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Prithee dear Captain no more delays unless thou thinkest he will invite us to dinner; for this fine thin sharp Air of Madrid has a most notable faculty of provoking an Appetite: Prithee let's to the ordinary.
I will not stay—
I'le let him know so much.
Whe how now, What's the door shut upon us?
Nay, 'tis a Nation of the finest clean teeth—
Teeth, 'Gad and they use their Swords no oftner, a Scabbard will last an Age.
Honest Lieutenant—
Whe faith Captain, I should think her heart might stand as fair for you as any, could you be less Satyrical—but by this light, Captain, you return her raillery a little too roughly.
He is, I came with him; he's impatient of your return: I'le let him know you're here.
Whe what a Pox ails the Captain o'th suddain? he looks as sullenly as a routed General, or a Lover, after hard service.
Do not trouble me—
Confound the mercenary Jilt!
Nay, adshartlikins they are all so; though I thought you had been whore-proof, 'tis enough for us fools, Country Gentlemen, Esquires, and Cullies, to miscarry in their Amorous Adventures, you men of Wit weather all storms you.
Oh Sir, you're become a new man, wise and wary, and can no more be cousen'd.
Not by Woman-kind, and for man I think my Sword will secure me, Pox I thought a two months absence and a Siege would have put such trifles out of thy head: you do not use to be such a miracle of Constancy.
I'le tell thee; but first inform me whom these two Sparks are.
I Love and Honour 'em, Sir, as such—
Sir, there's neither Love nor Honour lost.
Sir, I scorn to be behind hand in Civilities.
At first sight I find I am much yours, Sir.
You know, Squire I am devoted yours
Prithee Who are these?
What a Pox do'st keep 'em Company for, who have neither Wit enough to divert thee, nor good Nature enough to serve thee?
The same man still, wild and wanton!
And would not change to be the Catholick King.
I perceive Marriage has not tam'd you, nor a Wife who had all the charms of her Sex.
Ay—she was too good for Mortals.
I think thou hadst her but a month, prithee how dy'd she?
Faith, e'ne with a fit of kindness, poor soul—she would to Sea with me and in a Storm—far from Land she gave up the Ghost—'twas a loss, but I must bear it with a Christian Fortitude.
Short happinesses vanish like to dreams.
At the old rates still, he that gives most is happiest, some few there are for Love!
Yet I have known thee venture all thy stock for a new Woman.
Ay, such a fool I was in my dull days of Constancy, but I am now for change, (and should I pay as often, 'twould undo me)—for change, my dear, of Place, Cloathes, Wine, and Women, Variety is the soul of pleasure, a good unknown, and we want faith to find it.
Thou wouldst renounce that fond opinion, Willmore, didst thou but see a Beauty here in Town, whose charms have power to fix inconstant Nature or Fortune were she tottering on her Wheel.
Her Name, my dear, her Name!
I would not breath it even in my complaints, lest amorous winds should bear it o're the World, and make mankind her Slaves. But that it is a name too cheaply known, And She that owns it may be as cheaply purchas'd.
Hah! cheaply purchas'd too: I languish for her.
Ay there's the Devil on't, She is—a Whore—
Ah; what a charming sound that mighty word bears.
Damn her, she'l be thine or any bodies.
I die for her—
Then for her qualities—
No more—ye Gods, I ask no more. Be she but fair and much a Whore—come let's to her.
Perhaps to morrow you may see this Woman.
Death, 'tis an Age.
Oh, Captain, the strangest news, Captain.
Prithee what?
Ha, ha, ha, Monsters.
But harkye, Lieutenant, are you sure they are not married.
Marry'd, who the Devil would venture on such formidable Ladies.
Is the Devil in you to declare our design.
Mum, as close as a Jesuit.
Prithee let's go see 'em; what do they pay for going in?
Pay—I'de have you to kow they are Monsters of Quality.
And didst thou see the Show; the Elephant and the Mouse?
And do they think to be restor'd to moderate sizes?
Much pleas'd with the hope, and are resolv'd to try at any rate.
Yes, if there were any hopes of your keeping a secret.
Sir, I shall be reasonable.
—Lolling in Coach and Six—
—Be dub'd Right Worshipful—
And stand for Knight o'th'Shire.
Enough—I must have my share of this jest, and for divers and sundry reasons thereunto belonging, must be this very Mountibank expected.
Faith, Sir, and that were no hard matter, for a day or two the Town will believe it, the same they look for; and the Bank Operators and Musick are all ready.
No more, get 'em ready, and give it out, the man of Art's arriv'd: be diligent and secret, for these two politick Asses must be cozened.
I will about the business instantly.
This fellow will do feats if he keep his word.
I thank ye for that—'Gad ye shall dine with me.
A good Motion—
Pox on't now there's a Dinner lost, 'twas ever an unlucky Rascal.
To tempt thee more thou shalt see my Wife that is to be.
Pox on't, I am the lewdest company in Christendom with your honest Women—but—what art thou to be noos'd then?
'Tis so design'd by my Uncle, if an old Grandee my Rival prevent it not; the Wench is very pretty, young, and rich, and lives in the same house with me, for 'tis my Aunts Daughter.
Hah, Women!—
Egad and fine ones too I'le tell you that.
No matter, Kindness is better sawce to Women than Beauty! By this hand she looks at me.—Why dost hold me?
Whe what a Devil art Mad?
Raging! as vigorous Youth kept long from Beauty: Wild for the charming Sex, eager for Woman! I long to give a loose to Love and Pleasure.
These are not Women, Sir, for you to ruffle—
Thoes lovely eyes were never made to throw their Darts in vain!
The Conquest would be hardly worth the pain—
Hang me, a lovely Man! what Lady's that, stay.
What insolence is this? this Villain will spoil all—
Whe, Captain, are you quite distracted?—dost know where thou art? Prithee be civil—
Go Proud and Cruel!
Hah, affronted by a drunken Islander, a sawcy Tramontane—Draw—
Whilst I lead her off—fear not, Lady, you have the honour of my Sword to guard ye!
One single glance destroys thee—
Heav'ns, Madam, why de ye stay?
To pray for that dear stranger—and see my Prayers are heard, and he's return'd in safety—this Door shall shelter me to o're hear the Quarrel.
Pox o'these Women, I thought no good would come on't, besides where's the jest in affronting honest Women, if there be such a thing in the Nation.
Hang't, 'twas the Devil and all—
Ha, ha, ha! Why good honest homespun Countrey Gentlemen, Who do ye think those were?
Were! whe Ladies of Quality going to their Devotion, Who should they be?
Whe faith and so I thought too.
Prithee speak softly Man, 'Slife we shall be Poniarded for keeping thee Company.
Wise Mr. Justice, give me your Warrant, and if I do not prove 'em Whores, whip me.
Prithee hold thy Scandalous Blasphemous Tongue, as if I did not know Whores from Persons of Quality.
Will you believe me when you lie with her, for thou'rt a rich Ass and may'st do't.
Whores—ha, ha—
'Tis strange Logick now because your Band is better than mine, I must not know a Whore better than you.
I am resolv'd to follow—and learn, if possible, who 'tis has made this sudden Conquest o're me.
No, were she an Angel in that shape.
Death, how the charming Hypocrite looks to day, with such a soft Devotion in her eyes: as if even now she were a praising Heav'n for all th' advantages t'has blest her with.
Pox, let the Fidlers mind and Tune their Pipes, I've higher pleasures now.
Oh have ye so; what with Whores Captain—
'Tis a most delicious Gentlewoman.
Pray, Madam, mind that Cavalier, who takes such pains to recommend himself to you?
Yes, for a fine conceited fool—
Catso, a fool, what else?
Let me alone to manage him, I'le to him—
And accosting him thus—Tell him—
Oh my careless Rover! I perceive all your hot shot is not yet spent in Barrel, you have a Volley in reserve for me still—Faith, Officer, the Town has wanted mirth in your absence.
And so might all the wiser part for thee, who hast no mirth, no gayety about thee, but when thou wouldst design some Coxcombs ruin; to all the rest, a soul thou hast so dull, that neither Love nor Mirth, not Wit or Wine can wake it to good nature—thou'rt one who lazily workst in thy Trade, and sell'st for ready money so much kindness; a tame cold sufferer only, and no more.
But he was rich, good Captain, was he not?
Oh most damnably, and a confounded Blockhead, two certain Remedies against your Pride and Scorn.
Have you done, sir?
With thee and all thy Sex, of which I've try'd a hundred and found none true or honest.
Oh, I doubt not the number! for you are one of those healthy stomacht Lovers, that can digest a Mistriss in a Night, and Hunger again next Morning; a Pox of your whining Consumptive constitution, who are only constant for want of Appetite : you have 'a swinging stomachic variety, and want having set ark edg upon your invention (With which you eut through all all difficulties) you grow more impudent by success.
I am not always scorn'd then.
I have known you as confidently put your hand into your Pockets for money in a Morning, as if the Devil had been your Banker, When you knew you put 'em off at Night as empty as your Gloves.
And it may be found money there too.
Then with this Poverty so proud you are, you will not give the Wall to the Catholick King, unless his Picture hung upon't; no Servants, no Money, no Meat, always on foot, and yet undaunted still.
Allow me that, Child.
Still true to Love you see—
All this with pride I own, since 'tis a Royal Cause I suffer for, go pursue your business your own way, insnare the fool—I saw the toyls you set, and how that face was ordered for the Conquest, your eyes brimful of dying Lying Love! and now and then a wishing glance or sigh thrown as by chance! which when the happy Coxcomb caught—you feign'd a blush, as angry and asham'd of the discovery, and all this Cunning's for a little Mercenary gain—fine Cloaths, perhaps some Jewels too, whilst all the finery cannot hide the Whore!
There's your eternal quarrel to our Sex, 'twere a fine Trade indeed to keep Shop and give our Ware for Love, would it turn to account think ye, Captain, to trick and dress, to receive all wou'd enter, faith, Captain, try the Trade.
What in Discourse with this Railer—Come away—Poverty's catching.
So is the Pox, good Matron, of which you can afford good penniworths.
He charms me even with his angry looks, and will undo me yet.
Let's leave this place, I'le tell you my success as we go.
She's gone, and all the Plagues of Pride go With her.
Hartlikins follow her—Pox on't, an I'de but as good a hand at this Game as thou hast, I'de venture upon any Chance—
Follow'd a good Woodman, who gave him the sign, he'l lodg the Deer e're Night.
Follow'd her—he durst not' the fool wants confidence to look on her.
Oh you know not how a Country Justice may be improv'd by Travel; the Rogue was hedg'd in at home with the fear of his Neighbours and the Penal Statutes, now he's broke loose, he runs neighing like a Stone-Horse upon the Common.
However I'le not believe this—let's follow 'em.
He is in Love, but With a Curtizan—some comfort that. We'l after him—'Tis a faint hearted Lover who for the first discouragement gives over.
'Tis so, by Heaven, he's chattering with her Pimp. I'le spate my Curses on him, for having her, he has a Plague beyond 'em.
—Harkye, I'le never love, nor lie with Woman more, those slaves to Lust, to Vanity and Intrest.
Ha, Captain!
Come, let's go drink Damnation to 'em all.
Not all, good Captain.
All, for I hate 'em all—
Heavens! if he should indeed!
He cannot be so wicked to keep this resolution sure—
Faith I must be resolv'd—you've made a Pious resolution, Sir, had you the Grace to keep it—
Hum—What's that?
That—O,—nothing—but a Woman—come away.
A Woman! Damn her, what mischief made her cross my way just on the point of Reformation.
I find the Devil will not lose so hopeful a sinner. Hold, hold, Captain, have you no regard to your own Soul, 'Dshartlikins 'tis a Woman, a very errant Woman.
Your friend informs you right, Sir, I am a Woman.
Ay Child, or I were a lost man—therefore dear lovely Creature—
—How can you tell, Sir.
Oh, I have naturally a large faith, Child, and thou'st a promising form , a tempting motion, clean Limbs, well drest, and a most damnable inviting Air.
I am not to be sold, and so not fond of praise, I merit not.
How, not to be sold too! by this light, Child, thou speakest like a Cherubim, I have not heard so obliging a sound, from the mouth of Woman-kind, this many a day—I find we must be better acquainted, my Dear.
Your reason, good familiar, Sir, I see no such necessity.
Child, you are mistaken, I am in great necessity; for first I love thee—desperately—have I not damn'd my Soul al- ready for thee, and wouldst thou be so wicked to refuse a little consolation to my Body? Then Secondly, I see thou art frank and good natur'd, and wilt do reason gratis.
How prove ye that, good Mr. Philosopher.
Thou say'st thou'rt not to be sold, and I'me sure thou'rt to be had—that lovely Body of so Divine a form, those soft smooth Arms and Hands, were made t'imbrace as well as be im- rac'd, that delicate white rising Bosom to be prest, and all thy other charms to be injoy'd.
By one that can esteem 'em to their worth,can set a value and a rate upon 'em.
Name not those words, they grate my ears like Jointure, that dull conjugal cant that frights the generous Lover! Rate— Death, let the old Dotards talk of Rates, and pay it t'atone for the defects of Impotence. Let the sly States-man, who Jilts the Commonwealth with his grave Politiques, pay for the sin that he may doat in secret ; let the brisk fool Inch out his scanted sense with a large purse more eloquent than he: but tell not me of rates who bring a Heart, Youth, Vigor, and a Tongue to sing the praise of every single pleasure thou shalt give me.
Then if I should be kind, I perceive you would not keep the secret.
Prithee, honest Damzel, be not so full of Questions, will a Pistol or two do thee any hurt?
None at all, Sir—
Truly, Sir, a friendly request—but in what nature abus'd?
Nature!—why any of your Tricks would serve—but if he could be conveniently stript and beaten, or tost in a Blanket, or any such trivial business, thou wouldst do me a singular kindness; as for Robbery he defies the Devil: an empty Pocket is an Antidote against that ill.
Shartlikins, how I shall Love and Honour thee for't— here's earnest—and—
But who was that you entertain'd at Church but now?—
Faith one, who for her Beauty merits that glorious Title that she wears, it was—a Whore, Child.
That's but a scurvy Name; yet, if I'me not mistaken, in those false eyes of yours, they lookt with longing Love upon that—Whore, Child.
Thou art i'th'right, and by this hand, my Soul was full as wishing as my eyes: but a Pox on't, you Women have all a certain Jargon, or Giberish, peculiar to your selves: of Value, Rate, Present, Interest, Settlement, Advantage, Price, Maintenance, and the Devil and all of Fopperies, which in plain terms signifie Ready Money, by way of Fine before entrance, so that an honest well-meaning Merchant of Love finds no credit amongst ye, without his Bill of Lading.
We are not all so cruel—but the Devil on't is, your good natur'd heart is likely accompanied with an i face—and worse Wit.
Faith, Child a ready Dish when a mans stomach is up, is better than a tedious Feast. I never saw any Man yet cut my piece; some are for Beauty, some for Wit, and some for the secret, but I for all, so it be in a kind Girl: and for Wit in Woman, so she say prety fond things, we understand, though true or false no matter.
Give the Devil his due, you are a very consciencious Lover: I love a man that scorns to impose dull truth and constancy a Mistriss.
Constancy, that currant Coyn with fools! no Child, Heaven keep that Curse from our Doors.
Hang it, it loses time and profit new Lovers have new Vows and new Presents, whilst the old feed upon a dull repetition of what they did when they were Lovers; 'tis like eating the cold meat ones self, after having given a friend a Feast—
Here's company coming, and for several reasons, I wou'd not be seen.
Gad, Child, nor I; reputation is tender—therefore prithee let's retire—
You must not stir a step.
Not stir! no Magick Circle can detain me if you go.
Follow me then at a distance, and observe where I enter; and at Night (if your passion lasts so long) return, and you shall find admittance into a Garden.
Good: but Mum—here's the Captain, who must by no means know our good fortune, till he see us in State—
All things are ready, Sir, for our design, the House prepar'd as you directed me, the Guardian wrought, by the persuasions of the two Monsters, to take a Lodging there, and try the Baths of Reformation: the Bank's preparing, and the Operators and Musick all ready, and the impatient Town flockt together to behold the Man of Wonders, and nothing wanting but your Donship and a proper Speech.
'Tis well, I'le go fit my self with a Dress, and think of a Speech the while: in the mean time, go you and amuse the gaping fools that expect my coming.
Whe how now, Justice, what, run madout of the Dog-days?
Whe what the Devil's the matter, Sir?
Stark mad, 'Sdhartlikins.
What, then the two Lady Monsters are forgotten? the design upon the Million of Money, the Coach and Six, and Patent for Right Worshipful? All drown'd in the joy of this new Mistress.
But well, Lieutenant, since he is so Well provided for, you may put in with me for a Monster; such a jest, and such a sum is not to be lost.
Nor shall not, or I have lost my Aim.
Nay, 'Dshartlikins, the Lieutenant scorns to do a foul thing, do see, but we would not have the Monsters slighted.
Slighted! no, Sir, I scorn your words, I'de have ye to know, that I have as high a respect for Madam Monster, as any Gentleman in Christendom , and so I desire she should understand.
Whe this is that that's handsom.
Well, the Mountibank's come, Lodgings are taken at his House, and the Guardian prepar'd to receive you, on the aforesaid terms; and some fifty Pistols to the Mountibank to stand your friend, and the business is done.
Which shall be perform'd accordingly, I have it ready about me.
And here's mine, put 'em together, and let be speedy lest some should bribe higher, and put in before us.
Account, 'Dshartlikins, 'tis not in the power of mortal man to couzen me.
Oh fie, Sir, couzen you, Sir,—well, you'l stay here and see the Mountibank, he's coming forth.
Oh Pox, and a Man were sure of that now.
Behold, here's Demonstration—
Hold, hold, whe, what the Devil, is the Fellow mad?
Why, do'st think he'as hurt himself.
See, Gentlemen, he's dead—
ook ye there now, I'le be gone lest I be taken as an Accessary.
Oh Plague, a damn'd Conjurer, this—
Come, buy this Coward's comfort, quickly buy; what Fop would be abus'd, mimick'd and scorn'd, for fear of Wounds can be so easily cured? Who is't wou'd bear the Insolence and Pride of Domineering great men, proud Officers or Magistrates? or who wou'd cringe to States-Men out of fear? What Cully wou'd be Cuckolded? What foolish Heir undone by cheating Gamesters? What Lord Wou'd be Lampoon'd? What Poet fear the malice of his Satyrical Brother, or Atheist fear to fight for fear of death. Come, buy my Cowards Comfort, quickly buy.
I'le lay out a Pistol or two on this, if it have the same effect on Men.
Come, all you City Wives, that wou'd advance your Husbands to Lord Mayors, come, buy of me new Beauty; this will give it though now decay'd, as are your Shop Commodities, this will retrieve your Customers, and vend your false and out of fashion'd Wares: cheat, lye, protest and couzen as you please, a handsom Wife makes all a lawful gain. Come, City Wives, come, buy.
A most Prodigious Fellow.
But here, behold the Life and Soul of Man! this is the Amorous Powder, which Venus made gave the God of Love, which made him first a Deity; you talk of Arrows, Bows, and killing Darts; Fables, Poetical Fictions and no more: 'tis this alone that wounds and fires the Heart, makes Women kind, and equals Men to Gods! 'tis this that makes your great Lady doat on the ill-favour'd Fop; your great Man be Jilted by his little Mistriss, the Judg cajol'd by his Semstress, and your Politician by his Comedian: your young Lady doat on her decrepit Husband, your Chaplain on my Ladies Waiting-Woman, and the young Squire on the Landry-Maid—in fine Messieurs.
A most devillish Fellow this!
Who Pox, Man, Jugg, my Giant would swallow a whole Cart-Load before 'twould operate.
No hurt in trying a Paper or two however.
A most admirable Receipt, I shall have need on't.
I need say nothing of my Divine Baths of Reformation, nor the wonders of the old Oracle of the Box, which Resolves all Questions, my Bills sufficiently declare their Vertue.
Room there, Gentlemen, room for a Patient.
Pray, Seignior, who may this be thus muz'led by old Gaffer time?
What of him?
'Tis the same Drew on the Captain this Morning, and I must revenge the affront.
Nay—I'le only steal his Horse from under him.
Steal it, thou may'st take it by force perhaps, but how safely is a Question.
I apprehend you now—
This flat Conjuration.
What's your Worship on foot?
I never saw his Worship on foot before.
'Tis she, How carefully she shuns me?
I'me satisfied he knows us by that Jealous concern which appears in that prying countenance of his.
Stay, Cruel, is it Love or Curiosity that wings those nimble feet?
Have you forgot this is the glorious day that ushers in the night shall make you mine? the happiest night that ever favour'd Love!
Or if I have, I find you'l take care to remember me.
Sooner I could forget the Aids Of Life, sooner forget how first that Beauty Charm'd me.
Well, since your memory's so good, I need not doubt your coming.
And in return, I do submit to yield, preferring you above those fighting fools, who safe in Multitudes reap Honour cheaper
Yet there is one—one of those fighting fools, which should'st thou see, I fear I were undone; brave, handsom, gay, and all that Women doat on, unfortunate in every good of life, but that one blessing of obtaining Women: be wise, for if thou seest. him thou art lost—Why dost thou blush?
Whilst I prepare my self for such a blessing.
Hah! a Cavalier in conference with La Nuche! and en- tertain'd without my knowledg! I must prevent this Lover, for he's young—and this Night will surprise her—
And you would be restor'd.
Yes, if there be that Divinity in your Baths of Reformation.
There are.
A Blessing on you Sir, there's fifty Pistols for you, and as I earn it you shall have more.
Messieurs, 'tis late, and the Seignior's Patients stay for him at his Laboraty, to morrow you shall see the conclusion of this Experiment, and so I humbly take my leave at this time.
What makes you follow me, Sir?
Madam, I see something in that lvely Face of yours, which if not timely prevented, will be your ruin: I'me now in haste, but I have more to say—
I'me thoughtful: Prithee, Cousin, sing some foolish Song—
Come, help to undress me, for I'le to this Mountebank to know what success I shall have with my Cavalier.
You are resolv'd then to give him admittance.
Where's the danger of a handsom young fellow.
But you don't know him, Madam.
But I desire to do, and time may bring it about without miracle.
I should as soon be enamour'd on the North Wind, a Tempest, or a Clap of Thunder. Bless me from such a blast.
You'l hardly mend your self in this.
What, because he held Discourse with a Curtezan.
Why, is there no danger in her eyes, do ye think?
None that I fear, that Stranger's not such a fool to give his heart to a common Woman, and she that's concern'd where her Lover bestows his Body, were I the man, I should think she had a mind to't her self.
And reason, Madam, in a lawful way, 'tis your due.
Lord, Madam, sure he's a Conjurer.
—A Devil on him, he may chance to plague me till night, and hinder my dear assignation.
Pox on't, how dull am I at an excuse.
How is't Cuz?
So, here's the sawcy freedom of a Husband Lover—a blest invention this of marrying who e're first found it out.
As ill as the man—I perceive you have taken more care for your Periwig than your Bride.
Why did not you begin sooner then?
I shall never marry like a Jew in my own Tribe; I'de rather be possest by honest old doating Age, than by sawcy conceited Youth, whose inconstancy never leaves a Woman safe or quiet.
No matter, a Woman may with some lawful excuse Cuckold him, and 'twould be scarce a sin—
Not so much as lying with him, whose Reverend Age wou'd make it look like Incest.
But to marry thee—would be a Tyranny from whence there's no Appeal: a Drinking Whoring Husband, 'tis the Devil—
—Then to be condemn'd to lye with him—oh, who would not rejoice to meet a Woollen Waistcoat and knit Nightcap without a Lining, a Shirt so nasty, a cleanly Ghost would not appear in't at the latter Day; then the compound of nasty smells about him, stinking Breath, Mustachoes stuft with villanous snush Tobacco and hollow teeth; thus prepar'd for delight, you meet in Bed, where you may lye and sigh whole Nights away, he snores it out 'till Morning, and then rises to his sordid business.
All this frights me not; 'tis still much better than a keeping Husband, whom neither Beauty nor Honour in a Wife can oblige.
Oh, he talks as high, and thinks as well of himself as any young Coxcomb of ye all.
He has reason, for if his Faith were no better than his Works, he'd be damn'd.
Death, who wou'd marry, who wou'd be chasten'd thus, and sold to slavery; I'de rather buy a friend at any price that I could Love and Trust.
Ay! could we but drive on such a Bargain!
You should not be the Man; you have a Mistress, Sir, that has your heart, and all your softer hours: I know't, and if I were so wretched as to marry thee, must see my Fortune lavisht out on her, her Coaches Dress and Equipage exceed mine by far: possess she all the day thy hours of mirth, good humour and expence, thy smiles, thy kisses, and thy Charms of Wit. Oh how you talk and look when in her Presence! but when with me,
How is't Cuz—then slap, on goes the Beaver, which being cock'd, you bear up briskly, with the Second Part to the same Tune—Harkye, Sir, let me advise you to pack up your trumpery and be gone: your Honourable Love, your Matrimonial Foppery, with your other Trinkets thereunto belonging, or I shall talk aloud, and let your Uncle hear you.
The Devil take me, spoil'd! What Rascal has inveagled thee? What lying fawning Coward has abus'd thee? When fell you into this Lewdness? Pox thou art hardly worth the loving now, that canst be such a fool to Wish me Chaste, or love me for that Vertue: or that wouldst have me a Ceremonious Whelp, one that makes handsom Legs to Knights without laughing, or with a sneaking modest Squirish Countenance, assure you, I have my Maiden head: a Curse upon thee, the very thought of Wife has made thee formal.
I must dissemble, or he'le stay all day to make his peace again—Why, have you ne're—a Mistriss then?
A hundred, by this day, as many as I like, they are my mirth, the business of my loose and wanton hours; but thou art my Devotion: the grave, the solemn pleasure of my soul—Pox, would I were handsomly rid of thee too.
—Come, I have business,—send me pleas'd away.
Would to Heaven thou wert gone—
—You'r going to some Woman now—
Oh damn the Sex, I hate 'em all—but thee—farewel my pretty jealous—sullen—fool—
Farewel, believing Coxcomb—
Madam, the Cloaths are ready in your Chamber.
Let's hast and put 'em on then.
Well, Gentlemen, this is the Doctors House, and your fifty Pistols has made him intirely yours; the Ladies too are here in safe Custody—Come, draw Lots who shall have the Dwarf, and who the Giant.
I have the Giant.
And I the little Tiny Gentlewoman.
Well, I long to see the Ladies, and to have the first onset over.
I'le cause 'em to walk forth immediately.
My heart begins to fail me plaguily.—would I could see 'em a little at a distance before they come slap dash upon a man,
'Dshartlikins whither art going?
—Whe only—to—say my Prayers a little—I'le be with thee presently.
What a Pox art thou afraid of a Woman—
But villanous Woman—'Dshartlikins' stand your ground, or I'le nail ye to't: Whe what a Pox are you to quezy stomach'd, a Monster wont down with you, with a hundred thousand pound to boot,
Whe God a mercy.
Most beautiful Ladies.
Whe what a flattering Son of a Whore's this.
These are the illustrious persons your Uncle designs your humble Servants, and who have so extraordinary a passion for your Seignioraships.
Oh yes, a most damnable one: wou'd I were cleanlily off the lay, and had my money again.
Think or a Million, Rogue, and do not hang an Arse thus.
What, does the Cavalier think I'le devour him?
Somthing inclin'd to such a fear.
Go and salute her, or, Adshartlikins, I'le leave you to her mercy.
No, my little diminutive Mistress, my small Epitome of Woman-kind, we can prattle when our hands are in, but we are raw and bashful, young beginners, for this is the first time we ever were in Love: we are something aukard, or so, but we shall come on in time, and mend upon incouragement.
Here Segnior, Don, Approach, Mount, and salute the Lady.
Mount, who 'twould turn my Brains to look down from her Shoulders—but hang't, 'Gad I will be brave and venture.
And Egad this was an Adventure and a bold one—but since I am come off with a whole skin, I am flesht for the next onset.—Madam,—has your Greatness any mind to marry—
What if I have?
Whe then, Madam, without inchanted Sword of Buckler I am your Man.
My Man! my Mouse. I'le marry none whoe Person and Courage shall not bear some proportion to mine.
Your Mightiness, I fear, will die a Maid then.
I doubt you'l scarce secure me from that fear, who Court my Fortune, not my Beauty.
Ho, how scornful she is I'le warrant you—whe I must confess, your Person is something Heroical and Masculine, but I protest to your Highness, I Love and Honour ye.
Prithee, Sister, be not so coy, I like my Lover well enough, and if Seignior Mountebank keep his word in making us of reasonable Proportions, I think the Gentlemen may serve for Husbands.
Dissemble, or you betray your Love for us.
And if he do keep his word, I should make a better choice, not that I would change this Noble frame of mine, cou'd I but meet my Match, and keep upthe first Race of Man intire: but since this scanty World affords none such, I to be happy, must be new Created, and then I shall expect a wiser Lover.
My Sister will do much, I'me sure, to save the Man that loves her so passionately—she has a heart.
And a swinger 'tis—'Sbud—she moves like the Royal Soveraign, and is as long a Tacking about.
Then your Religion, Sir.
I hope, Sir, you are of your friends opinion.
Well, Sir, I shall hasten Seignior Doctor to compleat my Beauty, by some small addition, to appear the more grateful to you.
Lady, do not trouble your self with transitory parts, 'Dshartlikins thou'rt as handsom as needs be for a Wife.
A little taller, Seignior, would not do amiss, my younger Sister has got so much the start of me.
Well, Seigniors, since you come with our Uncles liking, we give ye leave to hope, hope—and be happy—
Egad, and that's great and gracious—
Well, Gentlemen, and how like you the Ladies?
Faith well enough for the first course, Sir.
The Uncle, by my indeavour, is intirely yours—but whilst the Baths are preparing, 'twould be well if you would think of what Age, Shape, and Complexion you would have your Ladies form'd in.
Why, may we chuse, Mr. Doctor?
What Beauties you please.
Hum, 15—I begin to have a plaguie itch about me too, towards a handsome Damzel of 15. but first let's marry, lest they should be boyled away in these Baths of Reformation.
—But, Doctor, can you do all this without the help of the Devil?
Hum, some small hand he has in the business: we make an exchange with him, give him the clippings of the Giant for so much of his store as will serve to build the Dwarf.
Whe then mine will be more than three parts Devil, Mr. Doctor.
Not so, the stock is only Devil, the graft is your own little Wife inoculated.
Well, let the Devil and you agree about this matter as soon as you please.
Sir, there is without a Person of an extraordinary Size wou'd speak with you.
Admit him.
Hah—some o'ergrown Rival on my Life.
What the Devil have we here?
'Tis so—
The Devil's in't if this does not fright 'em from a farther Courtship—
Fear nothing, Seignior—Seignior, you may try your chance, and visit the Ladies.
Whe where the Devil could this Monster conceal himself all this while, that we should neither see nor hear of him?
Oh—he lay disguis'd; I have heard of an Army that has done so.
Pox, no single house cou'd hold him.
No—he dispos'd himself in several parcels up and down the Town, here a Leg, and there an Arm; and hearing of this proper Match for him, put himself together to Court his fellow Monster.
Good Lord! I wonder what Religion he's of.
Some Heathen Papist by his notable Plots and Contrivances.
Sir, I confess there is great power in simpathy—Conduct him to the Ladies—
—I am sorry you cannot enter at that low door, Seignior, I'le have it broken down—
No, Seignior, I can go in at twice.
How, at twice, what a pox can he mean?
Oh, Sir, 'tis a frequent thing by way of Inchantment.
Oh Pox, Mr. Doctor, this must be the Devil.
Oh fie, Sir, the Devil, no, 'tis all done by an inchanted Girdle—these damn'd Rascals will spoil all by too gross an imposition on the fools.
Sir, the fame of your excellent knowledg, and what you said to me this day, has given me a Curiosity to learn my Fate, at least that Fate you threatned.
Madam, from the Oracle in the Box you may be resolved any Question—
—how lovely every absent minute makes her—Madam, be pleas'd to draw from out this Box what Ball you will.
Madam, upon this little Globe is Character'd your Fate and Fortune; the History of your Life to come and past—first, Madam,—you're—a Whore.
A very plain beginning.
Your Art is so, though call'd Divine! and all the Universe is sway'd by Interest, and wou'd you wish this Beauty which adorns me, should be dispos'd about for Charity: proceed, and speak more reason.
—Wild, fickle—restless, faithless as the Winds!—a Man of Arms he is—and by this Line—a Captain—
There thou hast toucht my heart! and spoke so true, that all thou sayst I shall receive as Oracle: well, grant I Love, that shall not make me yield.
I must confess you're ruin'd if you yield, and yet not all your Pride, not all your Vows, your Wit, your Resolution or your Cunning, can hinder him from Conquering absolutely, your Stars are fixt, and Fate irrevocable.
No,—I will controul my Stars and Inclinations, and though I love him more than Power or Interest, I will be Mistress of my fixt Resolves—One Question more—Does this same Captain, this wild happy Man—love me?
Why do you tell me this—I am betray'd and every caution blows my kindling Flame—hold—tell me no more—I might have guest my Fate, from my own soul have guest it— but yet I will be brave, I will resist in spight of Inclinations, Stars or Devils.
Strive not, fair Creature, with the Net that holds you, you'le but intangle more: Alas!—you must submit and be undone.
Damn your false Art!—had he but lov'd me too, it had excus'd the malice of my Stars.
Indeed his love is doubtful: for here—I trace him in a new pursuit—which if you can this Night prevent, perhaps you fix him.
Hah, pursuing a new Mistriss! there thou hast met the little resolution I had left, and dasht it into nothing—but I have vowed Allegiance to my interest—Curse on my Stars, they could not give me love where that might be advance'd—I'le hear no more—
Sir, there are several Strangers arriv'd who talk of the old Oracle: How will you receive 'em?
How now, Seignior Operator, Where's this renowned Man of Arts and Sciences, this Don Of Wonders?—hah? may a Man have a Pistols worth or two of his Tricks, will he show, Seignior?
What-ever you dare see, Sir.
And I dare see the greatest Bug-bear he can Conjure up, my Mistresses face in a Glass excepted.
That he can show, Sir, but is now buried in weighty affairs With a Grandee.
What foolish thing art thou?
Nay, do not frown; nor fly, for if you do, I must Arrest you, fair one.
At whose suit, pray?
At Loves—you've stoln a heart of mine and us'd it scurvily.
By what marks do you know the Toy, that may be no longer troubled with it.
By a fresh Wound, which toucht by her that gave it bleeds anew, a heart all over Kind and Amorous.
When was this pretty Robbery committed?
To day, most Sacrilegiously, at Church, where you debauch'd my Zeal, and when I wou'd have pray'd, your eyes had put the change upon my tongue, and made it utter Railings, Heav'n forgive ye!
You are the gayest thing, without a heart, I ever saw.
I scorn to flinch for a bare Wound or too; nor is he routed that has lost the day, he may again Rally, renew the Fight and Vanquish.
You have a good opinion of that Beauty which I find not so forcible, nor that fond prattle uttered with such confidence.
But I have Quality and Fortune too.
So you had need, I should have guest the first by your pertness, for your sawcy thing of Quality acts the Man as impudently at fourteen as another at thirty: nor is there any thing so hateful as to hear it talk of Love, Women and Drinking; nay, to see it Marry too at that Age, and get it self a Play-fellow in its Son and Heir.
This Satyr on my Youth shall never put me out of countenance, or make me think you wish me one day older; and Egad I'le warrant 'em that tries me, shall find me ne're an hour too young.
You mistake my humour; I hate the Person of a fair conceited Boy.
—How now, fool, Where's the Doctor?
A little busie, Sir.
Call him, I am in haste, and come to cheapen the Price of Monster.
As how, Sir?
In an honourable way, I will lawfully marry one of 'em, and have pitcht upon the Giant: I'le bid as fair as any Man.
No doubt but you will speed, Sir, please you, Sir, to walk in.
Whe 'tis the Captain, Madam—
Hah—marry—harkye, Sir—a word pray.
And to be marry'd, mark that.
Then there's one doubt over, I'me glad he is not married.
Come back—Death, I shall burst with anger—this coldness blows my Flame, which if once visible, makes him a Tyrant—
Fool, what's a Clock, fool, this noise hinders me from hearing it strike.
A blessed sound if no Hue and Cry pursue it.—what—you are resolv'd then upon this notable exploit.
What exploit, good Madam?
Whe marrying of a Monster, and an ugly Monster.
This is the common trick of all Rogues, when they have done an ill thing to face it out.
You'l not be so ungrateful to refuse it; besides then you may hope to sleep again, without dreaming of Famin or the Sword, two plagues a Soldier of fortune is subject to.
Besides Cashiering, a third plague.
Still unconcern'd!—you call me mercenary, but I would starve e're suffer my self to be possest by a thing of horror.
You lie, you would by any thing of horror; yet these things of horror have beauties too, beauties thou canst not boast of, beauties that will not fade: Diamonds to supply the lustre of their eyes, and Gold the brightness of their hair, a well got Million to atone for shape, and Orient Pearls, more white, more plump and smooth, than that fair body men so languish for, and thou hast set such price on.
I like not this so well, 'tis a trick to make her Jealous.
He's poor too, there's another comfort.
The most incouraging one I have met with yet.
Pox on't, I grew weary of this vertuous Poverty. There goes a gallant fellow, says one, but gives him-not an Onion; the Women too, faith 'tis a handsom Gentleman; but the Devil a kiss he gets gratis.
Oh how I long to undeceive him of that error.
He speaks not of me: sure he knows me not.
Well, I must have this gallant fellow.
Sure he has forgot this trivial thing.
—Even thou—who seest me dying unregarded wo't then be fond and kind, and flatter me.
By Heaven, I'le hate thee then; nay, I will marry to be rich to hate thee: the worst of that, is but to suffer nine days wonderment, Is not that better than an Age of scorn from a proud faithless Beauty
Oh, there's resentment left—whe, yes faith, such a Wedding would give theTown diversion: we should have a lamentable Ditty made on it, Entituled, The Captains Wedding, with the doleful relation of his being over-laid by an o'er-grown Monster.
I'le Warrant ye I escape that as sure as Cuckolding, for I would fain see that hardy Wight that dares attempt my Lady bright, either by force or flattery.
So, then you intend to Bed her?
Yes faith, and beget a Race of Heroes, the Mothers Form with all the Fathers Qualities.
He can supply the want of issue a better way, and tho he be not so fine a fellow as your self; he's a better friend, he can keep a Mistress: give me a Man can feed and cloath me, as well as hug and all to bekiss me, and tho his Sword be not so good as yours, his Bond's worth a thousand Captains. This will not do, I'le try what Jealousie will do.
Your Servant Captain—your Hand, Sir.
Hah, what new Coxcomb's that—hold, Sir.—
What would you, Sir, ought with this lady?
Yes, that which thy Youth will only let thee guess at—this—(Child) is Mans meat; there are other Toys for Children.
Oh insolent, and whither would'st thou lead me?
Only out of harms way, Child, here are pretty neat conveniences within: the Doctor will be civil—'tis part of's Calling—Your Servant, Sir—
I must huff now tho I may chance to be beaten—come back—or I have something here that will oblige ye to't.
Yes faith, thou'rt a pretty Youth; but at this time I've more occasion for a thing in Petticoats—go home, and do not walk the Streets so much: that tempting face of thine will debauch the grave men of business, and make the Magistrates Lust after wickedness.
You are a scurvy fellow, Sir.
Keep in your Sword, for fear it cut your Fingers, Child.
So 'twill your Throat, Sir—here's Company coming that Will part us, and I'le venture to Draw.
Hold, hold—hah, Willmore! thou Man of constant mischief, What's the matter?
Whe here's a young Spark will take my Lady bright from me: the unmanner'd hot-spur would not have patience till I had finisht my small affair with her.
Death he'l know me—Sir, you see we are prevented
—or—
'Tis she, Madam, this Veil's too thin to hide the perjur'd Beauty underneath: Oh, have I been searching thee, with all the diligence of impatient Love, and am I thus rewarded, to find thee here incompass'd round with Strangers, fighting, who first should take my right away—Gods take your reason back; take all your Love! for easie Man's unworthy of the blessings.
Death, do'st thou mock my grief—Unhand me strait, for tho I cannot blame thee, I must hate thee—
What the Devil ails he—
You will be sure to come.
And will you leave him with her.
Oh yes, he'l be ne're the worse for my use when he has done with her.
Now you may go o'ertake him, lye with him—and ruin him, the fool was made for such a destiny—if he escapes my Sword.
I must prevent his visit to this Woman—but dare not tell him so.
—I would not have ye meet this angry Youth.
Oh you would preserve him for a farther use—
—Stay—you must not fight—by Heaven, I cannot see—that Bosom—wounded—
Hah! weep'st thou! curse me when I refuse a faith to that obliging Language of thy eyes—oh give me one proof more, and after that, thou Conquerest all my Soul: Thy eyes speak Love—come, let us in my Dear! e're the bright fire allays that warms my heart.
Your Love grows rude, and saucily demands it.
Love knows no Ceremony, no respect when once approacht so near the happy minute.
What desperate easiness have you seen in me, or what mistaken merit in your self, should make you so ridiculously vain, to think I'de give my felt to such a wretch, one fal'n even to the last degree of Poverty, whil'st all the World is prostrate at my feet, whence I might chuse the brave, the great, the rich.
—Still as he fires I find my pride augment, and when he cools I burn.
Death, thou'rt a—vain, conceited, taudry Jilt, who'st drawn me in as Rooks their Cullies do, to make me venture all my stock of Love, And then you turn me out despis'd and poor—
You think you're gone now—
Not all thy Arts nor Charms can hold me longer—
I must submit—and can you part thus from me?—
I can—nay—by Heaven, I will not turn, nor look at thee: no, when I do, or trust that faithless tongue again—may I be!
Oh do not swear—
Ever curst—
You shall not go—Plague!—of this needless Pride.
—stay—and I'le follow—all the dictates of my Love.
Oh never hope to flatter me to faith again.
I must, I will; what would you have me do?
And will you then be ever kind and true?
Ask thy own Charms, and to confirm thee more, yield and disarm me quite:
Will you not marry then? for tho you never can be mine that way, I cannot think that you should be anothers.
No more delays, by Heaven 'twas but a trick—
And will you never see that Woman neither, whom you're this night to visit.
Damn all the rest of thy weak Sex, when thou look'st thus, and art so soft and charming.
Take heed, What mean ye?
Not to be pointed at by all the envying Women of the Town, who'l laugh and cry, Is this the high priz'd Lady, now fall'n so low to doat upon a Captain, a poor disbanded Captain! defend me, from that Infamy.
Now all the Plagues—but yet I will not curse thee, 'tis lost on thee, for thou art destin'd damn'd.
Whither so fast?
The Charm that makes me lovely in thine eyes: 'thad all been thine hadst thou not basely bargain'd with me, now 'tis the prize of some well-meaning Whore, whose Modesty will trust my Generosity.
Now I cou'd rave, t've lost an opportunity which industry nor chance can give again—when on the yielding point, a cursed fit of Pride comes cross Soul, and stops the kind Career—I'le follow him—yes, I will follow him, even to the Arms of her to whom he's gone.
Madam, 'tis dark, and we may meet with Insolence.
'Tis he, I know it by his often and uneasie pauses—
—And shall I home and sleep upon my injury—whilst this more happy Rover takes my right away—no, damn me then for a cold senseless Coward!
This Damzel, by the part o'th' Town she lives in, should be of Quality, and therefore can have no dishonest design on me, it must be right down substantial Love that's Certain.
Yet I'le in and Arm my self for the Incounter, for 'twill be rough between us, tho we're friends.
Oh 'tis this I'm sure, because the Door is open.
Hah—Who's there ?—
That voice is of Authority, some Husband, Lover, or a Brother, on my Life this is a Nation of a word and a blow, therefore I'le betake me to Toledo—
Hah, are you there.
I'le draw in defence of the Captain—
Hah, two to one—
The Garden Door clapt to; sure he's got in: nay, then I have him sure.
Heavens, where am I?
'Tis so! Death, are all Women false!
—Oh, 'tis in Vain thou fly'st, thy Infamy will stay behind thee still.
—What a Devil have we here, more mischief yet:—hah—my Woman with a Man—I shall spoil all—I ever had an excellent knack of doing so.
Oh Modesty, where art thou! Is this the effect of all your put on Jealousie, that Mask to hide your own new falshood in ? now—by Heaven, I believe thou'rt old in cunning, that couldst contrive, so near thy Wedding night, this, to deprive me of the rights of Love!
Hah, what says he?
How a Maid, and young, and to be marr'd too; a rare Wench this to contrive matters so conveniently: oh for some mischief now to send him neatly off.
Now you are silent: but you could talk to day loudly of Virtue! and upbraid my Vice! oh how you hated a young keeping Husband! whom neither Beauty nor Honour in a Wife cou'd oblige to reason—oh, damn your Honour, 'tis that's the sly pretence of all your domineering insolent Wives—death—what didst thou see in me, should make thee think that I would be a tame contented Cuckold?
I must not lose this lavish loving-fool—
So, I hope he will be civil and withdraw, and leave me in possession—
No, though my fortune should depend on thee; nay, ever hope of future happiness—by Heaven, I scorn to marry thee, unless thou cou'dst convince me thou wert honest—a Whore!—Death how it cools my Blood—
And fires mine extreamly—
Nay, then I am provok'd tho I spoil all—
—and is a Whore—a thing so much despis'd? Turn back thou false forsworn,—turn back, and blush at thy mistaken folly—
Hah, a Woman with him!
Hum—what have we here, another Damzel—she's gay too, and seems young and handsom—sure one of these will fall to my share; no matter which, so I am sure of one.
Who's silent now! are you struck dumb with guilt? thou shame to noble Love! thou scandal to all brave debauchery, thou fop of fortune; thou slavish Heir to Estate and Wife, born rich and damn'd to Matrimony.
Egad noble Wench—I am divided yet.
Thou formal Ass disguis'd in generous Lewdness, see— when the vizor's off, How sneakingly that empty form appears—Nay, 'tis thy own— Make much on't, marry with it, and be damn'd.
I hope she'l beat him for suspecting her.
Hah—who the Devil can these be—
What silly honest fool did you mistake me for; what sensless modest thing? Death, am I Grown so despicable, have I deserv'd no better from thy Love than to be taken for a vertuous changeling?
Egad 'twas an affront.
I'me glad I've found thee out to be an errant Coxcomb, one that esteems a Woman for being Cast, forsooth! 'Shart, I shall have thee call me pious shortly, a most Religious Matron.
Egad she has reason—
Forgive me,— for I took ye—for another—
Oh did you so, it seems you keep fine company the while—Death, that l should e're be seen with such a vile dissembler, with one so vain, so dull and so impertinent, as can be entertain'd by honest Women!
A Heavenly soul, and to my wish, were I but sure of her.
Oh you do wondrous well t'accuse me first! yes, I am a Coxcomb—a confounded one, to doat upon so false a Prostitute; nay to love seriously, and tell it too, yet such an amorous Coxcomb I was born, to hate the injoyment of the loveliest Woman, without I have the heart: the fond soft prattle, and the lolling dalliance, the frowns, the little quarrels, and the kind degrees of making peace again, are joys which I prefer to all the sensual, whilst I endeavour to forget the Whore, and pay my vows to Wit, to Youth and Beauty.
Would any Devil less than common Woman have serv'd me as thou didst? say, Was not this my Night? my paid for Night? my own by right of Bargain, and by Love? and hast not thou deceiv'd me for a Stranger?
So—make me thankful, then she will be kind.
—Was this done like a Whore of Honour think ye, and would not such an injury make me forswear all joys of Womankind, and marry in meer spight?
Why where had been the crime had I been kind?
Thou do'st confess it then.
Why not.
Those Bills of Love the oftner paid and drawn, make Women better Merchants than Lovers.
And 'tis the better Trade.
Oh Pox, there she dasht all again. I find they calm upon't, and will agree, therefore I'le bear up to this small Frigot and lay her Aboard.
However I am glad the Vizor's off; you might have fool'd me on, and sworn I was the only Conquerer of your heart, had not good nature made me follow you, to undeceive your false suspicions of me: How have you sworn never to marry? How rail'd at Wives, and satyr'd fools oblig'd to Wedlock? and now at last, to thy eternal shame, thou hast betray'd thy self to be a most pernicious honorable Lover, a perjur'd—honest—nay, a Very Husband.
Hah, sure 'tis the Captain.
Prithee, Child, let's leave 'em to themselves, they'l agree matters I'le warrant them when they're alone, and let us try how love and will provide for us.
Sure he cannot know me—us—pray who are you, and who am I?
Who look ye Child, I am a very honest civil fellow, for my part, and thou'rt a Woman for thine ; and I desire to know no more at present.
'Tis he, and knows not me to be the same he appointed to day—Sir, pursue that path on your right hand, that Grove of Orange Trees, and I'le follow you immediately.
Kind and Civil—prithee make haste, dear Child.
And did you come to call me back again?
No matter, you're to be marry'd, Sir—
A very plain Confession.
I'me glad of this, now I shall be rid of him.
—how is't, Sir, I see you struggle hard 'twixt Love and Honour, and I'le resign my place—
Hold, if she take him not away I shall disappoint my Man—faith I'le not be out-done in Generosity.
Here—Love deserves him best—and I resign him—Pox on't I'me honest, tho that's no fault of mine; 'twas fortune who has made a worse exchange, and you and I should suit most damnably together.
I am sure there's something in the Wind, she being in the Garden, and the door left open.
—yes, I believe you are willing enough to part with me, when you expect another you like better.
I'me glad I was before-hand with you then.
Very good, and the Door was left open to give admittance to a Lover.
'Tis visible it was to let one in to you, false as you are.
While'st all my Lovers of the noble kind, throng to adore and fill my presence daily, gay, as if each were triumphing for Victory.
Ay this is something; What a poor sneaking thing an honest Woman is.
—And if we chance to Love still there's a disterence, your hours of Love are like the deeds of darkness, and mine like chearful Birds in open day.
You may, you have no Honour to lose.
Or if I had, why should I double the sin by Hypocrisie.
Hah, more Caterwauling?
Oh, Madam, we're undone, and, Sir, for Heavens sake do you retire.
What's the matter?
Oh you have brought the most villainous mad friend with you—he found me sitting on a bank—and did so ruffle me.
Nay, made Love so loud, that my Lord your Father-in-law, who was in his Cabinet, heard us from the Orange-Grove, and has sent to search the Garden—and should he find a Stranger with you—do but you retire, Sir, and all's well—yet
The Devil's in her tongue.
So, there 'tis out.
She takes me for another—I am Jilted every where—what friend?—I brought none with me.
—Madam, do you retire—
Glad of my freedom too—
By Heaven I'le do it.
Retire in safety then, you have your pass.
Fall, fall on, the number is increas'd.
Rascals do you not know me.
Nay, and you be so well acquainted I'le leave you—unfortunate still I am; my own well meaning, but ill management, is my eternal foe: Plague on 'em, they have wounded me—yet not one drop of blood's departed from me that warm'd my heart for Woman! and I'me not willing to quit this Fairy-ground till some kind Devil have been civil to me.
I say, 'tis he: thou'st made so many dull mistakes to Night, thou darest not trust thy senses when they'r true—
—how do you, Sir—
That voice has comfort in't, for 'tis a Woman's: hah, more interruption?
A little this way, Sir.
He's gone, and to his Mistress too.
Will you not grant a Parly e're I yield—
I'me better at a Storm.
Besides, you're wounded too.
Oh leave those wounds of Honour to my Surgeon, thy business is to Cure those of Love: your true bred Soldier ever fights with the more heat for a Wound or too.
You see how well he far'd for being modest.
He might be modest, but 'twas not over-civil to put her Goddessship to asking first; thou seest I'me better bred—come let's haste to silent Grots that attend us, dark Groves where none can see—and murmuring Fountains.
Stay, let me consider first, you are a stranger, inconstant too as Island Winds, and every day are Fighting for your Mistrisses of which you've had at least four since I saw you first, which is not a whole day.
I grant ye, before I was a Lover I ran at random, but I'le take up now, be a patient Man, and keep to one Woman a Month.
A Month!
And a fair reason, Child, time was, I wou'd have worn one Shirt, or one pair of Shoos so long as have let the Sun set twice upon the same sin; but see the power of Love: thou hast bewitch'd me that's certain.
Have a care of giving me the ascendant over ye, for fear I make ye marry me.
Hold, I bar that cast, Child; no, I'm none of those Spirits that can be conjur'd into a Wedding-ring, and dance in the dull Matrimonial Circle all my days.
But what think you of a hundred thousand Crowns, and a Beauty of sixteen.
As of most admirable blessings—but harkye, Child, I am plaguily afraid thou art some scurvy honest thing of Quality by these odd Questions of thine, and hast some wicked design upon by Body.
What, to have and to hold I'le warrant.
—No faith, Sir, Maids of my Quality expect better Jointures than a Buff-coat, Scarf and Feather: such Portions as mine are better ornaments in a Family than a Captain and his Commission.
Whe well said, now thou hast explain'd thy self like a Woman of Honour—Come, come, let's away.
Explain'd my self! how mean ye?
—Thou say'st I am not fit to marry thee—and I believe this assignation was not made to tell me so, nor yet to hear me whistle to the Birds.
Faith no, I saw you, lik'd ye, and had a mind to ye.
Ay Child—
In short, I took ye for a man of Honour.
Nay, if I tell the Devil take me.
I am a Virgin in distress.
Poor heart.
To be marry'd within a day or two to one I like not.
Hum—and therefore wou'dst dispose of a small Virgin Treasure (too good for silly Husbands) in a friends hands: faith, Child,—I Was ever a good Religious Charitable Christian, and shall acquit my self as honestly and piously in this affair as becomes a Gentleman.
Come away, are ye all Arm'd forthe business?
Hah, Arm'd, we are surpriz d again.
Fear not.
Oh God, Sir, haste away, you are already wounded! but I conjure you, as a Man of Honour, be here at the Garden Gate to night again, and bring a friend, in case of danger, with you, and if possible I'le put my self into your hands, for this nights work has ruin'd me—
—My Master sure not gone yet.
Rascals, tho you are odds, you'le find hot work in vanquishing
Hold, Sir, I am your Page. Do you not know me? and these the Musick you Commanded—shall I carry 'em where you order'd, Sir?
They take me for some other, this was lucky.
O, Aye—'tis well—I'le follow—but whither?—Plague of my dull mistakes, the Woman's gone—yet stay—
for now I think on't, this mistake may help me to another—stay—I must dispose of this mad fire about me, which all these disappointments cannot lay—oh for some young kind sinner in the nick—how I cou'd souse upon her like a Bird of Prey, and worry her with kindness—go on, I follow.
Well, the Stranger is in Bed, and most impatiently expects our Patrona, who is not yet returned.
You are so covetous, you might have put 'em off, but now 'tis too late.
Let this plead for me—
Sweet Don—you are the most Eloquent person—
I would regale to Night—I know it is not mine, but I've sent five hundred Crowns to purchase it, because I saw anoother bargaining for't; and persons of my Quality must not be refus'd: you apprehend me.
Most rightly—that was the reason then she came so out of humor home—and is gone to Bed in such a sullen fit—
To Bed, and all alone?—I wou'd surprise her there: Oh how it pleases me to think of stealing into her Arms like a fine dream, wench, hah.
'Twill be a pleasant one no doubt.
He lays the way out how he'l be couzen'd—
The Seigniora perhaps may be angry, Sir, but I'le venture that to accommodate you, and that you may surprise her the more readily, be pleas'd to stay in my Chamber, 'till you think she may be asleep.
Thou art a perfect Mistress of thy Trade.
So, now will I to the Seignioras Bed my self, drest and perfum'd, and finish two good works at once; earn five hundred Crowns, and keep up the honour of the House—softly sweet Don.
Heavens, have you made the Rover happy, Madam?
Oh wou'd I had, or that or any sin wou'd change this rage into some easier passion: sickness and poverty, disgrace and pity, all met in one, were kinder than this Love, this raging fire of a proud amorous heart.
Heavens, what's the matter?
How, Love! forbid it Heaven! will Love maintain ye?
Curse on your Maxims, will they ease my heart? Can your wise Counsel fetch me back my Rover?
Hah, your Rover, a Pox upon him.
He's gone—gone to the Arms of some gay generous Maid, who Nobly follows Loves diviner Dictates, whilst I'gainst Nature studying thy dull precepts; and to be base and infamously rich, have barter'd all the joys of human Life—oh give me Love! I will be poor and Love!
She's lost—but hear me—
I won't, from Childhood thou hast trained me up in cunning, read Lectures to me of the use of Man, but kept me from the knowledg of the right; taught me to Jilt, to flatter and deceive, and hard it was to learn th' ungrateful Lessons: but oh how soon plain Nature taught me Love! and show'd me all the cheat of thy false Tenents—no—give me Love with any other Curse.
But who will give you that when you are poor? when you are wretchedly despis'd and poor—
Hah—
She's in the right.
True—he can ne're be constant.
Heaven forbid he should, no, if you are so unhappy as that you must have him; give him a Night or two and pay him for't, and send him to feed again: but for your heart, 'Sdeath I would as soon part with my Beauty or Youth, and as necessary a tool 'tis for your Trade—a Curtezan and Love!—but all my Counsel's thrown away upon ye.
Nobly resolv'd, and for these other two who wait your coming, let me alone to manage.
This Gentlewoman is plaguy long in coming—some nicety now; some Perfum'd Smock, or Point Night-cloaths to make her more lovely in my eyes: well, these Women are right City Cooks, they stay so long to garnish the Dish 'till the meat be Cold—but hark,the Door opens—
Sure 'tis she, pretty modest Rogue, she comes i'th' dark to hide her blushes—hum, I'm plaguy Eloquent o'th'suddain—Who's there?
'Tis I, 'tis I, my Love—
Hah, sweet Soul, make haste: there 'twas again.
So kind, sure she takes me for some other, or has some inkling of my design—
Where are you sweetest?
Here my Love, give me your hand—
Here let me worship the fair shrine before I dare approach so fair a Saint—
Hah, what a Pox have we here—wou'd I were well out o'th' 'tother side—perhaps 'tis her Husband, and then I'm a dead Man if I'm discover'd.
Nay, do not fly—I know you took me for some happier person—
What will you ravish me?
What art thou, Rogue, Villain, Slave?
Give me my Sword; nay, give me but a knife, that I may cut yon fellow's Throat—
Say 'tis her Husband, or any thing to get him hence.
Come, I'm abus'd, but I must put it up for fear of my Honour; a States-man's reputation is a tender thing: Convey me out the back way. I'le be reveng'd.
Out, Sir, he has lock'd the door, and designs to have ye murther'd.
Oh gentle Soul—take pity on me—where, oh what shall I do?—my Cloaths, my Sword and Money.
Hah—I hear no noise, I'le venture down.
Whither will this Boy conduct me—but since to a Woman, no matter whither 'tis.
Hah, more Company: now dare not I stir up nor down they may be Bravoes to cut my Throat.
Oh sure these are they—
Come, my heart, lose no time, but tune your Pipes.
How, sure this is some Rival.
Harkye, Child, hast thou ne're an Amorous Ditty, short and sweet, hah—
Shall I not sing that you gave me, Sir—
I shall spoil all with hard Questions—Ay, Child—that, that—
'Sdeath, that's my Pages voice: who the Devil is't that Ploughs with my Heifer!
How now, what intruding Slave art thou?
What Thief art thou that basely, and by dark, rob'st me of all my rights?
Que questo.
Oh Gods! no more! I see a yielding in thy Charming Eyes, The Blushes on thy face, thy trembling Arms, Thy panting Breast, and short breath'd Sighs confess, Thou wo't be mine, in spight of all thy Art.
What need you urge my tongue then to repeat what from my eyes you can so well interpret.
—or if—it must—dispose—me as you please—
Heaven, I thank thee!
—Who wou'd not Plough an Age in Winter Seas, Or wade seven long years in ruder Camps, To find out this rest at last—
Upon thy tender Bosom to repose; To gaze upon thy eyes, and taste thy balmy kisses
—Sweeter than everlasting Groves of Spices, When the soft Winds display the opening Buds:—Come, haste, my Soul, to Bed—
You can be soft I find when you wou'd Conquer absolutely—
Not Infant Angels, not young sighing Cupids can be more; this Ravishing joy that thou hast promis'd me, has formed my Soul to such a calm of Love, it melts even at my eyes—
What have I done; that promise will undo me:—This Chamber was prepar'd, and I was drest to give admittance to another Lover.
But Love and Fortune both were on my side—Come, come to Bed—consider nought but Love—
Hark!
By Heav'n I will have entrance—
'Tis he whom I expect : as thou lov'st life and me, retire a little into this Closet—
Hah, retire—
He's the most fiercely jealous of his Sex, and disappointment will inrage him more.
Death, let him rage whoe're he be; do'st think I'le hide me from him, and leave thee to his Love? Shall I pent up through the thin Wainscot hear your sighs, your amorous words and sound of kisses? No, if thou canst couzen me, do't but discreetly, and I shall think thee true: I have thee now, and when I tamely part with thee, may Cowards Huff and Bully me.
And must I be undone because I love ye? This is the Mine from whence I fetcht my Gold!
Damn the base trash, I'le have thee poor, and mine; 'tis nobler far, to starve with him thou lov'st, than gay without, and pining all within.
Heavens, here will be murther done—he must not see him.
What art thou?
A Man.
—Oh thou false Woman, falser than thy smiles, which serve but to delude good natur'd man, and when thou hast him fast, betray'st his heart.
Heavens, how got this Ruffian in.
Hold, hold, dear Harry, lay no hands on her till thou canst make thy claim good.
She's mine, by bargain mine, and that's sufficient.
In Law perhaps, it may for ought I know, but'tis not so in Love; but thou'rt my friend, and I'le therefore give thee fair Play—if thou canst win her take her: but a Sword and a Mistriss are not to be lost if a man can keep 'em.
I cannot blame thee, thou but acts thy self—But thou fair Hypocrite, to whom I gave my heart, And this—exception made of all Man-kind? Why Would'st thou; as in malice to my Love, Give it the only Wound that cou'd destroy it?
Nay, if thou didst forbid her loving me, I have her sure.
See, sir—here's a much fairer Chapman—you may be gone—
Faith and so there is, Child' for me; I carry all about me, and that, by Heaven, is thine: I'le settle all upon thee but my Sword, and that will buy us bread. I've two led Horses too, one thou shalt manage, and follow me through dangers.
A very hopeful Comfortable life; no, I was made for better Exercises.
Whe every thing in its turn, Child, but a Man's but a Man.
No more, but if thou valuest her, Leave her to ease and plenty.
Leave her to love, my dear; one hour of right-down Love, is worth an Age of living dully on: What is't to be adorn'd and shine with Gold, Drest like a God, but never know the pleasure.—No, no, I have much finer things in store for thee.
What shall I do? here's powerful interest prostrate at my feet,
Glory, and all that vanity can boast;—But there—Love unadorn'd, no covering but his Wings,
No wealth, but a full Quiver to do mischiefs. Laughs at those meaner trifles—
Mute as thou art, Are not there minutes mine? But thou—ah false—hast dealt 'em out already, with all thy Charms of Love, to this unknown—Silence and guilty blushes say thou hast: He all disorder'd too, loose and undrest, with Love and Pleasure dancing in his eyes, tell me too plainly how thou hast deceiv'd me.
Or if I have not 'tis a trick soon done, And this ungrateful Jealousie wou'd put it in my head.
If it were so, you should not dare believe it—
Forgive me; oh so very well I love: Did I not know that thou hadst been a Whore, I'de give thee the last proof of Love—and marry thee—
The last indeed—for there's an end of Loving.
—Do, marry him, and be curst by all his Family: Marry him, and ruin him, that he may curse thee too. But harkye, friend, this is not fair; 'tis drawing Sharps on a Man that's only arm'd with the defensive Cudgel, I'm for no such dead-doing Arguments: if thou'rt for me, Child, it must be without the folly, for better for worse, there's a kind of Nonsense in that Vow fools only swallow.
But when I've worn out all my Youth and Beauty, and suffer'd every ill of Poverty, I shall be compell'd to begin the World again without a Stock to set up with; no faith, I'm for a substantial Merchant in Love, who can repay the loss of time and Beauty: with whom to make one thriving Voyage sets me up for ever, and I need never put to Sea again.
Nor be expos'd to storms of Poverty, the Indies shall come to thee—see here—this is the Merchandize my Love affords.
Look ye, Sir, will not these Pearls do better round my Neck than those kind Arms of yours? these Pendants in my Ears than all the tales of Love you can whisper there?
So—I am deceiv'd—deal on for trash—and barter all thy joys of Life for Baubles—this Night presents me one Adventure more—I'le try thee once again inconstant Fortune, and if thou fail'st me then—I will forswear thee—
—Death, hadst thou lov'd my friend for his own value, I had esteem'd thee; but when this Youth and Beauty cou'd not plead, to be the mercenary Conquest of his Presents, was poor, below thy Wit: I cou'd have Conquer'd so, but I scorn thee at that rate—my Purse shall never be my Pimp—farewel, Harry—
Thou'st sham'd me out of folly—stay—
Faith—I have an Assignation—with a Woman—a Woman friend! young as the infant day, and sweet as Roses e're the morning Sun—have kiss'd their Dew away—she will not ask me money neither.
Hah! stay—
She loves him, and her eyes betray her heart.
I am not for your turn, Child—Death, I shall lose my Mistress fooling here—I must be gone—
He's in the right; and shall I waste my Youth and Powerful fortune on one who all this while has Jilted me, seeing I was a lavish loving fool!—no—this Soul and Body shall not be divided—
My self and sword are yours. I have a Chair waits below too may do you service.
I thank ye—Madam—your Servant—
Left by both?
You see our affairs are pressing—
Gone! Where's all your power, ye poor deluded eyes, Curse on your feeble fires that cannot warm a heart which every common Beauty kindles: oh—he is gone for ever—
Yes he is gone, to your eternal ruin, not all the race of man cou'd have produc'd so bountiful and credulous a fool—
He has, he shall, he must compleat my ruin.
My Coach, my Veil—or let 'em all alone; undrest thus loosely to the Winds commit me to darkness, and no guide but pittying Cupid.
What, are you mad?
As Winds let loose, or Storms when they rage high.
'Tis hard by my Lodgings, if you want conveniences, I have the key of the back way through the Garden, whither you may carry your Mistriss.
I Thank thee—let me first secure my Woman—
—I thought I'd lov'd this false, this Jilting fair, even above my friendship; but I find I can forgive this Rogue, though I am sure he's robb'd me of my joys.
Not yet, a Devil on him, he's dear hearting it with some other kind Damzel—faith 'tis most wickedly done of me to venture my Body with a mad unknown fellow; thus a little more delay will put me into a serious consideration, and I shall e'n go home again, sleep and be sober.
Hah, a Woman! perhaps the same he looks for—I'le counterfeit his voice and try my chance—fortune may set us even.
Hah, is not that a man? yes—and a Chair waiting.
Who's there?
A Maid.
A miracle—oh art thou come, Child.
'Tis he, you're a civil Captain, are you not, to make a longing Maid expect thus. What Woman has detain'd you?
Hum, a Woman of Quality and Jilt me—Egad tha's strange now—well, who shall a Man trust in this wicked World!
This should be he, he saunters about like an expecting Lover.
By this Light a Woman, if she be the right—but right or wrong so she be Feminine: harkye, Child, I fancy thee some kind thing that belongs to me.
Who are you?—
A Wandering Lover that has lost his heart, and I have a shrewd guess 'tis in thy dear Bosom, Child.
Oh you're a pretty Lover, a Woman's like to have a sweet time on't, if you're always so tedious.
By yon bright Star-light, Child, I walk'd here in short turns like a Centinel, all this live long Evening, and was just going (Gad forgive me) to kill my self.
Well—how happy am I—in having so true a friend to condole me in affliction—
Seignior
Entende vos Signoria Englesa?
La art de transformatio.
How, born an old Woman?
Good Lord! born an old Woman! and so by transformation became invulnerable.
Ay—in—invulnerable—what would I give to be invulerable: and Egad I am almost weary of being a Man, and subject to beating: wou'd I were a Woman, a Man has but an ill time on't: if he has a mind to a Wench, the making Love is so plaguy tedious—then paying is to my Soul insupportable, but to be a Woman, to be Courted with presents, and have both the pleasure and the profit—to be without a Beard, and sing a fine treble—and squeak if the Men but kiss me—'twere fine—and what's better, I am sure never to be beaten again.
'Tis true, should I turn Whore to the disgrace of my Family—what wou'd the World say, Who wou'd have thought it, cries one; I cou'd never have believ'd, cries another; no, as thou say'st: I'le remain as I am—marry and live honestly.
Hah, a Light, undone!
Que et la!
Try your strength, I'le be civil and leave you.
Exeuse me, Seignior, I should crackle like a wicker Bottle in her Arms—no, Seignior, there's no venturing without a grate between us; the Devil wou'd not give her due Benevolence—no, when I'm marry'd, I'le e'ne show her a fair pair of Heels, her Portion will pay postage—but what if the Giant should carry her, that's to be fear'd, then I have cock'd and drest, and feed and ventur'd all this while for nothing.
Faith, seignior, if I were you, I wou'd make sure of something, see how rich she is in Jems.
Right, as thou say'st, I ought to make sure of something, and she is rich in Jems: How amiable looks that Neck with that delicious row of Pearls about it.
She sleeps.
Ay, she sleeps as 'twere her last. What if I made bold to unrig her? so if I miss the Lady, I have at least my charges paid, what vigorous Lover can resist her Charms—
but shou'd she wake and miss it, and find it about me, I shou'd be hang'd—
Well said.
Ay—I'le do't—but what remedy now against discovery and restitution—
Oh, Sir, take no care, you shall—swallow 'em.
How, swallow 'em, I shall ne're be able to do't.
I'le show you, Seignior, 'tis easie.
'Gad that may be, 'twere excellent if I cou'd do't; but first—by your leave.
Look ye, that's all—
Operator, Operator, Seignior.
How, an Operator, whe what the Devil makes he here? some Plot upon my Ladies Chastity; were I given to be Jealous now, danger wou'd insue—oh, he's entring, I wou'd not be seen for all the World: oh some place of refuge—
I know of none.
Hah, whats this—a Clock-Case—
Good, good—look you, Sir, do you do thus, and 'tis imposslble to discover ye.
Oh Heaven, he's here.
Oh Traytor to my Bed, what a Hellish Plot's here discover'd.
Oh are you come my sweetest?
Hah, the Mistress of my Bosom false too; ah, who wou'd trust faithless Beauty—oh that I durst speak—
Hang 'em Pigeon-hearted slaves—
A Clock—let's see what hour 'tis—
—how! betray'd—I'le kill the Villain.
Say you so, then 'tis time for me to uncase.
Have you your Lovers hid?
Softly or we're undone; give me your hand and be undeceiv'd.
'Tis she, now shall I be reveng'd.
What gone! Death, has this Monster got the Arts of Woman.
Now we are safe and free let's in my Soul, and gratefully first Sacrifice to Love, then to the Gods of Mirth and Wine, my dear.
I was damnably afraid I was pursu'd.
Something in the fray I've got, pray Heaven it prove a Prize, after my Cursed ill luck of losing my Lady Dwarf: Why do you tremble fair one?—you're in the hands of an honest Gentleman, Adshartlikins.
Alas, Sir, Just as I approacht Seignior Doctor's Door, to have my self surrounded with naked Weapons, then to drop with the fear my Casket of Jewels, which had not you by chance stumbled on and taken up, I had lost a hundred thousand Crowns with it.
Ha um—a hundred thousand Crowns—a pretty trifling sum—I'le marry her out of hand.
I hope you are a Man of Honour, Sir, I am a Virgin, fled from the rage of an incens'd Brother; cou'd you but secure me with my Treasure, I wou'd be devoted yours.
but hark—prithee, my Dear, step in a little, I'le keep my good fortune to my self.
See what trust I repose in your hands, those Jewels, Sir.
So—there can be no Jilting here, I am secur'd from being couzen'd however.
Pox on all fools, I say, and a double Pox on all fighting fools; just when I had miraculously got my Monster by a mistake in the dark, convey'd her out, and within a moment of marrying her, to have my friend set upon me and occasion my losing her, was a Catastrophe which none but thy termagant Courage (which never did any man good) cou'd have procur'd.
'Dshartlikins I cou'd kill my self—
To fight away a couple of such hopeful Monsters, and two Millions—'owns, was ever Valour so improvident?
Fight, 'Sbud a Million of Money wou'd have provok'd a Bully; besides, I took you for the damn'd Rogue my Rival.
Yes, yes, I feel you did, a Pox of your heavy hand.
So whil'st we two were lovingly cutting each other, comes the Rival, I suppose, and carry's off the Prize.
Faith, you may if you please, but fortune has provided otherwise for me.
Sure none lives here, or Thieves are broken in, the Doors are all left open.
Pray Heaven this stranger prove but honest now.
Now my dear Creature every thing conspires to make us happy, let us not defer it.
—Methinks you cool upon't, Captain.
Oh what a world of time have I mispent for want of being a Blockhead—'Sdeath and Hell, wou'd I had been some brawny ruffilng fool, some forward impudent unthinking sloven, a Womans tool; for all besides unmanageable.—Come, swear that all this while you thought 'twas I: the Devil has taught ye tricks to bring your falshood off.
Know 'twas you? no, faith, I took you for as errant a right-down Captain as ever Woman wisht for: and twas uncivil Egad to undeceive me, I tell you that now.
Thou art all Charms, a Heaven of sweets all over, plump smooth round Limbs, small rising Breasts, a Bosom soft and panting—I long to wound each sense: Lights there—who waits—there yet remains a Pleasure unpossest, the light of that dear face.—Lights there—where are my Vermin?
My Captain with a Woman—and is it so—
By Heaven a glorious Beauty! now a blessing on thee for showing me so dear a face—come, Child, let's retire, and begin where we left off.
A Woman!
Where we left off, pray, where was that good Captain?
Within upon the Bed, Child—come—I'le show thee—
Hold, Sir.
come fit to celebrate my happiness: ah such a Woman friend!
Do ye know her?
All ore, to be the softest sweetest Creature—
I mean, do ye know who she is?
Nor care; 'tis the last Question I ever ask a fine Woman.
And you are sure you are thus well acquainted.
And do you know—this Lady is my—Wife?
Hah! hum, hum, hum, hum—
Draw, Sir—what—on my friend.
On your Cuckold, Sir, for so you've doubly made me: Draw, or I'le kill thee—
Hold, prithee hold—
Put up your Sword, this Lady's innocent, at least in what concerns this Evenings business: I own—with pride I own I am the Woman that pleas'd so well to Night.
False as thou art, why shou'd I credit thee?
By Heav'n, 'tis true, I will not lose the glory on't.
Oh the dear Perjur'd Creature, how I Love thee for this dear lying Vertue—harkye, Child, hast thou nothing to say for thy self to help us out withal?—
I! Renounce ye—false Man.
Yes, yes, I know she's innocent of this, for which I owe no thanks to either of you, but to my self who mistook her in the dark.
And you it seems mistook me for this Lady; I favour'd your design to gain your heart, for I was told, that if this Night I lost you, I shou'd never regain you: now I am yours, and o're the habitable World will follow you; and live and starve by turns as fortune pleases.
Nay, by this light, Child, I knew when once thou'dst try'd me, thou'dst ne'r part with me—give me thy hand, no poverty shall part us.
—so—now here's a bargain made without the formal foppery of Marriage.
Nay, faith Captain, she that will not take thy word as soon as the Parsons of the Parish deserves not the blessing.
Thou art reform'd, and I adore the change.
My Nieces stoln, and by a couple of the Seigniors Men! the Seignior fled too, undone, undone.
Hah, now's my Cue; I must finish this Jest.
Oh impudence, my Nieces, and the Villains with 'em; I charge ye Gentlemen to lay hold on 'em.
For what good Uncle, for being so couragious to marry us.
Who the Devil wou'd have look'd for Jilting in such Hobgoblins?
And hast thou deceiv'd me, thou foul filthy Synagogue.
The Mountebank! oh thou cheating Quack, thou sophisticated adulterated Villain.
Thou cozening, lying, fortune-telling, fee-taking Rascal.
Thou Jugling, Conjuring, Canting Rogue!
What's the matter, Gentlemen?
Hast thou the impudence to ask who took my money to marry me to this ill-favour'd Baboon.
And me to this foul filthy o'er-grown Chronacle.
Nay, I'le Peach him in the inquisition for a Wizard, and have him hang'd for a Witch.
Sir, we are Gentlemen, and you shall have the thirds of their Portion, what wou'd you more.
Look ye, Sir.
Ay, ay, 'tis he.
Draw, Sir—you know me—
For one that 'tis impossible to couzen.
Have a care, Sir, we are all for the Captain.
Fools, put up your Swords, fools, and do not publish the Jest; your money you shall have again, on condition you never pretend to be wiser than your other men, but modestly believe you may be cozened as well as your Neighbours.
Hah, do not I know that Casket, and those Jewels.
How the Pox came this Rogue by these?
Lady, Sir! alas no, I am a fool, a Country fop, an ass, I; but that you may perceive your selves mistaken, Gentlemen, this is but an earnest of what's to come, a small token of remembrance, or so—and yet I have no Charms, I; the fine Captain has all the Wit and Beauty—but thou'rt my friend, and I'le impart.
Hither we trac'd her, and see she's yonder.
Sir, in the Kings Name lay hold of this, old cheat; she has this Night robb'd our Pattona of a hundred thousand Crowns in Money and Jewels.
Hah!
How! couz'nd again!
Look ye, Sir, she's so Beautiful, you need no Portion, that alone's sufficient for a Wit.
Death, this fool laugh at me too—Well, I am an errant right-down Logerhead, a dull conceited couzen'd silly fool, and he that ever takes me for any other, 'Dshartlikins, I'le beat him: I forgive you all, and will henceforth be good natur'd: wo't borrow any money, Pox on't, I'le lend as far as e're 'twill go, for I am now reclaim'd.
Here is a Necklace of Pearl lost, which, Sir, I lay to your Charge.
Hum, I was bewitcht I did not rub off with it when it was mine—who I, if e're I saw a Necklace of Pearl, I wish 'twere in my Belly.
How, a Necklace, unconscionable Rogue, not to let me share, well there is no friendship in this World: I hope they'l hang him.
He'l ne'r confess without the Rack—come, we'l toss him in a Blanket.
Hah, toss me in a Blanket, that will turn my Stomach most villainously, and I shall disimbogue and discover all.
Come, come, the Blanket.
Hold, hold, I do confess, I do confess—
Restore, and have your Pardon.
That is not in Nature at present, for Gentlemen, I have eat 'em.
'Sdeath, I'le dissect ye.
Let me redeem him; here Boy, take him to my Chamber, and let the Doctor Glyster him soundly, and I'le warrant you your Pearl again.
With all my heart.
You have a hankering after Marriage still, but I am for Love and Gallantry. So tho by several Ways we gain our End, Love still, like Death, does to one Center tend.