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The Works of Aphra Behn, Vol. II by Aphra Behn

Part 5 out of 11

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_King_. What thou hast said will find but little credit:
--But yet if _Thersander_ lives,
And if it please the Gods to spare that Life,
I shall have Generosity enough
To set thee free in favour of thy Sex,
And my _Thersander's_ Love.

_Cleo_. Not dead? Why should the Gods protect him?

_King_. Her Soul's possest with some despair.
Madam, I doubt you need not fear his Life,
He will obey, and die as you desire-- [_Weeps_.
But not with Satisfaction, till he see you
Conducted into _Dacia_.
I should not of my self have been so generous,
T' have given you freedom with the Life of him
Who did deserve a kinder Destiny;
But 'tis his Will--and possible his last.
Therefore you're free, and may depart this Camp
Whene'er you please; only this favour grant,
(If an unhappy King may hope for any)
You'll suffer him to take his last farewel.

_Cleo_. Immortal Gods! how can it be? a Man
Whose Wickedness arm'd me against his Life,
Shou'd shew such Virtue in the rest of's Actions.
--Sir, I will see the Prince,
Not as the Price of what you offer'd me,
But that he may confess he did deserve
A Death less glorious than I have given him:
And I shall take it well if he will own
That which may justify my Offence to you.

_King_. Madam, I thank you--
Dismiss her Fetters, and if she please,
Let her have Garments suitable to her Sex,
Only the Guards attend her at a distance.

[_Go out severally_.

SCENE II. _The Grove_.

_Enter_ Amintas, _drest like a Shepherd_, Urania _like
a Shepherdess, the Druid_, Lyces, _and other dancing Swains, &c_.

_Druid_. Sir, I'm afraid you have made too bold a venture;
And though your Wounds were more numerous than dangerous,
I am not willing you should trust 'em to the Air.

_Amin_. Father, your Skill has wrought a perfect Cure,
For which, the Life you sav'd you shall command.

_Ura_. Me too h' has freed of all my jealous Fears,
By this eternal Knot 'twixt thee and me
Which he has tied, and Fate can ne'er undo.
--Father--to you I owe _Amintas'_ Liberty--
To you his Life; and now for all my Joys,
Which if my future Service can repay,
Command with Freedom her you have preserv'd.

_Amin_. Come, dear _Urania_, let's hasten to the Camp;
For I impatient grow to see my Prince;
Heaven knows what my Mishap may have procur'd him.

_Ura_. How loth I am to leave these pretty Shades,
The Gods and Nature have design'd for Love:
Oh, my _Amintas_, wou'd I were what I seem,
And thou some humble Villager hard by,
That knew no other pleasure than to love,
To feed thy little Herd, to tune a Pipe,
To which the Nymphs should listen all the Day;
We'd taste the Waters of these Crystal Springs,
With more delight than all delicious Wines;
And being weary, on a Bed of Moss,
Having no other Canopy but Trees,
We'd lay us down, and tell a thousand Stories.

_Amin_. For ever so I'd be content to dwell,
I wou'd put off all frightful Marks of War,
And wou'd appear as soft and calm to thee,
As are thy Eyes when silently they wound.
An Army I wou'd quit to lead thy Flock,
And more esteem a Chaplet wreath'd by thee,
Than the victorious Laurel.
--But come, Love makes us idle.

_Druid_. My Prayers ever go along with you,
And your fair Bride, _Urania_.--I cou'd wish
My Youth and Vigour were as heretofore,
When only Courts and Camps cou'd make me happy;
And then I wou'd not bid farewel so soon
To so much Virtue as I've found in you.

_Amin_. I humbly thank you, Father, for a Goodness
That shames my poor Returns.
Come, pretty _Lyces_, and thou, honest _Damon_,
With all the rest of our kind Train;
Let's hasten to the Camp, during this Truce,
Your little rustick Sports will find a welcome.

_Ura_. There are no Women in the Camp, my Lord.

_Amin_. No matter, thou canst not hate a Soldier,
Since I am one; and you must be obedient,
And learn to bear my Bow and Arrows now,
It is the Duty of a _Scythian's_ Wife.

_Ura_. She that can claim _Amintas_ by such Ties,
May find a Safety wheresoe'er she flies.

[_Exeunt_.

SCENE III. _A Prison_.

_Enter_ Orsames _joyful, and_ Geron.

_Ors_. Am I indeed a King?
And is there such a thing as fair _Olympia_?
Hadst thou not been the first had told me this,
By Heaven, thou'dst dy'd for thus concealing it;
Not all the Obligations of my Youth
Should have preserv'd thee.

_Ger_. Till now I wanted Opportunity;
For had you known your Quality before,
You wou'd have grown impatient of the Crown,
And by that Haste have overthrown your Interest.

_Ors_. And canst thou now provide against my Ignorance?

_Ger_. Sir, we have gain'd the Army on our side.

_Ors_. What's that?

_Ger_. Those Numbers that I told you should adore you.

_Ors_. When shall I see them, _Geron_?

_Ger_. E'er long, Sir: should your Deliverance
Be wrought by any other Means than theirs,
It were to snatch a Glory from their Hands,
Which they design their only Recompence.

_Ors_. Oh, how I am transported with the Joy!
But, _Geron_, art thou sure we do not dream?

_Ger_. Then Life it self's a Dream--
Hark, I hear a noise--
[_Noise_.

_Within_] Kill the Dog--down with him!

_Ors_. Oh, how I'm ravisht with this unknown Noise!

_Within_.] Break down the Prison-Walls and Gates, and force your
Passage--

_Enter_ Vallentio, _followed by_ Gorel _and a Rabble of
Citizens and Officers, tearing in the Keeper all bloody_.

_Val_. No killing to day, my Fellow-Soldiers, if you can
help it; we will not stain our Triumphs in Blood--
[_They all stand and gaze_. Ors. _gazes on them_.
Ye Gods, instruct me where to bow my Knee--
But this alone must be the Deity--

[_Kneels_, Ors. _lets him kneel, and gazes on him_.

_1 Cit_. Is that the King, Neighbour, in such mean Clothes?

_Gorel_. Yes, Goodman Fool, why should the Colonel kneel else?

_2 Cit_. Oh, pray, Neighbour, let me see a little, I never saw a King in
all the days of my Life. Lord, Lord! Is that he the Colonel kneels to?

_Gorel_. What Questions this ignorant Fellow asks!

_3 Cit_. Good lack-a-day, 'tis as a Man may say--'tis just such another
Body as one of us, only he looks a little more terrably.

_Ger_. Sir, why do you let him kneel?

_Ors_. Rise, and let me look upon thee.

_Val_. Great Sir, we come to offer you a Crown,
That long has waited for this great Support;
It ought to have been presented in a more glorious order,
But Time and your Affairs permit not that.
A thousand Dangers wait upon Delay;
But though the World be yours, it is not safe
Depending on a fickle Multitude,
Whom Interest, and not Reason renders just.

_Ors_. Thou art a wondrous Man.

_1 Cit_. Good _Gorel_, stand back, and let me see a little; my Wife loves
Newalties abominationly, ami I must tell her something about the King.

_Gorel_. What a Pox have we to do with your Wife? stand back.

_Val_. Now deign, great Sir, to arm your Hand with this--
[_Gtves_ Ors. _a Sword, he gazes on it_.
Nay, view it well, for though it be but homely,
It carries that about it can make the Wearer proud;
--An Edge--pray feel it, Sir,--'t has dealt
Many a mortal Wound--
See how it dares the Sun for Brightness, Sir!
Or if there be a Stain, it is an Ornament,
Dy'd in the Blood of those that were your Enemies:
It never made a Blow or Thrust in vain.
--How do you like it, Sir?

_Ors_. So well, I know not whether this or thee
Be most agreeable to me;
You need not teach me how I am to use it,
That I will leave for those that dare offend me.
Look, _Geron_, is it not a glorious Object?
There's nothing but my bright _Olympia's_ Eyes
That can out-glitter this.

_1 Cit_. Hah, _Simon_, did he not talk bravely?

_Val_. Come, Sir, 'tis time you left this Dungeon for a Throne;
For now's the time to make the World your own.
All shouting--Vive le Roy, Vive le Roy.

[_Exeunt_.

SCENE IV. _A Tent_.

_Enter_ Cleomena _and_ Semiris, _drest as Women again_.

_Sem_. Dear Madam, I cou'd wish you'd sleep awhile.

_Cleo_. That Peace I have not been acquainted with
Since my _Clemanthis'_ Death;
Yet now methinks my Heart's more calm and still,
And I perhaps may thus expire in silence--
Prithee, _Semiris_, take thy Lute and sing to't,
Whilst I will try to sleep.
[_Lies down on a Couch, Sem. plays and sings_.

SONG, made by _J. Wright_ Esq:

_Fair Nymph, remember all your Scorn
Will be by Time repaid;
Those Glories which that Face adorn,
And flourish as the rising Morn,
Must one day set and fade.
Then all your cold Disdain for me
Will but increase Deformity,
When still the kind will lovely be.
Compassion is of lasting Praise;
For that's the Beauty ne'er decays.

Fair Nymph, avoid those Storms of Fate
Are to the Cruel due;
The Powers above, though ne'er so late.
Can be, when they revenge your Hate,
As pitiless as you.
Know, charming Maid, the Powers divine
Did never such soft Eyes design
To wound a Heart so true as mine:
That God who my dear Flame infus'd,
Will never see it thus abus'd_.

Return, my dear _Clemanthis_, oh, return,
[Cleo. _rises as in a Dream_.
And see 'tis not into thy lovely Bosom
That I have sent my Vengeance.

_Sem_. What mean you, Madam?

_Cleo_. But thou, poor Ghost--
Instead of hasting me to my Revenge,
Endeavour'st to touch me with Compassion.

_Sem_. Madam, who is't you follow thus and speak to?

_Cleo. Thersander_, why do'st rob me of that Face?
Is't to disarm me of my Indignation?

_Sem_. Oh, Madam, what do you do?

_Cleo_. Ha! dost thou see nothing?

_Sem_. Not any thing.

_Cleo_. Yonder's the _Scythian_ with _Clemanthis'_ Face,
Or else _Clemanthis_ with _Thersander's_ Wound.

_Sem_. Compose your Thoughts, dear Madam, 'twas a Dream,
An idle Dream, born from a troubled Fancy.
--How was it, Madam?

_Cleo_. Methought I saw _Clemanthis_,
As when he was most charming to my Soul,
But pale and languishing, having a Wound
Like that I gave his Murderer
To which with one of's Hands he seem'd to point;
The other stretching out with passionate Actions,
And gazing on me,--thus methought he spoke:
--See how you recompense my faithful Sufferings,
--See the performance of your Promises;
Look on this Wound which you have given my Heart,
That Heart that still ador'd you:
And yet you're not content with all these Cruelties,
Though even in your Anger and my Death,
I still continue faithful and submissive.
--Thus spoke the lovely Phantom.

_Enter_ Pimante.

_Pim_. Madam, there waits without a Servant to the Prince.

_Cleo_. He may come in.

_Enter_ Lysander.

_Lys_. Madam, my dying Prince begs you may know
How willingly he does obey your Will,
And dying still implores you wou'd believe
He's guilty of no fault but having lov'd you,
For which presumption he deserves to die;
--But 'tis not by your Dagger, but your Eyes:
That was too weak to exercise your Will,
Your Cruelty had power alone to kill;
And now from you one visit he implores,
And after that he'll trouble you no more. [_Weeps_.

_Cleo_. That I will grant to satisfy the King.

_Lys_. When he is dead--
He'll send the Spirit of _Clemanthis_ to you,
Who shall upbraid you with your Cruelty,
And let you see, in wounding of _Thersander_,
You've found the readiest way to kill _Clemanthis_.

_Cleo_. What means he by these Words?

_Lys_. He humbly begs you'll pardon the rough treatment
You've had among the _Scythians_,
Whose Crown, he says, _Clemanthis_ promis'd you,
And he intreats you would accept it from him.

_Cleo_. To send the Spirit of _Clemanthis_ to me--
How this agrees with my sad Dream!
How did thy Master know--
_Clemanthis_ promis'd me the Crown of _Scythia_?--
[_Advances towards_ Lys. _and she starts_.
--Sure I have seen that Face before--
Art not _Lysander_, Page to _Clemanthis_?

_Lys_. Madam, I am, and ever serv'd that Master.

_Cleo_. How couldst thou then come near his Enemy?

_Lys_. Madam, it was by his Command I came.

_Cleo_. How could _Clemanthis_ love his Murderer?
It is no wonder then that generous Spirit
Came while I slept, and pleaded for the Prince.

_Lys_. What means the Princess?

_Enter_ Pimante.

_Pim_. Oh, Madam, I have news to tell you that will
Make you forswear ever fighting again.

_Cleo_. What mean you?

_Pim_. As I was passing through a Street of Tents,
I saw a wounded Man stretcht on the ground;
And going, as others did, to learn his Fate,
I heard him say to those that strove to help him,
Alas, my Friends, your Succours are in vain;
For now I see the Gods will be reveng'd
For brave _Clemanthis'_ Murder.
How! cry'd I out, are you then one of those
_Thersander_ sent to kill that Cavalier?
_Thersander_, cry'd he, had no hand in it;
But _Artabazes_ set us on to kill him.
Here he began to faulter in his Speech;
And sure he spoke the truth, for 'twas his last.

_Cleo_. This looks like Truth. _Thersander's_ every Action
Declar'd too much of Virtue and of Honour,
To be the Author of so black a Deed.
--Tell him, I'll visit him, and beg his pardon.
[_To_ Lys. _who bows and goes out_.
--Generous _Thersander_, if this News be true,
My Eyes shall spare some drops for injuring you.

[_Excunt_.

SCENE V. _Changes to_ Thersander's _Tent_.

_He in a Night-gown sitting on a Couch; by him the_ King,
_Officers, Attendants to them. Enter_ Cleomena, Semiris,
Pimante; Lysander; _the_ King _rises to meet_ Cleo. _and
seats her in a Chair by him_.

_Cleo. Thersander_, I am come to beg thy pardon,
If thou art innocent, as I must believe thee,
And here before the King to make confession
Of what I did refuse the Queen my Mother.
--Know then, I lov'd, and with a perfect Passion,
The most unfortunate of Men, _Clemanthis_.
His Birth I never knew, but do believe
It was illustrious, as were all his Actions;
But I have lost him by a fatal accident,
That very day he should have fought with you.
[_Weeps_.

_Ther_. Gods! where will this end? [_Aside_.

_Cleo_. But e'er the fatal moment of his Death,
_Ismenes_ beg'd to know who did the Murder:
But he could answer nothing but _Thersander_,
And we believ'd it you.
Then Love and my Revenge made me a Soldier;
--You know the rest--
And doubtless you've accus'd me with Ingratitude.

_Ther_. No, I shall ne'er complain of _Cleomena_,
[_He kneels before her_.
If she still love _Clemanthis_.

_Cleo_. There needs no more to make me know that Voice.
Oh stay, this Joy too suddenly surprizes--
[_Ready to swound_.
--Gently distil the Bliss into my Soul,
Lest this Excess have the effects of Grief:
--Oh, my _Clemanthis_! do I hold thee fast?
And do I find thee in the Prince of _Scythia_?

_King_. I lose my Reason by this strange encounter!

_Ther_. Was't then a secret to my _Cleomena_,
That her _Clemanthis_ was the Prince of _Scythia_?
I still believ'd that was his only Crime.

_Cleo_. By all my Joys I knew it not--but sure
This is Enchantment; for it is as certain
These Eyes beheld thee dead.

_Pim_. Ay, and so did I, I'll be sworn.

_Ther_. That must be poor _Amintas_ in my Dress,
Whose Story, when you know, you will bemoan.

_Cleo_. But oh my Life! the cruel Wound I gave thee,
Let me be well assur'd it is not mortal,
Or I am lost again.

_King_. The Surgeon gives me hopes, and 'twere convenient
You should forbid him not to speak too much--

_Enter a Soldier_.

_Sold_. Arm, arm, great Sir, I think the Enemy
Is rallying afresh, for the Plain is cover'd
With numerous Troops, which swiftly make this way.

_King_. They dare not break the Truce.

_Sold_. I know not, Sir, but something of a King I heard them talk of--

_Cleo_. It is _Vallentio_ that has kept his word--
Receive 'em, Sir, as Friends, not Enemies;
It is my Brother, who ne'er knew till now
Ought of a peopled World.

_King_. I long to see that Monarch, whose Friendship I
Must court for you, fair Princess:
If you'll accept _Thersander_ whom I offer'd,
I do not doubt an happy Peace on both sides.

_Cleo_. Sir. 'tis an honour which we ought to sue for.

_Ther_. And 'tis to me a Blessing--
I wanted Confidence to ask of Heaven.

_Enter_ Ors. Val. Hon. Art. Ism. Geron. _Soldiers, &c_. Ors.
_drest gay with a Truncheon in his Hand, advances first, is
met by the_ King, _who gaze on each other_.

_Ors_. If thou be'st he that art _Orsames'_ Enemy,
I do demand a Sister at thy Hands.

_King_. Art thou _Orsames_?

_Ors_. So I am call'd by all that yet have view'd me:
--Look on me well--
Dost see no marks of Grandure in my Face?
Nothing that speaks me King?

_King_. I do believe thou art that King, and here
[_Gives him_ Cleo.
I do resign that Sister thou demandest.

_Ors_. It is a Woman too! another Woman!
I wou'd embrace thee if I durst approach thee.

_Cleo_. You need not fear, you may embrace your Sister--
[Cleo. _embraces him_.

_Ors_. This is the kindest Women I e'er saw.

_Cleo_. Brother, behold this King no more your Enemy,
Since I must pay him Duty as a Father.

_Enter_ Queen, Olympia, _Women_.

_Ors_. Hah, _Olympia_! sure 'tis an airy Vision--

_Ger_. Approach her, Sir, and try.

_Qu_. Permit a wretched Mother here to kneel.

_King_. Rise, Madam, and receive me as your Friend;
This pair of Lovers has united all our Interests.
[_Points to_ Cleo. _and_ Thers.

_Qu_. Heavens! what's this I see, _Clemanthis_
And the Prince of _Scythia_?

_Ther_. Yes, Madam, and a Man that humbly begs
The happy Title of your Son--_Honorius_,
Of you I ask the greatest Pardon--
[_Talks to_ Olympia.

_Ors_. I am a King, and do adore thee too,
And thou shalt rule a World with me, my Fair;
A Sword I'll give thee, with a painted Bow,
Whence thou shalt shoot a thousand gilded Arrows.

_Olym_. What to do, Sir?

_Ors_. To save the expence of Cruelty;
For they will kill as sure, but rightly aim'd;
This noble Fellow told me so. [_To_ Val.

_Olym_. Sir, I'll do any thing that you will have me:
But now the Queen your Mother, Sir, expects you.

_Ors_. Instruct my Eyes, _Olympia_, for 'tis lately
I've learnt of some such thing.

_Olym_. This, Sir, you ought to kneel to her.

_Ors_. Must I then kneel to ought but Heaven and thee?
[_Kneels_.

_Qu_. My dear _Orsames_, let my Tears make way.
Before I can assure thee of my Joy.

_Ors_. Gods! how obliging is this kind Concern!
Not all my Passion for my fair _Olympia_
Cou'd ever yet betray me to a Tear.
[_Weeps_.

_Qu_. Thou'st greater need of Anger than of Tears,
Having before thy Eyes thy worst of Enemies,
One that has long depriv'd thee of a Crown,
Through what she thought her Duty to the Gods;
But now repents her superstitious Error,
And humbly begs thy Pardon.

_Ors_. I will, if you'll implore _Olympia_ but to love me.

_Qu_. I will, my _Orsames_; and 'tis the only Present
I can make to expiate my Fault.

_Ors_. And I'll receive her as the only thing
Can make me both a happy Subject and a King.
Oh, _Geron_, still if this should prove a Dream!

_Ger_. Sir, Dreams of Kings are much less pleasant.

_Enter_ Lysander.

_Lys_. Sir, there are without some Shepherdesses,
Who say they wou'd present you [_To_ Ther.
Something that will not be unwelcome to your Highness.

_Ther_. Let them come in--

_They seat themselves. Enter_ Amin. Ura. _maskt, Shepherds,
Shepherdesses, followed with Pipes, or Wind-Musick. They
dance; after which_ Amin. _kneels to the Prince_,
Ura. _to the Princess_.

--My dear _Amintas_, do I find thee live?
Fortune requites my Sufferings
With too large a share of Happiness.

_Amin_. Sir, I do live to die again for you.

_Ther_. This, my Divine, is he who had [_To_ Cleo.
The Glory to be bewail'd by you; for him you wept;
For him had almost dy'd.

_Amin_. That Balm it was, that like the Weapon-salve
Heals at a distance--

_Cleo_. But why, Amintas, did you name _Thersander_,
When you were askt who wounded you?

_Amin_. Madam, if loss of Blood had given me leave,
I wou'd have told you how I came so habited,
And who I was, though not how I was wounded.

_King_. Still I am in a mist, and cannot see the happy path I tread.

_Ther_. Anon we will explain the Mystery, Sir.

_Hon_. Now, great _Orsames_, 'tis but just and fit
That you receive the Rites of Coronation,
Which are not to be paid you in a Camp;
The Court will add more to that joyful Day.

_King_. And there we'll join our Souls as well as Swords,
Our Interests as our Families.

_Ors_. I am content that thou should'st give me Laws:
Come, my _Vallentio_, it shall ne'er be said
I recompense thy Services
With any thing less grateful than a Woman:
--Here, I will chuse for thee--
And when I know what 'tis I more can do,
If there be ought beyond this Gift, 'tis thine.
[_Gives him_ Sem.

_Ther. Scythia_ and _Dacia_ now united are:
The God of Love o'ercomes the God of War.
_After a Dance of Shepherds and Shepherdesses, the Epilogue
is spoken by Mrs_. Barry, _as a Nymph; at his Royal
Highness's second Exile into_ Flanders.

EPILOGUE.

_After our showing Play of mighty Pains,
We here present you humble Nymphs and Swains.
Our rustick Sports sometimes may Princes please,
And Courts do oft divert in Cottages,
And prize the Joys with some young rural Maid,
On Beds of Grass beneath a lovely Shade,
'Bove all the Pride of City-Jilts, whose Arts
Are more to gain your Purses than your Hearts;
Whose chiefest Beauty lies in being fine;
And Coyness is not Virtue, but Design.
We use no Colours to adorn the Face,
No artful Looks, nor no affected Grace,
The neighbouring Stream serves for a Looking-glass.
Ambition is not known within our Groves;
Here's no Dispute for Empire, but for Loves;
The humble Swain his Birth-right here enjoys,
And fears no Danger from the publick Voice;
No Wrong nor Insolence from busy Powers,
No Rivals here for Crowns, but those of Flowers,
His Country and his Flocks enjoy with ease,
Ranges his native Fields and Groves in Peace;
Nor forc'd by Arbitrary Votes to fly
To foreign Shores for his Security.
Our humble Tributes uncompell'd we pay,
And cheerful Homage to the Lord of May;
No Emulation breaks his soft Repose,
Nor do his Wreaths or Virtues gain him Foes:
No publick Mischiefs can disturb his Reign,
And Malice would be busy here in vain.
Fathers and Sons just Love and Duty pay;
This knows to be indulgent, that t'obey.
Here's no Sedition hatcht, no other Plots,
But to entrap the Wolf that steals our Flocks.
Who then wou'd be a King, gay Crowns to wear,
Restless his Nights, thoughtful his Days with Care;
Whose Greatness, or whose Goodness cant secure
From Outrages which Knaves and Fools procure?

Greatness, be gone, we banish you from hence,
The noblest State is lowly Innocence.
Here honest Wit in Mirth and Triumph reigns,
Musick and Love shall ever bless our Swains,
And keep the Golden Age within our Woods and Plains_.

THE CITY HEIRESS; OR, SIR TIMOTHY TREAT-ALL.

ARGUMENT.

The scene is London. Sir Timothy Treat-all, an old seditious knight, that
keeps open house for Commonwealthsmen and true Blue Protestants, has
disinherited his nephew, Tom Wilding, a town gallant and a Tory. Wilding
is pursuing an intrigue with Lady Galliard, a wealthy widow, and also
with Chariot, heiress to the rich Sir Nicholas Get-all, recently
deceased. Lady Galliard is further hotly wooed by Sir Charles Meriwill, a
young Tory, but she favours Wilding. Sir Charles is encouraged in his
suit by his roystering uncle, Sir Anthony. Wilding introduces his
mistress Diana to Sir Timothy as the heiress Charlot; and at an
entertainment given by Sir Timothy, Charlot herself appears, disguised as
a Northern lass, to watch the progress of Tom's intrigue with the widow,
who eventually yields to him. Sir Charles, none the less, backed by Sir
Anthony, still persists, and after various passionate scenes forces her
to consent to become his bride. Meanwhile Sir Timothy has arranged a
marriage with Diana, whom he firmly believes to be Charlot. During the
progress of the entertainment he is visited by a strange nobleman and his
retinue, who offer him the crown of Poland and great honours. That night,
however, his house is rifled by thieves and his money and papers stolen.
He himself is pinioned hand and foot, the foreign lord bound fast in his
own room, and all his followers secured. Sir Timothy having married Diana
discovers that she is none other than his nephew's mistress, and,
moreover, the Polish ambassador was Tom in masquerade, the attendants and
burglars his friends, who by obtaining his treasonable correspondence are
able effectually to silence the old knight. Wilding is united to Charlot,
whilst Lady Galliard weds Charles Meriwill.

SOURCE.

The City Heiress is most manifestly borrowed from two main sources. Sir
Anthony Meriwill and Charles are Durazzo and Caldoro from Massinger's
_The Guardian_ (licensed 31 October, 1633, 8vo, 1655). Mrs. Behn has
transferred to her play even small details and touches. The burglary,
that most wonderful of all burglaries, is taken and improved from
Middleton's _A Mad World, My Masters_ (4to, 1608), Act ii, where Sir
Bounteous Progress is robbed by Dick Folly-Wit, his grandson, in
precisely the same way as Sir Timothy is choused by Tom. On 4 February,
1715, Charles Johnson produced at Drury Lane his _The Country Lasses; or,
The Custom of the Manor_, a rifacimento of Fletcher's _The Custom of the
Country_ and _The City Heiress_. It is a well-written, lively enough
comedy, but very weak and anaemic withal when compared to Mrs. Behn. B.
G. Stephenson, in his vivacious libretto to Cellier's tuneful opera,
_Dorothy_, produced at the Gaiety Theatre, 25 September, 1886, has made
great use of Johnson's play, especially Act i, where the gallants meet
the two ladies disguised as country girls; the duel scenes of Act v; and
the pseudo-burglary of Act iii. He even gives his comic sheriff's officer
the name of Lurcher, who in Johnson is the rackety nephew that tricks his
hospitable old uncle, Sir John English. The _Biographia Dramatica_ states
that Mrs. Behn 'introduced into this play (_The City Heiress_) a great
part of the _Inner Temple Masque_ by Middleton.' This charge is
absolutely unfounded, and it would not be uninteresting to know how so
complete an error arose. The two have nothing in common. It must be
allowed that Mrs. Behn has displayed such wit and humour as amply to
justify her plagiarisms. Sir Timothy Treat-all himself is, of course,
Shaftesbury almost without disguise. There are a thousand telling hits at
the President of the Council and his vices. He was also bitterly
satirized in many other plays. In Nevil Payne's _The Siege of
Constantinople_ (1675) he appears as The Chancellor; 1680 in Otway's
Shakespearean cento cum bastard classicism _Caius Marius_ some very plain
traits can be recognized in the grim Marius senior; in Southerne's _The
Loyal Brother_ (1682) Ismael, a villainous favourite; in _Venice
Preserved_ (1682) the lecherous Antonio; in the same year Banks
caricatured him as a quite unhistorical Cardinal Wolsey, _Virtue
Betray'd; or, Anna Bullen_; in Crowne's mordant _City Politics_ (1683)
the Podesta of a most un-Italian Naples; the following year Arius the
heresiarch in Lee's _Constantine the Great_; in the operatic _Albion and
Albanius_ (1685), Dryden does not spare even physical infirmities and
disease with the crudest yet cruellest exhibition, and five years later
he attacked his old enemy once more as Benducar in that great tragedy
_Don Sebastian_.

THEATRICAL HISTORY.

_The City Heiress; or, Sir Timothy Treat-all_ was produced at the Duke's
House, Dorset Garden, in 1682. Downes specially mentions it as having
been 'well acted', and it was indeed an 'all star' cast. It had a
tremendous ovation but in spite of its great merit did not become a stock
play, probably owing to the intensely political nature of much of its
satirical wit, a feature necessarily ephemeral. It seems, however, to
have been presented from time to time, and there was a notable revival on
10 July, 1707, at the Haymarket, for the benefit of Husband and Pack. Sir
Timothy was played by Cross; Tom Wilding, Mills; Sir Anthony, Bullock;
Foppington, Pack; Lady Galliard, Mrs. Bradshaw; Charlot, Mrs. Bicknall;
Clacket, Mrs. Powell. It met with a very favourable reception.

To the Right Honourable _Henry_ Earl of _Arundel_, and Lord _Mowbray_.

MY LORD,

'Tis long that I have with great impatience waited some opportunity to
declare my infinite Respect to your Lordship, coming, I may say, into the
World with a Veneration for your Illustrious Family, and being brought up
with continual Praises of the Renowned Actions of your glorious
Ancestors, both in War and Peace, so famous over the Christian World for
their Vertue, Piety, and Learning, their elevated Birth, and greatness of
Courage, and of whom all our English History are full of the Wonders of
their Lives: A Family of so Ancient Nobility, and from whom so many
Heroes have proceeded to bless and serve their King and Country, that all
Ages and all Nations mention 'em even with Adoration: My self have been
in this our Age an Eye and Ear-witness, with what Transports of Joy, with
what unusual Respect and Ceremony, above what we pay to Mankind, the very
Name of the Great Howards of Norfolk and Arundel, have been celebrated on
Foreign Shores! And when any one of your Illustrious Family have pass'd
the Streets, the People throng'd to praise and bless him as soon as his
Name has been made known to the glad Croud. This I have seen with a Joy
that became a true English heart, (who truly venerate its brave
Country-men) and joyn'd my dutiful Respects and Praises with the most
devout; but never had the happiness yet of any opportunity to express
particularly that Admiration I have and ever had for your Lordship and
your Great Family. Still, I say, I did admire you, still I wish'd and
pray'd for you; 'twas all I cou'd or durst: But, as my Esteem for your
Lordship daily increased with my Judgment, so nothing cou'd bring it to
a more absolute height and perfection, than to observe in these
troublesome times, this Age of Lying, Peaching, and Swearing with what
noble Prudence, what steadiness of Mind, what Loyalty and Conduct you
have evaded the Snare, that 'twas to be fear'd was laid for all the Good,
the Brave, and Loyal, for all that truly lov'd our best of Kings and this
distracted Country. A thousand times I have wept for fear that Impudence
and Malice wou'd extend so far as to stain your Noble and ever-Loyal
Family with its unavoidable Imputatious; and as often for joy, to see how
undauntedly both the Illustrions Duke your Father, and your Self, stem'd
the raging Torrent that threatned, with yours, the ruin of the King and
Kingdom; all which had not power to shake your Constancy or Loyalty: for
which, may Heaven and Earth reward and bless you; the noble Examples to
thousands of failing hearts, who from so great a President of Loyalty,
became confirm'd. May Heaven and Earth bless you for your pious and
resolute bravery of Mind, and Heroick honesty, when you cry'd, _Not
Guilty_; that you durst, like your great self, speak Conscientious Truths
in a Juncto so vitious, when Truth and Innocence was criminal: and I
doubt not but the Soul of that great Sufferer bows down from Heaven in
gratitude for that noble service done it. All these and a thousand marks
you give of daily growing Greatness; every day produces to those like me,
curious to learn the story of your Life and Actions, something that even
adds a Lustre to your great Name, which one wou'd think you'd be made no
more splendid: some new Goodness, some new act of Loyalty or Courage,
comes out to cheer the World and those that admire you. Nor wou'd I be
the last of those that dayly congratulate and celebrate your rising
Glory; nor durst I any other way approach you with it, but this humble
one, which carries some Excuse along with it.

Proud of the opportunity then, I most humbly beg your Lordships'
patronage of a Comedy, which has nothing to defend it, but the Honour it
begs, and nothing to deserve that Honour, but its being in every part
true Tory! Loyal all-over! except one Knave, which I hope no body will
take to himself; or if he do, I must e'en say with _Hamlet_,

--Then let the strucken Deer go weep--

It has the luck to be well received in the Town; which (not for my
Vanity) pleases me, but that thereby I find Honesty begins to come in
fashion again, when Loyalty is approv'd, and Whigism becomes a Jest
where'er 'tis met with. And, no doubt on't, so long as the Royal Cause
has such Patrons as your Lordship, such vigorous and noble Supporters,
his Majesty will be great, secure and quiet, the Nation flourishing and
happy, and seditious Fools and Knaves that have so long disturb'd the
Peace and Tranquility of the World, will become the business and sport of
Comedy, and at last the scorn of that Rabble that fondly and blindly
worshipt 'em; and whom nothing can so well convince as plain
Demonstration, which is ever more powerful and prevailent than Precept,
or even Preaching it self. If this have edifi'd effectual, 'tis all I
wish; and that your Lordship will be pleas'd to accept the humble
Offering, is all I beg, and the greatest Glory I care shou'd be done,

MY LORD,
Your Lordship's most Humble
and most Obedient Servant,
A. BEHN.

THE CITY HEIRESS; or, Sir _Timothy Treat-all_.

PROLOGUE,

Written by Mr. _Otway_, Spoken by Mrs. _Barry_.

_How vain have proved the Labours of the Stage,
In striving to reclaim a vitious Age!
Poets may write the Mischief to impeach,
You care as little what the Poets teach,
As you regard at Church what Parsons preach.
But where such Follies, and such Vices reign,
What honest Pen has Patience to refrain?
At Church, in Pews, ye most devoutly snore
And here, got dully drunk, ye come to roar:
Ye go to Church to glout, and ogle there,
And come to meet more loud convenient here.
With equal Zeal ye honour either Place,
And run so very evenly your Race,
Y' improve in Wit just as you do in Grace.
It must be so, some Daemon has possest
Our Land, and we have never since been blest.
Y' have seen it all, or heard of its Renown,
In Reverend Shape it staled about the Town,
Six Yeomen tall attending on its Frown.
Sometimes with humble Note and zealous Lore,
'Twou'd play the Apostolick Function o'er:
But, Heaven have mercy on us when it swore.
Whene'er it swore, to prove the Oaths were true,
Out of its much at random Halters flew
Round some unwary Neck, by Magick thrown,
Though still the cunning Devil sav'd its own:
For when the Inchantment could no longer last,
The subtle Pug most dextrously uncas'd,
Left awful Form for one more seeming pious,
And in a moment vary'd to defy us;
From silken Doctor home-spun Ananias:
Left the leud Court, and did in City fix,
Where still, by its old Arts, it plays new Tricks,
And fills the Heads of Fools with Politicks.
This Daemon lately drew in many a Guest,
To part with zealous Guinea for--no Feast.
Who, but the most incorrigible Fops,
For ever doomed in dismal Cells, call'd Shops,
To cheat and damn themselves to get their Livings,
Wou'd lay sweet Money out in Sham-Thanksgivings?
Sham-Plots you may have paid for o'er and o'er;
But who e'er paid for a Sham-Treat before?
Had you not better sent your Offerings all
Hither to us, than Sequestrators Hall?
I being your Steward, Justice had been done ye;
I cou'd have entertain'd you worth your Money_.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

MEN.

Sir _Timothy Treat-all_, an old seditious Knight, |
that keeps open House for Commonwealthsmen | Mr. _Nokes_.
and true blue Protestants, Uncle to _T. |
Wilding_, |
_Tom Wilding_, a Tory, his discarded Nephew, Mr. _Bctterton_.
Sir _Anthony Meriwill_, an old Tory Knight of Mr. _Lee_.
_Devonshire_,
Sir _Charles Meriwill_, his Nephew, a Tory also, |
in love with L. _Galliard_, and Friend to | Mr. _Williams_.
_Wilding_, |
_Dresswell_, a young Gentleman, Friend to Mr. _Bowman_.
_Wilding_,
_Foppington_, a Hanger-on on _Wilding_, Mr. _Jevon_.
_Jervice_, Man to Sir _Timothy_.
_Laboir_, Man to _Tom Wilding_.
Boy, Page to Lady _Galliard_.
Boy, Page to _Diana_.
Guests, Footmen, Musick, &c.

WOMEN.

Lady _Galliard_, a rich City-Widow, in love with | Mrs. _Barry_.
_Wilding_, |
_Charlot_, The City-Heiress, in love with _Wilding_, Mrs. _Butler_.
_Diana_, Mistress to _Wilding_, and kept by him, Mrs. _Corror_.
Mrs. _Clacket_, a City Baud and Puritan, Mrs. _Novice_.
Mrs. _Closet_, Woman to Lady _Galliard_, Mrs. _Lee_.
Mrs. _Sensure_, Sir _Timothy's_ Housekeeper.
_Betty_, Maid to _Diana_.
Maid at _Charlot's_ lodging.

SCENE, _Within the Walls of_ London.

ACT I.

SCENE I. _The Street_.

_Enter Sir_ Timothy Treat-all, _follow'd by_ Tom Wilding
bare, Sir_ Charles Meriwill, Foppington, _and
Footman with a Cloke_.

Sir _Tim_. Trouble me no more: for I am resolv'd, deaf and obdurate, d'ye
see, and so forth.

_Wild_. I beseech ye, Uncle, hear me.

Sir _Tim_. No.

_Wild_. Dear Uncle--

Sir _Tim_. No.

_Wild_. You will be mortify'd--

Sir _Tim_. No.

_Wild_. At least hear me out, Sir.

Sir _Tim_. No, I have heard you out too often, Sir, till
you have talkt me out of many a fair Thousand; have had
ye out of all the Bayliffs, Serjeants, and Constables Clutches
about Town, Sir; have brought you out of all the Surgeons,
Apothecaries, and pocky Doctors Hands, that ever pretended
to cure incurable Diseases; and have crost ye out of the Books
of all the Mercers, Silk-men, Exchange-men, Taylors,
Shoemakers, and Sempstresses; with all the rest of the
unconscionable City-tribe of the long Bill, that had but
Faith enough to trust, and thought me Fool enough to pay.

Sir _Char_. But, Sir, consider, he's your own Flesh and Blood.

Sir _Tim_. That's more than I'll swear.

Sir _Char_. Your only Heir.

Sir _Tim_. That's more than you or any of his wise Associates can tell,
Sir.

Sir _Char_. Why his wise Associates? Have you any Exception to the
Company he keeps? This reflects on me and young _Dresswell_, Sir, Men
both of Birth and Fortune.

Sir _Tim_. Why, good Sir _Charles Meriwill_, let me tell you, since
you'll have it out, That you and young _Dresswell_ are able to debauch,
destroy, and confound all the young imitating Fops in Town.

Sir _Char_. How, Sir!

Sir _Tim_. Nay, never huff, Sir; for I have six thousand Pound a Year,
and value no Man: Neither do I speak so much for your particular, as for
the Company you keep, such Tarmagant Tories as these, [To Fop.] who
are the very Vermin of a young Heir, and for one tickling give him a
thousand bites.

_Fop_. Death! meaning me, Sir?

Sir _Tim_. Yes, you, Sir. Nay, never stare, Sir; I fear you not; No Man's
hectoring signifies this--in the City, but the Constables: no body dares
be saucy here, except it be in the King's name.

Sir _Char_. Sir, I confess he was to blame.

Sir _Tim_. Sir _Charles_, thanks to Heaven, you may be leud, you have a
plentiful Estate, may whore, drink, game, and play the Devil: your Uncle,
Sir Anthony Meriwill, intends to give you all his Estate too. But for
such Sparks as this, and my Fop in Fashion here, why, with what Face,
Conscience, or Religion, can they be leud and vitious, keep their
Wenches, Coaches, rich Liveries, and so forth, who live upon Charity, and
the Sins of the Nation?

Sir _Char_. If he hath youthful Vices, he has Virtues too.

Sir _Tim_. Yes, he had, but I know not, you have bewitch'd him
Amongst ye.
[weeping.
Before he fell to Toryism, he was a sober, civil Youth,
and had some Religion in him, wou'd read ye Prayers Night and Morning
with a laudable Voice, and cry Amen to 'em; 'twou'd have done one's Heart
good to have heard him--wore decent Clothes, was drunk but on Sundays and
Holidays; and then I had Hopes of him.
[_Still weeping_.

_Wild_. Ay, Heaven forgive me.

Sir _Char_. But, Sir, he's now become a new Man, is casting off all his
Women, is drunk not above five or six times a week, swears not above once
in a quarter of an Hour, nor has not gam'd this two Days--

Sir _Tim_. 'Twas because the Devil was in's Pocket then.

Sir _Char_.--Begins to take up at Coffee-houses, talks gravely in the
City, speaks scandalously of the Government, and rails most abominably
against the Pope and the French King.

Sir _Tim_. Ay, ay, this shall not wheedle me out of one English Guinea;
and so I told him yesterday.

_Wild_. You did so, Sir.

Sir _Tim_. Yes; by a good Token you were witty upon me, and swore I lov'd
and honoured the King no where but on his Coin.

Sir _Char_. Is it possible, Sir.

_Wild_. God forgive me, Sir; I confess I was a little overtaken.

Sir _Tim_. Ay, so it shou'd seem: for he mistook his own Chamber, and
went to bed to my Maid's.

Sir _Char_. How! to bed to your Maid's! Sure, Sir, 'tis scandal on him.

Sir _Tim_. No, no, he makes his brags on't, Sir. Oh, that crying Sin of
Boasting! Well fare, I say, the Days of old Oliver, he by a wholesom Act
made it death to boast; so that then a Man might whore his Heart out, and
no body the wiser.

Sir _Char_. Right, Sir, and then the Men pass'd for sober religious
Persons, and the Women for as demure Saints--

Sir _Tim_. Ay, then there was no scandal; but now they do not only boast
what they do, but what they do not.

_Wild_. I'll take care that fault shall be mended, Sir.

Sir _Tim_. Ay, so will I, if Poverty has any Feats of Mortification; and
so farewel to you, Sir.
[Going.

_Wild_. Stay, Sir, are you resolv'd to be so cruel then, and ruin all my
Fortunes now depending?

Sir _Tim_. Most religiously--

_Wild_. You are?

Sir _Tim_. I am.

_Wild_. Death, I'll rob.

Sir _Tim_. Do and be hang'd.

_Wild_. Nay, I'll turn Papist.

Sir _Tim_. Do and be damn'd.

Sir _Char_. Bless me, Sir, what a Scandal would that be to the Family of
the _Treat-alls_!

Sir _Tim_. Hum! I had rather indeed he turn'd Turk or Jew, for his own
sake; but as for scandalizing me, I defy it: My Integrity has been known
ever since Forty one; I bought three Thousand a year in Bishops Lands, as
'tis well known, and lost it at the King's return; for which I'm honour'd
by the City. But for his farther Satisfaction, Consolation, and
Destruction, know, That I Sir _Timothy Treat-all_, Knight and Alderman,
do think my self young enough to marry, d'ye see, and will wipe your Nose
with a Son and Heir of my own begetting, and so forth.
[_Going away_.

_Wild_. Death! marry!

Sir _Char_. Patience, dear Tom, or thou't spoil all.

_Wild_. Damn him, I've lost all Patience, and can dissemble no longer,
though I lose all--Very good, Sir; harkye, I hope she's young and
handsome; or if she be not, amongst the numerous lusty-stomacht Whigs
that daily nose your publick Dinners, some maybe found, that either for
Money, Charity, or Gratitude, may requite your Treats. You keep open
House to all the Party, not for Mirth, Generosity or good Nature, but for
Roguery. You cram the Brethren, the pious City-Gluttons, with good Cheer,
good Wine, and Rebellion in abundance, gormandizing all Comers and Goers,
of all Sexes, Sorts, Opinions and Religions, young half-witted Fops,
hot-headed Fools, and Malecontents: You guttle and fawn on all, and all
in hopes of debauching the King's Liege-people into Commonwealthsmen;
and rather than lose a Convert, you'll pimp for him. These are your
nightly Debauches--Nay, rather than you shall want it, I'll cuckold you
my self in pure Revenge.

Sir _Tim_. How! Cuckold his own natural Uncle!

Sir _Char_. Oh, he cannot be so profane.

_Wild_. Profane! why he deny'd but now the having any share in me; and
therefore 'tis lawful. I am to live by my Wits, you say, and your old
rich good-natur'd Cuckold is as sure a Revenue to a handsome young Cadet,
as a thousand Pound a Year. Your tolerable Face and Shape is an Estate in
the City, and a better Bank than your Six per Cent, at any time.

Sir _Tim_. Well, Sir, since Nature has furnisht you so well, you need but
up and ride, show and be rich; and so your Servant, witty Mr. _Wilding_.
[_Goes out. He looks after him_.

Sir _Char_. Whilst I am labouring another's good, I quite neglect my own.
This cursed, proud, disdainful Lady _Galliard_, is ever in my Head; she's
now at Church, I'm sure, not for Devotion, but to shew her Charms, and
throw her Darts amongst the gazing Croud; and grows more vain by
Conquest. I'm near the Church, and must step in, though it cost me a new
Wound.
[Wild, _stands pausing_.

_Wild_. I am resolv'd--Well, dear _Charles_, let's sup together to night,
and contrive some way to e reveng'd of this wicked Uncle of mine. I must
leave thee now, for I have an Assignation here at Church.

Sir _Char_. Hah! at Church!

_Wild_. Ay, _Charles_ with the dearest She-Saint, and I hope Sinner.

Sir _Char_. What, at Church? Pox, I shall be discover'd now in my Amours.
That's an odd place for Love-Intrigues.

_Wild_. Oh, I am to pass for a sober, discreet Person to the Relations;
but for my Mistress, she's made of no such sanctify'd Materials; she is a
Widow, _Charles_, young, rich, and beautiful.

Sir _Char_. Hah! if this shou'd prove my Widow, now. [_Aside_.

_Wild_. And though at her own dispose, yet is much govern'd by Honour,
and a rigid Mother, who is ever preaching to her against the Vices of
Youth, and t'other end of the Town Sparks; dreads nothing so much as her
Daughter's marrying a villanous Tory. So the young one is forc'd to
dissemble Religion, the best Mask to hide a kind Mistress in.

Sir _Char_. This must be my Lady _Galliard_. [_Aside_.

_Wild_. There is at present some ill understanding between us; some
damn'd Honourable Fop lays siege to her, which has made me ill received;
and I having a new Intrigue elsewhere, return her cold Disdain, but now
and then she crosses my Heart too violently to resist her. In one of
these hot Fits I now am, and must find some occasion to speak to her.

Sir _Char_. By Heaven, it must be she--I am studying now, amongst all our
She-Acquaintance, who this shou'd be.

_Wild_. Oh, this is of Quality to be conceal'd; but the dearest loveliest
Hypocrite, white as Lillies, smooth as Rushes, and plump as Grapes after
a Shower, haughty her Mein, her Eyes full of Disdain, and yet bewitching
sweet; but when she loves soft, witty, wanton, all that charms a Soul,
and but for now and then a fit of Honour, Oh, damn the Nonsense! wou'd be
all my own.

Sir _Char_. 'Tis she, by Heaven! [_Aside_.]
Methinks this Widow shou'd prove a good Income to you, as things now
stand between you and your Uncle.

_Wild_. Ah, _Charles_, but I am otherways dispos'd of. There is the most
charming pretty thing in nature fallen in love with this Person of mine,
a rich City-Heiress, _Charles_, and I have her in possession.

Sir _Char_. How can you love two at once? I've been as wild and as
extravagant, as Youth and Wealth cou'd render me; but ne'er arrived to
that degree of Leudness, to deal my Heart about: my Hours I might, but
Love shou'd be intire.

_Wild_. Ah, _Charles_, two such bewitching Faces wou'd give thy Heart the
lye:--But Love divides us, and I must into Church. Adieu till Night.
[_Exit_.

Sir _Char_. And I must follow, to resolve my Heart in what it dreads to
learn. Here, my Cloke. [_Takes his Cloke from his Man, and puts it on_.]
Hah, Church is done! See, they are coming forth!

_Enter People cross the Stage, as from Church; amongst 'em Sir_
Anthony Meriwill, _follow'd by Sir_ Timothy Treat-all.

Hah, my Uncle! He must not see me here.
[_Throws his Cloke over his Face_.

Sir _Tim_. What my old Friend and Acquaintance, Sir Anthony Meriwill!

Sir _Anth_. Sir _Timothy Treat-all_!

Sir _Tim_. Why, how long have you been in Town, Sir?

Sir _Anth_. About three days, Sir.

Sir _Tim_. Three days, and never came to dine with me! 'tis unpardonable!
What, you keep close to the Church, I see: You are for the Surplice
still, old Orthodox you; the Times cannot mend you, I see.

Sir _Anth_. No, nor shall they mar me, Sir.

Sir _Char_. They are discoursing; I'll pass by. [_Aside_.
[_Ex. Sir_ Charles.

Sir _Anth_. As I take it, you came from Church too.

Sir _Tim_. Ay, needs must when the Devil drives. I go to save my Bacon,
as they say, once a Month, and that too after the Porridge is serv'd up.

Sir _Anth_. Those that made it, Sir, are wiser than we. For my part, I
love good wholesom Doctrine, that teaches Obedience to the King and
Superiors, without railing at the Government, and quoting Scripture for
Sedition, Mutiny and Rebellion. Why here was a jolly Fellow this Morning
made a notable Sermon. By George, our Country-Vicars are mere Scholars to
your Gentlemen Town-Parsons! Hah, how he handled the Text, and run
Divisions upon't! 'twould make a Man sin with moderation, to hear how he
claw'd away the Vices of the Town, Whoring, Drinking, and Conventicling,
with the rest of the deadly number.

Sir _Tim_. Good lack! an he were so good at Whoring and Drinking, you'd
best carry your Nephew, Sir _Charles Meriwill_, to Church; he wants a
little documentizing that way.

Sir _Anth_. Hum! you keep your old wont still; a Man can begin no
Discourse to you, be it of Prester John, but you still conclude with my
Nephew.

Sir _Tim_. Good Lord! Sir Anthony, you need not be so purty; what I say,
is the Discourse of the whole City, how lavishly you let him live, and
give ill Examples to all young Heirs.

Sir _Anth_. The City! The City's a grumbling, lying, dissatisfy'd City,
and no wise or honest Man regards what it says. Do you, or any of the
City, stand bound to his Scrivener or Taylor? He spends what I allow him,
Sir, his own; and you're a Fool, or Knave, chuse ye whether, to concern
your self.

Sir _Tim_. Good lack! I speak but what wiser Men discourse.

Sir _Anth_. Wiser Men! wiser Coxcombs. What, they wou'd have me train my
Nephew up, a hopeful Youth, to keep a Merchant's Book, or send him to
chop Logick in an University, and have him returned an arrant learned
Ass, to simper, and look demure, and start at Oaths and Wenches, whilst I
fell his Woods, and grant Leases: And lastly, to make good what I have
cozen'd him of, force him to marry Mrs. Crump, the ill-favour'd Daughter
of some Right Worshipful.--A Pox of all of such Guardians!

Sir _Tim_. Do, countenance Sin and Expenccs, do.

Sir _Anth_. What Sin, what Expences? He wears good Clothes, why,
Trades-men get the more by him; he keeps his Coach, 'tis for his Ease;
A Mistress, 'tis for his Pleasure; he games, 'tis for his Diversion: And
where's the harm of this? is there ought else you can accuse him with?

Sir _Tim_. Yes,--a Pox upon him, he's my Rival too. [_Aside_.
Why then I'll tell you, Sir, he loves a Lady.

Sir _Anth_. If that be a Sin, Heaven help the Wicked!

Sir _Tim_. But I mean honourably--

Sir _Anth_. Honourably! why do you know any Infirmity in him, why he
shou'd not marry? [_Angrily_.

Sir _Tim_. Not I, Sir.

Sir _Anth_. Not you, Sir? why then you're an Ass, Sir--But is this Lady
young and handsom?

Sir _Tim_. Ay, and rich too, Sir.

Sir _Anth_. No matter for Money, so she love the Boy.

Sir _Tim_. Love him! No, Sir, she neither does, nor shall love him.

Sir _Anth_. How, Sir, nor shall love him! By _George_, but she shall, and
lie with him too, if I please, Sir.

Sir _Tim_. How, Sir! lie with a rich City-Widow, and a Lady, and to be
married to a fine Reverend old Gentleman within a day or two?

Sir _Anth_. His Name, Sir, his Name; I'll dispatch him presently.
[_Offers to draw_.

Sir _Tim_. How, Sir, dispatch him!--Your Servant, Sir.
[_Offers to go_.

Sir _Anth_. Hold, Sir! by this abrupt departure, I fancy you the Boy's
Rival: Come, draw.
[_Draws_.

Sir _Tim_. How, draw, Sir!

Sir _Anth_. Ay, draw, Sir; not my Nephew have the Widow!

Sir _Tim_. With all my Soul, Sir; I love and honour your Nephew. I his
Rival! alas, Sir, I'm not so fond of Cuckoldom. Pray, Sir, let me see you
and Sir _Charles_ at my House, I may serve him in this business; and so I
take my leave, Sir--Draw quoth-a! Pox upon him for an old Tory-rory.
[_Aside_.

[_Exit_.

_Enter as from Church, L_. Galliard, Closet, _and Footman_:
Wilding _passes carelessly by her, Sir_ Charles Meriwill
_following, wrapt up in his Cloke_.

Sir _Anth_. Who's here? _Charles_ muffled in a Cloke peering after a
Woman?
My own Boy to a Hair! She's handsom too. I'll step aside; for I must see
the meaning on't.
[_Goes aside_.

L. _Gal_. Bless me! how unconcern'd he pass'd!

_Clos_. He bow'd low, Madam.

L. _Gal_. But 'twas in such a fashion, as exprest Indifferency, much
worse than Hate from _Wilding_.

_Clos_. Your Ladyship has us'd him ill of late; yet if your Ladyship
please, I'll call him back.

L. _Gal_. I'll die first--Hah, he's going! Yet now I think on't I have a
Toy of his, which to express my scorn, I'll give him back now--this Ring.

_Clos_. Shall I carry it, Madam?

L. _Gal_. You'll not express Disdain enough in the Delivery; and you may
call him back.

[Clos. _goes to_ Wild.

Sir _Char_. By Heaven, she's fond of him. [_Aside_.

_Wild_. Oh, Mrs. Closet! is it you?--Madam, your Servant: By this
Disdain, I fear your Woman, Madam, has mistaken her Man. Wou'd your
Ladyship speak with me?

L. _Gal_. Yes.--But what? the God of Love instruct me. [_Aside_.

_Wild_. Command me quickly, Madam; for I have business.

L. _Gal_. Nay, then I cannot be discreet in Love. [_Aside_.
--Your business once was Love, nor had no idle hours
To throw away on any other thought;
You lov'd, as if you had no other Faculties,
As if you'd meant to gain eternal Bliss,
By that Devotion only: And see how now you're chang'd.

_Wild_. Not I, by Heaven; 'tis you are only chang'd.
I thought you'd lov'd me too, curse on the dull mistake!
But when I beg'd to reap the mighty Joy
That mutual Love affords,
You turn'd me off from Honour,
That Nothing, fram'd by some old sullen Maid,
That wanted Charms to kindle Flames when young.

Sir _Anth_. By George, he's i'th' right. [_Aside_.

Sir _Char_. Death! can she hear this Language? [_Aside_.

L. _Gal_. How dare you name this to me any more?
Have you forgot my Fortune, and my Youth,
My Quality, and Fame?

_Wild_. No, by Heaven, all these increase my Flame.

L. _Gal_. Perhaps they might, but yet I wonder where
You got the boldness to approach me with it.

_Wild_. Faith, Madam, from your own encouragement.

L. _Gal_. From mine! Heavens, what Contempt is this?

_Wild_. When first I paid my Vows, (good Heaven forgive me)
They were for Honour all;
But wiser you, thanks to your Mother's care too,
Knowing my Fortune an uncertain hope,
My Life of Scandal, and my leud Opinion,
Forbad me wish that way; 'twas kindly urg'd;
You cou'd not then forbid my Passion too,
Nor did I ever from your Lips or Eyes
Receive the cruel Sentence of my Death.

Sir _Anth_. Gad, a fine Fellow this!

L. _Gal_. To save my Life, I wou'd not marry thee.

_Wild_. That's kindly said.
But to save mine, thou't do a kinder thing;
--I know thou wo't.

L. _Gal_. What, yield my Honour up!
And after find it sacrific'd anew,
And made the scorn of a triumphing Wife!

Sir _Anth_. Gad, she's i'th' right too! a noble Girl I'll warrant her.

L. _Gal_. But you disdain to satisfy these fears;
And like a proud and haughty Conqueror,
Demand the Town, without the least Conditions.

Sir _Char_. By Heaven, she yields apace. [_Aside_.

_Sir. Anth_. Pox on't, wou'd I had ne'er seen her; now
I have Legions of small Cupids at Hot-cockles in my Heart.

_Wild_. Now I am pausing on that word Conditions.
Thou say'st thou wou't not have me marry thee;
That is, as if I lov'd thee for thy Eyes
And put 'em out to hate thee;
Or like our Stage-smitten Youth, who fall in Love with a
Woman for acting finely, and by taking her off the Stage,
deprive her of the only Charm she had,
Then leave her to ill Luck.

Sir _Anth_. Gad, he's i'th' right again too! a rare Fellow!

_Wild_. For, Widow, know, hadst thou more Beauty, yet not all of 'em were
half so great a Charm as they not being mine.

Sir _Anth_. Hum! how will he make that out now?

_Wild_. The stealths of Love, the midnight kind Admittance,
The gloomy Bed, the soft breath'd murmuring Passion;
Ah, who can guess at Joys thus snatch'd by parcels?
The difficulty makes us always wishing,
Whilst on thy part, Fear makes still some resistance;
And every Blessing seems a kind of Rape.

Sir _Anth_. H'as don't!--A Divine Fellow that; just of my Religion. I am
studying now whether I was never acquainted with his Mother.
[L. Gal. _walks away_. Wild. _follows_.

L. _Gal_. Tempt me no more! what dull unwary Flame
Possest me all this while! Confusion on thee, [_In Rage_.
And all the Charms that dwell upon thy Tongue.
Diseases ruin that bewitching Form,
That with the soft feign'd Vows debaucht my Heart.

Sir _Char_. Heavens! can I yet endure! [_Aside_.

L. _Gal_. By all that's good, I'll marry instantly;
Marry, and save my last Stake, Honour, yet,
Or thou wilt rook me out of all at last.

_Wild_. Marry! thou canst not do a better thing;
There are a thousand Matrimonial Fops,
Fine Fools of Fortune,
Good-natur'd Blockheads too, and that's a wonder.

L. _Gal_. That will be manag'd by a Man of Wit.

_Wild_. Right.

L. _Gal_. I have an eye upon a Friend of yours.

_Wild_. A Friend of mine! then he must be my Cuckold.

Sir _Char_. Very fine! can I endure yet more? [_Aside_.

L. _Gal_. Perhaps it is your Uncle.

_Wild_. Hah, my Uncle!
[_Sir_ Charles _makes up to 'em_.

Sir _Anth_. Hah, my _Charles_! why, well said, _Charles_, he bore up
briskly to her.

Sir _Char_. Ah, Madam, may I presume to tell you--

Sir _Anth_. Ah, Pox, that was stark naught! he begins like a Fore-man
o'th' Shop, to his Master's Daughter.

_Wild_. How, _Charles Meriwill_ acquainted with my Widow!

Sir _Char_. Why do you wear that scorn upon your Face?
I've nought but honest meaning in my Passion,
Whilst him you favour so profanes your Beauties,
In scorn of Marriage and Religious Rites,
Attempts the ruin of your sacred Honour.

L. _Gal_. Hah, _Wilding_ boast my Love! [_Aside_.

Sir _Anth_. The Devil take him, my Nephew's quite spoil'd!
Why, what a Pox has he to do with Honour now?

L. _Gal_. Pray leave me, Sir.--

_Wild_. Damn it, since he knows all, I'll boldly own my flame.
You take a liberty I never gave you, Sir.

Sir _Char_. How, this from thee! nay, then I must take more.
And ask you where you borrow'd that Brutality,
T' approach that Lady with your saucy Passion.

Sir _Anth_. Gad, well done, _Charles_! here must be sport anon.

_Wild_. I will not answer every idle Question.

Sir _Char_. Death, you dare not.

_Wild_. How, dare not!

Sir _Char_. No, dare not; for if you did--

_Wild_. What durst you, if I did?

Sir _Char_. Death, cut your Throat, Sir.
[_Taking hold on him roughly_.

Sir _Anth_. Hold, hold, let him have fair play, and then curse him that
parts ye. [_Taking 'em asunder, they draw_.

L. _Gal_. Hold, I command ye, hold!

Sir _Char_. There rest my Sword to all Eternity.
[_Lays his Sword at her Feet_.

L. _Gal_. Now I conjure ye both, by all your Honour,
If you were e'er acquainted with that Virtue,
To see my Face no more,
Who durst dispute your Interest in me thus,
As for a common Mistress, in your Drink.

[_She goes out, and all but_ Wild. _Sir_ Anth. _and_
_Sir Char, who stands sadly looking after her_.

Sir _Anth_. A Heavenly Girl!--Well, now she's gone, by George, I am for
disputing your Title to her by dint of Sword.

Sir _Char_. I wo'not fight.

_Wild_. Another time will decide it, Sir.
[Wild, _goes out_.

Sir _Anth_. After your whining Prologue, Sir, who the Devil would have
expected such a Farce?--Come, _Charles_, take up thy sword, _Charles_;
and d'ye hear forget me this Woman.--

Sir _Char_. Forget her, Sir! there never was a thing so excellent!

Sir _Anth_. You lye, Sirrah, you lye, there's a thousand
As fair, as young, and kinder by this day.
We'll into th' Country, _Charles_, where every Grove
Affords us rustick Beauties,
That know no Pride nor Painting,
And that will take it and be thankful, _Charles_;
Fine wholesom Girls that fall like ruddy Fruit,
Fit for the gathering, _Charles_.

Sir _Char_. Oh, Sir, I cannot relish the coarse Fare.
But what's all this, Sir, to my present Passion?

Sir _Anth_. Passion, Sir! you shall have no Passion, Sir.

Sir _Char_. No Passion, Sir! shall I have Life and Breath?

Sir _Anth_. It may be not, Sirrah, if it be my will and pleasure.
--Why how now! saucy Boys be their own Carvers?

_Sir Char_. Sir, I am all Obedience. [Bowing and sighing.

Sir _Anth_. Obedience! Was ever such a Blockhead! Why then, if I command
it, you will not love this Woman?

Sir _Char_. No, Sir.

Sir _Anth_. No, Sir! But I say, Yes, Sir, love her me; and love her me
like a Man too, or I'll renounce ye, Sir.

Sir _Char_. I've try'd all ways to win upon her Heart,
Presented, writ, watcht, fought, pray'd, kneel'd, and wept.

Sir _Anth_. Why, there's it now; I thought so: kneel'd
and wept! a Pox upon thee--I took thee for a prettier Fellow--
You shou'd have huft and bluster'd at her door,
Been very impudent and saucy, Sir,
Leud, ruffling, mad; courted at all hours and seasons;
Let her not rest, nor eat, nor sleep, nor visit.
Believe me, _Charles_, Women love Importunity.
Watch her close, watch her like a Witch, Boy,
Till she confess the Devil in her,--Love.

Sir _Char_. I cannot, Sir,
Her Eyes strike such an awe into my Soul--

Sir _Anth_. Strike such a Fiddle-stick.--Sirrah, I say, do't; what, you
can towse a Wench as handsomely--You can be leud enough upon occasion. I
know not the Lady, nor her Fortune; but I'm resolv'd thou shalt have her,
with practising a little Courtship of my Mode.--Come--Come, my Boy
_Charles_, since thou must needs be doing, I'll shew thee how to go a
Widow-wooing.

ACT II.

SCENE I. _A Room_.

_Enter_ Charlot, Foppington, _and_ Clacket.

_Charl_. Enough, I've heard enough of _Wilding's_ Vices, to know I am
undone.
[_Weeps_.
--_Galliard_ his Mistress too? I never saw her, but I have heard her
fam'd for Beauty, Wit, and Fortune: That Rival may be dangerous.

_Fop_. Yes, Madam, the fair, the young, the witty Lady _Galliard_, even
in the height of his Love to you; nay, even whilst his Uncle courts her
for a Wife, he designs himself for a Gallant.

_Charl_. Wondrous Inconstancy and Impudence!

Mrs. _Clack_. Nay, Madam, you may rely upon Mr. _Foppington's_
Information; therefore if you respect your Reputation, retreat in time.

_Charl_. Reputation! that I forfeited when I ran away with your Friend,
Mr. _Wilding_.

Mrs. _Clack_. Ah, that ever I shou'd live to see
[_Weeps_]
the sole Daughter and Heir of Sir _Nicholas Gett-all_, ran away with one
of the leudest Heathens about Town!

_Charl_. How, your Friend, Mr. _Wilding_, a Heathen; and with you too,
Mrs. _Clacket_! that Friend, Mr. _Wilding_, who thought none so worthy as
Mrs. _Clacket_, to trust with so great a Secret as his flight with me; he
a Heathen!

Mrs. _Clack_. Ay, and a poor Heathen too, Madam. 'Slife, if you must
marry a Man to buy him Breeches, marry an honest Man, a Religious Man, a
Man that bears a Conscience, and will do a Woman some Reason--Why, here's
Mr. _Foppington_, Madam; here's a Shape, here's a Face, a Back as strait
as an Arrow, I'll warrant.

_Charl_. How! buy him Breeches! Has _Wilding_ then no Fortune?

_Fop_. Yes, Faith, Madam, pretty well; so, so, as the Dice run; and now
and then he lights upon a Squire, or so, and between fair and foul Play,
he makes a shift to pick a pretty Livelihood up.

_Charl_. How! does his Uncle allow him no present Maintenance?

_Fop_. No, nor future Hopes neither: Therefore, Madam, I hope you will
see the Difference between him and a Man of Parts, that adores you.
[Smiling and bowing.

_Charl_. If I find all this true you tell me, I shall know how to value
my self and those that love me.--This may be yet a Rascal.

_Enter Maid_.

_Maid_. Mistress, Mr. _Wilding's_ below.
[_Exit_.

_Fop_. Below! Oh, Heaven, Madam, do not expose me to his Fury, for being
too zealous in your Service.
[_In great Disorder_.

_Charl_. I will not let him know you told any thing, Sir.

_Fop_. Death! to be seen here, would expose my Life.
[_To_ Clacket.

Mrs. _Clack_. Here, here, step out upon the Stair-case, and slip
into my Chamber.
[_Going out, returns in fright_.

_Fop_. Owns, he's here; lock the Door fast; let him not enter.

Mrs. _Clack_. Oh, Heavens, I have not the Key! hold it, hold it fast,
sweet, sweet Mr. _Foppington_. Oh, should there be Murder done, what a
Scandal wou'd that be to the House of a true Protestant!
[_Knocks_.

_Charl_. Heavens! what will he say or think, to see me shut in with a
Man?

Mrs. _Clack_. Oh, I'll say you're sick, asleep, or out of Humour.

_Charl_. I'd give the World to see him. [_Knocks_.

_Wild_. [_Without_,] _Charlot, Charlot_! am I deny'd an entrance? By
Heaven, I'll break the Door.
[_Knocks again_; Fop. _still holding it_.

_Fop_. Oh, I'm a dead Man, dear Clacket! [_Knocking still_.

Mrs. _Clack_. Oh, hold, Sir, Mrs. _Charlot_ is very sick.

_Wild_. How, sick, and I kept from her!

Mrs. _Clack_. She begs you'll come again an Hour hence.

_Wild_. Delay'd! by Heaven, I will have entrance.

_Fop_. Ruin'd! undone! for if he do not kill me, he may starve me.

Mrs. _Clack_. Oh, he will not break in upon us! Hold, Sir, hold a little;
Mrs. _Charlot_ is just--just--shifting her self, Sir; you will not be so
uncivil as to press in, I hope, at such a Time.

_Charl_. I have a fine time on't, between ye, to have him think I am
stripping my self before Mr. _Foppington_--Let go, or I'll call out and
tell him all.

[Wild, _breaks open the Door and rushes in_: Fop. _stands
close up at the entrance till he is past him, then venturing
to slip out, finds_ Wild, _has made fast the Door: so he is
forc'd to return again and stand close up behind_ Wild.
_with signs of Fear_.

_Wild_. How now, _Charlot_, what means this new Unkindness? what, not a
Word?

_Charl_. There is so little Musick in my Voice, you do not care to hear
it: you have been better entertain'd, I find, mightily employ'd, no
doubt.

_Wild_. Yes, faith, and so I have, _Charlot_: damn'd Business, that Enemy
to Love, has made me rude.

_Charl_. Or that other Enemy to Love, damn'd Wenching.

_Wild_. Wenching! how ill hast thou tim'd thy Jealousy! What Banker, that
to morrow is to pay a mighty Sum, wou'd venture out his Stock to day in
little Parcels, and lose his Credit by it?

_Charl_. You wou'd, perfidious as you are, though all your Fortune, all
your future Health, depended on that Credit.
[_Angry_.

_Wild_. So, hark ye, Mrs. Clacket, you have been prating I find in my
Absence, giving me a handsom Character to _Charlot_--You hate any good
thing shou'd go by your own Nose. [_Aside to_ Clacket.

Mrs. _Clack_. By my Nose, Mr. _Wilding_! I defy you: I'd have you to
know, I scorn any good thing shou'd go by my Nose in an uncivil way.

_Wild_. I believe so.

Mrs. _Clack_. Have I been the Confident to all your Secrets this three
years, in Sickness and in Health, for richer, for poorer; conceal'd the
Nature of your wicked Diseases, under the honest Name of Surfeits; call'd
your filthy Surgeons, Mr. Doctor, to keep up your Reputation; civilly
receiv'd your t'other end of the Town young Relations at all Hours--

_Wild_. High!

Mrs. _Clack_. Been up with you, and down with you early and late, by
Night and by Day; let you in at all Hours, drunk and sober, single and
double; and civilly withdrawn, and modestly shut the Door after me?

_Wild_. What! The Storm's up, and the Devil cannot lay it.

Mrs. _Clack_. And I am thus rewarded for my Pains!
[_Weeps_.

_Wild_. So Tempests are allay'd by Showers of Rain.

Mrs. _Clack_. That I shou'd be charg'd with speaking ill of you, so
honest, so civil a Gentleman--

_Charl_. No, I have better Witness of your Falshood.

_Fop_. Hah, 'Sdeath, she'll name me!

_Wild_. What mean you, my _Charlot_? Do you not think I love you?

_Charl_. Go ask my Lady _Galliard_, she keeps the best Account of all
your Sighs and Vows, And robs me of my dearest softer Hours.
[_Kindly to him_.

Mrs. _Clack_. You cannot hold from being kind to him. [_Aside_.

_Wild. _Galliard_! How came she by that Secret of my Life? [_Aside_.]
Why, ay, 'tis true, I am there sometimes about an Arbitration, about a
Suit in Law, about my Uncle.

_Charl_. Ay, that Uncle too--
You swore to me you were your Uncle's Heir;
But you perhaps may chance to get him one,
If the Lady prove not cruel.

_Wild_. Death and the Devil, what Rascal has been prating to her!
[_Aside_.

_Charl_. Whilst I am reserv'd for a dead Lift, if Fortune prove unkind,
or wicked Uncles refractory: Yet I cou'd love you though you were a
Slave,
[_In a soft Tone to him_.
And I were Queen of all the Universe.

Mrs. _Clack_. Ay, there you spoil'd all again--you forgot your self.

_Charl_. And all the World when he looks kindly on me. But I'll take
Courage and be very angry. [_Aside_. Nor do your Perjuries rest here;
you're equally as false to _Galliard_, as to me; false for a little
Mistress of the Town, whom you've set up in spite to Quality.
[_Angry_.

Mrs. _Clack_. So, that was home and handsom.

_Wild_. What damn'd Informer does she keep in pension?

_Charl_. And can you think my Fortune and my Youth
Merits no better Treatment? [_Angry_.
How cou'd you have the Heart to use me so? [_Soft to him_.
I fall insensibly to Love and Fondness. [_Aside_.

_Wild_. Ah, my dear _Charlot_! you who know my Heart, can you believe me
false?

_Charl_. In every Syllable, in every Look;
Your Vows, your Sighs, and Eyes, all counterfeit.
You said you lov'd me, where was then your Truth?
You swore you were to be your Uncle's Heir;
Where was your Confidence of me the while.
To think my Generosity so scanted,
To love you for your Fortune?
--How every Look betrays my yielding Heart! [_Aside_.
No, since Men are grown so cunning in their
Trade of Love, the necessary Vice I'll practise too,
And chaffer with Love-Merchants for my Heart.
Make it appear you are your Uncle's Heir,
I'll marry ye to morrow.
Of all thy Cheats, that was the most unkind,
Because you thought to conquer by that Lye.
To night I'll be resolv'd.

_Wild_. Hum! to night!

_Charl_. To night, or I will think you love me for my Fortune;
Which if you find elsewhere to more advantage,
I may unpitied die--and I shou'd die
If you should prove untrue. [Tenderly to him.

Mrs. _Clack_. There you've dasht all again.

_Wild_. I'm resolv'd to keep my Credit with her--
Here's my Hand;
This Night, _Charlot_, I'll let you see the Writings.
--But how? a Pox on him that knows for _Thomas_. [_Aside_.

_Charl_. Hah! that Hand without the Ring!
Nay, never study for a handsom Lye.

_Wild_. Ring? Oh, ay, I left it in my Dressing-room this Morning.

_Charl_. See how thou hast inur'd thy Tongue to falshood!
Did you not send it to a certain Creature
They call _Diana_,
From off that Hand that plighted Faith to me?

_Wild_. By Heaven, 'tis Witchcraft all;
Unless this Villain _Foppington_ betray me.
Those sort of Rascals would do any thing
For ready Meat and Wine--I'll kill the Fool--hah, here!
[_Turns quick, and sees him behind him_.

_Fop_. Here, Lord! Lord!
Where were thy Eyes, dear _Wilding_?

_Wild_. Where they have spy'd a Rascal.
Where was this Property conceal'd?

_Fop_. Conceal'd! What dost thou mean, dear _Tom_?
Why, I stood as plain as the Nose on thy Face, mun.

_Wild_. But 'tis the ungrateful Quality of all your sort to make such
base returns.
How got this Rogue Admittance, and when in,
The Impudence to tell his treacherous Lyes?

_Fop_. Admittance! why thou art stark mad: Did not I come in with you,
that is, follow'd you?

_Wild_. Whither?

_Fop_. Why, into the House, up stairs, stood behind you when you swore
you wou'd come in, and follow'd you in!

_Wild_. All this, and I not see!

_Fop_. Oh, Love's blind; but this Lady saw me, Mrs. _Clacket_ saw me--
Admittance quotha!

_Wild_. Why did you not speak?

_Fop_. Speak! I was so amaz'd at what I heard, the villanous Scandals
laid on you by some pick-thank Rogue or other, I had no Power.

_Wild_. Ay, thou know'st how I am wrong'd.

_Fop_. Oh, most damnably, Sir!

_Wild_. Abuse me to my Mistress too!

_Fop_. Oh, Villains! Dogs!

_Charl_. Do you think they have wrong'd him, Sir? For I'll believe you.

_Fop_. Do I think, Madam? Ay, I think him a Son of a Whore that said it;
and I'll cut his Throat.

Mrs. _Clack_. Well, this Impudence is a heavenly Virtue.

_Wild_. You see now, Madam, how Innocence may suffer.

_Charl_. In spite of all thy villanous dissembling, I must believe, and
love thee for my quiet.

_Wild_. That's kind; and if before to morrow I do not shew you I deserve
your Heart, kill me at once by quitting me--Farewel--I know where both my
Uncle's Will and other Writings lie, by which he made me Heir to his
whole Estate. My Craft will be in catching; which if past, Her Love
secures me the kind Wench at last. [_Aside_.
[_Goes out with_ Fop.

Mrs. _Clack_. What if he should not chance to keep his Word now?

_Charl_. How, if he shou'd not! by all that's good, if he shou'd not, I
am resolv'd to marry him however. We two may make a pretty Shift with
three thousand Pound a year; yet I wou'd fain be resolv'd how Affairs
stand between the old Gentleman and him. I wou'd give the World to see
that Widow too, that Lady _Galliard_.

Mrs. _Clack_. If you're bent upon't, I'll tell you what we'll do, Madam;
There's every Day mighty Feasting here at his Uncle's hard by, and you
shall disguise your self as well as you can, and so go for a Niece of
mine I have coming out of Scotland; there you will not fail of seeing my
Lady _Galliard_, though, I doubt, not Mr. _Wilding_, who is of late
discarded.

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