Sir Antony were here, to [Page 40]encourage me with his Impudence: When I have Company to halloo me, I can fasten like a Bull-Dog. But I have a villanous Suspicion, that when I see this Lady, I shall take her for a civil Gentlewoman; a buse her, away, she does not deserve; think too well of her, and loose my labour.
SCENE changes to a Bed-Chamber.
Faith Madam, your Entertainment will keep you in Countenance; you may own the making of it.
You'll trust your Stomach with a cover'd Dish another time, Sir?
You may shew your Face after it, and expect the Thanks of the Company.
And disgrace the Reputation I have got with you in other things.
Nay, if you think so, I wou'd not have you shew it for the World.
That were to ruin the Complement you intend me.
But after all, if your Face shou'd be as delicate as your other Charms—
But if it shou'd not be as delicate—
Then keep it to your self; but 'tis pity 'tis not: but be it what it is, I will pay some part of my Thanks in advising you.
You wou'd say Grace and be gone, my serious Sinner, wou'd you?
Only to make sure of coming agen Child, that's all.
Some of that all, I beseech you—
My Doctrine will turn to thy use. Child, and lead me often to thee, if thou hast but the Grace to make the right Application.
Good Holder-forth, bate your damn'd Faces, and begin.
Why then, in the first place, about our Friend Sir Antony; He's a very pretty Fellow I grant you; but he's a Boy, a giddy-pated Boy—
A little too young indeed to be trusted—
In an Affair of this nature, by any Woman that has a Reputation to secure with her Pleasure.
I have been afraid of his talking indeed a great-while.
You must expect it, Madam; he has not Experience enough to value you: All Women are alike to the young Fellows; as indeed all Fellows are alike to the young Women; neither Sex chuses well, till they come to an Age of Discretion.
There I am with you indeed.
There is a maturity requir'd in Love, as in other Fruits, to recommend the true relish of it, to the distinguishing Palate of an Epicure. I am something a better Judge of that pleasure, than he can be: And I think fitter, a great deal, for an Intrigue with your Ladyship, both in discretion and performance—
Then Sir Antony can be.
Sir Antony in Petticoats.
But are not you a Rogue, Valentine? Not to receive a Courtesie from a Lady by the favour of your Friend, but you must abuse your Trust, and supplant the very Interest that rais'd you to her?
I am confounded indeed! But are you Sir Antony Love?
All but my Petticoats.
And are you sure you're a Woman?
Are not you sure of that, Sir?
There are as many to come; you shall command 'em all.
Now I remember; you father'd a Bastard for me, at Paris—
I had the reputation of it indeed; and shou'd have had the Cow with the Calf; for her Father pursu'd me to marry her, thro' all means of Accommodation, into the strait at last of confessing my Sex to the English Embassador—
This you never told me before.
He had her punish'd, and secur'd me in his Family, as long as I staid there; for you know, he was a Man of Honour—
And a Man of Gallantry too, Madam, that knew which way to improve such a piece of good Fortune—
As well as any body; and so he did Valentine: By his generosity and good usage, he press'd me so very far, that not being able to answer the Obligations I had to him, (having you in my head at that very time) I was forc'd to run away from him, to get rid of him.
How could you keep this from me so long?
Now 'tis more welcome to you?
Had I known it before, it had been in my power—
Not to marry me, I hope, Valentine! But if you cou'd be in that mind (which I neither desire, nor deserve) I know you too well, to think of securing you that way.
But I wou'd not have engag'd my self, any where else—
I know your engagements to Floriante; and you shall marry her. That will disengage you, I warrant you.
You continue your Opinion of Marriage.
Floriante, I grant you, wou'd be a dangerous Rival in a Mistress—
Nothing can Rival thee.
And you might linger out, a long liking of her, to my uneasiness, and your own; but Matrimony, that's her security, is mine: I can't apprehend her in a Wife.
Well Governour, what think you of my Management?
Why, if you take but half the pains in your Profit, that you have spent in your Pleasure, I think we may expect a very good account of the Knight—
Sir Gentle Golding! he's in your Debt indeed: I had not leisure to remember him.
We'll laugh at him at leasure.
He's in the Gallery, expecting your pleasure.
My pleasure is to see him, bring him in.
I promis'd him a Mistress, you must know: 'Twill be foolish enough to observe him, when he discovers me; pray stay, and laugh with me.
The Interview must needs be ridiculous.
My Office ends, where the Lady begins; I'll leave you to her.
Pray, Sir, a word with you—
The sewer the better, till you have saluted her: You see she expects it.
I shou'd have saluted her indeed: but the surprize of your Beauty, Madam, made me forget my Complement.
My Face has surpriz'd him, I believe.
Pray, did I never see this Gentlewoman before?
You best can tell that, Sir; but you are concern'd at something.
A little concern'd, I am indeed, but 'tis only to know, whether I know her, or no.
In your Tour of France, you may have seen her; she's of the Country.
A French Woman.
Of Languedock.
I durst ha' sworn she was an English Woman!
Born and bred among us.
I'm glad on't, with all my heart. For I knew a little Woman, but a great Divel, so like her in England—
Very like, Sir.
That faith and troth, I was down-right confounded at the sight of her.
Some Mistress, that you have forsaken—
O fie, Sir, I never do those things—
I warrant you, and the guilt of her ill usage haunts you up and down, in her shape.
Nay, I deserve it indeed; if it shou'd be so; for I was too barbarous to the poor Devil, considering I was the first that undid her.
See, Sir, the Lady wou'd have you sit down by her; I never saw her make such Advances before; you are very much in favour.
Soft and fair. I must be more in your favour, before I have done with you.
She does not speak English. But there's an universal Character in Love, which every Creature can comprehend; when she has you alone, she'll grope out your meaning, I warrant you.
So, since we have nothing to say to one another, we shall lose no time in Complements; I like her exceedingly: tho' I never look upon her, but Lucia comes in my thoughts; she's so very like that jilting Jade, I shall never love her heartily: A week will be the farthest, I shall be constant to her. What sign shall I make, to put her in mind of her Bed-chamber? Money speaks all Languages, this Purse will be my Interpreter.
But how shall we do to understand one another? You speak no [Page 43] French, and I speak no English; 'Tis impossible to understand one another.
Madam; you do speak English—
I understand it a little; enough to know I resemble one. What did you call her, Lucia, aye, Lucia, a jilting Jade; you don't like that, for that reason you can't love me heartily; nor be constant above a Week: I understand so much, without speaking English; as you find to be understood.
I find I do understand you.
But I'll try to speak plainer to you.
Nay, you speak plain enough, Mrs. Lucy. Wou'd I were any where, to be rid of you.
You see, we were not to part so. Fortune will have me oblig'd to you: I have almost spent the 500 l. I borrow'd of you.
I'm glad I had it for you, Madam.
And faith, 'tis very kind, in an old Acquaintance, to follow me into France, to supply me agen: I know you came a purpose—
Not quite a purpose.—
No, not quite a purpose, some little Business by the by of your own, you might have, I grant you: But this Purse you never design'd for me.
I'll force nothing upon you Madam; you may give it me agen, if you don't like it.
Yes, yes; the Purse is an amiable Purse, and very well to be lik'd; only the Sum does not amount to my Occasions: There's no retreating, Sir Gentle, you are in my Power, and without a Ransome, must continue my Prisoner; you know I never want a Pistol upon these occasions; 'tis not the first time I have robb'd you.
Any Composition; but don't murder me; you know I hate a Pistol.
What have you in your Pockets? Nothing but Papers?
You have got already, all the Mony I had about me.
About you! with a pox to you: must I be so answer'd? And why had not you more about you? Stay, here's a Bill of 100 Pistols, at present, shall excuse you—
'Tis very well it does.
Payable to you, or your Order? What's there?
Run, and receive this Bill for the Gentleman.
He shou'd Indorse it first.
Come, Sir, you must lend me your Order.
No borrowing among Friends; I'll give it you, to Monsieur Traffique.
Why, that's well said.
You live as it were by your Wits; 'tis better I should loose a little Money, then you should forget your Trade, for want of employment.
A great deal better, Sir Gentle! But I must lock you up till the Money be paid.
Aye, aye, with all my heart; but he won't scruple the payment.
The next time I do you this savour, take care to be better provided; [Page 44]don't let me lose my labour upon you, I speak as a Friend to you.
I'll take your Advice.
If I were not just upon my leaving the Town, and in a very great haste, I can tell you, you should not get off so easily.
I am beholding to you: But I am sorry we loose you so soon.
You may find me again, if Christendom stands were it does a Twelve-month to an end; let not that trouble you.
SCENE changes to the Street.
I allow all you say: And last Night's Action has not declin'd the Count from my Esteem, more than it raises Valentine.
He'll keep your Daughter more orderly then a Nunnery can: ev'n let him marry her.
You know, I'm out of my own Power and Choice.
Hang your Choice; you may be asham'd on't.
Indeed I do repent it; but my word and reputation are engag'd to him.
Is that a man to make a Grandfather?
No other shall, by Floriante, make me one: And therefore she shall be Religious, and take the Habit in her Sister's room—
What, make a Nun of her, against her Will!
To cut off all Pretenders; but to prove how I regard your Friend, Charlot you know, inferiour in nothing but her Years, if Valantine likes her, she has my leave, and shall receive his Visits at the Grate: Let him but conquer her, he has gain'd me.
Let him get Floriante, and he conquers thee.
Ah my little Palmer! You lye as close as a man in a Proclamation; but you are a Pilgrim of Honour, I find—
Where I am engag'd, Sir—
Sir Antony can never discover thee.
I warrant I do your business—
And your own business—
My own business to be sure, and Sir Antony's too, or I shall loose my Labour.
About it, about it instantly, and prosper, my little Palmer.
Valentine! I have some News for you:
But you amaze me, Sir Gentle—
It wou'd amaze one indeed, Sir Antony.
'Tis the oddest piece of Roguery and Impudence that I have heard of.
Aye, so 'tis, 'tis pretty odd, and impudent indeed.
A cheating Gypsie; I warrant she has had her eye upon you, from your first coming to Town.
Nay, not unlikely.
I began to suspect her my self, she prest me so often to bring you.
Ah; if I had known that, Sir Antony!
Why, what if you had?
Why, I wou'd ha' staid away; but if you had been with me, it had been the better for me.
Much at one for that, I believe. But is she gone out of Town, do you say? You shou'd have apprehended her—
Pugh, pugh— she's gone from her Lodging, she must not stay long in a place.
'Tis very well she's gone—
Aye, so it is: and I hope I shall never see her agen.
I dare swear for him, he speaks his heart.
Well Sir— your business with me? If it be grave or wise, keep it for your own use; I never approve discretion in any man, but a Pimp.
Sir, you may say what you please, or call me what you please—
Nay Sir, I honour you, if you are one.
Then I am one, and one employ'd to you.
Begin your Employment, that I may go about mine.
Why then, Sir, in few words; there's a Lady dying for you—
I never visit the Sick, let her die in peace: But don't let a Priest come near her; he'll ask her bawdy Questions, when she has a mind to be serious.
She's only dying for you, Sir.
Were she living for me, I cou'd say something to her; if she make a Will, as far as the Legacy goes, I may remember her.
Your Mirth becomes you, Sir; but the Lady's in very good health, and, in short, only dying in love with you.
Short and sweet.
And has a mind—
I know her mind; and what she has a mind to.
You know the World enough, Sir; to excuse a Lady in Love—
And absolve her too.
Tho' she shou'd have a Husband—
For making him a Cuckold—
Not to make a practice of it.
The oftner the better.
Very Casuistically brought about, Sir. And I am so much of your Opinion, that I think the Lady cannot do her self a better justice, nor me a greater favour, than allow me to wait upon her on such an occasion.
That she does in this Billet: And if you think it worth your while to visit her— will do you richer, and greater favours.
I am at present engag'd—But in the Evening—
The Evening wou'd do well: I am bad to say, her Husband's out of Town, the rest, her Note will best inform you in.
Then this shall be my Guide.
I may cheat you out of your Cunning, before I ha' done with you.
Why, what the Devil am I engaging in agen! I shall draw all the Women in Town upon me, at this rate: Maids, Wives, and Widows, have one Curiosity or another always to be satisfi'd. I have a Reputation among 'em; and if I don't keep it up, by answering their Expectations—I shall fail of mine, in my Frollicks, and be discover'd; and that I have no mind to be yet a while! But how the Devil shall I answer their Expectations—Or this Lady's in particular, who has bespoke me for her Evening Service? If I go, I shall disappoint her more than if I stay away; and I know, good Soul, she wou'd be as much concern'd for me, to find me no Man, as at another time she wou'd be for her self, to be found no Maid, if she had a mind to be thought one. O here comes Valentine!
I wou'd as soon be a Lawyer as a Lover at this rate. Following a Mistress to no purpose, is as bad as trudging a Foot to Westminster for no Fee. Can you corrupt a Nunnery for me, my little Knight!
I will do any thing for you—but first you must lend me your Limbs, to carry on a Design—
Do what you please with me.
Thou art a most incomparable Fellow, Palmer; the Prince of Pimps and Pilgrims! But what! Sir Antony is a young smoaky Rogue I warrant you, he suspected something—
Not a bit of suspicion.
He might scruple it at first, you know.
First nor last, he made no scruple at all! But came into my Net, as fast as I cou'd spread it for him!
But came into my Net, as fast as I cou'd spread it for him! Prettily exprest upon the occasion! And I shall love a Setting-dog, as long as I live, for the sake of the Simile.
I'm glad it pleases you.
Pleases me! Yes, yes; it pleases me! every thing pleases me. But ha! my Boy! he must not get from us, now we have him in the Net.
'Tis our fault, if he does.
Why Sir Antony has us'd thee but scurvily—
To my Cost.
And Revenge is very natural—
And very sweet.
Revenge is sweet indeed; it must be sweet; a sweet Revenge, upon so sweet a Boy: And take my Word; I'll do you that Justice upon him: For I'll tell you, what I intend to do with him—
Aye, pray Sir.
Why in the first place I intend — not to open my Lips, upon that Subject. But I mean—
I hope so, Sir.
If I can compass my design, I mean—
What do you mean?
Not to explain my self, Palmer—Ah Rogue! But you know what I mean.
SCENE changes to Sir Antony's Lodging.
Why to tell you the truth, Ilford, there is a Woman in the case; I expect her every minute.
I fancy'd some such thing.
She is a thing to be fancy'd; and you wou'd think so, if you saw her.
Do I know her, Sir Antony?
You have seen her.
What nothing more of her?
None of your peevish Questions.
'Tis not Volante?
If it were, you don't come to quarrel for her?
Not I faith, Knight: I come in absolute good Nature to visit you.
Why indeed, I could not expect the favour at your hands, as Matters stand between us.
Nothing shall stand between us: Nothing did, but a Woman; and I come to strike up a Friendship, offensive and defensive with you, by making a very fair offer to dispose of her.
If you mean Volante, she will dispose of her self.
I know she wou'd dispose of herself to you: But you won't marry her, Sir Antony: Now I am one of those foolish Fellows, who don't apprehend a Danger, till they are in't. I never think of being a Cuckold: I love Volante, and wou'd marry her— Come, come, there are Women enow for the ill-natur'd purpose of your Love; quit her to me, do a generous thing to a Woman that loves you; and to a Man, who would engage you for a Friend.
Why Faith, Ilford, I wou'd do a great deal for you; but I must do something for her.
Do me a Favour, and don't undo her Fame.
But there's the pleasure on't—
To ruine the Woman that loves you—
Not so much out of ill Nature to her, as good Nature my self: Reputation must be had: And we young Men generally raise ours out of the Ruine of the Womens.
But Volante is a Woman of Quality, [Page 48]And has Relations to do her Right, if you don't do her Reason.
Wou'd she had a Brother, to make a business on't: He cou'd not do her so much right, in fighting for her, as he wou'd do me reason, in making it the talk of the Town.
That wou'd set it about indeed.
If I should say, I had lay'n with her; or endeavour to set it afoot, 'twould fall of it self.
As an impotent Piece of Vanity, or Folly in a young Man.
But no body dares make a doubt of a Report, when a Relation has taken an honourable Care, by a Duel, to fix the Scandal in the Family.
Why, truly I think the Men of Honour are out in that business: Scandal does not fall into the hands of a Surgeon, like the Wounds of the Body for a Cure: Opening and Probing, makes the Malady but more inveterate, and the least Air taints it to a Mortification.
It heals best of it self, without a Plaister.
And Time must finish the work. I have observ'd some Women live themselves into a second Reputation—
And other Women, who by a natural Negligence, never setting up for any, from the freedom of their behaviour, have pass'd uncensur'd in those publick Places, and Pleasures, which wou'd have undone Ladies of a sprucer Conversation, but to have appear'd in.
So that 'tis not what they do, but not doing all of a Piece, that ruins their Character, and unders the Women—
And condemns the Men too: For 'tis not any Man's Opinion, but his shifting it to the Occasion, that makes him a Rascal; as let his Opinion be what it will, if he continues the same, and acts upon a Principle, he may be an honest Man: But 'tis no Character I wou'd advise a Friend to.
But this is from my business, Sir Antony! And, all things consider'd, the difficulties of getting, and the danger of enjoying Volante; in my Opinion, her Woman wou'd be the better Intrigue.
Why indeed the Woman wou'd often be the better Intrigue, were she as difficult to be compass'd as her Lady.
It seems the danger doubles your delight.
And we naturally covet, what we are forbid; for very often 'tis the bare pleasure of breaking the Commandment, that makes another Man's Wife more desirable than his own.
As at present, the bare pleasure of opposing my Interest, has carry'd on yours with Volante, farther then otherwise you design'd.
Why faith, there's something in that too, Ilsord: Not but I have a very good Opinion of the Lady.
Well Sir Antony, I wish you wou'd think it worth your while, to make a Friend of me—
I wou'd make a Friend of you.
Resign your Title then: 'tis but giving me now, what in a little time you will decline of your self: Make Volante mine, and make me yours.
I wou'd with all my heart; if I cou'd do it with Honour.
I warrant you with Honour.
But how can I disengage my self? Matters are gone a great way between us— she's coming up to me. [Waitwell, whispers and goes out.] Step into that Closet, you will over-hear what we say; I won't promise I can do you any service with her. But I'll do you all the good I can; that you may be sure of, and depend upon.
At least, seeing her here, will do some good upon me
O Madam, you as are good as your word.
I can keep it, you see, at your cost, when I like the occasion.
We men are not more punctual to an appointment, upon the hopes of a new Mistress, then you Women are, upon the first promise of a Husband.
And it stands us upon to be diligent in both Sexes. For neither the Men, nor the Women, continue long in the mind of allowing those Favours.
Why faith, Child, the best Excuse for foolish things— (As Marriage you allow to be one—
A convenient foolish thing.)
Is the doing 'em without thinking. But, what Madam, can't a Man sport off a little innocent Gallantry with a Lady, without being serious a 'both sides; You are in earnest, I see.
Why there's the Jest.
And keep me to my word.
On my word will I
You take all Advantages.
I may be allowed to take what Advantage I can ill the beginning; I shall be sure to be the looser in the end.
In all Plays, one side must be the looser; but Marriage is the only Game, where no body can be the winner.
That's making an ill Bett indeed, where we may loose, and can't win; Yet I am resolv'd to venture.
But Child, hast thou no more mercy upon my Youth, my Dress, my Wit, and good Humour, then to make a Husband of me!
Since you could not have me on your own Terms, I know you'll take me on mine.
Well, there's nothing but cheating in Love: Very often indeed we are before-hand with the Women; but when we marry 'em, I'm sure they cheat us.
And when do I cheat you, Sir Antony?
Have a care of cheating your self, Madam?
Nay, one time or other, all Women are to be fool'd; and I had rather you should have the profit of me, then any Body else.
And pleasure too, I beseech you. I am now going with Valentine to the Nunnery, to see his new Mistress Charlot—
And by her Interest, to see his old Mistress, Floriante; I know the story, and what the Abbe designs in it.
I shall be back in an hour; by that time the Evening will conceal you the better: If then you are brave enough—
To meet you, with a Priest for a Second.
I'll have a Father ready to bless our endeavours.
I warrant you, the first Night for an Heir.
O Sir, your Servant; I see I am beholden to you.
The most in the World I gad, when you know all.
Know all! I know enough to convince me, that you are not capable of a serious design of serving your Honour, or your Friend—
What's the matter now, man?
And I was a Coxcomb for thinking you cou'd.
Nay, you may be a Coxcomb however.
What's that you say?
No quarrelling I beseech you, till you have Cause.
Till I have Cause; I think you have given me sufficient Cause—
To thank me, I have; if you know how to be greateful.
O, I must needs be greateful; and always confess the Obligation you have laid upon me, in promoting my Interest so visibly with Volante—
So opposite to my own with her.
With so much Diligence and good Nature—
Well remembred, I gad.
That in my hearing, and still to advance my Interest—you have made an Appointment to marry her—
And put you to bed to her.
How, how, Sir Antony?
I knew there was no other way to do you a Service with her; therefore I resolv'd to marry her for you, and put you to bed to her, for me.
Incomparable design!
A poor project of mine, Sir; if you had engag'd in't, it might ha' turn'd to account; but as 'tis, I go as I did.
But take me along with you.
I never impose a Curtesie upon any Man; nor quarrel, because he is not sensible I am his Friend; when you come to your self, you may repent—
I do repent, and confess my self—
Well; what do you confess your self to be?
A Fool, an Ass, to pretend to vie with you in any thing.
And will you always keep in this humble Opinion of your self, and allow me the Ascendant?
I shall be an Ass if I don't.
But you must confess your self a Coxcomb—
Aye, any thing.
For pretending to censure, before you understood my design.
You told me I was a Coxcumb before; and now I begin to believe it my self.
Well, upon your Penitence, I pardon, and take you into favour agen.
And into the design.
That you must be: And to convince you that what I do is perfectly in your Interest, you shall marry us your self—
With all my heart.
ACT V.
SCENE I.
NOw you have done the Office of a Father to the Lady, you may do the Office of a Friend to me, and go to bed to her. I can do no more than give you an Opportunity; but if you don't employ it to her advantage, she'll never rely upon you, to improve another to your own.
I never deserve another, if I don't make use of this.
There's no Ceremony to make the Bride coy, in going to bed; she came in an Undress, as loose as her Wishes; and being under the impediment of but two Pins, I warrant she's in Expectation already.
She shant expect long.
There she is; kiss my Wife and welcome. She won't cry out, for her own sake, till 'tis too late to discover it for mine.
If she shou'd, I think the Castle's our own.
I leave you to your Fortune; I am going to seek mine in another Adventure.
You have made my Fortune here.
SCENE Changes to a Bed-Chamber. SONG.
Methinks my Knight begins to shew himself already, in a Husbands Indifference; makeing we wait so long alone, in a place, where nothing but his Company can entertain me: But I have heard indeed, that she who marries a Man for his conversation or good humour, takes care only to secure the least, or the worst part of it to her self: So this is but a small fault in Matrimony; and ten to one, before the Year comes about, I may have a more reasonable cause of repenting. I think I hear him? O Sir, are you come?
Sooner than you expected, I believe.
How! Ilford—
I see you are surpriz'd to see me here; and indeed the Occasion, that brings me to you, is very surprizing.
What can you mean by this?
You have stol'n a Wedding, Madam, tho' you think to make it a secret; you can't expect that Sir Antony shou'd bring his Vanity so low, not to make a Boast of the Favour he has done you.
By sending you to me?
To wish you Joy.
A very likely story.
And give you Joy, Madam.
Wou'd Sir Antony wou'd come, to thank you for your Complement.
He sent me with the Complement—
He send you!
To supply his place to Night. Your Husband wo'not come.
Not come to me?
Be satisfied so far, you are abus'd; and to convince you, tho' too late, how unreasonably you have have prefer'd that Creature to every Body, he has done what no body else cou'd ha' done to you.
What has he done?
Giv'n me a fuller Revenge upon your Folly and Scorn, than I cou'd ha' conceiv'd for my self—
What has he done to me?
He has marry'd and undone you, left you—
Left me!
The first Night left you; left you to me: Not that I believe he design'd me a favour, more than he wou'd ha' done any Man else; but you had us'd me so very ill, he imagin'd, I was capable of any malicious Design of exposing you.
Of exposing me!
But that you need not apprehend from me.
I'm in your power; but pitty me. My Folly, and my Fortune are too plain.
Do you perceive it now?
I shou'd ha' seen it sooner.
'Tis well you find it now. However you deserve of me; I come to serve you: And since this opportunity (that favours, and was given me for baser ends) encourages me to nothing, beyond the hope of your esteem, you must give me leave to think, that, from my behaviour, I deserve that Honour better than my trifling Rival does the Title of your Love.
You deserve every thing.
I say enough to warn you of him; but you wou'd venture.
My shame confounds me!
You wou'd not credit me.
I can but wish I had.
Were it to do agen, you wou'd follow your Inclination, and do the same thing?
I hate the Villain.
In your Anger?
No, to death I hate him: And were I free from him—
You wou'd not marry him!
Never.
Then you are free from him.
How! free from him!
Not marry'd to him.
Wou'd you cou'd prove it too.
I'll make it plain, if you'll consent to it—
More willingly, than I did e're consent. Make that but plain to me; and what returns are in the poor power of one so lost—
So sav'd, I hope.
You shall command.
I may restore you to your liberty; but never can my self.
SCENE changes to the Street.
This is the time, and place of appointment; what 'twill come to, Valentine, I can't tell.
'Tis a whimsical Undertaking methinks, to support another Woman's Intrigue, at your Expence—
There's no buying such a Frolick to dear.
And part with your Lover to oblige her!
So long, I can't part with you; to provide for your pleasure as well as my own: Besides, 'tis a diverting piece of Roguery; and will be a Jest as long as we know one another.
Who's there? Sir Antony!
The same; I am afore-hand with you.
The Lady, Sir, will thank you. Whom have you with you there?
Only a Servant.
You'll have no need of him; I come to serve you: Besides he may be seen.
I'll send him away.
I'll but step in, to make your way to the Lady, and will wait upon you agen.
By this Fellow's advising to send away your Servant, I fancy he may be a Rogue.
If he be a Rogue, I am reslv'd to discover the bottom of him; but if there be a Woman in the case, I'll leave you to the Employment—
Sir.
Here.
Are you alone?
I am.
Follow me.
Follow me.
SCENE changes to the inside of a House.
Your Pimp proceeds with Caution. But these dark Deeds may require our dark Lanthorn.
Give it me; I can manage this; you must manage the Lady, and for once, not to make a Custom of it, I'll hold a Candle to you.
Where are you, Sir Antony?
Here.
I'm glad you are, and here I'll keep you—
Ha!
Have you forgot your Friend the Pilgrim? I am that Lady in love with you; and now I have you to my self, I must come nearer to you.
The Devil you must—
Are you my Friend the Pilgrim, do you say?
Then I am lost agen.
Why how came I to forget you so soon? and are you the Lady that was in love with me?
Rise; and tell all you know of this business, or it shall be the last you shall ever engage in; I know enough of you to send you to the Galleys.
Why indeed Gentlemen, I won't stand Trial with you; I confess some design of my own upon Sir Antony; but your very good Friend, the Abbe, first set it on foot, by employing, and paying me well, to decoy you into his power: Now, Sir, knowing your Character, I thought nothing wou'd sooner spirit you any where, than the hopes of a new Woman.
You see I am true to my Assignation.
But where's the Abbe all this while.
He's in the House, expecting the good hour.
How shall we do with him?
To make my Peace with you, I'll contribute to any Design against him.
That must be your way.
Go then; and to keep up the Jest, say nothing of what is past, but bring him to me—
What do you design now?
To continue the Scene with him. For having, as I told you, dispos'd of his Niece Volante to our Friend Ilsord, I suppose they may have occasion by to morrow, for his approbation of what they are doing to night.
That's well thought on; his Consent will come the easier, for our having a Hank upon him.
Get you gone then, like an Evidence, behind the Hangings.
Have I caught you, my little Mercury! have I caught you!
You're very nimble, Sir.
Aye, aye; I have it in my head.
And in your heels too.
Upon occasion— Ah my little Man! I'm young again; when I like my Company.
But who cou'd expect to see you here?
Why any body wou'd have expected it: How cou'd you expect otherwise? How cou'd you think, I cou'd stay from you so long? What, you expected a Woman?
I did indeed.
Let the Women expect you, there's a plentiful Crop of Maidenheads; if the War continues to carry off the Whore-masters, some of 'em must fall of themselves, without gathering; there will scarce be Reapers enow for that Harvest.
There's no Female-Famine, in this Year's Almanack; no fear of wanting Women.
No, no; no fear of wanting Women: But a good natur'd, old merry Fellow, as I may be, who can tittle tattle, and gossip in their Families, upon an ancient Privilege with the Mothers, may do any thing with the Daughters: Such a Man is a Jewel, to bring you together.
Such a Man wou'd be a Jewel indeed.
I know, you little Rogue, your business is to be wicked: I love to be wicked my self too sometimes, as often as I can decently bring it about, without scandal: And I will be as wicked— As wicked as I can be, for you, and with you.
You can do no more than you can do, good old Gentleman.
Old Gentleman! I won't be an old Gentleman; I'm never older than the Company I am in: What, Five and fifty does not make an old Man; 'tis want of Appetite, Infirmity, and Decay, not Five and fifty, that makes a Man old: Five and fifty has it's Pleasures—
As good have none, Abbe; they are faint and feeble.
Delicate and dainty, my Dear; palatable and pleasant, and thou art mine.
How shall I know that, Sir?
Why thou sha't know, all in good time, Child; but an old Fellow, you say! [Unbuttons, and throws down his Cloak.] What shall I do now, to convince you, that I am not an old Fellow? Let me see; what shall I do for you?
What can you do for me!
What can I do for you?
To prove you are not an old Fellow.
What can I?—Why I can—I can part with my Money to thee.
That's one Argument indeed.
Besides I can— I won't tell you what I can: But if you'll step into the next Room with me, I have a Collation for you, and a—There you shall find, what I can do for you.
If I shou'd retire with you, you'll be disappointed—
No, no, don't talk of disappointment; I hate to be disappointed.—We're very luckily alone, and shou'd make a good use of our time; no body will come to disturb us.
But I may disappoint you my self—
You will exceedingly; if you don't go a long with me: Delays are dangerous, when Opportunities are scarce; and we elderly Fellows have 'em but seldom— I vow I'll teize you, and kiss you into good humour; I swear I will; if you won't go.
But 'tis not in my power to oblige you.
I'll put it into your power, I warrant you.
But that I doubt, Sir. For very unhappily for your purpose; I am a—Woman.
Ha! how, a Woman!
A Woman!
What the Devil have I been doing all this while? A Woman! Are you sure you're a Woman?
How shall I convince you?
Nay, nay; I am easily convinc'd; the very Name has convinc'd me.
But if you have a mind to be satisfied—
I thank you Madam, I am satisfied, more than I desire to be satisfied; and as much satisfied as I can be, with a Woman.
I told you I should disappoint you.—
You did indeed; and you have kept your word with me, you have disappointed me, plaguely disappointed me. But I beg your pardon, Madam, I hope there's no offence in a little Waggery—
None at all, Sir.
I don't use to take the freedom of being so familiar with the Ladies—
I do believe you.
Indeed I don't; I pay a greater Respect to your Sex: And had I known you were a Woman before, I had kept my distance—
Fie, fie, Sir, Ceremony among Friends! Tho' you know me now to be a Woman, you need not keep a distance. What tho' I have disappointed you in your way, I may make you amends in my own—
So you may indeed, Madam—
You guess what I mean, Abbe?
If you wou'd be but so gracious.
How gracious wou'd you have me be?
Ah! you'll never grant me the favour—
What favour?
Why— to say nothing of this business.
Is that the favour?
That's all, Madam? the greatest favour you can do me; and then you do my business.
Can you part with any Money now to me, now I'm a Woman?
Here are a hundred Luidores in this Purse—
To muzzle the Scandal.
And I'll get you a Husband into the Bargain.
She'll keep your Council, Abbe.
Hem, hem, hem!
And in the scarcity of Men, you'll do her a mighty favour, I can tell her, to secure a Husband for her.
Hold you your Tongue, Sir. You shall have a Wife too, if Floriante will content you; that Rogue Palmer has betray'd me.
No body shall betray you; we are all Friends: But this Lady and I have a favour to beg of you.
A favour to beg of me! Any thing, any thing, as many favours as you please; 'tis but asking, and having, in the humour I am in, Gentlemen.
Our Friend, Ilford, has marry'd your Niece Volante, and you must give your Consent to the Wedding.
Give my Consent to the Wedding! Why, I'll dance at the Wedding. I'll have a Fiddle, and a young Fellow to tickle me, and teach me to Caper. Gads so; I don't know what Legs I stand upon at the news on't! I'll be as brisk as the Bridegroom the first Night. But we shall neither of us hold it; twon't last the Year round with us; I'm an old Fellow, that's the truth on't, 'tis done with me already; I'm upon my last Legs. But I have Floriante and Charlot to provide for still; Poor Girls! while they are in a Nunnery, they lie upon my Conscience: let me but bring them into the World agen, and I'll be contented to go out on't—
Not yet a great while, Abbe.
As soon as I can get my self in the mind.
Wee'l keep you in another mind.
Nay, I am easily perswaded; but I have done with you.
The Lady Abbess is consenting to their Escape.
Being a Kinswoman, she was easily perswaded to give 'em an Opportunity.
'Tis near the time now; wou'd I had Ilford here.
Why, I am here; I'll stand and fall by you.
I must not now expose you.
If you can but carry 'em off, the business is laid to your hands.
My business is over in this Town; and I had best get off while I can; for fear of bringing a worse business upon me.
SCENE, the back-side of a Nunnery.
What Floriante means by this Invitation to me, I can't tell; 'tis a favour she never vouchsafed me before: Perhaps the apprehension of taking the Habit which her Father intends she shall, has wrought upon her to consent rather to marry me: But let her consent, and design what she please, if she puts her self into my power, as to Night she says she will, I design to let her see, how very little I value that favour, for which I must be oblig'd more to her Confinement, then to her Inclination, or Choice. Stand close, here's Company.
I am as full of apprehension, as an old Soldier upon the Guard of a Counterscarp; where his Fears cannot be more uneasie, than my Hopes are now.
He shou'd be an Englishman, by the Similitude, to let his Friends know, from his own mouth, that he has made a Campagne.
This is the backside of the Nunnery—
And the Garden Door— I think I hear it open—
O Floriante!
Floriante!
Stand fast, we're set upon.
You must not meet the danger—
Fall on, and kill the Ravisher—
Come, my fair Fugitive, you must along with me.
What noise was that?
Some help, I hope.
How my Sister Charlot has succeeded, under my Name, with her Count, to morrow will discover.
Ha! the Count then has the wrong Woman.
Wou'd Valentine were come.
O wou'd he were to help me!
Who's there? a Man wounded?
One of your Servants; if you are Floriante.
I am.
And wounded in your Cause.
I'm sorry for't; do you belong to Valentine?
I do.
Where is he?
He got off safe; and if you'll lend me your charitable hand, I'll guide you to him.
Rogues, Sons of Whores, and Cowards!
Sir Antony.
Here am I.
Floriante!
Valentine!
I was afraid I had lost you.
Here's an honest man was conducting me to you, one of your Friends.
One of my Friends! He's one I did not reckon upon, if he be— This is one of Count Verole's Bravo's.
I am; and had not you interrupted me, I had done my Master service; carry'd the Lady to him.
What a Mischief have I scap'd—
Thou art a gallant Fellow, and dost deserve a better Master; but thou hast done thy duty, and I will do mine; carry him home, and get a Surgeon to him—
Well; I run a mighty venture.
Of loosing a Maiden-head, I grant you.
I may Repent—
The keeping of it so long.
I may repent at leisure.
You may indeed, if you don't make haste; for we must expect to be pursu'd.
You and I, Madam, are much about a size; what if we change Cloaths; it may favour your Escape, if you come to be follow'd.
Admirably thought on! Madam, you need not make a scruple of shifting before Sir Antony; whom, from this time, you may know to be a Woman.
A Woman!
Now for my Petticoats agen—
SCENE, the Abbe's House.
Sir, I must thank you for the care you have shewn of my Family; tho' I believe it has carry'd you farther then you are aware off: This is my Daughter Charlot.
Charlot!
Charlot!
The very same. But Floriante is oblig'd to you; you meant this favour to her: But by this time, she has put her self into the care of a Gentleman, who will find a kinder away of disposing her, then into the hands of her Father.
Dishonourable Girl!
If it be possible, I'll recover her, and yet revenge my Love.
But Charlot, how came you to think of running away with Valentine, when you know I design'd you to marry him?
Why, I thank you, Sir, you design'd very well for me; But I was too well acquainted with Valentine, and my Sister's thoughts, to depend over [Page 59]much upon that hope: I knew there was no parting them; therefore consented the easier to assist her, in getting out of the Nunnery.
Very well.
Very well Brother!
Let her go on.
I began to apprehend the danger of staying behind in a place, and profession, wholly disagreeable to my humour.
And well you might.
I thought fit to provide for my self.
In good time you did, Niece.
And accordingly, in my Sister's name, I sent to Count Verole; he came at the time appointed, expecting Floriante: But Valentine, by what accident, I know not, coming before his time, knowing nothing of me, or my Plot upon the Count, took me for her, call'd me Floriante, upon which his Bravo's fell upon Valentine: But the Count in a more gentle-manly regard to his Person, encountred me, and brought me where you find me.
But methinks the Count, taking you for Floriante, his old Mistress, might ha' made another use of his Victory, then to have brought you in triumph to your Father.
I expected he wou'd indeed; but by what he said to me, I found he had little or no design in coming there; but to revenge himself upon my Sister, and her scorn.
I'm glad he has no other design upon her.
And so am I indeed, Sir.
Why Charlot? You are not in Love with the Count?
Not so much in love with the Count, as I am out of love with a Nunnery: Any man had been as welcome.
Well, well; if Valentine be not hurt, this matter will clear of it self—
And so it will, I warrant you.
SCENE, the Street.
Why, how a Man may be mistaken in his Friends! I cou'd not ha' believ'd it; (had not one of their underling Rogues told me so himself) that any one cou'd ha' been so cheated, as I have been, by my own Countrymen— If I durst but send any of 'em a Challenge, I might get some of my money agen; but that may draw me into a worse Premunire, then I have yet been in. Let me see; Can't I have a safer Revenge upon 'em? Valentine has stoll'n a Fortune, and entrusted me to bring a Father to marry em; now if I should go wilfully, in a mistake, to the Gentlewoman's own Father, for a Licence to marry 'em. The truth on't is, I have a mind to forbid the Banes, and get her my self, if I can; for Floriante is a Woman of Quality—
Do you know her, Sir?
Yes. Sir, I think I do.
Then as you are a Gentleman, assist me; thus far I have News of her.
I am a Gentleman, Sir; you shall find me a Gentleman: And I'll tell you more News of her; I'll carry you to the very place, where she [Page 60]is, Sir; and that's as much as you can expect from a Gentleman, when a Friend is concern'd.
It is indeed, Sir, more then I expected; pray along with me.
Valentine with Floriante in Sir Antony 's, and Sir Antony in her Cloaths.
So far we are safe, Ladies, and the shifting your Habits will secure us so: Wou'd Sir Gentle wou'd come agen; you're grave at the thought of him!
Men of your Conversation and Experience in the World, Valentine, seldom like the Women you marry.
Because we seldom marry the Women we like.
Well, since Marriage at best is a Venture, I had as good make it my self, as let another make it for me, at my Cost.
To let a Father choose for you in Love, is as unlucky, as when you are in fancy at play, and pushing at a Sum, to desire another to throw out your hand.
I'll be hang'd if that fool Sir Gentle has not betray'd us.
Yonder he comes indeed, with a Rabble of Rogues at his heels.
There's no resisting 'em; provide for your selves as well as you can.
I have yet a Trick to cozen 'em.
See, see, upon sight of us, they have quitted their Prize: Is this their English Gallantry? They're out of sight already. Let 'em go; the Lady is our Game.
I'll make some of 'em know to their Cost, that by using me so little like a Gentleman, they have taught me to do as I do, and use 'em as they deserve.
Now Floriante, you find you have thrown your self a way, upon a Fellow that has not the spirit to stand by you, or himself, to keep your Folly in countenance.
Pray Sir, a word with you—
Well Madam: What can you say to me?
Why, I say, you're an Ass to run about to disturb other People: I am Sir Antony Love, not Floriante; don't discover me for your own sake; but get you gone about your business, and leave me to this English man.
I'll take his Advice, for fear of being laugh'd at: Sir, you have behav'd your self so like a Man of Honour in this business, that I must desire you to take care of the Lady, while I go to inform her Father of what has happen'd.
Yes, yes; I'll take care of her, I warrant you. Why, what a lucky Rogue am I! upon my first inclination to play the Knave, to have so good an occasion of doing it.
And indeed, who wou'd take a trust upon him, but for the privledge and benefit of breaking it?—So Madam, now I have you in my Care.
You are a civil Gentleman, I know you.
You shall know me for a civil Gentleman, if you please; tho I am a Knight, where I am not familiar.
I know you are, Sir; you may have pity for me.
Alack a day! I have indeed, a heart brim-full for you.
You won't force me to marry that Monster?
Not I, as I hope to be sav'd, Madam; nothing against fancy.
To throw away my Youth, Beauty, and Fortune, which you know are not contemptible.
Incomparable, Madam; incomparable; your Youth and Beauty, without your Fortune.
Wou'd they were worth your asking.
Wou'd I might have 'em for asking.
Valantine I despair of; but if there be an Enlish-man, as an English-man he must be—
Why, I am an English-man; and wou'd marry you.
The sooner you secure me, the better then.
I think so too, Madam.
Why here's a Night of Action indeed; Ilford, you began the Dance with Volante; and Count, I hope you'll continue it, with my Niece Charlot: As for Valentine and Floriante, they have had their frisk in a corner by this time, or he is not the Man I take him for.
When you fell into my hands to Night; had I known my good Fortune, I had improv'd it then: But now I have it, in having you—And happier yet, in having your Consent.
You have my Blessing both—
You may appear, we're all of a Family now, Cozen Germans, and Friends— Come here's a Pair that wants your Blessing too.
I can't deny it now— Rise and be happy.
I have a Blessing too for you, my Girls; Five thousand Crowns a piece more than I design'd you; and a Thousand extraordinary for her who brings me the first Boy; a small Gratuity, Gentlemen, to keep up your Fancy, and encourage your pains, that you mayn't think it unprofitable Labour upon your Wives.
But why in Sir Antony's Cloaths, Floriante? Where is this mad Knight?
Somewhere in my Petticoats: But the Count can give you the best Tidings of him.
I left him with one Sir Gentle Golding; one whom you are beholden to; for familiarly, upon the first word, he betray'd you, and carry'd me to seize you.
Well, I don't doubt but she will give us a handsom Revenge upon him.
She? Who?
Sir Antony, Sir; For this Sir Antony after all, is a Woman.
A Woman!
Aye, pox take her, she is a Woman.
Then I am free indeed.
And I am happy.
At leisure I'll tell you all her story.
Now, I am sufficiently reveng'd on Valentine and Sir Antony for [Page 62]cheating me; I think I have paid 'em in their own Coin: And disappointed the Count too, in marrying Floriante.
Floriante!
Come Father-in-Law, this business will out I see; if you'll give us your blessing, so; if not, I shall begin upon your Daughter without saying Grace.
Much good may do you, Sir, with your Bride.
Aye, aye; we must all wish you Joy, Sir; You have a Blessing sufficient in a good Wife—
If you know when you're well.
O deliver me! What do I see!
Why you see your old Mrs. Lucy, in your new Lady-wife; we are all Witnesses of your owning your marriage.
I do not own it— I'll hang like a Dog, drown like a blind Puppy, die and be damn'd, but I'll be divorc'd from her.
That's your nearest way to Divorce.
And will save the trouble of Doctor's Commons.
Come, come, I'll put you in a better; There are old Scores between you and Mrs. Lucy— You have made her a Lady indeed, which shews a grateful Nature in you, and will sound well in the Ears of the World. But to support her Quality—
Her Qualities will support that.
Out of your Two thousand pounds a Year, give her a Rent-charge of Five hundred, and she shall never trouble you more, not so much as to be a Godfather to another Man's Child upon her Body, which may otherwise inherit your Acres.
Why there's the Devil on't agen, to Father another man's Children, when one is not so much as a-kin to 'em! Well, any Composition to be rid of her; I find 'tis a Blessing I must pay for.
Come, come, we must have a Dance to all these Weddings.