I Should believe Mr. Cuningham very constant, if I had Faith enough to credit this Letter, Jeffry. What Complaints are here? But 'tis the Stile, that all young Lovers write.

Pray, Madam, believe me; you know I am a Man of Integrity: I cannot dissemble. Let him write what he pleases, If he did not love you, do you think I'd tell you so?

When he has Opportunity, I must confess, he says kind things to me.

Take my Word, Madam, my Master is not like other Men—Unless he loves a Lady, and loves her passionately too, he never troubles himself to com­pliment her much.

Never? Yes, Jeffry; sometimes, you know, he compliments my Aunt.

That's a convincing Proof of his Love to you; you cannot think him reduc'd to the Necessity of making Love to an antiquated Piece, with design to know her otherwise, than to obtain the Happiness of seeing you? But I shall tell him, Madam—

Tell him I have receiv'd and read his Letter.

Is that all, Madam?

All! Yes. Are you not content with that?

Any indifferent Person, that had Hands, and could but read, would have done, as much, as that.

Well; Tell him then, in time perhaps I may—

My Master, Madam, can't endure to depend on a perhaps.

Quick, quick, up to your Chamber, Madam.

What's the Matter? Is my Aunt coming hi­ther?

She's at your Heels. Go up the Back-Stairs quickly.

Farewel, Jeffry; Commend me to thy Ma­ster.

For what, I beseech you? Is not my Master bewitc'd, to court a Lady a whole Year, and she hard­ly tell him she loves him yet?

Alas! She's but a Novice. Let me alone with her; I'll order the Business so, that if thy Master be discreet and passionate enough in his Expressions, he wins her Heart I'll warrant you.

He can say nothing to her, but that damn'd Aunt of hers is harkning to't still. What Pleasure can she find in Love at Fifty?

Fie, Jeffry, you must say Five and twenty.

I wonder any Woman can have the Impu­dence to live, and trouble Mankind after that Age.

There never was a Woman so old, but she re­tain'd a good Opinion of her self.

Then she dresses her self so fantastically, that all may see she strives to appear Young in defiance of Nature. She is more gawdy in that she calls Half-Mourning, than a young Bride is on her Wedding-Night. The Devil's in her if she believes any one can love her: 'Tis jeering her, but to be commonly ci­vil to her.

A little Flattery fires her. She believes all, that is said to her: And he that does not make love to her, and compliment her, shall not be twice admit­ted to her House.

O reverend Beauty! on my Conscience, if I would grease her Chops with a few Compliments, she'd mump and smile upon me.

No doubt on't.

When shall my Master have an Opportunity to speak freely to Philadelphia?

Mr. Lovemore is thy Master's Friend, and is better belov'd here, than he imagines You must per­suade him to amuse the Aunt, that Mr. Cuningham may have Convenience to court the Niece.

Mr. Lovemore's tir'd with playing that part so often; he is cloy'd with the Aunt, and swears he'll have no more of her.

I'm sure her Niece and I endure much more. Tell him, 'twill be Charity in him to relieve us.

'Twill be hard to persuade him to it.

This old Lady of mine has languish'd for a young Husband ever since Sir Oliver Laycock dy'd: She cares not what Estate he has, or what Religion he's of, so he be but young and lusty. Where is the great Viscount Sans Terre, thy Master told her of? Methinks he's long a coming.

Some cross unlucky Business hinders him.

She has lately receiv'd some Letters, that have given a full Account of him.

So much the worse. What is it?

They say his Fortune is not very much, but he is greatly born, and very pleasant; and that he is so great a Lover of Musick, he has not a Servant but can Sing or Dance, or Play upon some Instrument. You may know when he's come by the Noise; the Fiddlers will welcome him to Town; for all from Westminster to Wapping pay him Homage.

Wou'd he were but marry'd to her, Pru­dence.

Whether he marries her or not, is not our Business, Jeffry. Let him but fool with us till thy Master has gain'd her Niece, and then our Work is done.

Well, we have had enough of thy old Lady Laycock. Let us now talk of our own Affairs; speak, dost thou love me, Prudence?

A pleasant Question! Do you doubt it now?

If you would have me credit you, swear it.

Sure you are jealous Jeffry?

You're somewhat near the Matter. I know your Humour well enough; you love a bold audaci­ous Fellow, that will say any thing, and such a one we have come to Town, one Merryman our Falconer; I fear you'll like him better than you do me.

Oh Fool! why should you think so?

I have some Honour in me; but he's a Fellow that has eaten Shame, and drank after it. He is more impudent than a Court Page, and will take no De­nial.

Hold your Tongue, here's my Lady.

What Business has Jeffry with you?

His Master sent him to know, whether he might have leave to wait upon your Ladyship this Morning.

Yes; Tell him, I expect him.

He durst not come, because Mr. Lovemore's with him.

Go tell 'em, if they please to come, they shall be welcome both.

I shall, Madam.

You see what Power your Beauty has. Nei­ther can live a Moment without seeing you.

No, they have other Business with me, Pru­dence; they came from Paris lately, and brought me a Letter from my Brother; and I believe they come for my Answer now.

But does not one of 'em love you, Madam?

I have some Reason to believe he does; Mr. Lovemore has spar'd no Pains to persuade me to quit my Widow-hood.

I have been told, Madam, that Widow-hood is a Gift, Heaven seldom bestows but on its Favou­rites; you are rich, and know how troublesome Mar­riage is. For my part, I believe the fairest Hair, the beautiful'st Curls do not become your Fore-head so well as Bando did; but every one, Madam, knows their own Necessities.

I confess, Widow-hood has its Conveniencies; but if Marriage be a Trouble to some, 'tis a Pleasure to others, Prudence.

You had the Experience of it thirty Years, how did you like it, Madam? They say, Sir Oliver Laycock lov'd your Ladyship.

For all that he was jealous; and, what's worse, was Old.

Very well; therefore you resolve to have a young One now, Madam?

You cannot blame me for that? Can you, Prudence?

Oh no, 'tis well known Youth is comforta­ble. But, methinks, you should take one a little near­er your own Age, Madam. A very young Man may be too treacherous for you, Madam.

Why, is my Age so visible?

No, Madam; with a little Help of Art you have some Remains of Beauty still. You have some­thing about your Eyes as pleasant now, as others have at Twenty.

'Tis a very malicious World we live in, Pru­dence; they are so apt to censure, and speak of any single Woman, that one ought to marry to avoid that Scandal.

Some that are young are forc'd to marry, to avoid Detraction; others wou'd rather all that's Ill should be said of them, than to have no Notice ta­ken of 'em. I knew a young Lady that pin'd to a Consumption, because she liv'd three Years about the Court, and never had the Honour to be lampoon'd. The Truth is, none that are Beautiful and Young can avoid Envy, but few are so malicious, to speak against the Old.

There is no Age exempt from Scandal, Pru­dence. When we are Young, they say we sell our selves; when Old, we are forc'd to hire, to buy our Lovers.

You know what they say, Madam, of the old Marchioness, your Friend, that was so admir'd, so courted in her Youth; who, when she found she was forsook by all, was forc'd to hire a Player by the Quarter: How soon rhe poor Fellow was tir'd too! How like a Sheep-biter he look'd after the first two Months!

This London is a very wicked Place, 'tis im­possible to live without Scandal here.

I'm afraid they'll say as much of you, Madam, if you bargain for a Husband. To covet one, that is both Young and Rich, is too much in Conscience, Madam.

Thou know'st, Prudence, Wealth is not the thing I seek.

Then, Madam, the Business is done; the Viscount Sans-Terre shall be your Husband, Ma­dam.

Ah Prudence! if he were but as handsome as—

Ah Madam, that's too much.

Why may not I wish for it?

Consider his Quality, Madam, and 'bate him something for that. One thing I must advise you; be not too prodigal of your Gold at first; to be li­beral sometimes will be convenient, and make him kinder to you.

For all this, I should think my self very happy, if I were certain of Mr. Cuningham or Mr. Lovemore.

A little Jealousy will inflame 'em. They'll be more pressing when the Viscount comes.

But yet methinks, Cuningham and my Neice—

What, Madam?

Are always whispering.

He only compliments her, Madam. She's too young to make Love seriously.

With your Favour, there's no trusting to that. To my Knowledge, there are those younger, than she, that understand what Love is but too well.

That's true, Madam; but Philadelphia is so innocent, that no Man can make Love to her, but to divert himself. Here she is, Madam.

What does she come for? I'll send her pack­ing quickly.

Consider what you do, Madam. How can Mr. Lovemore entertain your Ladyship, unless his Friend may divert himself the while with rallying with your Niece.

For all that I could wish—

Pray trouble not your self. Trust me, I'll watch her, Madam.

Will your Ladyship go to Eaton's? The Coach is at the Door.

No, I'll not go yet.

If you stay long, Madam, the best Poynt will be sold before you come.

No matter. Ha! what ails the Girl! How strangely she looks! Her Eyes are hardly open yet!

How, Madam?

Then her Head's dress'd awry. How it dis­guises her! Lord! how frightfully it looks!

Truly, Aunt, 'tis dress'd just as the Fashion is.

Fetch her Hood, Prudence; I'll have her put it on till it be mended.

I dress'd it to please no body but my self, Madam.

I'll have you dress your self now to please me: Come, put it on.

My Lady's in the Right. Never was a­ny thing more ridiculous. Here, put on the Hood, I am sure this is much handsomer.

Why don't you put it on?

I can't endure it, Madam—

Do, I say.

So; Now it is as it should be; all modest Maids should be dress'd so: But here's Mr. Cuningham and Mr. Lovemore.

Your Servant, Madam; you see how we love your Company, by giving you this Trouble in a Morning.

'Tis a Happiness we are much envy'd for.

You are welcome, Gentlemen. Pray com­mand this House as freely as your own.

Why does this Lady hide her Face? Pray, Madam, let us see you.

Forbear, Sir, I beseech you: She has had the Tooth-Ach lately. If she takes off her Hood, she'll catch cold, and bring the Pain again.

I thank your Ladyship for your Care of me. But the Pain has been gone so long, I don't fear it now.

Nay then, we must have it off.

What say you, Madam, Shall I pull it off?

Yes, Impertinence; I see you have a Mind to shew your self.

'Tis the Nature of all young Girls to do what they are forbidden.

I come not to trouble your Ladyship for your Letter to my Lawyer; your countenancing my Business will be of great Advantage to me.

This, Sir, is what my Brother commands me: You shall see I take delight to serve his Friends.

Madam, You promis'd me that Honourable Title.

Do you pretend to it?

Yes, Madam, more, than any one.

I have not much Beauty to boast of; but Virtue, Sir, makes some amends for the Defects of the other.

Defects?

Pray, Madam, wrong not your self so much.

There are few but know a little their own Value: And tho a Woman be not fam'd for a great Beauty, yet if she be agreeable, there are those, will like her well enough.

You have that in Perfection, Madam.

In that, Sir, I know you do not flater.

—

Madam.

Then, Madam, you like my Choice of this Suit.

Extremely well: Was it your own Fancy, Sir.

I am not asham'd to own it, since you ask it, Madam.

I'll listen to 'em—

He talks to her of nothing but new Fashions.

You may, Madam, venture to discourse without disturbance.

Pray, Sir, tell me freely; how old do you think I am?

Faith, Madam, if you were not a Widow, I should think you a Girl scarce Twenty.

Now, Sir, you flater me: You might have said Thirty. I do not love to disguise my Age.

How! Thirty, Madam! and look so youth­ful: I'll not believe it, 'tis impossible!

You do not know what Misery I endur'd whilst my old Husband liv'd. The Griefs I had upon me would have distracted another Woman. Alas! Sir, 'tis not Age but Sorrow has broke me.

It makes me sad to hear you tell it, Madam, and vexes me to think, an old Man should enjoy such Happiness.

You do not know how many Tears I have shed.

'Tis some Comfort, Madam, to remember he did not live long with you.

Truly, Sir, Fifteen Years.

Yes, and Fifteen to that.

Having been so unfortunate in a Husband, you may believe I have but little Encouragement to ven­ture, Sir, again. For I am very happy now I am a­lone.

You do wisely, Madam; for she deserves not to be pity'd, that rashly runs into the same Mis­fortune; and therefore you have, Madam—

Nay, Sir, I have not forsworn Marrying yet.

Pray, Madam, where do you use to walk in the Evening? Into St. James's Park?

Not very often, Sir.

Or into the Mulberry Garden?

Is not the Wilderness very pleasant?

If I like my Company, Sir, I never mislike the Place.

Have you seen the new Paradise, Madam? 'Tis much superiour to the former.

I have heard as much: But, Sir—

Let me have the Honour to wait upon you thither presently.

Not yet, Sir; After Dinner, if you please. But tell me, Sir, do you think me such an Enemy to Marriage, that were I sure a young Gentleman lov'd [Page 14] me, and lov'd me truly, I would be so uncivil to re­fuse him?

When I consider what you endur'd in Sir O­liver Laycock's time, I think you ought to do it, Ma­dam; and that Man's unjust, that urges you to break your Resolution.

Pray do not mistake me, Sir; I have made no such Resolution yet.

Nay, Madam, since you are displeas'd at what I said, we'll change the Discourse. Pray, Ma­dam, do you think the young Lord Lucky has that In­terest at Court, that Fame reports he has?

Lord, Sir, this is a strange wild Answer to my Question. Let me tell you, Sir, if I have any Merit, Wealth or Beauty, there's one in the World deserves 'em all.

Good! How she teazes him!

But has that one no Fault, Madam?

You know him very well, Sir.

I know him, Madam!

Yes, you, Sir. 'Tis your self.

'Sdeath! What will become of me now?

Madam—

What now?

The Marchioness is come to visit you.

Troublesome Creature. Go one of you and entertain her quickly.

Which of us, Madam?

Go you, Philadelphia, and keep her Compa­ny till I come.

I shall, Madam.

Pray, Madam, what is this Marchioness?

Oh, Sir! a most eternal Talker: Her Tongue goes like the Larum of a Clock, as fast, and to the [Page 15] same Tune still. She's almost Sixty, and yet pretends to Beauty, and loves Courtship most unreasonably. Say but a kind thing to her, and you win her Heart. The Truth is, she has not much Reputation; but the Respect I give her is to her Quality and to her Person. But she's an Original in her kind, Sir.

Oh blind, blind Creature! she draws her own Picture, and laughs at it.

Sure, Madam, her Conversation must be very pleasant?

She has been much courted in her Youth; but 'twould make one die to hear her boast of her Lovers now. How this Knight sighs, and that Lord dies for her; when all the while I know what Necessity the poor Creature is reduc'd to. I would have brought her hither, but I know we never should have been rid of her. Excuse me a Moment, I'll send her away, and return presently. Your Servant, Gen­tlemen,

How now, Friend—What's the Matter? Why dost look so sullenly?

I play the Ass here any longer! No; if I do, may I turn Pudding to a Rope-Dancer, and shew Tricks next Bartholomew Fair.

Nay, but Friend, Dear Friend—

Tell not me of Friendship. What Man would endure to be so plagued as I have been. I have parry'd with my best Skill the dangerous Thrusts that ever were made at me. To tug at an Oar, or dig in a Mine in Peru, is Recreation to it. But the first time to offer Marriage to me! I sweat to think on it. It made me tremble twice, for fear she should have forc'd my Neck into her muddy Noose of Ma­trimony.

We have no other way to blind her.

'Tis all one to me.

If thou lov'st my Life, Friend, do not forsake me now.

Pray live, if you please, and give me leave to do so too. Should I again be left alone with her, the best I can hope for is Distraction.

How do you like the Niece?

She's all Perfection.

How do you thrive? Do you find her kind, Mr. Cuningham?

She has promis'd me a Meeting this After­noon, if thou canst but remove the Aunt from us.

I'll try what I can do, but Mr. Lovemore is the only Man in her Favour.

Dear Friend, try but this one.

I'll be hang'd, drawn, and quarter'd for a Traitor first, and have my Limbs hung up for the Birds to feed upon. No, no, I have my Belly full, I thank you, and some to spare.

But now I think on't, where's this Viscount all this while? His Arrival wou'd be of great use in this Affair.

Prudence advises well: Methinks he's long a coming.

Why, you must know, there is one Merryman just come up out of the Country-He is my Falconer upon occasion, the Fellow is bold, and very apt, and has not been seen much in Town. What think you of him to act awhile, till some more lucky Occasion present it self?

'Tis a lucky Thought, and may be of use. Where is he?

In the Pantry, a ramming down a Wedge of Roast-Beef to keep out the Town Air, and making Sport with a simple Country Fellow he has brought out of the Country with him to see the Town; one Clodpole, he calls him.

'Twould not be amiss to examine him, and instruct him how to behave himself, before he is too much known.

No body of the Family has seen him▪ yet, but the Butler; and he, I know, will be secret.

I'll step and call him to you, Sir, if you please?

Do so.

In the mean time, Prudence, there's something to buy thee a Pair of Gloves.

Oh, dear Sir! how long have I deserved this? Please to command me any thing within my Power, and conclude it done.

Sir, I found him just passing by the Door, and have told him part of the Business.

Well, Friend, dost think thou can'st act the Part of a Viscount for a little while?

What sort of a Lord is he to be?

Oh! An Amorous Resolute sort of a Person, that's much given to love Musick. You shall have all things that's sitting for a Man of such Quality.

Well, Sir, let me be once set out with a good Equipage, and leave the rest to me.

Come with us, Friend, and we'll instruct thee fully in thy Part.

Well, give me but my Cue of Entrance, and let me alone to act my Part.

Let's about it then.

Prudence—

What's your Will?

One Kiss.

'Pshaw! Is that all?

All! I say no more, but—

Ah Prudence, Prudence!

What damnable whining Tone hast thou got, ha?

I am afraid of this Viscount, Prudence.

Away, you Fool; I have other things to trou­ble my Head withal—Farewel.

Adieu.

WHy, Madam, are you so unwilling to credit what my constant Passion, so long in vain, has urg'd? Do you not believe I love you? Oh! Did you but know what I endure, when you refuse to hear me, you would in Charity have some Compassion on my wounded Soul.

I dare not hear this Language from you, Sir.

What are you afraid of, Madam?

All Men say the same things, Sir, till they have won our easy Hearts to pity and believe you; then straight you slight your Conquest, and leave us to pursue our Ruin.

Be not so cruel to censure all for those Faults, which some few commit; for all, I must confess, do not stand excus'd. But, Madam, you cannot be so great a Stranger to my Love, as not to think it real; or so great an Enemy to your own Worth, to believe it has not Power to enslave a Heart, that's guarded more securely than mine—But no more—Your Aunt—

So Niece, I see your squeamish Stomach can digest all sorts of Diet, tho ne'er so strictly charg'd to the contrary. Mr. Cuningham, What Business have you with her? I wonder you are not asham'd to be always following of her at this rate, and endeavouring to take Advantage of her foolish Youth; for she is but a Girl yet, and not fit for the Conversation of a Man, nay, or indeed to be trusted with her self.

Madam—

Go, go, indeed you are much to blame▪ What will the World judge, think you? Or what Excuse can I make, for suffering such Doings in my House? And you, Huswife! how dare you disobey my Commands? Is this the Respect you pay to me, and to my Quality! I believe, in a little time I must make it my whole Imploy to invite home young Gal­lants, forsooth, to pleasure you, whilst I, as if I were your Slave, must retire, and wait till you are serv'd first. 'Tis come to a fine pass indeed; but I'll put an End to it all, and keep you always lock'd up in your Chamber, I will so.

I told you▪ Sir, what would be the Event of your Projects, but you would not be said nay. I must be an Instrument to make your Passion known, and none so fit to be trusted with such an Affair as I; but henceforward if you can't speak for your self, you may hang or drown, as you pretend, for me, for I'll no more get Anger for you.

What does she mean?

What's that you say?

Mr. Cuningham here, Madam, is always urging me to tell your Ladyship the Passion he has for you.

Saucy Slut!

As if he could not speak for himself, but must be still plaguing me, and swearing how long, how well, and how tenderly he loves you; then sighs and cries, Oh Philadelphia! Can I live without her? But she, cruel as she is▪ has vow'd to die unmarried.

Oh the Devil! What will become of me now?

Then raves worse, than any one in Bedlam, crying, And must I then lose her so? Oh! Death to all my Hopes! I must not, cannot, will not! and a thousand such like things, which I'm resolv'd never to hear again. So, Sir, don't trouble me any more, but e'en speak what you have to say to her your self.

Is this true, Mr. Cuningham? I did not think there was a Man living, which cou'd love at that rate, and with such Constancy.

Oh! Madam! what shall I say, since all is still in vain! Your Vow, your cruel Vow, has van­quish'd all my Hopes; then where should I seek for Peace, but in my last Retreat, the Grave. Fare­well; I cannot bear to stay, for every Look adds new Poisons to my Soul.

Stay, Sir—I have made no such Vow. If your Passion—

Oh, Madam! forbear. I know your Good­ness to be such, that rather, than be the Instrument of what may happen, you would seemingly comply with any thing I can ask. Pardon me, Madam, I have been too much deceiv'd already.

Pray stay, Sir, do not mistake—

Oh, Madam, here's the finest Piece of Poynt I ever saw, and the cheapest; pray, Madam, look at it.

Saucy Intrusion. How durst you come with­out being call'd? How often have I told you this, you Minx: Be gone, and leave it in the next Room, till I please to come and look on't.

Madam, the Woman, that brought it is in haste, she bid me tell your Ladyship.

Let her go about her Business, if she can't wait, for I'll not come yet.

How horribly unlucky was this to disturb me, just as I was going to tell him of my Intentions, and of my Concern for his Passion.

I believe I am troublesome, Madam.

Farewel.

No, pray stay, Sir, I have something to say to you, but that young Slut interrupted me.

Oh the Devil!

But as I was going to say, I did indeed resolve not to marry any more; and when you have heard me out, you'll say I had Reason.

You must know, in my Husband Sir Oliver's Days, I had not that Liberty, perhaps, as other Ladies of Quality took; for, to say Truth, my airy Tem­per and my Youth, at that time, made my Hus­band grows jealous, tho' without Cause, Heaven knows.

That I dare swear, if all were of my Mind.

Which made him lead me a very uneasy Life: So that it made me resolve on many things at that time, and one was this, That if ever Sir Oliver should die, I never would marry again; but I don't remem­ber that I swore to it: Or if I had, you have such a way with you, 'twould be very hard to deny you any thing, Mr. Cuningham.

Oh, Madam!—Your Charity comes now too late: I am past all Hope.

Oh, dear Sir, say not so! for since you say your Disease is grown to that Extremity, that unless your Love meet Reward—

Talk not of Impossibilities. I know how much you prize your Honour: And since you have vow'd never to marry, I have nothing left to hope for else.

'Tis true, Mr. Cuningham, I would not have my Honour suffer; but what remains beside that I can do, to save you from what may be dangerous, shall not be wanting.

Oh, Madam! Madam! the rarest News—The Viscount Sans Terre, whom you have so long expected, is just arriv'd, and is coming hither with a huge fine Equipage, Fiddles, and other Instru­ments.

Oh dear! how I'm surpriz'd! I would not have him see me thus for all the World. Prudence, Ser my Curls right, and alter my Knots: Quickly, don't stand sumbling—

Look if the Paint be sirm.

'Tis pretty well, Madam; There's here and there a small Crack, but 'twill not be discern'd at distance.

Quickly, good Prudence: Put me a little better in Order. You'll pardon me, Sir: You see what a Fright I'm in.

Pardon, quotha! the Devil take me, if any thing could be more freely granted.

Oh! are these the Ladies?

By your Favour, Sweet Lady.

A delicate Morsel, by this Hand.

Madam, I see that Fame has justly spoke your Praise. You are indeed the Wonder of all your Sex.

How fair she is!

What does he mean?

Pray, Madam, what young Gentlewoman is that, whose matchless Beauty seems to sill the Place with more, than common Brightness? Sure 'tis some Goddess, dropt from Heaven for Men to worship!

Fair Angel, pardon this rude Attempt:

The Honour only of your fair Hand.

For till I touch it, I cannot think you mortal.

Oh, dear Sir! You make me blush.

Pray, Lady, is this pretty young Gentlewoman your Niece?

This Fellow must be a Fool, or he could ne'er mistake so grosly.

Now we shall have rare Sport. Sure he's blind to mistake you for your Aunt.

Pray have a little Patience, Ma­dam, and you'll see the Event.

Lady; I bless those Stars that have directed me to so happy a Choice; therefore few Words are best. If you like me as well as I do like you, e'en send for a Parson—

Hold, Sir, sure you mistake!

Now—Now it works.

What say you, Lady? Shall we—

I can hold no longer.

Pray, Sir, are not you the Viscount Sans Terre?

Pretty Creature, I am.

And come with an Intention—

To make this Lady, your Aunt, happy in a Husband, if she pleases.

I tell you, Sir, I am that Lady you speak of; and that is, my Niece Philadelphia.

Ha, ha, ha; Your Niece, quotha!

Why sure you think to put some Trick upon me.

This motherly grave Lady your Niece!

No, No; I thank you, Madam, I am not to be perswaded out of my Reason.

He makes me almost mad.

I say again, that I am call'd the Lady Laycock;

And that pert Minx my Niece; who was left in Charge with me till she be of Age.

'Sdheart, 'tis impossible! You look Twenty Years younger than that Lady you call your Niece.

Oh, dear Sir! That indeed may well be: A great many do allow, I appear to be something youn­ger than I altogether am.

How could I be so much mistaken!

Sure, Madam, you but jest with me.

Indeed, Sir, these Gentlemen know I speak Truth.

'Tis very true indeed, my Lord.

Well, since it happens so, I like it the better; for to say Truth, I had fix'd my Eye on you at my first Entrance.

Ah! wou'd 'twere over once.

Methinks I long to have thee in my Arms.

Oh! How I would employ my Faculties,

And surfeit with delight.

What say you, Lady? Never stand to consider on't, but send for a Parson to say Grace, that I may fall to. Odds so, I'm very hungry—Very sharp set;

I long to be doing.

Pray, my Lord, walk in, and refresh your self after your Journey. I was unmannerly not to ask you before.

Prudence, Come hither. See that all things are in readiness. Oh, Prudence! I am impatient to be alone with him.

My Lord, you will excuse the Disorder you have found me in.

Never trouble your self about it. Join but your Forces with mine, and we'll beget a Race of People, that shall be immortal. A Race, that shall create a second War with Jove, and raise Olympus top equal with the Seat of him, that hurls the Thunder.

No more, my Lord. Pray walk in.

All your Commands are absolute.

Was there ever such a Piece of Fly-Flesh?

The Rogue acted it to the Life, and came very seasonably to my Rescue.

Had he staid a Moment longer, I had been forc'd to have given up the Ghost.

That ever Nature should suffer such a Lump of Rubbish in the World for Men to stumble over.

Pox on her old mouldy Chops:

She's for engroising all to her self.

How she thrust her Niece in before her!

I'll in, and try to beckon her into the Garden, if you'll interpose, shou'd the Aunt miss her, and fol­low us.

'Sdeath! Would'st have me run into the Lion's Den, just when I have scap'd his Paw!

No, I have hazarded too much already to venture more, I thank you. I now have better Game in Chace.

You know pretty Mrs. Brittle, Sir Peter Pride's Daughter?

What of her?

Oh, 'tis the sweetest little Creature!

So Fair, so Witty, so Kind, and so Promising!

I'm just now sending this Letter, in order to appoint a Meeting with her. But her Husband is so jealous (as indeed I hope to give him Cause for't) his Eye is hardly ever off her. I am thinking what way it can be deliver'd without Suspicion. Let me see—

I'll take my Leave; for I find I interrupt your Meditations.

Farewel, my Friend; and may both our Wishes prosper.

Jeffrey.

Sir.

Can'st thou contrive to carry this Letter to a young Gentlewoman, and bring an Answer, without being suspected? If thou dost, Jeffrey, thou shalt be well rewarded for thy Pains.

Is she Widow, Wife, or Maid, pray Sir?

Why dost thou ask?

For a private Reason I have.

Well then, to satisfy thy Curiosity, Jeffrey, know she's a Wife; a Young, a Handsome, and a Melting one!

I am all Ecstasy, and impatient till I possess her.

Good Jeffrey, look on the Superscription, and about it with all Speed.

I dare not touch it:

Don't trust me with it.

Why so, good Jeffrey?

I say again, do not trust me.

Your Reason, Jeffrey?

I don't care to meddle in a Cause, where there's a Process of Cuckoldom going forward.

Prithee, why so?

Why, Sir, I'll tell you. You must know, Sir, I love Prudence, my Lady Laycock's Woman, and I believe there's no Love lost between us; nor do I know how soon we may exchange our Persons for better and for worse. Now, Sir, if I should be the Instrument (by carrying this Letter) of your making this honest Man a Cuckold, who knows but, in return of such a monstrous Deed, it may be my own Case next; therefore, Sir, I don't care to meddle in't.

Give me the Letter again; I did but try thee. Thy Master, indeed, has often told me, how scrupu­lous thou wert about these Matters, but I ne'er be­liev'd it till now. Stick to thy Principles, and be what thou deserv'st, thou mayst come to Good at last. I have no farther Service at present. Prithee leave me, I have Business of Moment.

I had been finely serv'd if I had sent this conscientious Rogue. What shall I do? The Viscount brought an ignorant Country Fellow up with him, that won't be suspected in the least. 'Tis well thought of; I'll entrust him, and send it immediately. Soft—Who comes here?—Oh! 'tis the Husband.

Your Servant, Mr. Brittle; is the Lady Laycock at home, can you tell?

Yes, yes, I believe she is.

I have a little Business, and must needs speak with her. Sir, your Servant.

A little Business, quotha!

A fine Trade this doating old Widow drives; my House is become as common for all Commers and Goers, as the Mall or Spring-Garden: But I shall put a stop to it in a little time, I believe.

How now—Whither away in such haste?

I'm going abroad, Husband. Good bye.

Hold, hold, by your Leave, I'll know for what, and whither your sweet Ladyship is going?

Why, to the Play, sweet Husband.

Hum! to the Play.

Well, Good bye, Husband—I shall be too late, and then there'll be such crowding, I shan't get the first Row in the Box, for 'tis a new Play; and I had as lief not go, as sit behind.

Hold, hold, pray stay, if you please.

Indeed but I can't.

Indeed but you must not go, Wife.

Indeed, Husband, but I shall.

I say again, you must not.

Must not! Who shall hinder me?

Why, that will I.

I say, No.

But I say, Yes.

Don't you pretend to't.

Don't you provoke me, I say. Is this the Trade you always intend to drive?

Yes indeed is it.

I say, No.

But I say, Yes. Do you think you shall keep me always stifling within Doors, where there's no body to be seen but your old fusty self? No, I'll to the Play, where there's all sorts of Com­pany and Diversion; where the Actors represent all the Briskness and Gaiety of Life and Pleasure; where one is entertain'd with airy Beaux, and fine Gallants, which ogle, sigh, and talk the prettiest things in the World. Methinks 'tis rare to hear a young brisk Fellow court a handsome young Lass, and she all the while making such pretty dumb Signs: first turns aside to see who observes, then spreads her Fan before her Face, heaves up her Breasts, and sighs—at which he still swears he loves her above all the World—and presses hard his Suit; tells her, what Force her Beauty, her Wit, her Shape, her Mien, all join'd in one, are of. At which she blushing curtesies low, and to her self replies, What charming Words he speaks! his Person's Heavenly, and his Voice Divine. By your Leave, Husband, you make me stay long.

Not in the least—there will be no great miss of you, if you don't go. And now you talk of Gallants, bless us!—What a Dress is there! Do you think that fit for a Tradesman's Wife?

No;—but I think it fit for Sir Peter Pride's Daughter, such as I am. I warrant you'd have me go abroad like one, thar sells Butter and Eggs—Or like one that cries, Come buy my dainty fine pickled Cucumbers: No, no, I'm re­solv'd to dress—put on all the Airs I can—go [Page 30] abroad—see and be seen—take my Fill of Pleasure, and not be shut up in a Nunnery, to pine and sigh, and waste my youthful Days in fruitless Wishes: No, I'm not so weary of my Life yet, tho▪ you do all you can to make me so. And I would have you to know, tho you have forc'd me to wed my self with old Age and ill Humours, I am not wed­ded to my Grave!—'tis time enough forty Years hence to think of that, and I have a great deal to do before that time comes; therefore I must, and I will go abroad.

Stir one Step if you dare

If you go to that, I'll try who wears the Breeches, you or I. You shall stay at home, and keep me Company; I'll spoil your going to Plays, your Ap­pointments, and your Intriegues—I'll make you know, that I am your Husband, and that you shall do what I please. Slife, What's here to do! What, have you forgot your Marriage Vows already? Pray, who am I? Am I not your Husband? Are you not married to me?

No—You forc'd me; I never gave you my Consent in Word or in Deed. Could you think I was in Love with Avarice, with Age and Im­potence?

Give me Patience! How! How!

No, you basely bought me of my Fa­ther and Mother.

Would I could sell thee again.

Like a Slave you bought me, and so you intend to use me, were I Fool enough, but I'll see you hang'd first.

Why, what will your sweet Ladyship do? I bought you, you say?

Yes; Had you my Consent? or did you once ask it? Or if you had, my Affections were plac'd elsewhere, and so they shall remain.

[Page 31] In spight of all your Threats and boasted Power! I'll not be us'd at this Rate!

Good lack!

I that am a Gentlewoman, descended from the worshipful Family of the Pride's by the Fa­ther's side—

Ay, so 'tis a sign by your Dress. Pride's, quotha!

And a Gentlewoman descended from the Honourable Family of the Laycock's by the Mo­ther's side.

And to be us'd at this Rate by an old nasty Shop­keeper!

I might have married a Merchant, and have kept my Glass Coach, my tall Footmen in fine Liveries, have gone abroad when I pleas'd without Controul, visited Quality, nay, took Place of em at the Play-house, and met with Respect from the best; and is it come to this? But I'll to my honourable Father and Mo­ther, and tell 'em all, who, I'm sure, won't suffer their Daughter to be thus abus'd.

I cannot, nor will not endure it any longer.

This 'tis for a Tradesman to marry a Gen­tlewoman. A Curse on such Gentility! What shall I do? I shall be damnably plagu'd with her Father and Mother. Well, next Month I must take up in Bed­lam; a Judgment, which every Citizen deserves, that marries above his Quality.

WEll! What a Plague 'tis to be married!

I must incorporate with one above my Quali­ty too, and not be content with something in my own Sphere, like one that had a Mind to live in Peace and Quietness, but nothing would serve me but a Gentlewoman, altho I took her with never a Tatter to her Back, forsooth; and now, I think, I'm fitted with a Vengeance. Would I were but fairly rid of her, and her Gentility once, the Devil should take all such Gentility before I'd ever concern my self with it again. But who have we here?

Hush!—Softly!—Mum—No body sees—Ha, ha, ha—No body sees! Softly!—Ods my Life, who's that?—Mum!—Not a Word.—

Friend, hist—Friend—Pray stay a lit­tle; What Business might you have in that House?

Wou'd you know now? Softly!—Not a Word. Ha, ha, ha, you understand me.

But you must know—

Yes, yes, I do know already, but am not such a Fool to tell you. You shan't get a Word out of me. You understand me.

Yes, very well, but—

Softly!—not a Word.

I know that; but who was you to speak with in that House?

Softly!—Can no body hear? For you must know, the old Cuckold of that House, they say, is damnably given to be jealous; I would not for ne'er so much he should see me.

No, no, I'll warrant you.

You must not say any thing—

No, no, not a Word.

His Wife's a main pretty smirking Rogue, as a Man would wish to lay his Leg o'er.

Softly!—Is no body coming?

I'll warrant thee—Prithee go on.

What? you want to know all, do you? But I'll not trust you. Mum! not a Word. You under­stand me.

Yes, yes, I understand you well enough—but you may trust me, I shan't say a Word.

Why luck now!—Ha, ha, ha, Wou'd you, would you? But you shall get nothing out of me.

I'll warrant you'd have me tell you now, that I brought a Letter to the Gentlewoman of that House—

Hum!

And that I deliver'd it to none but her self—as I was order'd—

So.

You understand me?

Yes, yes, perfectly well.

And that I stay'd for an Answer—

Well, and I hope you got one?

Mum! not a Syllable! no body must know!—If it should come to the Knowledge of the Cuckold her Husband, 'twill spoil all.

Oh never fear.

You'll say nothing of what I have told you?

No, no, not a Word.

For you must know, Mr. Lovemore charg'd me, when he sent me, to say never a Word.

Is the Gentleman's Name Lovemore, say you?

Why, do you know him?

Oh, very well; a tall, proper, handsome Man, and always very generous.

The same, the same.

And lives just—

At the lower end of this Street on t'other side of the way, over against the Golden Ball.

I find you do know him.

Know him! Why he's my very good Friend.

A Pox of all such Friendship.

Odd, he's a fine Gentleman as ever I met with in all my Life.

Yes, yes, he's a very fine Gentleman indeed.

I wou'd the Devil had him.

He gave me this Piece of Gold to carry a Letter for him, which I deliver'd to the Gentlewo­man of that House but now.

Oh, he's a very civil Gentleman; I have been long acquainted with him.

Well, and what Answer did you get

A very pleasing one, I'll warrant you.

Softly, you must not tell a Syllable of this to the Husband, nor that she'll send my Master an Answer, as soon as ever she can get the Cuckold out of the way. But no body must know. You under­stand me.

Oh, I'll keep your Counsel, never fear.

She bad me tell him, she'd meet him this Eve­ning, if she can.

Ay.

And that she's very sensibly ob—ob—obliged to him, for his Kindness to her.

Ay, no doubt on't.

And takes it mighty kind of him.

She does.

Odd, she's a pretty Bit; and then there's a handsome Maid that waits upon her, and is Assistant to her in these Matters, one Dam—Damaris, I think they call her.

Ay, like enough.

And you must know I like her hugely. She gave me Two or Three such loving Looks, that I am half persuaded she likes me. So that if my Master gets acquainted with the Mistress, I intend to strike in with her Maid.

Oh, all but Reason.

But no body must know of it.

You understand me.

Well, good bye to you. My Master will wonder I stay so long. Be sure you say nothing now.

You understand me.

Yes, yes, I do so; farewel.

Well, Barnaby Brittle, now thou see'st what comes of marrying of a Gentlewoman. I believe thou wilt be married to something else in a little time, if thou art not so already.

You seem disorder'd, Son-in-law.

And I have Reason to be so, if ever any Man had.

Good lack! And why so short, Son-in-law?

I shall grow taller in a little time, Good Mother-in-law, if this Trade holds.

Explain your Meaning, Son-in-law.

'Twill explain it self shortly.

What, is that Hat of yours nail'd on? Do you know who we are? And the Respect due to Persons of our Quality, good Son-in-law?

Ah! wou'd I did not; but now I know to my Sorrow, since you will have me speak, good Mo­ther-in-law.

Will you never leave that saucy Word, of calling me Mother-in-law?

Good Lord! Why what must I call you then?

You ought to say, Madam and Sir, when you speak to us; or when you speak of us, you should say, Sir Peter, and her Ladyship: For tho' you have married our Daughter, yet there is a great deal of distinction betwixt you and Persons of our Rank and Quality.

Go to, it is enough for me to let him know his Duty, without your Instructions. Sure, I best know my self what to do. Son-in-law, you are an impudent Fellow to use us at this rate. How of­ten must we put you in mind of your Duty and Re­spect, e'er you'll know it? Hence-forward learn to behave your self as you ought, or you shall hear on't in other sort of Terms. You must not think because you've married our Daughter, that we will be satis­fied with such indifferent Ceremonies and Duty you might have paid, had you married one equal with your self; nor ought you indeed to say, your Wife, when you speak of our Daughter.

Good lack!—Is not your Daughter my Wife?

She is.—But you ought not to call her so.

I know that too well, now 'tis too late. I'd give a thousand Pounds she were not my Wife.

At it again? I tell you, tho' you have married her, yet as she is our Daughter, you must not treat her after that familiar way.

You make me mad—Is not my Wife my Wife?

I tell you, tho' she be your Wife, you must not call her so. When you speak of her, as be­ing our Daughter, you must say, Madam.

Well, Madam, then since it must be Madam, I did not care if she were a Dutchess, so I were but fairly rid of her.

Here's such a stir about your Gentility, and your Ho­nour: But I believe if I had not married your Daugh­ter, and with my good Money redeem'd your Estate, your Gentility had been left in the Mud—for all your great Families, and your nice Honour.

Then do you think it no Honour to be ally'd to the Worshipful Family of the Pride's.

And to the Honourable Family of the Lay­cock's? Go, Clown. 'Tis a Shame our Daughter should be wedded to such a Brute. We have been told at what a rate you treat her. What is the Rea­son of it, Son-in-law?

Why, you shall know, good Mother-in-law.

Again at that affronting way!

How often have you been told to say, Madam?

Well, Madam, then: I always forget these fine Words. But, Madam, if you wou'd please, Ma­dam, to hear me speak, you shall know, Madam, whether I have not Cause to wish, I never had seen my Wi—your Daughter, Madam, if I must call her nothing else.

Well, Sir, proceed.

Why, in the first Place, I am in a fair way to be made a Cuckold, if I am not one already.

How, Son-in-law? Have a Care what you say.

Believe me, what I say, I can make appear.

Do it then presently.

Why, she has just now receiv'd a Letter from her Gallant, and made an Appointment to meet him this Evening; and judge how small a time a Pair of Horns are a grafting.

How came you to know this, Son-in-law?

Why, just now—I caught the Fellow, that brought her the Letter, coming out of my House, and not knowing who I was, I got out of him all the Business; and that his Master, Mr. Lovemore—

Is that the Gentleman's Name?

Yes, so his Man told me. I have often seen him taking a View about my House, and looking up to the Windows; and 'tis plain what his Designs were.

If this be true, I'll tear her Eyes out.

Nay, if it be, this good Sword (never yet drawn in vain) shall do you Right.

Where is she, Son-in-law.

Within, I'll warrant, studying what Excuse to make, to get abroad, and meet her Gallant.

I'll call her to answer for her self.

Be sure you wrong her not, Son-in-law.

Nay, nay, I make no doubt but she is to be believ'd before me; and she ne'er wants Cunning to bring her self off, I'll say that for her, tho' the Case be ne'er so plain.

By this good Light, if she dares be false to her Marriage Vows, she dies; and that base Rifler of her Fame shall bear her Company.

Oh! Here he comes; that Spoiler of my Honour; that's he.

Do you know who I am, Sir?

I don't well remember I ever had much Ac­quaintance with you.

I am call'd Sir Peter Pride.

It may be so: I've heard of you, Sir.

My Family, Sir, has stood these many Years with unblemish'd Fame and Honour.

Very likely, Sir.

How far you have endeavour'd to stain that spotless Fame, be judge your self.

Pray, Sir, explain this Riddle.

I have a Daughter young, fair, well-bred, has Sense; she is indeed the Wonder of her Sex, and this Man, whom you see here, has the Honour to be married to her.

Ah! 'Tis an Honour, that I cou'd have spar'd.

Now, Sir, I'm told, that you endeavour to corrupt her Honour, and defile her Marriage-Bed. Sir, I have had the Honour to command abroad, and with Success, both to my King and my Country—As have also the Chief Part of all our great Race; even from William the Conqueror, to this present Reign, have our unquestion'd Glories stood a Pattern to our yet rising Fame: And he who dares presume to rob us of that precious Jewel, Honour, must not think to scape unpunish'd, tho' with the Hazard o'th' last Drop of Blood, that is lest, to wash off the Stain. My Daughter's Honour, Sir, is as dear to me, as this vital Air, by which I breath and live.

Pray Sir, who told you this?

Believe me, Sir, whate'er I say, I can quote my Author for it.

Then who-ever told you is a Rascal; and were he here, I'd ram the Lie down his Throat, or make him eat a Piece of my Sword.

Why he told me—This Man—Her Husband here justified it to my Face, and said he had Proof.

How, Sir! Did you frame this abominable Falshood? 'Tis well you have the Honour to be al­ly'd to this worthy Knight, Sir Peter Pride, here; or you should know what it is to father such a Lie upon a Man of my Reputation.

Oh! Here comes my Daughter.

Did you, Madam, tell your Husband a strange Story, that I should make Love to you, and endeavour'd to corrupt your Honour?

I tell him! Why, when did you make Love to me, Sir? I assure you, had you let me know of your Passion, it shou'd not have gone unrewarded. Pray, next time you send, let it be one that knows how to take more Care. However, you have no great Reason to despair; for since he complains with­out any manner of Reason, I am resolv'd he shall have Cause. Therefore if you do love me, Sir, pray let me know it, and I do assure you, you shall not want Encouragement. He shall not use me at this rate for nothing.

Madam, believe me, 'tis all a Riddle to me; for, till this Hour, I never heard any thing mention'd like it: I am an absolute Stranger to it.

Do you hear that, you Clown? Are you not asham'd to abuse a Gentlewoman continually, without any Cause?

What is the Meaning of this, Son-in-law?

Pray, do but hear me.

Troth, Son-in-law, you are a very im­pudent Fellow.

Hear me but speak?

You shall not speak.

We have heard too much already.

I am sure Damaris knows, I never have any body comes near me, but such as himself; nor ever receiv'd any Message, either by Letter, or other­wise—

I never committed any Crime against him, that I know of, unless sitting by my self all Day, and poring over two or three good Books be an Offence. Speak, Damaris, did I ever give him any Cause for these Sus­picions, and this Usage? Thou know'st all I say or do.

Madam, I know no Reason; nor can I bear to see the Hardship you endure! Like a barba­rous Man as he is—To abuse so good a Lady! so Virtuous, so Innocent, and so Pious a Lady! I am sure it makes me weep to think on't—I am afraid he'll break her Heart in a little time, if—

Hold your Tongue, you Jade, or I'll make you feel my double Fist. You are not a Gentle­woman—

I may do what I please with you.

Oh, my dear Father!

I am not able to endure this any longer.

Never was any Woman abus'd as I am.

I beg you will do me Justice, for I can bear it no longer.

Damaris, let's follow her, and endeavour to comfort her. Oh, thou Clown, to use a Gentlewoman with so much Cruelty!

I fear he'll be the Death of her at one time or another.

What do you think of all this, Sir?

Are not you a very pretty Fellow?

Come hither, Son-in-law, ask this Gentleman Pardon, for the Affront you have put upon him in belying of him.

How! ask his Pardon, that would have made me a Cuckold?

Sir Peter, pray—

I say no more Words: He has wrong'd a Gentleman; and the least he can do, is begging Pardon.

'Tis very well! He offends, and I must ask Pardon.

No matter for that, you hear he denies it; and 'tis enough, if a Gentleman unsays what he has said.

So that if I catch him making me a Cuc­kold, and he denies it, I must not believe it, because a Gentleman said it.

I say, you shall ask Pardon: Therefore no more Words, but do't.

I shall run mad.

Well, what must I do?

Come hither: Take your Hat off— Kneel down, and say after me.

Well, since it must be so—

This 'tis to be marry'd to a Gentlewoman, forsooth.

Sir, I ask your Pardon.

Sir, I ask your Pardon.

For the Affront I have put upon you.

For the Affront I have put upon you.

By falsly accusing you—

How! falsely accusing him!

I say no more Words. Say after me.

Say after me.

Accusing you, of having a Design to corrupt my Wife's Honour.

Accusing you of Truth—And having a Design to corrupt my Wife's Honour.

For which, knowing my self in the wrong, I do ask your Pardon.

For which, knowing my self not in the wrong, I'm forc'd to ask your Pardon.

Well, Sir, upon Sir Peter Pride's Account▪ I am content to pass it by this time: But let me hear no more Complaints.

Sir, now all is well, I humbly take my Leave.

Was there ever such a lucky Rogue as I? For her to encourage me to make Love to her before her Husband's Face!

Nay, and before her Father and Mother too!

Oh, I am all on Fire till I have her in my Arms!

But soft! who comes here?

Well, my little Scout, what News? How fares my Friend? Is Philadelphia kind? Where's thy Lady?

Where▪e'er her Person is, I'm sure her best Thoughts are still employ'd on you. And however she may pretend a Passion for Mr. Cuningham, she loves none but you. Pray, Sir, do but try her.

Oh racking Thought! I'd rather make Love to a Convocation of Cats at a Witch's Up-sitting, than but speak to her. Where's my Friend? Oh! here he comes, and his fair Consort.

Be not so cruel to say, you want the Power: If we neglect this Opportunity, which kindly pre­sents it self, the next perhaps may not be ours.

Would you then have me dispose of my self without my Aunt's Consent? Do not urge me to that, since I have promised not to wed without it.

I ask not her Consent, but yours: Grant me but that, and leave the rest to Time and Chance.

Madam, how can you deny him that, since I know you love him?

Ha! Oh, the charming Sound!

And will you not consent to make me happy?

Or do you not believe I love you?

By all those Fires that burn within my Soul, I swear—

Hold! Hold, Sir! You have sworn enough already to corrupt a whole Nunnery of Sighing, Praying and Wishing young Votaries. Why don't you give him your Hand, since he has your Heart. I be­lieve you love to hear him swear and—Give him your Hand, or, I'll discover all.

Well, there 'tis then;

But I promise nothing else. I fear I have given too much already.

Oh, never! never! I'll pay thee back so vast a store of Love and Constancy, as shall weary thee with still receiving.

Madam, Madam, your Aunt's behind you.

Ha! My Aunt! What shall I do?

Fear nothing, Madam, but give me your Hand.

I'll bring all off.

This Line seems to Point out some unexpected Cross: And this Line thwarting the Line of Life, signifies a retir'd Life; and this joining with it, shews you'll be in Danger of ending the latter part of your Days in a Nunnery.

How, Mr. Cuningham! Can you tell For­tunes?

I understand a little Palmistry, Madam, and can give a Ghess at Physiognomy.

'Tis very well.

When I enter'd first, I thought you had been making [Page 45] Love to my Neice: I am glad to find it otherwise. But where's the Viscount?

In the next Room, Madam.

I'll wait upon him: I'd feign try whether his Inside be answerable to his outward Appearance.

Nay, prithee stay; I can assure you, he is not to be equall'd either in Person or Discourse.

He is indeed a fine proper Man, as one would wish to see.

Why, really his Lordship has Parts.

You and Prudence go find him out, and bear him Company awhile; I'll wait on him imme­diately, tell him. You, Sir, may go with 'em, if you please.

Madam, most willingly.

'Sdeath! You won't leave me?

Faith, but I will; dost think I'll stay to en­dure a second Hell? For if there be one upon Earth, 'tis being left alone with her.

Madam, Your Ladyship shall ever command me.

Come, Lady, if you please, the Honour of your fair Hand.

What will become of me now?

Well, Mr. Cuningham, I have long'd for some time to be alone with you, that I might speak more freely to you.

Madam, 'tis too great an Honour.

I wonder, Sir, you never think of Mar­rying?

Madam, as yet I dare not think on't.

Oh, dear Sir! Pray, why so?

Because I have not well consider'd it; and I have been told, 'tis a dangerous Undertaking, without having well thought before-hand.

Pray, Sir, why should you think so?

I'll vow 'tis an odd Thought, Sir, for one of your Un­derstanding: Why, Sir, I'll tell you.

I have had Three Husbands, and yet I have no great Reason to complain: Tho' in my last Husband's time, I had not altogether that real Satisfaction, as I had with the other Two; for to deal freely with you, Sir, my Husband Sir Oliver Laycock, though he was a very well-bred Man, yet he had his Humours some­times, and would be a little given to Jealousy, so that I seldom led a quiet Hour when the Fit was upon him. But in my first Husband's Days, sure never Woman liv'd so happy! I would not a-been unmarried to have had all the Riches of the Earth laid at my Feet: But when I married with Sir Oliver, and had once seen his Temper, nothing I had in the World but what I would a given to a been free a­gain; and indeed in my Passion I often vow'd never (if please Heav'n Sir Oliver died) to marry any more.

'Twas rashly done.

But no doubt, were there that Man fitting to merit your Favour, and equally deserving your Person and your Estate, and one whom your Ladyship could like, you might perhaps be persuaded to break your Vow, and venture once again.

I'll swear I hardly think it, and yet one don't know how one may be tempted; tho' if I were to be persuaded, (and I will not forswear any thing) I know not any one, that can so soon persuade me to it as you, Mr. Cuningham.

Death and the Devil! What have I brought upon my self!

Oh Madam! You make me blush.

But Madam! How cou'd you with Honour put off the Viscount, who you know loves you, and is come on purpose to marry you?

Why, I intend him for my Niece you must know, who no doubt will be much better pleas'd with the Change. For, to say Truth, Mr. Cuningham, I have always had more, than a common Esteem for you, and for your Behaviour; and have long since resolv'd, that if I do alter my Condition, you are the Man alone I have plac'd my Thoughts upon.

You make me blush, Madam.

Wou'd I were a League under-ground, or in any Hell but this.

You cannot sure.

I vow 'tis true, and yet—

Hear me but speak, Madam?

'Tis odd, that Love shou'd over-power Peo­ple at so strange a rate.

But I should be unjust to my Friend, who I know loves you dearer, than his Life.

Oh dear! Who's that I beseech you, Sir?

Mr. Lovemore, Madam.

Mr. Lovemore! I'll swear I don't believe it.

Oh Madam! 'tis but too true, as will appear I'm afraid, when he knows you place your Affections on any other Man.

I'll vow you much surprize me, Mr. Cu­ningham; but how came you to know it?

Oft has he begg'd me to bear him Company in some lonely Place, where he wou'd sigh, and tell such things of his distressed Passion, as wou'd have mov'd the most obdurate Heart; and when I ask'd him, why he did not acquaint your Ladyship with his Love, he would sigh, with Arms a-cross, as if his Heart would force its way through his Breast, and cry, Oh that's my Grief, my Friend, I cannot—dare not tell her! for should I attempt it once, and meet her scorn, (for oh! thou know'st her Vow) I shou'd be for ever lost.

[Page 48] Then ran o'er a thousand Tales of Love, so soft, so moving, and how he priz'd you, that cannot be ex­press'd by any, except one, who loves like him.

Truly, Sir, if it be so—

If it be so! were your Ladyship to observe his distracted Throes, you'd pity him.

But why should he not declare it to me?

That's what I tell him, Madam;

Urging that your Ladyship—But mum! who have we here?

Ha! Whispering! And so close!

I like it not.

The Viscount! this is unlucky.

He looks disturb'd! Good Sir, some other time we'll end this Discourse.

Ha! What are you, Sir? that thus dares to encroach upon my Territories, and invade my Right?

Nay, pray my Lord, be not displeas'd. This Gentleman, you must know, has a Law suit de­pending, and is come to entreat a Line of Commenda­tion from me to my Lawyer.

Enough; I do believe all you can say. Ah! those Eyes of yours! What Looks are there! they enflame my very Soul.

Ah, Prudence, how I long to be alone with him.

I am impatient of this Delay, when shall we be married?

Pray moderate your Passion, Sir.

What, you are afraid of that melancholy Gentleman, that stands so silently there.

Speak softly, I am afraid he hears you▪ Sir.

What care I if he does.

My Lord, the Dancers you spoke for, wait without.

Let 'em enter. Will you please to sit, La­dies?

Prudence, go tell Mr. Lovemore, I'd speak with him this Evening.

—you may take a Turn in the Garden. And, Sir, if you think it no Trouble, you may bear her Company.

Madam, most willingly.

Why are you so melancholy, my Lord?

Nothing that's worth the naming. But if you'll walk into the next Room, I'll tell you.

My Lord, you are a Man of Honour, and I dare trust my self with you.

Madam, if I deserve it not, may you always keep a Whip and a Bell, to scourge me from you like a Cur.

YOU are a fine Spark, are you not, to disco­ver all the Business, and let it come to my Master's Hearing?

Why ay, that's true, as you say; but who wou'd have thought that he could have known it! But now to our own Business, Damaris—

[Page 50] Dost thou not love me, Damaris?

Thou know'st I love thee with all my Heart.

Good lack! How it beats!—Odd, you may hear it thump all over the House.

Damaris—How can'st thou be so hard-hearted?

Pshaw! Prithee leave fooling.

One Kiss, Damaris, to revive me.

Pray, Clodpole, be civil.

Damaris!—Canst thou not spare a little Bit afore-hand?

Of what, Fool?

Why, of—Odd, you know well enough▪ What, I need not name it to thee.

I know nothing of the Matter.

Ay, but you do. Why, I ask but a little tiney, tiney Bit. Do, prithee now do.

I'll see you at the Devil first.

Do, Damaris—Spare but a Bit now; and bate me as much on the Wedding-Night.

No, I thank you, good Clodpole: I have too often been snapt that way already.

But see—yonder comes my Lady and my Master— Step with me into the next Room, he must not see you.

Ay, any where, any where: Quickly, good Damaris.

I tell you again, that Marriage is a very sacred Thing, and ought not to be profan'd at this Rate.

What do you tell me of Marriage, I have other things to mind.

Truly, I do believe as much; that's the truest Word you ever spoke: But I think you ought to mind what I say. Am I not your Husband? And [Page 51] are not you bound in Duty by that Tye, to be obedient and just in all your Ways?

What's that for? What, do you banter me?

Keep your Instructions for those that want 'em, my Thoughts are other ways employ'd.

What, you are practising your Airs against you meet your Gallant, are you? And trying how to behave your self to him? But I shall spoil your De­sign, I shall.

Leave off your Tricks with a Vengeance, and mind what I say to you.

Again, don't provoke me; I say, don't; if you do, you may chance to repent it. I say, that Mar­riage—

I know it, Dear; you need say no more.

You know I love you dearly, by this I do.

Why will you not be satisfied? Had I the World to give, it cou'd not make me more happy than this Minute.

Ah dissembling Crocodile?

What, now you think to wheedle me.

Be satisfied with this: Hence forward, if you deserve it, I give you my Heart for ever, which, till this Minute, I did not think to do.

Ah, would 'twere in your Power to keep your Word.

Indeed I will, let that content you▪ and learn to merit that rich Jewel, which this Mo­ment I put within your Power.

If thou would'st be thus kind always, how happy should I be! But that's impossible! Would you but think sometimes upon the Vow you made in Church, that solemn Vow of Marriage, 'twould put you in Mind of your Duty.

How can I think of any thing, when you will not give me leave so much as to peep abroad for Air? Do you think a Woman can ever be in a good Humour, that is lock'd up, and kept from what she likes? But I'm resolv'd to bear it no longer.

Good lack! What's your Mind chang'd al­ready? I thought 'twas too good to last long.

But hence-forward you shan't think to make a Fool of me at this rate. I'll find a way to get out, for all your Spies; and then look to't—I'll use you as you deserve.

Tempt me no farther, I beseech you; if you do, I shall use you as you deserve. Patience! and I have need enough of it at this time.

I'm resolv'd to encourage every Man, that makes Love to me. I'll kiss and be wanton, since you provoke me to't. Love, and be belov'd—and not be subject to the nasty Humours of an old Jealous—I can't find a Name bad enough for thee.

Odd, I've a great Mind to spoil that hand­some Face. The Devil tempts me strangely: I must be gone; for if I stay, I shall certainly be provok'd to do her a Mischief.

I waited till my Master was gone, to deliver you this Letter; Madam, Mr. Lovemore's Man is within, and waits for an Answer.

Give it me, Damaris, quickly.

I need not bid you read it, since you know from whom it comes.

Oh! 'tis extremely pretty, Damaris. I'll in, and write an Answer presently.

So she has snapt the Bait at the first Angling; how she'll get clear of the Hook, I know not. Ha! he's here himself!

Pretty Mrs. Damaris, I'm glad to see you. Is your Lady within?

Yes, Sir, writing an Answer to your Letter, I suppose. You see, I deliver'd it with Care.

Oh, I understand you; there's for thy Pains.

Oh, dear Sir, by no means. But since you will have it so, pray command me.

Can'st thou contrive to let me speak with thy Mistress?

If you please, Sir, I'll shew you to her.

Thou wilt oblige me for ever.

Hist! Damaris!—Odd, I shall have a rare Wife of her, if she gets Money so fast. Here's a piece of Gold got without the least Trouble, as they say. But softly!—Who have we here?

Oh! are you there, Mr. Babbler? You are a pretty Fellow indeed; you have made fine Work! You can­not be told a Secret, but you must tell the Husband presently. You understand me.

Who, I tell the Husband, Friend!

Yes, you; but I'll see you hang'd before you shall get any thing more out of me. You have made fine Work! All's discover'd!—The Cuckold, her Husband, knows all the Business.

Well, but—

You may as well hold your Tongue, for you shan't get a Word out of me.

No, no, I have found you out, I'faith.

This Fellow may be useful to affirm it to her Father and Mother. I'll try to bribe him.

Why look you, Friend, I'm sorry this Matter is—

Mum! You understand me.

I know what you'd say now, but 'twill not do. You'd have me to tell you what I know, but Mum!—Softly!—Not a Word. I'll warrant, you'd have me tell you what Answer she gave to the Letter.

No, no, Friend; but—

Softly!—You shall get nothing out of me. You think I'll tell you now, that the Wife pro­mis'd to meet him, and that they are together now in that Room; but I'm not such a Fool. No, no, you'll tell the Husband again; you cannot be secret, and so good bye to you. You shall get nothing out of me. You understand me.

I'm sorry I can't make that use of him as I intended; but however, he has discover'd something to me, that may do as well. He said her Gallant is with her now; I'll listen.

[Page 55] Oh Sadness! 'tis but too true. Here's fine Doings. But I'll send for her Parents. Now they shall see who's in the wrong, and who's in the right. She can't scape me now, unless the Devil assist her; and see where they come in a lucky Hour.

Father-in-law, you're welcome; and you, Madam. I'm glad you are come, I was just going to send for you.

Why, what's the Matter, Son-in-law?

Now you see what a fine Daughter you have.

What! more Complaints! What is the Reason of all this?

Do but hear me, and you shall know.

Here has been her Gallant, and—

Son-in-law, I'll not believe it. Will you never leave this fooling? We'll hear no more.

No, no; I knew you wou'd never believe a Word I say; but she can be credited, because she's a Gentlewoman, forsooth. Now you shall see what a Gentlewoman I have got for a Wife. I have her fast now, fast in that Room with her Gallant, and that I hope will convince you.

'Tis false, thou base Villain. I know she scorns to do so base a thing.

Pray now don't believe me, but walk in: If you find it not true, never mind any thing I say, as long as I live.

Lead, Son-in law. If I find 'em together, by this good Sword they both shall die.

But if 'tis not so, which I do believe 'tis only your Jealousy again, look to your self, Son-in-law, I'll suffer these Affronts no longer.

If they are not there now, I am a very Villain.

Come along—Softly—

You question your own Power, when you mistrust my Honour, Madam. Such Charms can ne­ver want Force to allay all Thoughts of wronging so much Goodness.

Well, Sir, I do believe you to be a Man of Honour, and hope you will not wrong my good Opinion.

Therefore meet me this Evening at the Garden-Door about Nine, and there we'll discourse farther: If I find what you say be real, perhaps I may be prevail'd upon to venture farther.

Madam, you bless me!

Have a little Patience—

Let's draw nearer, and hear what they say.

Oh Madam! Madam! my Master, Sir Peter, and my Lady, are just behind you.

Ha! undone for ever!

What will become of me then?

Let me alone to bring it off.

Be not you surpriz'd at any thing I say, but seem to humour it.

[Page 57] I'll hear no more.

What do you tell me of your being amaz'd! Did you ever see any thing in me, that cou'd encourage you to believe I was that Woman you took me for? I'll warrant you thought, because I seem'd to give you Encouragement before my Husband Yesterday, when he had enrag'd me, that I was in earnest?

What mean you, Madam?

But you will find your self deceiv'd: For tho' my Husband gives me Provocations to use him at any rate, yet, Sir, I'd have you to know, I scorn Revenge; and will not be brib'd to stain my Honour, tho' all the Wealth of the whole World were laid at my Feet.

Do you hear that, Son-in-law?

No, Sir, my honourable Parents brought me up with the strictest Care; taught me the nice Paths that lead to Everlasting Fame and Glory: And he, who dares attempt to make me lose my Way, de­serves to be us'd thus, thus, and thus, Sir.

Oh, Hold! Hold! What, will you murder me?

Troth, Son-in-law, she serv'd you right.

You have not half what you deserve;

And I cou'd find in my Heart to—

Let him alone: I'll correct him.

Son-in-law, You are a very impudent Fellow to use your Wife thus. What can you say for your self?

Say for my self! Why, I say, 'tis all a Trick—And a Contrivance to blind the Matter.

Is it not plain, you have wrong'd her? Do you not see she is a virtuous and a good Wife?

Too good for him, a Clown.

Well, well, I am over-reach'd, I see.

Son-in-law, I charge you let me hear no more of this. And instantly ask your Wife's Pardon.

How, Sir!

Oh! let him alone; 'twill be to no purpose.

I'm a little out of Order.

Damaris, Lead me to my Chamber.

I say follow her, and ask her Pardon.

If I do, the Curse of Cuckoldom fall upon me.

Ah, graceless Clown.

Come, Sir Peter, let's follow, and see how she does.

Madam, my Lady presents her Service to your Ladyship and Sir Peter; and would desire your good Company at a Ball the Viscount treats her with.

Our humble Thanks to her Ladyship.

We will not fail to wait upon her.

Oh, Mr. Lovemore! I have expected you; I am glad you're come.

Madam, Your Ladyship does me too much Honour.

Pray, Madam, when saw you Mr. Cuningham?

Oh, Sir! He has told me all.

And now you talk of Mr. Cuningham—Prudence, [Page 59] go find out my Niece, and have an Eye over her.

Well, Sir, I am sorry you shou'd make your self so great a Stranger to me. In such Cases I am not un­grateful. And where Love is real, there's a double Obligation.

Ha! What does she mean by Love and dou­ble Obligations?

I see indeed you seem to be in some Disor­der, that I should know it; but had you let me known it sooner, I shou'd perhaps have sav'd you a great many Sighs and Heart-Akings, which you Bashful­ness has caus'd.

Sure she's mad!

Madam—

And yet 'tis never too late to serve a Friend, and one that loves so dearly: Nor am I yet so far engag'd, but I can pity, nay make Return, when Love is sincere, and so constant.

Madam, you much amaze me!

Nor can I ghess what you drive at!

Ah, dear Sir! I know you are unwilling to let me know it: But shall I be sincere in asking you one Question?

Most freely; so it be not any thing that leads me farther into the dark.

Do you not love me, Sir?

Love you, Madam! Why truly I hate no body.

Well, but love me so, that it much disturbs you, and that you fear I am engag'd to another.

The Devil take me if I ever lov'd you, or can think what you wou'd be at.

Nay, I was told you would deny it,

But pray, Sir, tell me truly; for indeed, Sir, I am sorry you should suffer for my Sake. And should you do otherwise than well, I vow it would be a Means of giving me disquiet as long as I live.

Pray, Madam, who told you this?

Your Friend Mr. Cuningham, who is much concern'd for you, Sir. And since you find it is dis­cover'd, you need not be asham'd to own the Truth.

Faith, Madam, to deal freely with you, yov're abus'd; for hang me if ever I had a thought that way, nor do I love you, or ever can.

You're pleas'd to be merry, Sir; but I must tell you, I have observ'd it in your Looks; and since it is so, own it boldly to the World, and I promise you, I'll not be asham'd, nor disown mine. Come, come, Mr. Lovemore, you must not deny me that; for since I dare own it, why should you think it still amiss?

Well! Since all must out, prepare to hear me.

Mr. Cuningham has begun, and I must make an End. You must know, Madam, Mr. Cuningham loves you to that degree himself, that he's asham'd, knowing how near a-kin he is to you, to let you know it, and so has form'd this Story upon me, the better to make for him.

Mr. Cuningham a-kin to me, Sir!

Ay, Madam, your Nephew, your Brother's Son, whom he had in Paris by Madam D'Olone, but for some Reason he since has chang'd his Name.

Truly, Sir, you surprize me much! My Brother in Paris I heard had a Son, but what became of him I know not.

Madam, this Cuningham, my Friend, has the Misfortune (Misfortune I think it, and he thinks so too, because he loves so dearly) to be related to you.

I'm sorry, if he does love so well, that he shou'd be so near a-kin.

Madam, Mr. Cuningham is just come in.

I'll leave you, Madam, for I have a little Business that I must dispatch—Besides, 'twou'd not be convenient for me to interrupt what Disputes you two may have.

Sir, your Servant.

Had you no body to put your Tricks on, but me?

But I think I have been even with you.

What can he mean?

Mr. Cuningham, you do not deal like a Friend by me; you might have trusted me with a Secret of greater weight.

I do not understand you, Madam!

What has he been saying to her?

You knew one Mrs. D'Olone, I suppose?

What shall I say now?

Was your Brother then Mrs. D'Olone's Hus­band, Madam, and Mr. Cuningham's Father?

Who bid you speak? Yes he was. What then?

Oh, I begin to smoke it.

Nothing, Madam, but then Mr. Cuningham is your Nephew.

Indeed, I wish he were not; but since it is so, we must be satisfied with our Fate, Mr. Cu­ningham: Tho' you are much to blame, Sir, you did not let me know it sooner before Matters went so far.

Madam, I confess my Fault, and do ask your Ladyship's Forgiveness.

Well, Mr. Cuningham, since you are my Nephew, we may venture to embrace without a Blush.

Is Mr. Cuningam your Nephew, Madam?

Yes, Mistress Pert, what then?

Then he's my Cousin, and I may embrace him too.

Ay, my dear, dear Cousin.

Why how now saucy, impertinent Slut. How dare you take this Liberty?

Why, is there any Harm in embracing one's own Cousin?

Get you in, Hussy, and dare not to come but when I call you.

He's none of your Cousin, Madam.

I know it. I met Mr. Lovemore laughing by the way, who told me all. Adieu, my dear Cousin

My charming Cousin, farewel.

I'll swear, Mr. Cuningham, you'll spoil that Girl.

Methinks you embrac'd her something of the hardest.

I call her Girl, and yet she's near five and twenty—But as I was going to tell you, Sir, You must know, this Brother was not indeed my own Brother, but something a kin afar off: He was my first Husband's first Wife's Brother, and no kin to me. But because my Husband us'd to call him Brother, I would some­times do so too; and by this Means was thought, by those that knew no other, to be my Brother.

Then he is not so near a-kin, but he may marry your Ladyship?

Oh!—

Why, truly, Mr. Cuningham—

Sir, your Lawyer bid me tell you, your Cause is just now coming on; and if you do not appear, you'll be non-suited.

Dear Sir, do not neglect your Business, nor let your being a-kin trouble you.

When next I see you.

Oh, Madam! Wou'd I had never seen you, then I'd been happy; but where the Tye of Blood bars our Hopes, there's nothing but Despair in view. Madam, farewel.

Find some way to excuse me, you Dog, or I'll cut your Throat.

What shall I say?

My Master has begun a Lie, and I must end it.

Come hither, Jeffrey. Dost think thy Ma­ster loves me so well as he says?

Faith, Madam, I believe he loves your La­dyship but too well! But Mr. Lovemore dies, unless you take pity on him.

Dost think he loves me better, than thy Master?

Oh, Madam! They ought not to be nam'd together. Mr. Lovemore, poor Gentleman, is perfect­ly beside himself about it.

Didst ever hear 'em talk about me?

A thousand times. Mr. Lovemore can talk of nothing else.

'Tis strange he should deny it to me.

You must know, Madam, my Master was in Love else-where.

How Jeffrey.

If your Ladyship will have Patience to hear me out, you shall know the whole Story.

With all my Heart, Jeffrey.

Why, you must know, Madam, my Master had the Misfortune to quarrel with a Gentleman, who urg'd him to fight; my Master kill'd him: Upon which he was forc'd to change his Habit and his Name—From Cuningham to Boutefeu. But think­ing it not safe to stay here, fled; and in his Journey happen'd into a Viscount's Castle, but the Viscount was gone a Journey. However, this Viscount had a very beautiful Sister, that had the Command in her Brother's Absence; she entertain'd my Master very splendidly: At last he fell in love with her, and she with him.

Methinks she was very forward, Jeffrey.

She was so indeed, Madam; for before my Master left her, she prov'd with Child.

How! with Child, and not married, Jef­frey!

My Master had promis'd her Marriage, Madam.

Oh, the impudent Creature! And thy Master was to blame, not to keep his Word, Jeffrey.

Not at all, Madam, when you have heard all. You must know, my Master grew jealous of one of the Servants, as indeed he had Reason: And one Day pretended to ride out, and he shou'd not return that Night, but left me to let him in, when the Ser­vants were all a-bed, which I did. Going up to this Lady's Bed-Chamber, and not being expected that Night, found the Servant in Bed with her.

Unheard of Impudence!

At first I was going to condemn thy Master, for de­ceiving a young Creature; but 'tis likely he was not the first, that had to do with her.

Very likely so, Madam. Next Day my Ma­ster was for packing up his Awls, and for going; she cry'd, and urg'd his stay, and his Vows to marry her.

He had been more to blame to have done that.

In the mean time the Viscount return'd, found his Sister in Tears, wou'd know the Reason, was told all. He swore, if ever he could get hold of him, he'd hang him at his Castle Gate, but my Master was got off safe. What it will come to, it they should ever meet, I know not, but fear the Event.

A well invented Lye the Rogue has told.

What was this Viscount's Name?

The Viscount Sans▪Terre, I think he was call'd.

The Viscount Sans-Terre!

Why, he's in this House.

What, in this very House?

In this very House; in the next Room.

Ah, my poor Master! he's but a dead Man, if he's found; for he'll certainly be hang'd.

Here he comes. Hold your Peace!

My Lord, your Servant. I have a Question to ask of you.

What shall I do to make him understand?

Humour her in all she says, my Lord.

Ask what thou wilt, I'll deny thee nothing.

You had a Sister.

I had so. Go on.

And she was unfortunately wrong'd by a base Fellow.

What must I say next?

'Twas not well done to debauch her, and then to leave her; but Woe be to him, if your Lordship catch him.

If ever I do find the Son of a Whore, I'll hang him at my Castle Gate.

He was very much to blame indeed; but yet, all things consider'd, he was not in all the Blame neither, counting what a Trick she play'd him. He had reason to question, whether the Child was his, or not.

I'm quite at a Loss. Oh! tell me what I must say next?

Take it in your Ear, my Lord.

Help, Prudence, my Lord faints.

Pray, Madam, don't come too near, but give him Air.

Oh! he recovers.

Give me a little Air. I beg your Pardon, I never hear my Sister's Wrongs mention'd, but it puts me in Disorder; but if ever I do light upon the Vil­lain, Woe be to him.

I'll try to get his Pardon.

My Lord, methinks her Crime being the greatest, you might pardon him.

What! Pardon him, that has deflower'd my Sister, got her with Child of a Bastard, and stain'd the Honour of our great Family! No, tho' all the World should plead for him, I'll not forgive it; he dies.

Good, my Lord, for my Sake.

'Tis all in vain, Lady. I'm told he's now in this House, and has chang'd his Name. But if I find him—

Oh hold, my Lord, I must save him.

My Lord, I have but one Request more.

'Twill be in vain: I'll have Revenge.

Tell him you'll marry him, Madam, and try what that will do.

Give me this Gentleman's Life, and I am content to be your Wife; otherwise—

'Tis a hard Request; but to shew how much I love you, upon that Condition I grant it.

Or, if you think sit, you shall have my Niece Philadelphia, and with her I'll give you ten thousand Pounds.

Do you think my Love so poor, that 'twill be brib'd? Nay, then I recal my Promise. He dies this Hour.

Oh, pray my Lord, forbear; my Lady did it but to try you! See, you fright her.

Well, my Lord, since it must be so, my Chaplain is within, I'm contented he shou'd make us one, make good but your Promise.

I confirm it here.

My Lord, the Dancers are ready to begin, and all the Company stay for you.

Let 'em enter, and begin when they please.

Well, Madam, I rely upon your Promise.

Come, Gentlemen and Ladies, pray sit.

Here's fine Doings! But I'll spoil your Sport. What! my House is become a Music-house, is it? But, Gentlewoman, I have something to say to you within.

How now! What's the Meaning of this?

I say, my Wife—

What of your Wife?

Shall keep me Company, if you please.

You Company!

What's the matter with the Fellow? ha!

Come along, I say. What's here to do! Is not a Man's Wife his Wife? And may he not do what he will with her?

He's at his old Tricks again.

Come, let's in, and endeavour to appease him, and then end our Mirth with a Banquet.

We attend your Ladyship.

Pray, my Lord, do me the favour to lead my Sister in.

Come, Gentlemen.

Hold there, I will not part with you; I have two Hands, Madam, and can lead you both.

FEar nothing; by what I could learn, by this time the old Lady is gone to her Chamber, or near being a▪bed.

Then we may have Time to talk more freely.

All is not so safe as you imagine. I fear another Storm before we yet can land. I know not by what means, but the Viscount is discover'd to be a Counterfeit, which I have all along suspected; but whether 'tis come to the Knowledge of my Aunt yet, I know not.

Therefore let's lose no time, but tye that Knot, which joins our Hearts and Hands for ever: That once over, we have no farther need of the Vis­count.

Never persuade me; I'll not stay to be fool'd at this rate any longer.—Go lead, Sirrah.

What's the Matter now?

Matter! Why there's Matter enough in hand. We are all undone; the Match is broke off again, and you are like to lose your Mistress. The Widow will not consent you shall marry her Niece; upon which, the Viscount enrag'd, (as indeed he has Cause) is resolv'd to stay no longer.

What 'twill come to, I know not.

This is most unlucky. What's to be thought on next?

I left Prudence reasoning the Case with her; what will be the Conclusion, is most uncertain. Oh! here she comes.

Oh, Madam! the saddest News!

Why? What's the Matter?

All the Business is over. Poor Mr. Cuning­ham—

Ha! What of him? Speak.

After a thousand Arguments, which I us'd to persuade her, she has at last resolv'd—I can't speak it.

On what? Prithee out with it.

Why, to marry the Viscount her self, and give you and your ten thousand Pounds to Mr. Cuning­ham.

Oh the bless'd News! What say you now, Madam?

I'll swear I was in a Fright at first.

But art thou sure she'll hold in this Mind?

For fear of the worst, get all things ready, and let it be done this Moment.

Here she comes. Seem concern'd to part with her, Sir, and try how she stands resolv'd.

And must I then lose her, Prudence!

Oh, the racking Thought! Hard! Hard! Decree of Fate! To part with all I hold most dear! I cannot bear it.

Yes, Mr. Cuningham, our Stars will have it so.

[Page 71] Tis hard indeed to part: But since there is no way left to save your Life, (which more than all the World I prize) but this only, I have at last resolv'd (tho' much against my Will) to give my self to the Viscount.

Oh! do not name it, Madam, the very Thought is worse, than Death.

I'm sorry we are so near a kin, but that's not the chief Reason; your Vow to marry another, and yet when I consider she was false, and had to do with more, than one, and that the Child might as well not be yours, I think you were in the right to part: So I am content (since my Hopes are lost) that you shou'd marry with my Niece. But believe me, you do not know how much I'm troubled▪ to see an­other take what I so much desir'd. But we must en­deavour to be satisfied.

Never! Never! for since I lose you, farewel to Love and Joy: The rest of Life I'll waste in Sor­row.

Softly! Damaris bad me tell you, that her Mistress stays for you at the Garden Door.

Oh, very well. I'll go this Moment.

But what will you do to recal the Viscount, Madam, who left the House in Anger, nor told any one what his Designs were?

I heard him bid the Link-boy lead to the Devil Tavern. If you please, thither we'll go, and conclude upon the Matter. A Glass or two of Wine may fetch him about again.

Truly, Mr. Lovemore, I'm much oblig'd to you, and shall endeavour to return your friendly Advice. I hope we shall live as loving Neigh­bours ought, but now we lose time. The Viscount may perhaps be gone, should we stay longer.

I'll but give some Directions to my Man, and [...]e there almost as soon as you.

You will oblige us, Sir.

'Tis main dark, nothing to be seen but the Sky and Stars. What can this Darkness portend! The Almanicks this Year say, That many things will be huddled in the dark.

Why, thou art an Astrologer, Clodpole, thou talk'st so learnedly.

Why, truly I am but a Piece of one; but had I been a great Schollard, I believe I shou'd have thought on things, that never had been thought on before.

Very likely, truly. But hark! What Noise is that? There's Brittle's House; may be she is co­ming out.

Softly Damaris, just shut the Door, we'll not be far from it.

Is your Husband fast, Madam?

I would not stir till I saw him asleep; he's snoring like one that's drunk.

That's her Voice. Madam, where are you?

There they are, Madam.

You find, Sir, I am as good as my Word. I hope you are a Man of Honour, as you say; yet were it to do again, I should hardly venture such another bold Attempt.

Fear nothing, Madam. Your Person and your Honour both are safe, whilst I am your Guard. Can none over hear us?

All the Family, but Damaris and I, are gone to Bed; nor dare we be long from thence, lest my Husband should wake, and miss me.

Talk not of parting e'er we well are met; that were unkind, Madam.

If you please, Madam, to walk a little farther this way, here's a Place more private, than the rest, and will best befit our Discourse.

Well, Sir, I'll not question your Ho­nour any more, but trust my self with you; as you behave your self now, expect a greater Liberty ano­ther time.

I'll warrant you: This way, my Charmer.

Damaris!

I'm here, Madam.

Damaris!— Softly!—Damaris!—Damaris!

Where can she be gone at this time of Night? I heard her steal down; I'll listen.

Damaris, Where art thou, Damaris!—Odd, 'tis main dark.

Who have we here? Here's something more than ordinary. But I'll draw nearer.

Damaris, Where art thou?

Here.

Oh! art thou there?

Well, Damaris, must not thee and I follow the Ex­ample of thy Mistress, and my Master? I'll warrant they'll be hugeous kind to one another; for my Ma­ster, you must know, has a mighty Love for her, and so belike she has for him; or else she wou'd ne'er a left her Husband a bed to a come to him.

Oh horrid! 'tis so.

How he snores now, if a Body were to hear him! Poor Cuckold! He little dreams what his Wife and my Master are doing. Ha, ha, ha.

Oh! this is my Country Chap again.

Poor Cuckold, 'tis good enough for him. For as they say, he uses her mighty ill. But, Damaris, must thee and I part thus? One little Bit to stay my Stomach, Damaris: 'Tis fit, we shou'd follow our Leaders.

I can hold no longer. Who goes there?

Odd so! Oh! Oh! Who's that? Oh!

So—He's gone. Here's a Discovery at last! Here's a fine Virtuous Wife for you! But now all will out in spite of her. I'll send instantly for her Parents; they shall see now who's in the right. Oh bless us! What, make her Husband a Cuckold! Oh! Monstrous!

Jeremy! the Varlet's a▪sleep, I'll warrant. Jeremy, I say.

Do you call, Sir?

Yes, I do call. Come down quickly, I must send you to my Father-in-law's.

I come, Sir.

Make haste, Sirrah. How long you are co­ming. Ah! Villain!

You have trod upon my Corns, and lam'd me.

Come hither, and be hang'd.

I dare not, Sir; you'll beat me.

Ah! 'tis well I stand in need of thee.

Run to my Father and Mother-in-Law, and tell 'em, I intreat to speak with 'em this Moment; tell 'em I'll [Page 75] never trouble 'em again as long as I live; beg 'em by all means to come.

Yes, Sir.

Now they shall see what a Daughter they have.

Now I shall sure convince 'em of their Error!

But I hear some body coming!

May be I shall make a farther Discovery.

Nay, Sir, I've stay'd long enough for one time: Should my Husband wake, and miss me, I were undone.

I must be gone.

Stay one Minute longer, I beseech you, Madam.

I have not told you yet—

No more, Sir, if you love me. Fare­wel.

Oh, stay! How can you go, and leave me so soon?

You will have time enough to lie by that dull, stupid Clod, your Husband, e'er the Morning: Me­thinks I grudge him the least Look of you, since he knows not how to value so rich a Jewel. Let him live, and pore o'er his Bags, his Dross, and worldly Gains, whilst we know better how to waste our youthful Hours in softest Kisses, and everlasting Joys.

Oh, blasting Sound! But I have heard e­nough.

Now to my Post.

Good Night, Sir: Now I must be gone.

When shall I be thus bless'd again?

To Morrow I'll send for you; and, if possible, appoint another Meeting.

Till then, ten thousand Angels wait on thee. One Kiss e'er we part.

Oh, I could dwell for ever on thy Lips!

Sure, there's Enchantment on 'em.

Farewel!

Adieu, my lovely Charmer.

Now, Damaris, let's steal in: Softly! Softly!

O Lord, Madam! We are undone!

The Door is fast since we have been out.

What shall we do now, Damaris?

I wish my Master has not been down.

Let's call Jeremy softly.

Jeremy! Jeremy!

Jeremy! Jeremy!

Oh, Madam, my Master!

Lost! Undone for ever!

Ah! Ha! my sweet Lady! Have I caught you at last!

Jeremy! Jeremy!

Where has your sweet Ladyship been, I pray, that you are so afraid of being discover'd? Come, I know you have a Lie in readiness: Let's have it.

No where but just with Damaris, to take a little of the fresh Air; that's all, indeed, sweet Husband.

To take the fresh Air, quotha!

Ah, I rather believe 'twas to take a Heat, you Witch you.

Pray, Husband, let the Door be o­pen'd?

No: You shall stay there till your Parents come.

I have sent for them: They shall see what Hours you keep. And know of your Gallant you just parted from, your vigorous Lover.

Madam, he over-heard all,

And we are undone.

What, have you no Excuse ready?

No Invention? You and your wicked Instrument there, that stands like the Serpent at Eve's Elbow, to tempt her to Sin.

What, is your Prompter to Wickedness dumb?

I'd fain hear how you intend to excuse it.

I don't go about to excuse it, Hus­band—

No; That's because you don't know how.

I do confess, I have been to meet a Gentleman, but not alone; Damaris was with me. And sure there was no Crime in a little harmless Chat.

No, no, not in the least; making me a Cuc­kold is no harm at all.

Pray, Husband, let me in, and I'll ne­ver do the like again, as long as I live; but you shall hence-forward find me the most dutiful Wife, that you could wish for. Pray, Husband, trust me but this once.

No.

Do not disgrace me to my Parents, by exposing me at this unseasonable Hour, in which I do confess I am much to blame—

Oh! Do you so?

But forgive me now, I'll never do it again.

Hang them that believes you, I say.

I am sure I never injur'd you in all my Life; but am as innocent as the Child unborn, from doing the Ill, which you suspect.

It may be so: 'Twas not your Fault then.

Pray, dear Husband, believe me, and let me in.

No.

On my Knees I ask your Pardon, do but open the Door.

No.

If you let me in this time, 'twill work upon me more, than all the Liberty in the World cou'd do beside.

I care not.

Indeed, Husband, I love you dearly, and love you only: How can you then be so cruel to refuse me?

Ah, cunning Crocodile?

Now you are caught, 'tis dear Husband, sweet Hus­band, 'tis only you I love: But at another time, 'tis good for nothing old Fool. No, no, I know you well enough, and so shall your Parents now.

Pray, Husband, let the Door be open'd▪

No.

Try me but this once.

I tell you, no.

Not once more?

No.

If you provoke me, I may despair, grow desperate, and do a Deed, which you may re­pent.

Good lack! What will your sweet Ladyship do?

I'll kill my self with this Knife here.

Oh, very well!

Nay, 'twill not be so well as you ima­gine neither. Every body knows how ill we have liv'd, and when I'm dead, People will think you mur­der'd me.

Ay!

Therefore I'll kill my self, to have my Death reveng'd upon you.

Odd, I'll trust to that.

Besides, killing ones self has been a great while out of fashion. But why don't you dispatch? Methinks you are long about it.

You may believe me, for I'll certainly do it, if you persist.

Odd, I'll venture it.

Besides, when I am dead, my Ghost shall haunt you.

Ah, if I cou'd but once get rid of your Per­son here, I should not fear your Ghost hereafter.

Have you no Pity left?

I am just going to do it.

And yet you are long about it.

Since nothing but my Death can satisfy you—

There and there!

Oh, she has don't! She has don't!

Oh cruel, barbarous Monster, to make her kill her self!

Now, Damaris, you find too late I did not jest—

I know thou'lt see my Death reveng'd upon my cruel Husband, who has accus'd me falsly; for I af­firm with my dying Breath, I never wrong'd him. Farewel!

Death beckons me into a dark and gloomy Vale, where I must follow.

She's gone! She's gone!

Oh, thou worse than Savage! To murder so sweet a Lady, so innocent and so good: Nay, I'll swear you did it.

I hear no Noise!

Is't possible the Devil shou'd be so great with her, that she cou'd kill her self to be reveng'd on me!

But I'll light a Candle, and go see.

Now, Damaris, stand close in this Corner:

Close, Close.

Ha, ha, ha! I thought indeed how well she'd do it: Here's none of her! She made me believe she kill'd her self, and the mean while ran away. Well, e'en let her go; I shall have this Satisfaction, her Pa­rents shall be Witness of her Hours. I'll in, and wait their coming.

Away, you idle Sot; is this a time of Night for an honest Man to come home in?

Go, go, you may be asham'd!

Why, have you the Impudence—

How many Nights am I forc'd to sit up to wait for his coming in? And he tells the World, 'tis I am to blame. But now it shall be seen who's to blame, and who not. My Father and Mo­ther are coming, they shall see what Hours you keep—

I confess, I stand amaz'd at this Impudence.

They shall know all.

Why, have you the Face to deny—

Go, go, I'll hear none of your impu­dent Excuses; you are drunk, you Sot, you Swine. But here comes my honourable Father and Mother.

I'm glad you are come to be Witness of what I still suffer, by this ungrateful Usage of a cruel Husband. You see what Hours he keeps; every Night at the Tavern roaring with his Companions, whilst I am forc'd to sit at home alone, waiting for his coming; and when he does come, he strait raves and abuses me at such a rate, that I am not able to endure it.

Why, was there ever such Impudence!

I wish this Candle were in my Belly, if—

I know what he'll say now, if you'll believe him; he'll tell you, that I am still in the wrong, and 'tis I that have been out at this late Hour, and as for his part, he has been within all this Eve­ning, and knows nothing of all this Matter, not he: But I'll leave your selves to judge, if this is an Hour for an honest Husband to come home at.

Why then may I never—

You see he's so drunk, he can hardly stand.

Faugh!—I smell him hither.

He stinks of Liquors and Tobacco like a Tarpaulin, that has not been sober whilst his Twelve-Months Pay wou'd last.

I tell you, that I am not drunk, nor have I been out of my House.

Stand farther off, I cannot bear the Scent of a Drunkard.

I told you he wou'd deny it.

I say, that 'tis she that has been out just now, and with her Gallant, and therefore I sent for you; and that I have not been out of my Doors.

Do you hear him? But Damaris can justify, I have not set my Foot over the Threshold since Day-light.

If she has, never believe me more.

I can assure your Honours 'tis true; for I have not been out of her Company since he went out to the Tavern.

Therefore I do beseech you, good Fa­ther and Mother, to revenge my Cause, for I am not able to endure it any longer: If I do, you'll never see me alive another Week.

'Tis a strange thing, that she must be belie­ved, and I not.

I tell you—

Stand farther off.

Faugh! What a Smell there's about him.

Well then; I'll stand farther off, if you will but hear me speak.

I shall say nothing but the Truth, and what I can prove.

Again at your Proofs, and your idle Jea­lousies!

Be dumb, Coxcomb; it were a good deed to break your Head, for sending thus for us out of our Beds, and making Fools of us still. If you ever dare to do the like again, we'll find a Means to handle you—

If there be no Law (but cutting of Throats) to re­venge these Affronts—I say no more—But re­member you are warn'd.

If you wou'd but let me tell why I sent for you—

We have heard and seen too much al­ready.

Therefore dare not to speak a Word more.

And is this all his Punishment?

No; Come down, and he shall ask your Pardon. 'Tis the least he can do.

'Twill be to no purpose; when your Backs are turn'd, he'll be as bad again.

I say no more Disputes, but do as I com­mand.

Now, Son-in-law, kneel down, and ask your Wife Forgiveness.

Shall I forgive him; no, I desire to be divorc'd.

Come, Daughter, I say you must pardon him.

Well, Madam, I'll endeavour to obey you.

Why don't you kneel, and do as I com­mand?

Well, I find there's no Remedy, she has o­ver-reach'd me again, and I must submit: But I am resolv'd I'll get rid of this Nooze, tho' I tuck my self up in another.

Come, say after me. Madam, I ask your Pardon.

Madam, I ask your Pardon.

For the Folly I have committed—

For the Folly I have committed in marrying you.

In my wild Suspicions.

In my wild Suspicions.

Which I do declare were utterly false.

Which I do declare were utterly false.

And that I swear never to do the like again.

And that I swear never to do the like again, if I were once unmarried.

Here—Kiss the Book.

But if ever you do't again—

You see 'tis to no purpose to turn Hagard; if you do, I'll tame you.

Look if the Noise has not brought all the Company hither.

Your Servant, Sir Peter. Sir, I hope you will not take it ill; we saw a Light in your House, and so made bold: We are resolv'd to spend an Hour or two in Mirth, and hope you will all join with us.

Your Ladyship I know will pardon it upon this Occasion.

Is your Ladyship marry'd? May we give you Joy?

My Niece and Mr. Cuningham are.

Give you Joy then.

We thank you, Madam.

Now, Sir, since our Hands are join'd, and all is reconcil'd, I have a Boon to ask.

Whate'er it be, conclude it done.

I have observ'd some Sparks of Love between Jeffrey and Prudence; and I believe they wou'd be glad to follow our Example.

What say'st thou, Jeffrey? If thou hast a Mind to marry, speak freely.

Sir, I have debated much about the Matter, and am at last resolv'd to venture.

Then if you, Madam, give your Consent, and Prudence be willing, we'll put 'em together.

With all my Heart; Prudence has been always a good Servant, I'll say that for her.

There's my Hand then; the rest of my Body shall be forth coming.

A Match.

Then let me speak. Clodpole loves Damaris, and I believe wou'd be glad to make up the Cho­rus; now if Mrs. Brittle please to part with her—

You shall have my Consent with all my Heart; and I'll give a Sum of Money to be rid of her.

And I'll give Clodpole something to set him up in a little Farm in the Country.

Damaris!—Dost hear that?

What say you, Damaris?

If I thought he'd make a good Husband, and not be jealous—

That I dare answer for him.

Well, then 'tis agreed, and there's my Hand.

For better for worse.

To have and to hold; a Tenement for Life.

And now all things being thus happily con­cluded—

No, Mr. Cuningham, not while your Friend is unprovided. Methinks 'twere pity he shou'd be no Actor in this Comedy.

Oh, Madam, my Thoughts are not yet fix'd so much upon any Object, but the next I encounter can retrieve the past.

My Friend never wants a Mistress (I'll say that for him) in any Place, if he has but an Oppor­tunity, which he seldom wants. I have often won­der'd at his Luck.

Say you so? I find he makes it his Bu­siness to ensnare and deceive Women at this rate.

I'm glad I know it in time, whilst I have Power to make my Retreat. I had like to have been finely caught. Well, Husband, seeing so many join'd in Happiness, if you'll promise never to be jealous, I'll promise from this Moment never to give you Cause, and endeavour to make you as happy as I can.

Wou'd you'd give me Cause once to believe you.

Well then, if you are all agreed, the Parson that marry'd Mr. Cuningham is but just by; e'en send for him, and let him end the Work he has begun.

For my part, I intend to put off mine for some time longer.

How! My Lord! Have you serv'd me thus? Did I forsake all for you, and do you pretend to—

No Words now, 'twill spoil Company; an­other time we'll discourse it farther. Come, let's have a Dance, and then to Bed.

With all our Hearts.

'Tis well: So now, you that are ready to taste the Sweets of Matrimony, fall to; for my part, I have no great Stomach to it yet.