The Works of Aphra Behn, Volume IV - Aphra Behn

Sir Patient Fancy, a hypochondriacal old alderman, has taken a second wife, Lucia, a young and beautiful woman who, although feigning great affection and the strictest conjugal fidelity, intrigues with a gallant, Charles Wittmore, the only obstacle to their having long since married being mutual poverty. However, the jealousy and uxoriousness of the doting husband give the lovers few opportunities; on one occasion, indeed, as Lady Fancy is entertaining Wittmore in the garden they are surprised by Sir Patient, and she is obliged to pass her visitor off under the name of Fainlove as a suitor to her step-daughter, Isabella, in which rôle he is accepted by Sir Patient. But Isabella has betrothed herself to Lodwick, a son of the pedantic Lady Knowell: whilst Lucretia Knowell loves Leander, the alderman’s nephew, in spite of the fact that she is promised by her mother to Sir Credulous Easy, a bumpkinly knight from Devonshire. Lodwick, who is a close friend of Leander, has been previously known to Sir Credulous, and resolving to trick and befool the coxcomb warmly welcomes him on his arrival in town. He persuades him, in fine, to give a ridiculous serenade, or, rather, a hideous hubbub, of noisy instruments under his mistress’ window. A little before this Lady Knowell with a party of friends has visited Sir Patient, who is her next neighbour, and the loud laughter, talking, singing and foppery so enrage the precise old valetudinarian that he resolves to leave London immediately for his country house, a circumstance which would be fatal to his wife’s amours. Wittmore and she, however, persuade him that he is very ill, and on being shown his face in a looking-glass that magnifies instead of in his ordinary mirror, he imagines that he is suddenly swollen and puffed with disease, and so is led lamenting to bed, leaving the coast clear for the nonce. Isabella, however, has made an assignation with Lodwick at the same time that her stepmother eagerly awaits her own gallant, and in the dark young Knowell is by mistake escorted to Lucia’s chamber, whilst Wittmore encountering Isabella, and thinking her Lady Fancy, proceeds to act so amorously that the error is soon discovered and the girl flies from his ardour. In her hurry, however, she rushes blundering into Lucia’s bedchamber, where she finds Knowell. It is just at this moment that Sir Credulous Easy’s deafening fanfare re-echoes in the street, and Sir Patient, awakened and half-stunned by the pandemonium, is led grouty and bawling into his wife’s room, where he discovers Knowell, whom Lucia has all this time taken for Wittmore; but her obvious confusion and dismay thereon are such that Sir Patient does not suspect the real happenings, which she glozes over with a tale concerning Isabella. Meantime the serenaders are dispersed and routed by a band of the alderman’s servants and clerks. Sir Credulous courting Lucretia, who loathes him, meets Knowell bringing a tale of a jealous rival able to poison at a distance by means of some strangely subtle venom, upon which the Devonshire knight conceals himself in a basket, hoping to be conveyed away to his old uncle in Essex, whereas he is merely transported next door. Sir Patient, who surprises his lady writing a love-letter, which she turns off by appending Isabella’s name thereto, is so overwhelmed with her seeming affection and care for his family that he presents her with eight thousand pounds in gold and silver, and resolves to marry his daughter to Fainlove (Wittmore) without any further delay. But whilst he is gone down to prayers and Lucia is entertaining her lover, the old nurse informs him that his little daughter Fanny has long been privy to an intrigue between Knowell and Isabella, whereupon, in great perturbation, he rushes upstairs again to consult with his wife, who hurries Wittmore under the bed. Sir Patient, however, warmed with cordials which he quaffs to revive his drooping spirits, does not offer to quit the chamber, but lies down on the bed, and the gallant is only enabled to slip out unobserved after several accidents each of which nearly betrays his presence. Upon the marriage morning Isabella in a private interview rejects her pseudo-suitor with scorn and contumely, whereat Knowell, who has of intent been listening, reveals to her that it is his friend Wittmore and no real lover who is seemingly courting her, and with his help, whilst Sir Patient is occupied with a consultation of doctors (amongst whom Sir Credulous appears disguised as a learned member of the faculty), Isabella and Knowell are securely married. Lady Knowell, who has feigned a liking for Leander, generously gives him to Lucretia, Sir Patient’s attention being still engrossed by the physicians who assemble in great force. Soon after, at Leander’s instigation, in order to test his wife, Sir Patient feigns to be dead of a sudden apoplexy, and for a few moments, whilst others are present, Lucia laments him with many plaints and tears, but immediately changes when she is left alone with Wittmore. The lovers’ plans, however, are overheard by the husband, who promptly confronts his wife with her duplicity. Amazed and confounded indeed, he forgives Leander and his daughter for marrying contrary to his former wishes; and when Lucia coolly announces her intention to play the hypocrite and puritan no more, but simply to enjoy herself with the moneys he has settled on her without let or proviso, he humorously declares he will for his part also drop the prig and canter, and turn town gallant and spark.

[SOURCE.]

In spite of Mrs. Behn’s placid assertion in her address ‘To the Reader’ that she has only taken ‘but a very bare hint’ from a foreign source, Le Malade Imaginaire, the critics who cried out that Sir Patient Fancy ‘was made out of at least four French plays’ are patently right. Sir Patient is, of course, Argan throughout and in detail; moreover, in the scene where the old alderman feigns death, there is very copious and obvious borrowing from Act iii of Le Malade Imaginaire. Some of the doctors’ lingo also comes from the third and final interlude of Molière’s comedy, whilst the idea of the medical consultation is pilfered from L’Amour Médecin, Act ii, II. Sir Credulous Easy is Monsieur de Porceaugnac, but his first entrance is taken wholesale from Brome’s The Damoiselle; or, The New Ordinary (8vo, 1653), Act ii, I, where Amphilus and Trebasco discourse exactly as do Curry and his master. The pedantic Lady Knowell is a mixture of Philaminte and Bélise from Les Femmes Savantes. The circumstance in Act iv, II, when Lucia, to deceive her husband, appends Isabella’s name to the love-letter she has herself just written, had already been used by Wycherley at the commencement of Act v of that masterpiece of comedy, The Country Wife (4to, 1675, produced in 1672), where Mrs. Pinchwife, by writing ‘your slighted Alithea’ as the subscription of a letter, completely befools her churlish spouse.

Molière’s comedies, which were so largely conveyed in Sir Patient Fancy, have been a gold mine for many of our dramatists. From Le Malade Imaginaire Miller took his Mother-in-Law; or, The Doctor the Disease, produced at the Haymarket, 12 February, 1734, and Isaac Bickerstaffe, Dr. Last in his Chariot, produced at the same theatre 25 August, 1769. In this farce Bickerstaffe further introduces the famous consultation scene from L’Amour Médecin, a play which had been made use of by Lacy, The Dumb Lady; or, The Farrier made a Physician (1672); by Owen Swiney, The Quacks; or, Love’s the Physician, produced at Drury Lane, 18 March, 1705; by Miller, Art and Nature, produced at the same theatre 16 February, 1738; and in an anonymous one act piece, which is little more than a bare translation under the title Love is the Doctor, performed once only at Lincoln’s Inn Fields, 4 April, 1734.

Monsieur de Pourceaugnac supplied Ravenscroft with material no less than three times. In Mamamouchi; or, The Citizen turn’d Gentleman, acted early in 1672, we have Sir Simon Softhead, who is Pourceaugnac in detail; in The Careless Lovers, produced at the Duke’s House in 1673, and again in The Canterbury Guests; or, A Bargain Broken, played at the Theatre Royal in 1694, we have in extenso Act ii, Scenes VIII, IX, X, of the French comedy. Crowne’s Sir Mannerley Shallow (The Country Wit, 1675) comes from the same source. Squire Trelooby, produced at Lincoln’s Inn Fields, 20 March, 1704, and revived as The Cornish Squire at Drury Lane, 3 January, 1734, is ascribed to Vanbrugh, Congreve, and Walsh; but this, as well as a farce produced at Dublin in 1720 by Charles Shadwell and entitled The Plotting Lovers; or, The Dismal Squire, cannot claim to be anything but translations. Miller’s Mother-in-Law, again, includes much of Monsieur de Pourceaugnac; and Thomas Sheridan’s Captain O’Blunder; or, The Brave Irishman, produced at Goodman’s Fields, 31 January, 1746, is a poor adaptation. Mrs. Parsons abbreviated Molière to The Intrigues of a Morning, played at Covent Garden, 18 April, 1792, a jejune effort. Les Femmes Savantes was rather racily transformed by Thomas Wright into The Female Virtuosoes, and produced at Drury Lane in 1693. It was revived as No Fools like Wits at Lincoln’s Inn Fields, 10 January, 1721, to anticipate Cibber’s The Refusal; or, The Ladies’ Philosophy, which had a run of six nights. Miller, in his The Man of Taste, once more had resource to Molière. His play was produced at Drury Lane, 6 March, 1735. It has no value.

Of all these borrowers Mrs. Behn is infinitely the best. Sir Patient Fancy is, indeed, an excellent comedy, and had she used more leisure might have been improved to become quite first rate. Perhaps she plagiarized so largely owing to the haste with which her play was written and staged, but yet everything she touched has been invested with an irresistible humour. A glaring example of her hurry remains in the fact that the ‘precise clerk’ of Sir Patient has a double nomenclature. In Act iii he appears as Abel; in Act iv, III, he is referred to as Bartholomew, and under this last name has an exit marked in Act v. This character is only on the stage twice and is given but some three or four lines to speak. Obviously, when writing her fourth act, Aphra forgot she had already christened him.

[THEATRICAL HISTORY.]

Sir Patient Fancy was produced at the Duke’s Theatre, Dorset Garden, in January, 1678, with an exceptionally strong cast which included both Betterton and his wife. It met with the great success it fully deserved. The critics, indeed, were not slow to detect Mrs. Behn’s plagiarisms, but the only real opposition was negligible disapproval of a modest clique, who a few years later vainly tried to damn The Lucky Chance. After the death of the two famous comedians Antony Leigh and James Nokes in December, 1692, Sir Patient Fancy, owing to the inability of succeeding actors to sustain the two rôles, Sir Patient and Sir Credulous, which had been created by this gifted pair, completely dropped out of the repertory of the theatre. It was not singular in its fate, for Cibber expressly tells us that D’Urfey’s excellent comedy The Fond Husband, and Crowne’s satirical City Politics, ‘lived only by the extraordinary performance of Nokes and Leigh.’

[TO THE READER.]

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

[SIR PATIENT FANCY.]

[PROLOGUE,]

Spoken by Mr. Betterton.

We write not now, as th’ antient Poets writ,

For your Applause of Nature, Sense and Wit;

But, like good Tradesmen, what’s in fashion vent,

And cozen you, to give ye all content.

True Comedy, writ even in Dryden’s Style,

Will hardly raise your Humours to a Smile.

Long did his Sovereign Muse the Scepter sway,

And long with Joy you did true Homage pay:

But now, like happy States, luxurious grown,

The Monarch Wit unjustly you dethrone,

And a Tyrannick Commonwealth prefer,

Where each small Wit starts up and claims his share;

And all those Laurels are in pieces torn,

Which did e’er while one sacred Head adorn.

Nay, even the Women now pretend to reign;

Defend us from a Poet Joan again!

That Congregation’s in a hopeful way

To Heaven, where the Lay-Sisters teach and pray.

Oh the great Blessing of a little Wit!

I’ve seen an elevated Poet sit,

And hear the Audience laugh and clap, yet say,

Gad after all, ’tis a damn’d silly Play:

He unconcern’d, cries only—Is it so?

No matter, these unwitty things will do,

When your fine fustian useless Eloquence

Serves but to chime asleep a drousy Audience.

Who at the vast expence of Wit would treat,

That might so cheaply please the Appetite?

Such homely Fare you’re like to find to night:

Our Author

Knows better how to juggle than to write:

Alas! a Poet’s good for nothing now,

Unless he have the knack of conjuring too;

For ’tis beyond all natural Sense to guess

How their strange Miracles are brought to pass.

Your Presto Jack be gone, and come again,

With all the Hocus Art of Legerdemain;

Your dancing Tester, Nut-meg, and your Cups,

Out-does your Heroes and your amorous Fops.

And if this chance to please you, by that rule,

He that writes Wit is much the greater Fool.

[DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.]

MEN.
Sir Patient Fancy, an old rich Alderman, and one thatfancies himself always sick,	Mr. Anthony Leigh.
Leander Fancy, his Nephew, in love withLucretia,	Mr. Crosby.
Wittmore, Gallant to the Lady Fancy, a wildyoung Fellow of a small Fortune,	Mr. Betterton.
Lodwick Knowell, Son to the Lady Knowell, in lovewith Isabella,	Mr. Smith.
Sir Credulous Easy, a foolish Devonshire Knight,design’d to marry Lucretia,	Mr. Nokes.
Curry, his Groom,	Mr. Richards.
Roger, Footman to the Lady Fancy.
Abel (Bartholomew), Clerk to Sir Patient Fancy.
Brunswick, a friend to Lodwick Knowell.
Monsieur Turboon, a French Doctor.
A Fat Doctor.
An Amsterdam Doctor.
A Leyden Doctor.
Page to the Lady Knowell.
Guests, Six Servants to Sir Patient, Ballad-Singers andSerenaders.
WOMEN.
The Lady Fancy, Young Wife to Sir Patient,	Mrs. Currer.
The Lady Knowell, an affected learned Woman, Mother toLodwick and Lucretia,	Mrs. Gwin.
Lucretia, Daughter to the L. Knowell,	Mrs. Price.
Isabella, Daughter to Sir Patient Fancy,	Mrs. Betterton.
Fanny, a Child of seven Years old, Daughter to SirPatient Fancy.
Maundy, the Lady Fancy’s Woman,	Mrs. Gibbs.
Betty, Waiting-woman to Isabella.
Antic, Waiting-woman to Lucretia.
Nurse.

SCENE London, in two Houses.

[ ACT I.]

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

Enter Lucretia with Isabella.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Isab. Long since.

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

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

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

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

Lucr. And are the most noisy, keeping Fops.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enter L. Knowell and Leander.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lean. Not a word on’t, Madam.

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

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

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

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

Enter Lodwick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cur. What, your Dog-tutor, Sir?

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

Cur. Yes, Sir.

Enter Leander, and starts back seeing Sir Cred.

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

Cur. Yes, Sir.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enter Lodwick.

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

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

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

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

Lod. ’Tis a joyful hearing, Sir.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sir Cred. Why, let’s hear her way.

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

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

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

Sir Cred. Zoz, out with it, Man.

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

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

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

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

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

Enter Lean. Lucr. and Isab.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lod. Ah, now I perceive it plain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lod. I told you this would take her.

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

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

Enter Page.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sir Cred. How! a Serenade!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lod. That, that by all means, Sir.

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

Lod. You must provide your self of a Song.

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

Enter Leander.

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

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

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

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

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

Lean. Trust my Friendship.—

[Ex. severally.]

[ ACT II.]

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

Enter Lady Fancy, Wittmore, and Maundy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wit. Does he never go out of Town?

L. Fan. Never without me.

Wit. Nor to Chuch?

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

Wit. Right, my fair Hypocrite.

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

Wit. What Miracles cannot your Eyes and Tongue perform!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enter Roger running.

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

L. Fan. Roger, what’s the matter?

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

L. Fan. What an unlucky Accident was this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wit. May I depend upon that Happiness?

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

Sir Pat. My Lady Fancy, you promise largely.

L. Fan. Sir Patient here!

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

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

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

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

Wit. Sir, I have—

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

Wit. You guess most right, Sir.

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

Wit. Now, Invention, help me or never.

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

Wit. Fainlove, Sir.

Sir Pat. Good Mr. Fainlove, your Country?

Wit. Yorkshire, Sir.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enter Fanny.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

L. Fan. My Lady Knowell?

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

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

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

Enter Roger.

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

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

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

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

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

Wit. Unkind Creature!

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

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

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

Enter Sir Patient and Isabella.

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

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

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

Enter Fanny.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fan. Gemini, Sister, does the Gentleman conjurer?

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

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

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

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

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

Enter Lodwick pulling in Wittmore, Leander with them.

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

Wit. You must excuse me, Gentlemen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Exit Wittmore, they come in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Enter Sir Patient.]

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

Sir Pat. Why, this is abominable and insupportable.

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

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

Lucr. A younger Brother’s, Sir?

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

Lucr. Witty, I protest.

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

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

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

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

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

L. Fan. Never, Sir.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sir Pat. What thing, my Lady Knowell?

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

Sir Pat. Yes, Madam.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Exeunt.

[ Scene II.] Changes to a Chamber.

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

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

Roger, is the Coach ready, Roger?

Rog. Yes, Sir, with four Horses.

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

Sir Pat. Affairs! what Affairs?

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

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

L. Fan. What shall I do?

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

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

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

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

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

Wit. Most wonderfully.

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

Wit. Lord, how wildly he stares!

Sir Pat. Hah, stare wildly!

Rog. Are you not very sick, Sir?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wit. Alas, I’m sorry for that, Sir.

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

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

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

Enter Maundy with the Clothes, she starts.

Maun. Good Heaven, what ails you, Sir?

Sir Pat. Oh—oh—’tis so.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wit. Till then ’twill be a thousand Ages.

L. Fan. At Games of Love Husbands to cheat is fair,

’Tis the Gallant we play with on the square. [Exeunt severally.]

[ ACT III.]

[ Scene I.]

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

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

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

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

SONG made by a Gentleman.

Sitting by yonder River side,

Parthenia thus to Cloe cry’d,

Whilst from the fair Nymph’s Eyes apace

Another Stream o’er-flow’d her beauteous Face;

Ah happy Nymph, said she, that can

So little value that false Creature, Man.

Oft the perfidious things will cry,

Alas they burn, they bleed, they die;

But if they’re absent half a Day,

Nay, let ’em be but one poor Hour away,

No more they die, no more complain,

But like unconstant Wretches live again.

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

Isab. What business?

Lod. Of giving me admittance to night.

Isab. And may I trust your honesty?

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

Isab. Away, here’s my Mother.

Enter Lady Fancy [and Maundy].

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

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

L. Fan. Alas, Madam!—

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

L. Fan. Really, Madam, I believe—

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

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

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

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

Lod. Isabella, shall I find admittance anon?

Isab. On fair Conditions.

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

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

Ex. all but L. Fan. and Maundy.

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

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

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

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

Exeunt.

[ Scene II.] Lady Knowell’s Chamber.

Enter Lady Knowell and Leander.

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

Enter Lucretia, and peeps.

Lean. I wish I did not, Madam,

Unless I’d Virtue to deserve the Bounty;

I have Dissimulation hides,

Inconstant, wild, debauch’d as Youth can make me.

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

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

As wild and as inconstant as she can;

I have a Fortune too that can support that Humour,

That of Lucretia does depend on me,

And when I please is nothing;

I’m far from Age or Wrinkles, can be courted

By Men, as gay and youthful as a new Summer’s Morn,

Beauteous as the first Blossoms of the Spring,

Before the common Sun has kiss’d their Sweets away,

If with salacious Appetites I lov’d.

Lean. Faith, Madam, I cou’d wish—

L. Kno. That I were but Fifteen: but

If there be inequality in Years,

There is so too in Fortunes, that might add

A Lustre to my Eyes, Charms to my Person,

And make me fair as Venus, young as Hebe.

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

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

Lean. Stay, Madam—

Enter Lucretia.

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

And sacrifice both her, and those to Interest.

Oh, how I hate this whining and dissembling!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lucr. Yet that last must be done.

Lean. How!

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

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

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

Lean. I cannot teach my Tongue so much Deceit.

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

Enter Antick.

Ant. Madam, your Mother’s coming.

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

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

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

Thrusts him out.

[Scene III.] A Garden.

Enter Maundy by dark: Opens the Garden-Door.

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

Enter Lodwick.

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

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

Exeunt.

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

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

Enter Maundy leading Lodwick.

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

Lod. Where are you, my dearest Creature?

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

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

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

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

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

Lod. I’m fix’d: Death, was ever such a Lover?

Just ready for the highest Joys of Love,

And like a bashful Girl restrain’d by Fear

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

L. Fan. Heavens! what can you mean?

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

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

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

Oh, with what Vigour I could deal my Love

To some fair leud unknown,

To whom I’d never made a serious Vow!

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

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

L. Fan. Is safe, from any fear of interrupting us.

Come—these Delays do ill consist with Love

And our Desires; at least if they are equal.

Lod. Death, ’tis the charming Mother!

What lucky Star directed me to night?

O my fair Dissembler, let us haste

To pay the mighty Tributes due to Love.

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

Lod. Not Flowers grow, nor smooth Streams glide away,

Not absent Lovers sigh, nor breaks the Day,

More silently than I’ll those Joys receive,

Which Love and Darkness do conspire to give.

Exeunt.

[ Scene V.] Changes again to a Garden.

Enter Isabella and Fanny in their Night-gowns.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Isab. What Noise is that?

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

Enter Wittmore.

Wit. Who’s there?

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

Wit. Not take! what’s that? hast thou reserves in store?

—Oh, come and let me lead thee to thy Bed,

Or seat thee on some Bank of softer Flowers,

Where I may rifle all thy unknown Store.

Isab. How! surely you’re not in earnest?—Do you love me?

Wit. Love thee! by thy dear self, all that my Soul adores,

I’m all impatient Flame! all over Love!

—You do not use to doubt, but since you do,

Come, and I’ll satisfy thy obliging Fears,

And give thee Proofs how much my Soul is thine,

I’ll breathe it all anew into thy Bosom.—

Oh, thou art fit for the transporting Play,

All loose and wanton, like the Queen of Love

When she descends to meet the Youth in Shades.

Isab. And are you, Sir, in earnest? can it be?

Wit. That question was severe, what means my Love?

What pretty Art is this to blow my Flame?

Are you not mine? did we not meet t’enjoy?

I came not with more vigorous eager Haste,

When our first Sacrifice to Love we paid,

Than to perform that Ceremony now.

Come do not let the Sacred Fire burn out,

Which only was prepar’d for Love’s rich Altar,

And this is the divine, dark, silent Minute— Goes to lead her off.

Isab. Hold, Ravisher, and know this saucy Passion

Has render’d back your Interest. Now I hate ye,

And my Obedience to my Father’s Will

Shall marry me to Fainlove, and I’ll despise ye. Flings from him.

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

Runs after her.

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

Enter Isabella groping as in the dark.

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

Goes out groping, and the noise of Serenade again.

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

Enter Isabella groping, Sir Patient without.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Isab. A Man’s Voice!

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

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

L. Fan. Hah, Noise!—what means he?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Isab. Oh cunning Devil!—

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

Isab. Heavens! what says she?—

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

Lod. A good hint to save both our Credits.

Sir Pat. How, Mr. Fainlove mean you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sir Pat. Hah, Isabella here too!

Isab. Yes, Sir, to justify her Innocence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Exeunt Lodwick and Maundy.

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

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

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

Enter Lodwick and Maundy as passing over, but stand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sir Credulous should have sung.

Thou Grief of my Heart, and thou Pearl of my Eyes,

[D’on thy Flannel] Petticoat quickly, and rise;

And from thy resplendent Window discover

A Face that wou’d mortify any young Lover:

For I, like great Jove transformed, do wooe,

And am amorous Owl, to wit to wooe, to wit to wooe.

A Lover, Ads Zoz, is a sort of a Tool

That of all Things you best may compare to an Owl:

For in some dark Shades he delights still to sit,

And all the Night long he crys wo to wit.

Then rise, my bright Cloris, and d’on on slip shoe:

And hear thy amorous Owl chant, wit to wooe, wit to wooe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sir Cred. Who’s there?

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

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

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

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

Enter Lodwick.

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

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

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

[Exeunt.]

[ ACT IV.]

[ Scene I.] Lady Knowell’s House.

Enter Lucretia, followed by Sir Credulous.

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

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

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

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

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

Enter Lady Knowell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lod. Sir Credulous, whither away so fast?

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

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

Sir Cred. Why, what’s the matter?

Lod. Have you made your Will?

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

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

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

Lod. You remember the Serenade last night?

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

Lod. Ads me, your Head’s broke.

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

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

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

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

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

Lod. Wou’d ’twere no worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lod. Shaw—not sufficient to pay Surgeons Bills.

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

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

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

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

Enter Leander.

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

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

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

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

Lod. What is’t prithee?

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

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

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

Sir Cred. Oh,—I’m a dead Man!

Lod. Is’t possible?

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

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

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

Enter Wittmore.

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

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

Lod. Prithee what’s the matter?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lean. An Adventure! prithee where?

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

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

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

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

Wit. This could be none but Lucia. Aside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sir Cred. Pshaw, is that all, Man?

Lod. I clasp’d her lovely Body in my Arms,

And laid my Bosom to her panting Breast.

Trembling she seem’d all Love and soft Desire,

And I all Burnings in a youthful Fire.

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

Wit. Damnation on them both.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lod. Where dost thou keep the Ceremony?

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

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

Lean. My Uncle?

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

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

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

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

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

Lod. Hold, Sir,—we yet are Friends.—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lean. Hold, what’s the matter?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lod. Leander, what shall I do?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lod. What is’t?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lod. I like it well.

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

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

Enter Boy.

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

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

Enter Boy and two Porters.

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

THE WORKS

OF

APHRA BEHN

Edited by

MONTAGUE SUMMERS

VOL. IV

Sir Patient FancyThe Amorous Prince—The Widow RanterThe Younger Brother

LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANNSTRATFORD-ON-AVON: A. H. BULLENMCMXV

Spoken by Mr. Betterton.

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

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

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

[ Scene II.] Changes to a Chamber.

SONG made by a Gentleman.

[ Scene II.] Lady Knowell’s Chamber.

[Scene III.] A Garden.

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

[ Scene V.] Changes again to a Garden.

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

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

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

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

Sir Credulous should have sung.

[ Scene I.] Lady Knowell’s House.

Sir Patient Fancy
The Amorous Prince—The Widow Ranter
The Younger Brother

LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN
STRATFORD-ON-AVON: A. H. BULLEN
MCMXV

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

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