Sir Charl. See, my dear Creature, even this hard old Man is mollify’d at last into good Nature; yet you’ll still be cruel.
L. Gal. No, your unwearied Love at last has vanquisht me. Here, be as happy as a Wife can make ye—One last look more, and then—be gone, fond Love.
[Sighing and looking on Wilding, giving Sir Charles her Hand.
Sir Charl. Come, Sir, you must receive Diana too; she is a cheerful witty Girl, and handsome, one that will be a Comfort to your Age, and bring no Scandal home. Live peaceably, and do not trouble your decrepid Age with Business of State.
Let all things in their own due Order move,
Let Caesar be the Kingdom’s Care and Love;
Let the hot-headed Mutineers petition,
And meddle in the Rights of just Succession:
But may all honest Hearts as one agree
To bless the King, and Royal Albany.
[Exeunt.
EPILOGUE.
Written by a Person of Quality: Spoken by Mrs. Boteler.
My Plot, I fear, will take but with a few,
A rich young Heiress to her first Lover true!
’.is damn’d unnatural, and past enduring,
Against the fundamental Laws of Whoring.
Marrying’s the Mask, which Modesty assures,
Helps to get new, and covers old Amours;
And Husband sounds so dull to a Town-Bride,
Ye now-a-days condemn him e’er he’s try’d;
E’er in his Office he’s confirmed Possessor,
Like Trincaloes you chuse him a Successor,
In the gay Spring of Love, when free from Doubts,
With early Shoots his Velvet Forehead sprouts,
Like a poor Parson bound to hard Indentures,
You make him pay his First-fruits e’er he enters.
But for short Carnivals of stain good Cheer,
You’re after forc’d to keep Lent all the Year;
Till brought at last to a starving Nun’s Condition,
You break into our Quarters for Provision;
Invade Fop-corner with your glaring Beauties,
And ‘tice our Loyal Subjects from their Duties.
Pray, Ladies, leave that Province to our Care;
A Fool is the Fee-simple of a Player,
In which we Women claim a double share.
In other things the Men are Rulers made;
But catching Woodcocks is our proper Trade.
If by Stage-Fops they a poor Living get,
We can grow rich, thanks to our Mother-Wit,
By the more natural Blockheads of the Pit.
Take then the Wits, and all their useless Prattles;
But as for Fools, they are our Goods and Chattels.
Return, Ingrates, to your first Haunt the Stage;
We taught your Youth, and helped your feeble Age.
What is’t you see in Quality we want?
What can they give you which we cannot grant?
We have their Pride, their Frolicks, and their Paint.
We feel the same Touth dancing in our Blood;
Our Dress as gay—All underneath as good.
Most Men have found us hitherto more true,
And if we’re not abus’d by some of you,
We’re full as fair—perhaps as wholesom too.
But if at best our hopeful Sport and Trade is,
And nothing now will serve you but great Ladies;
May question’d Marriages your Fortune be,
And Lawyers drain your Pockets more than we:
May Judges puzzle a clear Case with Laws,
And Musquetoon at last decide the Cause.