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The works of John Dryden, now first collected in eighteen volumes. Volume 02

by John Dryden · English · Gutenberg #12166 · 661,812 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The works of John Dryden, now first collected in eighteen volumes. Volume 02

Author: John Dryden

Editor: Walter Scott


        
Release date: April 1, 2004 [eBook #12166]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORKS OF JOHN DRYDEN, NOW FIRST COLLECTED IN EIGHTEEN VOLUMES. VOLUME 02 ***

The
Works
Of
John Dryden,

Now First Collected
_In Eighteen Volumes_.

Illustrated
With Notes,
Historical, Critical, And Explanatory,
And
A Life Of The Author,
By
Walter Scott, Esq.

VOL. II.
1808.




CONTENTS
OF
VOLUME SECOND.


Dedication of Mr Congreve's edition of Dryden's
  Dramatic Works to the Duke of Newcastle

The Wild Gallant, a Comedy
  Preface

The Rival Ladies, a Tragi-comedy
  Dedication to the Earl of Orrery

The Indian Queen, a Tragedy

The Indian Emperor, or the Conquest of Mexico by the Spaniards
  Dedication to the Duchess of Monmouth and Buccleuch
  Defence of an Essay of Dramatic Poesy
  Connection of the Indian Emperor to the Indian Queen

Secret Love, or the Maiden Queen
  Preface





THE
WORKS
OF
JOHN DRYDEN.

VOL. II.



ADVERTISEMENT.


_Mr Congreve's edition of Dryden's dramatic works, in six volumes
12mo, printed for Tonson in 1735, has been chiefly resorted to for the
text of the Plays in the present edition, although the assistance
of the older copies, in quarto and folio, has been called in, where
difficulties occurred, or improvements were obvious. The preliminary
Dissertations, Dedications, and Prefaces, have been corrected from the
excellent edition of Mr Malone. Congreve appears deeply to have felt
the bequest, left him by his great predecessor, when, "just abandoning
the ungrateful stage" he made it his intreaty, that his successor
would be kind to his remains. Considerable pains have been bestowed
by the present editor in correcting the text. The notes are limited
to the explanation of such passages, as the fashion in language, in
manners, or in literature, has, in the space of a century, rendered
doubtful or obscure._




DEDICATION TO MR CONGREVE'S EDITION OF
DRYDEN'S DRAMATIC WORKS.

TO
HIS GRACE
THE
DUKE OF NEWCASTLE[1],
LORD CHAMBERLAIN OF HIS MAJESTY'S HOUSEHOLD
_&c_.

[Footnote 1: Thomas Pelham, Duke of Newcastle. No satire ever can
convey such bitter reproof as the high-strained eulogy of this
dedication. This great and wealthy man unblushingly received
Congreve's tribute of praise and gratitude, for his munificence in
directing a splendid monument to be raised over Dryden's remains. But
the incense of the dedicator was wasted on a block, more insensible
than his Grace's workmen could have dug from the quarry. Neither pride
nor shame could induce the Duke to accomplish what vanity had led him
voluntarily to propose; and the dedication, instead of producing a
tomb in honour of Dryden, will remain itself an eternal monument of
the patron's disgrace.]


My Lord,
It is the fortune of this edition of the dramatic works of the late
Mr Dryden, to come into the world at a time, when your Grace has just
given order for erecting, at your own expense, a noble monument to his
memory.

This is an act of generosity, which has something in it so very
uncommon, that the most unconcerned and indifferent persons must be
moved with it. How much more must all such be affected by it, who had
any due regard for the personal merits of the deceased, or are capable
of any taste and distinction for the remains and elegant labours of
one of the greatest men, that our nation has produced!

That, which distinguisheth actions of pure and elevated generosity,
from those of a mixed and inferior nature, is nothing else but the
absolutely disinterested views of the agent.

My Lord, this being granted, in how fair a light does your munificence
stand? A munificence to the memory, to the ashes, of a man whom you
never saw--whom you never can see; and who, consequently, never could,
by any personal obligation, induce you to do this deed of bounty; nor
can he ever make you any acknowledgment for it, when it shall be done.

It is evident, your Grace can have acted thus from no other motive
but your pure regard to merit; from your entire love for learning; and
from that accurate taste and discernment, which, by your studies, you
have so early attained to in the politer arts.

And these are the qualities, my Lord, by which you are more
distinguished, than by all those other uncommon advantages, with which
you are attended. Your great disposition, your great ability to be
beneficent to mankind, could by no means answer that end, if you were
not possessed of a judgment to direct you in the right application and
just distribution of your good offices.

You are now in a station, by which you necessarily preside over the
liberal arts, and all the practisers and professors of them. Poetry is
more particularly within your province; and with very good reason
may we hope to see it revive and flourish under your influence and
protection.

What hopes of reward may not the living deserver entertain, when
even the dead are sought out for, and their very urns and ashes made
partakers of your liberality?

As I have the honour to be known to you, my Lord, and to have been
distinguished by you by many expressions and instances of your
goodwill towards me, I take a singular pleasure to congratulate you
upon an action so entirely worthy of you. And as I had the happiness
to be very conversant, and as intimately acquainted with Mr Dryden as
the great disproportion in our years could allow me to be, I hope it
will not be thought too assuming in me, if, in love to his memory, and
in gratitude for the many friendly offices, and favourable instructions,
which, in my early youth, I received from him, I take upon me to make
this public acknowledgment to your Grace, for so public a testimony,
as you are pleased to give to the world, of that high esteem, in which
you hold the performances of that eminent man.

I can, in some degree, justify myself for so doing, by a citation of a
kind of right to it, bequeathed to me by him. And it is, indeed, upon
that pretension, that I presume even to make a dedication of these his
works to you.

In some very elegant, though very partial, verses, which he did me the
honour to write to me, he recommended it to me to _be kind to his
remains_[2].

[Footnote 2: These are the affecting lines referred to.

  Already I am worn with cares and age,
  And just abandoning th' ungrateful stage;
  Unprofitably kept at heaven's expense,
  I live a rent-charge on his providence.
  But you, whom every muse and grace adorn,
  Whom I foresee to better fortune born,
  Be kind to my remains; and, O! defend,
  Against your judgment, your departed friend:
  Let not the insulting foe my fame pursue,
  But shade those laurels which descend to you;
  And take, for tribute, what these lines express:
  You merit more, nor could my love do less.

_Epistle to_ MR CONGREVE]

I was then, and have been ever since, most sensibly touched with that
expression; and the more so, because I could not find in myself the
means of satisfying the passion which I felt in me, to do something
answerable to an injunction laid upon me in so pathetic and so
amicable a manner.

You, my Lord, have furnished me with ample means of acquitting myself,
both of my duty and obligation to my departed friend. What kinder
office lies in me to do to these, his most valuable and imperishable
remains, than to commit them to the protection, and lodge them under
the roof, of a patron, whose hospitality has extended itself even to
his dust?

If I would permit myself to run on in the way which so fairly opens
itself before me, I should tire your Grace with reiterated praises and
acknowledgments; and I might possibly (notwithstanding my pretended
right so to do) give some handle to such, who are inclinable to
censure, to tax me of affectation and officiousness, in thanking you,
more than comes to my share, for doing a thing, which is, in truth, of
a public consideration, as it is doing an honour to your country. For
so unquestionably it is, to do honour to him, who was an honour to it.

I have but one thing to say, either to obviate or to answer such
an objection, if it shall be made to me, which is, that I loved Mr
Dryden.

I have not touched upon any other public honour or bounty, done by you
to your country. I have industriously declined entering upon a theme
of so extensive a nature; and of all your numerous and continual
largesses to the public, I have only singled out this, as what most
particularly affected me. I confess freely to your Grace, I very much
admire all those other donations, but I much more love this; and I
cannot help it, if I am naturally more delighted with any thing that
is amiable, than with any thing that is wonderful.

Whoever shall censure me, I dare be confident, you, my Lord, will
excuse me for any thing that I shall say with due regard to a
gentleman, for whose person I had as just an affection as I have
an admiration of his writings. And indeed Mr Dryden had personal
qualities to challenge both love and esteem from all who were truly
acquainted with him.

He was of a nature exceedingly humane and compassionate; easily
forgiving injuries, and capable of a prompt and sincere reconciliation
with them who had offended him.

Such a temperament is the only solid foundation of all moral virtues
and sociable endowments. His friendship, where he professed it,
went much beyond his professions; and I have been told of strong and
generous instances of it by the persons themselves who received them,
though his hereditary income was little more than a bare competency.

As his reading had been very extensive, so was he very happy in a
memory, tenacious of every thing that he had read. He was not more
possessed of knowledge than he was communicative of it. But then his
communication of it was by no means pedantic, or imposed upon the
conversation; but just such, and went so far, as, by the natural turns
of the discourse in which he was engaged, it was necessarily promoted
or required. He was extreme ready and gentle in his correction of
the errors of any writer, who thought fit to consult him; and full as
ready and patient to admit of the reprehension of others, in respect
of his own oversight or mistakes. He was of very easy, I may say, of
very pleasing access; but something slow, and, as it were, diffident
in his advances to others. He had something in his nature, that
abhorred intrusion into any society whatsoever. Indeed, it is to be
regretted, that he was rather blameable in the other extreme; for,
by that means, he was personally less known, and, consequently,
his character might become liable both to misapprehensions and
misrepresentations.

To the best of my knowledge and observation, he was, of all the men
that ever I knew, one of the most modest, and the most easily to
be discountenanced in his approaches either to his superiors or his
equals.

I have given your Grace this slight sketch of his personal character,
as well to vindicate his memory, as to justify myself for the love
which I bore to his person; and I have the rather done it, because I
hope it may be acceptable to you to know, that he was worthy of the
distinction you have shewn him, as a man, as well as an author.

As to his writings, I shall not take upon me to speak of them: For to
say little of them would not be to do them right; and to say all that
I ought to say, would be to be very voluminous. But I may venture to
say, in general terms, that no man hath written in our language
so much, and so various matter, and in so various manners so well.
Another thing I may say very peculiar to him, which is, that his parts
did not decline with his years, but that he was an improving writer
to his last, even to near seventy years of age, improving even in
fire and imagination, as well as in judgment; witness his Ode on St
Cecilia's Day, and his Fables, his latest performances.

He was equally excellent in verse and in prose. His prose had all the
clearness imaginable, together with all the nobleness of expression;
all the graces and ornaments proper and peculiar to it, without
deviating into the language or diction of poetry. I make this
observation, only to distinguish his style from that of many poetical
writers, who, meaning to write harmoniously in prose, do, in truth,
often write mere blank verse.

I have heard him frequently own with pleasure, that if he had any
talent for English prose, it was owing to his having often read the
writings of the great Archbishop Tillotson.

His versification and his numbers he could learn of no body; for he
first possessed those talents in perfection in our tongue. And they,
who have best succeeded in them since his time, have been indebted
to his example; and the more they have been able to imitate him, the
better have they succeeded.

As his style in prose is always specifically different from his
style in poetry, so, on the other hand, in his poems, his diction is,
wherever his subject requires it, so sublimely and so truly poetical,
that its essence, like that of pure gold, cannot be destroyed. Take
his verses and divest them of their rhymes, disjoint them in their
numbers, transpose their expressions, make what arrangement and
disposition you please of his words, yet shall there eternally be
poetry, and something which will be found incapable of being resolved
into absolute prose; an incontestible characteristic of a truly
poetical genius.

I will say but one word more in general of his writings, which is,
that what he has done in any one species, or distinct kind, would have
been sufficient to have acquired him a great name. If he had written
nothing but his prefaces, or nothing but his songs or his prologues,
each of them would have entitled him to the preference and distinction
of excelling in his kind.

But I have forgot myself; for nothing can be more unnecessary than an
attempt to say any thing to your Grace in commendation of the writings
of this great poet; since it is only to your knowledge, taste, and
approbation of them, that the monument, which you are now about to
raise to him, is owing. I will, therefore, my Lord, detain you no
longer by this epistle; and only entreat you to believe, that it is
addressed to your Grace from no other motive than a sincere regard to
the memory of Mr Dryden, and a very sensible pleasure which I take
in applauding an action, by which you are so justly and so singularly
entitled to a dedication of his labours, though many years after his
death, and even though most of them were produced by him many years
before you were born. I am, with the greatest respect,

MY LORD,

Your Grace's most obedient,

And most humble servant,

WILLIAM CONGREVE.




THE
WILD GALLANT,
A COMEDY.



THE WILD GALLANT.

The Editor may be pardoned in bestowing remarks upon Dryden's plays,
only in proportion to their intrinsic merit, and to the attention
which each has excited, either at its first appearance, or when the
public attention has been since directed towards them. In either point
of view, little need be said on the "Wild Gallant." It was Dryden's
first theatrical production, and its reception by no means augured
his future pre-eminence in literature; nor was it more than tolerated,
when afterwards revived under the sanction of his increasing fame.
It was brought upon the stage in February 1662-3, according to the
conjecture of Mr Malone, who observes, that the following lines in the
prologue.

  It should have been but one continued song;
  Or, at the least, a dance of three hours long;

 must refer to D'Avenant's opera, called the "Siege of Rhodes,"
acted in 1662; and that the expression, "in plays, he finds, you love
_mistakes_," alludes to the blunders of Teague, an Irish footman,
in Sir Robert Howard's play of the "Committee." The "Wild Gallant" was
revived and published in 1669, with a new prologue and epilogue, and
some other alterations, not of a nature, judging from the prologue, to
improve the morality of the piece. That the play had but indifferent
success in the action, the poet himself has informed us, with the
qualifying addition, that it more than once was the divertisement
of Charles II., by his own command. This honourable distinction it
probably acquired by the influence of the Countess of Castlemaine,
then the royal favourite, to whom Dryden addresses some verses on
her encouraging this play.--See Vol. XI p. 18.--The plot is borrowed
avowedly from the Spanish, and partakes of the unnatural incongruity,
common to the dramatic pieces of that nation, as also of the bustle
and intrigue, with which they are usually embroiled. Few modern
audiences would endure the absurd grossness of the deceit practised on
Lord Nonsuch in the fourth act; nor is the plot of Lady Constance, to
gain her lover, by marrying him in the disguise of a heathen divinity,
more grotesque than unnatural.--Yet, in the under characters, some
liveliness of dialogue is maintained; and the reader may be amused
with particular scenes, though, as a whole, the early fate of the play
was justly merited.

These passages, in which the plot stands still, while the spectators
are entertained with flippant dialogue and repartee, are ridiculed in
the scene betwixt Prince Prettyman and Tom Thimble in the Rehearsal;
the facetious Mr Bibber being the original of the latter personage.
The character of Trice, at least his whimsical humour of drinking,
playing at dice by himself, and quarrelling as if engaged with a
successful gamester, is imitated from the character of Carlo, in
Jonson's "Every Man out of his Humour," who drinks with a supposed
companion, quarrels about the pledge, and tosses about the cups and
flasks in the imaginary brawl. We have heard similar frolics related
of a bon-vivant of the last generation, inventor of a game called
_solitaire_, who used to complain of the hardship of drinking by
himself, because the _toast came too often about_.

The whole piece seems to have been intended as a sacrifice to popular
taste; and, perhaps, our poet only met a deserved fate, when he
stooped to sooth the depraved appetite, which his talents enabled him
to have corrected and purified. Something like this feeling may be
interred from the last lines of the second epilogue:

Would you but change, for serious plot and verse,
This motley garniture of fool and farce;
Nor scorn a mode, because 'tis taught at home,
Which dues, like vests,[A] our gravity become;
Our poet yields you should this play refuse,
As tradesmen by the change of fashions lose,
With some content, their fripperies of France,
In hope it may their staple trade advance.

[Footnote A: This seems to allude to the Polish dress, which, upon
his restoration, Charles wished to introduce into Britain. It was not
altered for the French, till his intimacy with that court was cemented
by pecuniary dependence.]

In the prologue, the author indulges himself in a display of the terms
of astrology, of which vain science he was a believer and a student.




PREFACE.


It would be a great impudence in me to say much of a comedy, which has
had but indifferent success in the action. I made the town my judges,
and the greater part condemned it: after which, I do not think it
my concernment to defend it with the ordinary zeal of a poet for his
decried poem. Though Corneille is more resolute in his preface before
his _Pertharite_[A], which was condemned more universally than
this; for he avows boldly, that, in spite of censure, his play was
well and regularly written; which is more than I dare say for mine.
Yet it was received at court; and was more than once the divertisement
of his Majesty, by his own command; but I have more modesty than to
ascribe that to my merit, which was his particular act of grace. It
was the first attempt I made in dramatic poetry; and, I find since, a
very bold one, to begin with comedy, which is the most difficult
part of it. The plot was not originally my own; but so altered by me,
(whether for the better or worse I know not) that whoever the author
was, he could not have challenged a scene of it. I doubt not but you
will see in it the uncorrectness of a young writer; which is yet but a
small excuse for him, who is so little amended since. The best apology
I can make for it, and the truest, is only this, that you have, since
that time, received with applause, as bad, and as uncorrect plays from
other men.

[Footnote A: "Le succés de cette tragédie à été si malheureux, que
pour m'epargner le chagrin de m'en souvenir, je n'en dirai presque
rien.--J'ajoute ici malgré sa disgrace, que les sentimens en sont
assez vifs et nobles, les vers assez bien tournes, et que la façon
dont le sujet s'explique dans la première scène ne manque pas
d'artifice."

_Examen de Pertharite_.]




PROLOGUE,

WHEN IT WAS FIRST ACTED.

Is it not strange to hear a poet say,
He comes to ask you, how you like the play?
You have not seen it yet: alas! 'tis true;
But now your love and hatred judge, not you:
And cruel factions (bribed by interest) come,
Not to weigh merit, but to give their doom.
Our poet, therefore, jealous of th' event,
And (though much boldness takes) not confident,
Has sent me, whither you, fair ladies, too,
Sometimes upon as small occasions, go;
And, from this scheme, drawn for the hour and day,
Bid me enquire the fortune of his play.

_The curtain drawn discovers two Astrologers; the prologue is
presented to them_.

_1 Astrol. reads_, A figure of the heavenly bodies in their
several Apartments, Feb. the 5th, half-an-hour after three afternoon,
from whence you are to judge the success of a new play, called the
Wild Gallant.

_2 Astrol_. Who must judge of it, we, or these gentlemen? We'll
not meddle with it, so tell your poet. Here are, in this house, the
ablest mathematicians in Europe for his purpose.

              They will resolve the question, ere they part.
_1 Att_. Yet let us judge it by the rules of art;
              First Jupiter, the ascendant's lord disgraced,
              In the twelfth house, and near grim Saturn placed,
              Denote short life unto the play:--
_2 Ast_.                                  --Jove yet,
              In his apartment Sagittary, set
              Under his own root, cannot take much wrong.
_1 Ast_. Why then the life's not very short, nor long;
_2 Ast_. The luck not very good, nor very ill;
_Prole_. That is to say, 'tis as 'tis taken still.
_1 Ast_. But, brother, Ptolemy the learned says,
              'Tis the fifth house from whence we judge of plays.
              Venus, the lady of that house, I find
              Is Peregrine; your play is ill-designed;
              It should have been but one continued song,
              Or, at the least, a dance of three hours long.
_Ast_.   But yet the greatest mischief does remain,
              The twelfth apartment bears the lords of Spain;
              Whence I conclude, it is your author's lot,
              To be endangered by a Spanish plot.
_Prolo_. Our poet yet protection hopes from you,
              But bribes you not with any thing that's new;
              Nature is old, which poets imitate,
              And, for wit, those, that boast their own estate,
              Forget Fletcher and Ben before them went,
              Their elder brothers, and that vastly spent;
              So much, 'twill hardly be repair'd again,
              Not, though supplied with all the wealth of Spain,
              This play is English, and the growth your own;
              As such, it yields to English plays alone.
              He could have wish'd it better for your sakes,
              But that, in plays, he finds you love mistakes:
              Besides, he thought it was in vain to mend,
              What you are bound in honour to defend;
              That English wit, howe'er despised by some,
              Like English valour, still may overcome.




PROLOGUE,

WHEN REVIVED.


As some raw squire, by tender mother bred,
'Till one-and-twenty keeps his maidenhead;
(Pleased with some sport, which he alone does find;
And thinks a secret to all humankind;)
'Till mightily in love, yet half afraid,
He first attempts the gentle dairy maid:
Succeeding there, and, led by the renown
Of Whetston's park, he comes at length to town;
Where entered, by some school-fellow or friend,
He grows to break glass windows in the end:
His valour too, which with the watch began,
Proceeds to duel, and he kills his man.
By such degrees, while knowledge he did want,
Our unfledged author writ a Wild Gallant.
He thought him monstrous lewd, (I lay my life)
Because suspected with his landlord's wife;
But, since his knowledge of the town began,
He thinks him now a very civil man;
And, much ashamed of what he was before,
Has fairly play'd him at three wenches more.
'Tis some amends his frailties to confess;
Pray pardon him his want of wickedness:
He's towardly, and will come on apace;
His frank confession shows he has some grace.
You baulked him when he was a young beginner,
And almost spoiled a very hopeful sinner;
But if once more you slight his weak endeavour,
For aught I know, he may turn tail forever;



DRAMATIS PERSONAE.


Lord NONSUCH, _an old rich humorous lord_.
Justice TRICE, _his neighbour_.
Mr LOVEBY, _the Wild Gallant_.
Sir TIMOROUS, _a bashful knight_.
FAILER, } _hangers-on of_ Sir TIMOROUS.
BURR,   }
BIBBER, _a tailor_.
SETSTONE, _a jeweller_.

Lady CONSTANCE, Lord NONSUCH'S _daughter_,
Madam ISABELLA, _her cousin_.
Mrs BIBBER, _the tailors wife_.

_Serjeants, Boy to LOVEBY, Servants, a Bawd and
Whores, Watch and Constable_.



SCENE.--London.



THE
WILD GALLANT.

ACT I.

SCENE I.--_FAILER entering to BURR, who is putting on his
buff-coat_.


_Fail_. What! not ready yet, man?

_Burr_. You do not consider my voyage from Holland last night.

_Fail_. Pish, a mere ferry; get up, get up: My cousin's maids will
come and blanket thee anon; art thou not ashamed to lie a-bed so long?

_Burr_. I may be more ashamed to rise; and so you'll say, dear
heart, if you look upon my clothes: the best is, my buff-coat will
cover all.

_Fail_. Egad, there goes more cunning than one would think to the
putting thy clothes together. Thy doublet and breeches are Guelphs and
Ghibellins to one another; and the stitches of thy doublet are so far
asunder, that it seems to hang together by the teeth. No man could
ever guess to what part of the body these fragments did belong, unless
he had been acquainted with 'em as long as thou hast been. If they
once lose their hold, they can never get together again, except by
chance the rags hit the tallies of one another. He, that gets into thy
doublet, must not think to do it by storm; no, he must win it inch by
inch, as the Turk did Rhodes.

_Burr_. You are very merry with my wardrobe; but, till I am
provided of a better, I am resolved to receive all visits in this
truckle-bed.

_Fail_. Then will I first scotch the wheels of it, that it may
not run: Thou hast cattle enough in it to carry it down stairs, and
break thy neck; 'tis got a yard nearer the door already.

_Enter Boy_.

_Boy_. Sir, Mr Bibber your tailor's below, and desires to speak
with you.

_Fail_. He's an honest fellow, and a fashionable; he shall set
thee forth, I warrant thee.

_Burr_. Ay; but where's the money for this, dear heart?

_Fail_. Well, but what think you of being put into a suit of
clothes without money? [_Aside_.

_Burr_. You speak of miracles.

_Fail_. Do you not know Will Bibber's humour?

_Burr_. Pr'ythee, what have I to do with his humour?

_Fail_. Break but a jest, and he'll beg to trust thee for a
suit; nay, he will contribute to his own destruction, and give thee
occasions to make one. He has been my artificer these three years;
and, all the while, I have lived upon his favourable apprehension.
Boy, conduct him up. [_Exit Boy._

_Burr_. But what am I the better for this? I ne'er made jest in
all my life.

_Fail._ A bare clinch will serve the turn; a car-wichet, a
quarter-quibble, or a pun.

_Burr_. Wit from a Low Country soldier! One, that has conversed
with none but dull Dutchmen these ten years! What an unreasonable
rogue art thou? why, I tell thee, 'tis as difficult to me, as to pay
him ready money.

_Fail_. Come, you shall be ruled for your own good; I'll
throw the clothes over you to help meditation. And, upon the first
opportunity, start you up, and surprise him with a jest.

_Burr_. Well, I think this impossible to be done: but, however,
I'll attempt. [_Lies down_, FAILER _covers him_.

_Fail_. Husht! he's coming up.

_Enter BIBBER_.

_Bib_. 'Morrow, Mr Failer: What, I warrant you think I come a
dunning now?

_Fail_. No, I vow to gad, Will; I have a better opinion of thy
wit, than to think thou would'st come to so little purpose.

_Bib_. Pretty well that: No, no, my business is to drink my
morning's-draught in sack with you.

_Fail_. Will not ale serve thy turn, Will?

_Bib_. I had too much of that last night; I was a little
disguised, as they say.

_Fail_. Why disguised? Hadst thou put on a clean band, or washed
thy face lately? Those are thy disguises, Bibber.

_Bib_. Well, in short, I was drunk; damnably drunk with ale;
great hogan-mogan bloody ale: I was porterly drunk, and that I hate of
all things in nature.

_Burr, rising_.] And of all things in nature I love it best.

_Bib_. Art thou there, i'faith? and why, old boy?

_Burr_. Because, when I am porterly drunk, I can carry myself.

_Bib_. Ha, ha, boy.

_Fail_. This porter brings sad news to you, Will; you must
trust him for a suit of clothes, as bad as 'tis: Come, he's an honest
fellow, and loves the king.

_Bib_. Why, it shall be my suit to him, that I may trust him.

_Burr_. I grant your suit, sir.

_Fail_. Burr, make haste and dress you; Sir Timorous dines here
to-day: you know him?

_Burr_. Aye, aye, a good honest young fellow; but no conjurer; he
and I are very kind.

_Fail_. Egad, we two have a constant revenue out of him: He would
now be admitted suitor to my Lady Constance Nonsuch, my Lord Nonsuch's
daughter; our neighbour here in Fleetstreet.

_Burr_. Is the match in any forwardness?

_Fail_. He never saw her before yesterday, and will not be
brought to speak to her this month yet.

_Burr_. That's strange.

_Fail_. Such a bashful knight did I never see; but we must move
for him.

_Bib_. They say, here's a great dinner to be made to-day here, at
your cousin Trice's, on purpose for the interview.

_Burr_. What, he keeps up his old humour still?

_Fail_. Yes, certain; he admires eating and drinking well, as
much as ever, and measures every man's wit by the goodness of his
palate.

_Burr_. Who dines here besides?

_Fail_. Jack Loveby.

_Bib_. O, my guest.

_Burr_. He has ever had the repute of a brave clear-spirited
fellow.

_Fail_. He's one of your Dear Hearts, a debauchee.

_Burr_. I love him the better for't: The best heraldry of a
gentleman is a clap, derived to him from three generations. What
fortune has he?

_Fail_. Good fortune at all games; but no estate: He had one; but
he has made a devil on't long ago. He's a bold fellow, I vow to gad:
A person, that keeps company with his betters; and commonly has gold
in's pockets. Come, Bibber, I see thou longest to be at thy morning's
watering: I'll try what credit I have with the butler.

_Bib_. Come away, my noble Festus and new customer.

_Fail_. Now will he drink, till his face be no bigger than a
three-pence. [_Exeunt_.


SCENE II.

_Enter LOVEBY and BOY; followed by FRANCES, BIBBER'S wife_.

_Lov_. Nay, the devil take thee, sweet landlady, hold thy tongue:
Was't not enough thou hast scolded me from my lodging, which, as long
as I rent it, is my castle; but to follow me here to Mr Trice's,
where I am invited; and to discredit me before strangers, for a lousy,
paltry sum of money?

_Fran_. I tell you truly, Mr Loveby, my husband and I cannot live
by love, as they say; we must have wherewithal, as they say; and pay
for what we take; or some shall smoke fort.

_Lov_. Smoke! why a piece of hung beef in Holland is not more
smoked, than thou hast smoked me already. Thou knowest I am now
fasting; let me have but fair play; when I have lined my sides with a
good dinner, I'll engage upon reputation to come home again, and thou
shall scold at me all the afternoon.

_Fran_. I'll take the law on you.

_Lov_. The law allows none to scold in their own causes: What
dost thou think the lawyers take our money for?

_Fran_. I hope you intend to deal by my husband like a gentleman,
as they say?

_Lov_. Then I should beat him most unmercifully, and not pay him
neither.

_Fran_. Come, you think to fobb me off with your jests, as you
do my husband; but it won't be: yonder he comes, and company with him.
Husband, husband! why, William, I say!

_Enter BIBBER, BURR, and FAILER, at the other end_.

_Lov_. Speak softly, and I will satisfy thee.

_Fran_. You shall not satisfy me, sir; pay me for what you owe
me, for chamber-rent and diet, and many a good thing besides, that
shall be nameless.

_Lov_. What a stygian woman's this, to talk thus? Hold thy tongue
'till they be gone, or I'll cuckold thy husband.

_Fran_. You cuckold him--would you durst cuckold him! I will not
hold my tongue, sir.

_Bib_. Yonder's my guest; what say you, gentlemen? Shall I call
him to go down with us?

_Lov_. I must make a loose from her, there's no other way. Save
ye, Mr Failer; is your cousin Trice stirring yet? Answer me quickly,
sir, is your cousin Trice yet stirring?

_Fail_. I'll go and see, sir. Sure the man has a mind to beat me;
but I vow to gad I have no mind to be beaten by him. Come away, Burr.
Will, you follow us.

_Bib_. I'll be with you immediately.

[_Exeunt BURR and FAILER_.

_Lov_. Who was that with Failer, Will?

_Bib_. A man at arms, that's come from Holland.

_Lov_. A man out at arms thou mean'st, Will.

_Bib_. Good, i'faith.

_Fran_. Aye, aye; you run questing up and down after your
gambols, and your jests, William; and never mind the main chance,
as they say: Pray get in your debts, and think upon your wife and
children.

_Lov_. Think upon the sack at Carey-house, with the Abricot
flavour, Will. Hang a wife; what is she, but a lawful kind of
manslayer? Every little hug in bed is a degree of murdering thee: and
for thy children, fear 'em not: thy part of 'em shall be taylors,
and they shall trust; and those, thy customers get for thee, shall
be gentlemen, and they shall be trusted by their brethren; and so thy
children shall live by one another.

_Bib_. Did you mark that, Frances? There was wit now; he call'd
me cuckold to my face, and yet for my heart I cannot be angry with
him. I perceive you love Frances, sir; and I love her the better for
your sake; speak truly, do you not like such a pretty brown kind of
woman?

_Lov_. I do i'faith, Will; your fair women have no substance in
'em, they shrink in the wetting.

_Fran_. Well, you may be undone if you will, husband: I hear
there are two or three actions already out against him: You may be the
last, if you think good.

_Bib_. Tis true she tells me; I love your wit well, sir; but I
must cut my coat according to my cloth.

_Fran_. Sir, we'll come by our own as we can; if you put us oft'
from week to week thus.

_Lov_. Nay, but good landlady--

_Fran_. Will good landlady set on the pot, as they say; or make
the jack go? then I'll hear you.

_Bib_. Now she's too much on t'other hand; hold your prating,
Frances; or I'll put you out of your Pater Nosters, with a sorrow to
you.

_Fran_. I did but lay the law open to him, as they say, whereby
to get our money in: But if you knew how he had used me, husband!

_Bib_. Has he used you, Frances? put so much more into his bill
for lodging.

_Lov_. Honest Will, and so he died[A]; I thank thee, little
Bibber, being sober, and, when I am drunk, I will kiss thee for't.

[Footnote A: This expression seems proverbial.]

_Bib_. Thank me, and pay me my money, sir; though I could not
forbear my jest, I do not intend to lose by you; if you pay me not the
sooner, I must provide you another lodging; say I give you warning.

_Lov_. Against next quarter, landlord?

_Bib_. Of an hour, sir.

_Lov_. That's short warning, Will.

_Bib_. By this hand you shall up into the garret, where the
little bed is; I'll let my best room to a better pay-master: you know
the garret, sir?

_Franc_. Aye, he knows it, by a good token, husband.

_Lov_. I sweat to think of that garret, Will; thou art not so
unconscionable to put me there? Why, 'tis a kind of little ease[B], to
cramp thy rebellious prentices in; I have seen an usurer's iron chest
would hold two on't: A penny looking-glass cannot stand upright in
the window, that and the brush tills it: the hat-case must be disposed
under the bed, and the comb-case will hang down, from the ceiling to
the floor. If I chance to dine in my chamber, I must stay till I am
empty before I can get out: and if I chance to spill the chamber-pot,
it will overflow it from top to bottom.

[Footnote B: A kind of dungeon, so called from its construction.]

_Bib_. Well, for the description of the garret, I'll bate you
something of the bill.

_Lov_. All, all, good Will; or, to stay thy fury till my rents
come up, I will describe thy little face.

_Bib_. No, rather describe your own little money; I am sure
that's so little it is not visible.

_Lov_. You are in the right, I have not a cross at present, as I
am a sinner; an you will not believe me, I'll turn my pockets inside
outward--Ha! What's the meaning of this? my pockets heavy! has my
small officer put in counters to abuse me?--How now! yellow boys, by
this good light? sirrah, varlet, how came I by this gold? Ha!

_Boy_. What gold do you mean, sir? the devil a piece you had this
morning. In these last three weeks, I have almost forgot what my teeth
were made for; last night good Mrs Bibber here took pity on me, and
crumm'd me a mess of gruel with the children, and I popt and popt my
spoon three or four times to my mouth, before I could find the way
to't.

_Lov_. 'Tis strange, how I should come by so much money!
[_Aside_.] Has there been nobody about my chamber this morning,
landlady?

_Boy_. O yes, sir; I forgot to tell you that: This morning a
strange fellow, as ever eyes beheld, would needs come up to you, when
you were asleep; but when he came down again, he said, he had not
waked you.

_Lov_. Sure this fellow, whoe'er he was, was sent by Fortune to
mistake me into so much money.--Well, this is not the first time my
necessities have been strangely supplied: some Cadua or other has a
kindness for me, that's certain: [_Aside_.]--Well, Mons. Bibber,
from henceforward I'll keep my wit for more refined spirits; you shall
be paid with dirt;--there's money for you.

_Bib_. Nay, good sir.

_Lov_. What's your sum? tell it out: will the money burn your
fingers? Sirrah, boy, fetch my suit with the gold-lace at sleeves,
from tribulation.

[_Gives him gold. Exit Boy_.] Mr Taylor, I shall turn the better
bill-man[A], and knock that little coxcomb of yours, if you do not
answer me what I owe you.

[Footnote A: Alluding to the ancient weapon called the bill; a
never-failing source of puns in old plays.]

_Bib_. Pray, sir, trouble not yourself; 'tis nothing; i'feck now
'tis not.

_Lov_. How nothing, sir?

_Fran_. An't, please your worship, it was seventeen pounds and
a noble yesterday at noon, your worship knows: And then your worship
came home ill last night, and complained of your worship's head; and
I sent for three dishes of tea for your good worship, and that was six
pence more, and please your worship's honour.

_Lov_. Well; there's eighteen pieces, tell 'em.

_Bib_. I say, Frances, do not take 'em.

_Lov_, What, is all your pleading of necessity come to this?

_Bib_. Now I see he will pay, he shall not pay. Frances, go home,
and fetch him the whole bag of forty pounds; I'll lend it him, and the
lease of the house too; he shall want for nothing.

_Lov_. Take the money, or I'll leave your house.

_Bib_. Nay, rather than displease his worship, take it. [_She
takes it_.

_Lov_. So, so; go home quietly and suckle my godson, Frances.
[_Exit FRANCES_.

_Bib_. If you are for the cellar, sir, you know the way. [_Exit
BIBBER_.

_Lov_. No, my first visit shall be to my mistress, the Lady
Constance Nonsuch. She's discreet, and how the devil she comes to love
me, I know not; yet I am pretty confident she loves me. Well, no woman
can be wiser, than you-know-what will give her leave to be.

_Enter Lady CONSTANCE, and Madam ISABELLA_.

_Isa_. Look, look; is not that your servant Loveby?

_Lov_. Tis she; there's no being seen, 'till I am better habited.
[_Exit_ LOVEBY.

_Const_. Let him go, and take no notice of him: Poor rogue! he
little thinks I know his poverty.

_Isa_. And less, that you supply it by an unknown hand.

_Const_. Aye, and falsified my father's key to do it.

_Isa_. How can you answer this to your discretion?

_Const_. Who could see him want, she loves?

_Enter SETSTONE_.

_Isa_. O here's Mr Setstone come, your jeweller, madam.

_Const_. Welcome, Setstone; hast thou performed thy visit
happily, and without discovery?

_Set_. As you would wish it, madam: I went up to his chamber
without interruption; and there found him drowning his cares, and
pacifying his hunger, with sleep; which advantage I took, and;
undiscovered by him, left the gold divided in his pockets.

_Const_. Well, this money will furnish him, I hope, that we may
have his company again.

_Set_. Two hundred and fifty good pounds, madam. Has your father
missed it yet?

_Const_. No; if he had, we should have all heard on't before now:
But, pray God Monsieur Loveby has no other haunts to divert him, now
he's ransomed! What a kind of woman is his landlady?

_Set_. Well enough to serve a tailor; or to kiss when he comes
home drunk, or wants money; but far unlikely to create jealousy in
your ladyship.

_Enter Servant_.

_Serv_. Madam, Justice Trice desires your ladyship's excuse,
that he has not yet performed the civilities of his hour to you; he is
dispatching a little business, about which he is earnestly employed.

_Const_. He's master of his own occasions. [_Exit Servant_.

_Isa_. We shall see him anon, with his face as red as if it had
been boiled in pump-water: But, when comes this mirror of knighthood,
that is to be presented you for your servant?

_Const_. Oh, 'tis well thought on; 'faith thou know'st my
affections are otherwise disposed; he's rich, and thou want'st a
fortune; atchieve him, if thou can'st; 'tis but trying, and thou hast
as much wit as any wench in England.

_Isa_. On condition you'll take it for a courtesy to be rid of an
ass, I care not if I marry him: the old fool, your father, would be so
importunate to match you with a young fool, that, partly for quietness
sake, I am content to take him.

_Const_. To take him! then you make sure on't.

_Isa_. As sure, as if the sack posset were already eaten.

_Const_. But, what means wilt thou use to get him?

_Isa_. I'll bribe Failer; he's the man.

_Const_. Why, this knight is his inheritance; he lives upon him:
Do'st thou think he'll ever admit thee to govern him? No, he fears thy
wit too much: Besides, he has already received an hundred pounds, to
make the match between Sir Timorous and me.

_Isa_. 'Tis all one for that; I warrant you, he sells me the
fee-simple of him.

_Set_. Your father, madam--

_Enter_ NONSUCH.

_Isa_. The tempest is risen; I see it in his face; he puffs
and blows yonder, as if two of the winds were fighting upwards and
downwards in his belly.

_Set_. Will he not find your false keys, madam?

_Isa_. I hope he will have more humanity than to search us.

_Const_. You are come after us betimes, sir.

_Non_. Oh child! I am undone; I am robbed, I am robbed; I have
utterly lost all stomach to my dinner.

_Const_. Robbed! good my lord, how, or of what?

_Non_. Two hundred and fifty pounds, in fair gold, out of my
study: An hundred of it I was to have paid a courtier this afternoon
for a bribe.

_Set_. I protest, my lord, I had as much ado to get that parcel
of gold for your lordship--

_Non_. You must get me as much more against to-morrow; for then
my friend at court is to pay his mercer.

_Isa_. Nay, if that be all, there's no such haste: the courtiers
are not so forward to pay their debts.

_Const_. Has not the monkey been in the study? He may have
carried it away, and dropt it under the garden-window: the grass is
long enough to hide it.

_Non_. I'll go see immediately.

_Enter_ FAILER, BURR, TIMOROUS.

_Fail_. This is the gentleman, my lord.

_Non_. He's welcome.

_Fail_. And this the particular of his estate.

_Non_. That's welcome too.

_Fail_. But, besides the land here mentioned, he has wealth in
specie.

_Non_. A very fine young gentleman.

_Tim_. Now, my lord, I hope there's no great need of wooing: I
suppose my estate will speak for me; yet, if you please to put in a
word--

_Non_. That will I instantly.

_Tim_. I hope I shall have your good word, too, madam, to your
cousin for me. [_To_ ISABELLA.

_Isa_. Any thing within my power, Sir Timorous.

_Non_. Daughter, here's a person of quality, and one, that loves
and honours you exceedingly--

_Tim_. Nay, good my lord! you discover all at first dash.

_Non_. Let me alone, sir; have not I the dominion over my own
daughter? Constance, here's a knight in love with you, child.

_Const_. In love with me, my lord! it is not possible.

_Non_. Here he stands, that will make it good, child.

_Tim_. Who, I, my lord? I hope her ladyship has a better opinion
of me than so.

_Non_. What! are not you in love with my daughter? I'll be sworn
you told me so but even now: I'll eat words for no man.

_Tim_. If your ladyship will believe all reports, that are raised
on men of quality--

_Non_. He told it me with his own mouth, child: I'll eat words
for no man; that's more than ever I told him yet.

_Fail_. You told him so but just now; fie, Sir Timorous.

_Non_. He shall have no daughter of mine, an he were a thousand
knights; he told me, he hoped I would speak for him: I'll eat no man's
words; that's more than ever I told him yet.

_Isa_. You need not keep such a pudder about eating his words;
you see he has eaten 'em already for you.

_Non_. I'll make him stand to his words, and he shall not marry
my daughter neither: By this good day, I will. [_Exit_ NONSUCH.

_Const_. 'Tis an ill day to him; he has lost two hundred and
fifty pounds in't. [_To_ ISABELLA.

_Burr_. He swears at the rate of two thousand pounds a year, if
the Rump act were still in being.

_Fail_. He's in passion, man; and, besides, he has been a great
fanatic formerly, and now has got a habit of swearing, that he may be
thought a cavalier.

_Burr_. What noise is that? I think I hear your cousin Trice's
voice.

_Fail_. I'll go see. [_Exit_ FAIL.

_Isa_. Come, Sir Timorous, be not discouraged: 'Tis but an old
man's frowardness; he's always thus against rain.

_Enter_ FAILER.

_Fail_. O madam, follow me quickly; and if you do not see sport,
melancholy be upon my head.

[_Exeunt_.


SCENE III.

_The_ SCENE _changes, and_ TRICE _is discovered playing at
tables by himself, with spectacles on, a bottle, and parmezan by him;
they return and see him, undiscovered by him_.

_Trice_. Cinque and quatre: My cinque I play here, sir; my quatre
here, sir: Now for you, sir: But first I'll drink to you, sir; upon my
faith I'll do you reason, sir: Mine was thus full, sir! Pray mind your
play, sir:--Size ace I have thrown: I'll play 'em at length, sir.

--Will you, sir? Then you have made a blot sir; I'll try if I can
enter: I have hit you, sir.

--I think you can cog a dye, sir.

--I cog a dye, sir? I play as fair as you, or any man.

--You lie, sir.

--How! lie, sir? I'll teach you what 'tis to give a gentleman the lie,
sir.

[_Throws down the tables_.

[_They all laugh and discover themselves_.

_Isa_. Is this your serious business?

_Trice_. O you rogue, are you there? You are welcome, huswife;
and so are you, Constance, _Fa tol de re tol de re la_. [_Claps
their backs_.

_Isa_. Pr'ythee be not so rude, Trice.

_Trice_. Huswife Constance, I'll have you into my larder, and
shew you my provision: I have cockles, dainty fat cockles, that came
in the night; if they had seen the day, I would not have given a fart
for 'em. I would the king had 'em.

_Const_. He has as good, I warrant you.

_Trice_. Nay, that's a lie. I could sit and cry for him
sometimes; he does not know what 'tis to eat a good meal in a whole
year. His cooks are asses: I have a delicate dish of ruffs to dinner,
sirrah.

_Const_. To dinner!

_Trice_. To dinner! why by supper they had been past their prime.
I'll tell thee the story of 'em: I have a friend--

_Enter Servant_.

_Serv_. Sir, dinner's upon the table.

_Trice_. Well, well; I have a friend, as I told you--

_Serv_. Dinner stays, sir: 'tis dinner that stays: Sure he will
hear now.

_Trice_. I have a friend, as I told you--

_Isa_. I believe he's your friend, you are so loth to part with
him.

_Trice_. Away, away;--I'll tell you the story between the
courses. Go you to the cook immediately, sirrah; and bring me word
what we have to supper, before we go to dinner: I love to have the
satisfaction of the day before me. [_Exeunt_.



ACT II. SCENE I.

_Enter, as from Dinner_, TRICE, TIMOROUS, FAILER, BURR,
CONSTANCE, ISABELLA.


_Trice_. Speak thy conscience; was it not well dressed, sirrah?

_Tim_. What think you of the Park, after our plenteous
entertainment, madam?

_Isa_. I defy the Park, and all its works.

_Const_. Come, Mr Trice, we'll walk in your garden.

[_Exeunt all but_ FAILER _and_ BURR.

_Fail_. O, one thing I had almost forgot to tell you; one of us
two must ever be near Sir Timorous.

_Burr_. Why?

_Fail_. To guard our interest in him from the enemy, madam
Isabella; who, I doubt, has designs upon him. I do not fear her wit,
but her sex; she carries a prevailing argument about her.

_Enter_ BIBBER _with a Bottle_.

_Bib_. By this hand, I have alight upon the best wine in your
cousin's cellar; drink but one glass to me, to shew I am welcome, and
I am gone.

_Fail_. Here then, honest Will; 'tis a cup of forbearance to
thee.

_Bib_. Thank you, sir, I'll pledge you--now here's to you again.

_Fail_. Come away; what is't, Will?

_Bib_. 'Tis what you christened it, a cup of forbearance, sir.

_Fail_. Why, I drank that to thee, Will, that thou shouldst
forbear thy money.

_Bib_. And I drink this to you, sir; henceforward I'll forbear
working for you.

_Fail_. Then say I:

_Take a little Bibber,
And threw him in the river;
And if he will trust never,
Then there let him lie ever._

_Bib_. Then say I:

_Take a little Failer,
And throw him to the jailor;
And there let him lie,
Till he has paid his tailor._

_Burr_. You are very smart upon one another, gentlemen.

_Fail_. This is nothing between us; I use to tell him of his
title, _Fiery facias_; and his setting dog, that runs into
ale-houses before him, and comes questing out again, if any of the
woots, his customers, be within.

_Bib_. I'faith 'tis true; and I use to tell him of his two
capon's tails about his hat, that are laid spread-eaglewise to make a
feather; I would go into the snow at any time, and in a quarter of
an hour I would come in with a better feather upon my head; and so
farewel, sir; I have had the better on you hitherto, and for this time
I am resolved to keep it.

[_Exit_ BIBBER.

_Fail_. The rogue's too hard for me; but the best on't is, I have
my revenge upon his purse.

_Enter_ ISABELLA.

_Isa_. Came not Sir Timorous this way, gentlemen? He left us in
the garden, and said he would look out my Lord Nonsuch, to make his
peace with him.

_Fail_. Madam, I like not your enquiring after Sir Timorous: I
suspect you have some design upon him: You would fain undermine your
cousin, and marry him yourself.

_Isa_. Suppose I should design it, what are you the worse for my
good fortune? Shall I make a proposition to you? I know you two carry
a great stroke with him: Make the match between us, and propound to
yourselves what advantages you can reasonably hope: You shall chouse
him of horses, cloaths, and money, and I'll wink at it.

_Burr_. And if he will not be choused, shall we beat him out
on't?

_Isa_. For that, as you can agree.

_Fail_. Give us a handsel of the bargain; let us enjoy you, and
'tis a match.

_Isa_. Grammercy i'faith, boys; I love a good offer, howe'er the
world goes; but you would not be so base to wrong him that way?

_Fail_. I vow to gad but I would, madam: In a horse, or a woman,
I may lawfully cheat my own father: Besides, I know the knight's
complexion; he would be sure to follow other women; and all that.

_Isa_. Nay, if he fought with the sword, he should give me leave
to fight with the scabbard.

_Burr_. What say you, madam? Is't a bargain?

_Isa_. 'Tis but a promise; and I have learnt a court trick
for performing any thing [_Aside_]. Well, gentlemen, when I am
married I'll think upon you; you'll grant there's a necessity I should
cuckold him, if it were but to prove myself a wit.

_Fail_. Nay, there's no doubt you'll cuckold him, and all that;
for look you, he's a person fit for nothing else; but I fear we shall
not have the graffing of the horns; we must have livery and seisin
beforehand of you, or I protest to gad we believe you not.

_Isa_. I have past my word; is't not sufficient? What! do you
think I would tell a lie to save such a paltry thing as a night's
lodging?--Hark you, sir. [To BURR.

_Fail_. Now will she attempt Burr; egad, she has found him out
for the weaker vessel.

_Isa_. I have no kindness for that Failer; we'll strike him out,
and manage Sir Timorous ourselves.

_Burr_. Indeed we won't.

_Isa_. Failer's a rook; and, besides, he's such a debauched
fellow--

_Burr_. I am ten times worse.

_Isa_. Leave it, and him that taught it you: You have virtuous
inclinations, and I would not have you ruin yourself. He, that serves
many mistresses, surfeits on his diet, and grows dead to the whole
sex: 'Tis the folly in the world next long ears and braying.

_Burr_. Now I'm sure you have a mind to me; when a woman once
falls a preaching, the next thing is ever use and application.

_Isa_. Forbear your rudeness!--

_Burr_. Then I am sure you mean to jilt me: You decline Failer,
because he has wit; and you think me such an ass, that you may pack me
off so soon as you are married; no, no, I'll not venture certainties
for uncertainties.

_Isa_. I can hold no longer;--Mr Failer, what do you think this
fellow was saying of you?

_Fail_. Of me, madam?

_Isa_. That you were one of the arrantest cowards in Christendom,
though you went for one of the Dear Hearts; that your name had been
upon more posts than playbills; and that he had been acquainted with
you these seven years, drunk and sober, and yet could never fasten a
quarrel upon you.

_Burr_. Do you believe this, dear heart?

_Isa_. If you deny it, I'll take his sword, and force you to
confess it.

_Fail_. I vow to gad; this will not do, madam: You shall not set
us at variance so easily; neither shall you have Sir Timorous.

_Isa_. No! then mark my words: I'll marry him in spite of you;
and, which is worse, you shall both work my ends, and I'll discard you
for your pains.

_Fail_. You shall not touch a bit of him: I'll preserve his
humbles from you, egad; they shall be his keeper's fees[A].

[Footnote A: The keeper of a royal forest had for his fees the skin,
head, umbles (_i.e._ inwards), chine, and shoulders. HOLINSHED'S
_Chronicle_, vol. i. p. 104.]

_Burr_. She shall cut an atom sooner than divide us.
[_Exeunt_ BURR _and_ FAILER.

_Enter_ CONSTANCE.

_Const_. I have given 'em the slip in the garden, to come and
overhear thee: No fat overgrown virgin of forty ever offered herself
so dog-cheap, or was more despised; methinks now this should mortify
thee exceedingly.

_Isa_. Not a whit the more for that: Cousin mine, our sex is not
so easily put out of conceit with our own beauties.

_Const_. Thou hast lost the opinion of thy honesty, and got
nothing in recompence: Now that's such an oversight in a lady--

_Isa_. You are deceived; they think me too virtuous for their
purpose; but I have yet another way to try, and you shall help me.

_Enter_ LOVEBY, _new habited_.

_Const_. Mr Loveby, welcome, welcome: Where have you been this
fortnight?

_Lov_. Faith, madam, out of town, to see a little thing that's
fallen to me upon the death of a grandmother.

_Const_. You thank death for the windfall, servant: But why are
you not in mourning for her?

_Lov_. Troth, madam, it came upon me so suddenly, I had not time:
'Twas a fortune utterly unexpected by me.

_Isa_. Why, was your grandmother so young, you could not look for
her decease?

_Lov_. Not for that neither; but I had many other kindred, whom
she might have left it to; only she heard I lived here in fashion, and
spent my money in the eye of the world.

_Const_. You forge these things prettily; but I have heard you
are as poor as a decimated cavalier, and had not one foot of land in
all the world.

_Lov_. Rivals' tales, rivals' tales, madam.

_Const_. Where lies your land, sir?

_Lov_. I'll tell you, madam, it has upon it a very fair manor
house; from one side you have in prospect an hanging garden.

_Isa_. Who was hanged there? not your grandmother, I hope?

_Lov_. In the midst of it you have a fountain: You have seen
that at Hampton-court? it will serve to give you a slight image of
it. Beyond the garden you look to a river through a perspective of
fruit-trees; and beyond the river you see a mead so flowery!--Well, I
shall never be at quiet, till we two make hay there.

_Const_. But where lies this paradise?

_Lov_. Pox on't; I am thinking to sell it, it has such a
villanous unpleasant name, it would have sounded so harsh in a lady's
ear. But for the fountain, madam--

_Const_. The fountain's a poor excuse, it will not hold water;
come, the name, the name.

_Lov_. Faith, it is come so lately into my hands, that I have
forgot the name on't.

_Isa_. That's much, now, that you should forget the name, and yet
could make such an exact description of the place.

_Lov_. If you would needs know, the name's Bawdy.--Sure this
will give a stop to their curiosity. [_Aside_.

_Isa_. At least you will tell us in what county it lies, that my
cousin may send to enquire about it: come, this shall not serve your
turn; tell us any town that's near it.

_Lov_. 'Twill be somewhat too far to send; it lies in the very
north of Scotland.

_Isa_. In good time, a paradise in the Highlands; is't not so,
sir?

_Const_. It seems you went post, servant: in troth you are a rank
rider, to go to the north of Scotland, stay and take possession, and
return again, in ten days time.

_Isa_. I never knew your grandmother was a Scotch woman: Is
she not a Tartar too? Pray whistle for her, and let's see her dance;
come--whist, grannee!

_Const_. Fie, fie, servant; what, no invention in you? all this
while a-studying for a name of your manor? come, come, where lies it?
tell me.

_Lov_. No, faith, I am wiser than so; I'll discover my seat to no
man; so I shall have some damned lawyer keep a prying into my title,
to defeat me of it.

_Const_. How then shall I be satisfied, there is such a thing in
nature?

_Lov_. Tell me what jewel you would wear, and you shall have it:
Enquire into my money, there's the trial.

_Const_. Since you are so flush, sir, you shall give me a locket
of diamonds, of three hundred pounds.

_Isa_. That was too severe; you know he has but two hundred and
fifty pounds to bestow. [_To her.

Lov_. Well, you shall have it, madam: But I cannot higgle; I know
you'll say it did not cost above two hundred pieces.

_Isa_. I'll be hanged if he does not present you with a parcel of
melted flints set in gold, or Norfolk pebbles.

_Lov_. Little gentlewoman, you are so keen--Madam, this night
I have appointed business, to-morrow I'll wait upon you with it.
[_Exit_ LOVEBY.

_Isa_. By that time he has bought his locket, and paid his
landlady, all his money will be gone. But do you mean to prosecute
your plot to see him this evening?

_Const_. Yes, and that very privately; if my father know it, I am
undone.

_Enter_ SETSTONE.

_Isa_. I heard him say, this night he had appointed business.

_Set_. Why, that was it, madam; according to your order, I put on
a disguise, and found him in the Temple-walks: Having drawn him aside,
I told him, if he expected happiness, he must meet me in a blind
alley, I nam'd to him, on the back side of Mr Trice's house, just at
the close of evening; there he should be satisfied from whom he had
his supplies of money.

_Const_. And how did he receive the summons?

_Set_. Like a bold Hector of Troy; without the least doubt or
scruple: But, the jest on't was, he would needs believe that I was the
devil.

_Const_. Sure he was afraid to come then?

_Set_. Quite contrary; he told me I need not be so shy, to
acknowledge myself to him; he knew I was the devil; but he had learnt
so much civility, as not to press his friend to a farther discovery
than he was pleased. I should see I had to do with a gentleman; and
any courtesy I should confer on him, he would not be unthankful; for
he hated ingratitude of all things.

_Const_. 'Twas well carried not to disabuse him: I laugh to
think what sport I shall have anon, when I convince him of his lies,
and let him know I was the devil, to whom he was beholden for his
money: Go, Setstone; and in the same disguise be ready for him.
[_Exit_ SETSTONE.

_Isa_. How dare you trust this fellow?

_Const_. I must trust some body: Gain has made him mine, and now
fear will keep him faithful.

_To them_, BURR, FAILER, TIMOROUS, TRICE, _and_ NONSUCH.

_Fail_. Pray, my lord, take no pique at it: 'Tis not given to all
men to be confident: Egad, you shall see Sir Timorous will redeem all
upon the next occasion.

_Non_. A raw miching boy.

_Isa_. And what are you but an old boy of five and fifty? I never
knew any thing so humoursome--I warrant you, Sir Timorous; I'll speak
for you.

_Non_. Would'st thou have me be friends with him? for thy sake
he shall only add five hundred a-year to her jointure, and I'll be
satisfied: Come you hither, sir.

[_Here_ TRICE _and_ NONSUCH _and_ TIMOROUS _talk
privately_; BURR _with_ FAILER _apart_, CONSTANCE
_with_ ISABELLA.

_Const_. You'll not find your account in this trick to get Failer
beaten; 'tis too palpable and open.

_Isa_. I warrant you 'twill pass upon Burr for a time: So my
revenge and your interest will go on together.

_Fail_. Burr, there's mischief a-brewing, I know it by their
whispering, I vow to gad: Look to yourself, their design is on you;
for my part, I am a person that am above 'em.

_Tim_. to _Trice_. But then you must speak for me, Mr Trice:
and you too, my lord.

_Non_. If you deny't again, I'll beat you; look to't, boy.

_Trice_. Come on; I'll make the bargain.

_Isa_. You were ever good in a flesh-market.

_Trice_. Come, you little harlotry; what satisfaction can you
give me for running away before the ruffs came in?

_Const_. Why, I left you to 'em, that ever invite your own belly
to the greatest part of all your feasts.

_Trice_. I have brought you a knight here, huswife, with a
plentiful fortune to furnish out a table; and what would you more?
Would you be an angel in heaven?

_Isa_. Your mind's ever upon your belly.

_Trice_. No: 'tis sometimes upon yours: But, what say'st thou to
sir Timorous, little Constance?

_Const_. Would you have me married to that king Midas's face?

_Trice_. Midas me no Midas; he's a wit; he understands eating and
drinking well: _Poeta coquus_, the heathen philosopher could tell
you that.

_Const_. Come on, sir: what's your will with me? [_Laughs_.

_Tim_. Why, madam, I could only wish we were a little better
acquainted, that we might not laugh at one another so.

_Const_. If the fool puts forward, I am undone.

_Tim_. Fool!--do you know me, madam?

_Const_. You may see I know you, because I call you by your name.

_Fail_. You must endure these rebukes with patience, Sir
Timorous.

_Const_. What, are you planet struck? Look you, my lord, the
gentleman's tongue-tied.

_Non_. This is past enduring.

_Fail_. 'Tis nothing, my lord;--courage, Sir Timorous.

_Non_. I say 'tis past enduring; that's more than ever I told you
yet: Do you come to make a fool of my daughter?

_Isa_. Why lord--

_Non_. Why lady--[_Exit_ NONSUCH.

_Trice_. Let's follow the old man, and pacify him.

_Isa_. Now, cousin,--[_Exeunt_ ISA. TRICE, BURR.

_Const_. Well, Mr Failer, I did not think you, of all the rest,
would have endeavoured a thing so much against my inclination, as
this marriage: if you had been acquainted with my heart, I am sure you
would not.

_Fail_. What can the meaning of this be? you would not have me
believe you love me; and yet how otherwise to understand you I vow to
gad I cannot comprehend.

_Const_. I did not say I loved you; but if I should take a fancy
to your person and humour, I hope it is no crime to tell it you. Women
are tied to hard unequal laws: The passion is the same in us, and
yet we are debarred the freedom to express it. You make poor Grecian
beggars of us ladies; our desires must have no language, but only be
fastened to our breasts.

_Fail_. Come, come; egad I know the whole sex of you: Your love's
at best but a kind: of blind-man's-buff, catching at him that's next
in your way.

_Const_. Well, sir, I can take nothing ill from you; when 'tis
too late you'll see how unjust you have been to me. I have said too
much already.--[_Is going_.

_Fail_. Nay stay, sweet madam! I vow to gad my fortune's better
than I could imagine.

_Const_. No, pray let me go, sir; perhaps I was in jest.

_Fail_. Really, madam, I look upon you as a person of such worth,
and all that, that I vow to gad I honour you of all persons in the
world; and though I am a person that am inconsiderable in the world,
and all that, madam, for a person of your worth and excellency I
would--

_Const_. What would you, sir?

_Fail_. Sacrifice my life and fortunes, I vow to gad, madam.

_Enter_ ISABELLA, BURR, _and_ TIMOROUS, _at a distance
from them_.

_Isa_. There's Failer close in talk with my cousin; he's
soliciting your suit, I warrant you, Sir Timorous: Do but observe with
what passion he courts for you.

_Burr_. I do not like that kneading of her hand though.

_Isa_. Come, you are such a jealous coxcomb: I warrant you
suspect there's some amour between 'em; there can be nothing in't, it
is so open: Pray observe.

_Burr_. But how come you so officious, madam? you, that ere now
had a design upon Sir Timorous for yourself?

_Isa_. I thought you had a better opinion of my wit, than to
think I was in earnest. My cousin may do what she pleases, but he
shall never pin himself upon me, assure him.

_Const_. to _Fail_. Sir Timorous little knows how dangerous
a person he has employed in making love.--[Aloud.

_Burr_. How's this! Pray, my lady Constance, what's the meaning
of that you say to Failer?

_Fail_. What luck was this, that he should overhear you! Pax
on't!

_Const_. Mr Burr, I owe you not that satisfaction; what you have
heard you may interpret as you please.

_Tim_. The rascal has betrayed me.

_Isa_. In earnest, sir, I do not like it.

_Fail_. Dear Mr Burr, be pacified; you are a person I have an
honour for; and this change of affairs shall not be the worse for you,
egad, sir.

_Const_. Bear up resolutely, Mr Failer; and maintain my favours,
as becomes my servant.

_Burr_. He maintain 'em! go, you Judas; I'll teach you what 'tis
to play fast and loose with a man of war. [Kicks him.

_Tim_. Lay it on, Burr.

_Isa_. Spare him not, Burr.

_Const_. Fear him not, servant.

_Fail_. Oh, oh! would nobody were on my side! here I am praised,
I vow to gad, into all the colours of the rainbow.

_Const_. But remember 'tis for me.

_Burr_. As you like this, proceed, sir; but, come not near me
to-night, while I'm in wrath.

[_Exeunt_ BURR _and_ TIMOROUS.

_Const_. Come, sir; how fare you after your sore trial? You bore
it with a most heroic patience.

_Isa._ Brave man at arms, but weak to Balthazar[A]!

[Footnote A: Alluding to the old play of Hieronymo.]

_Fail_. I hope to gad, madam, you'll consider the merit of my
sufferings. I would not have been beaten thus, but to obey that person
in the world--

_Const_. Heaven reward you for't; I never shall.

_Fail_. How, madam!

_Isa_. Art thou such an ass, as not to perceive thou art abused?
This beating I contrived for you: you know upon what account; and have
yet another or two at your service. Yield up the knight in time, 'tis
your best course.

_Fail_. Then does not your ladyship love me, madam?

_Const_. Yes, yes, I love to see you beaten.

_Isa_. Well, methinks now you have had a hard bargain on't: You
have lost your cully, Sir Timorous, and your friend, Burr, and all to
get a poor beating. But I'll see it mended against next time for you.

[_Exeunt_ CONSTANCE _and_ ISABELLA, _laughing_.

_Fail_. I am so much amazed, I vow to gad, I do not understand my
own condition. [_Exit_.


SCENE II.

_Enter_ LOVEBY _solus, in the dark, his sword drawn, groping
out his way_.


_Lov_. This is the time and place he pointed me, and 'tis
certainly the devil I am to meet; for no mortal creature could have
that kindness for me, to supply my necessities as he has done,
nor could have done it in so strange a manner. He told me he was
a scholar, and had been a parson in the fanatic's times: a shrewd
suspicion it was the devil; or at least a limb of him. If the devil
can send churchmen on his errands, lord have mercy on the laity! Well,
let every man speak as he finds, and give the devil his due; I think
him a very honest and well-natured fellow; and if I hear any man speak
ill of him, except it be a parson, that gets his living by it, I wear
a sword at his service. Yet, for all this, I do not much care to see
him. He does not mean to hook me in for my soul, does he? If he does,
I shall desire to be excused. But what a rogue am I, to suspect a
person, that has dealt so much like a gentleman by me! He comes to
bring me money, and would do it handsomely, that it might not be
perceived. Let it be as 'twill, I'll seem to trust him; and, then, if
he have any thing of a gentleman in him, he wills corn to deceive
me, as much as I would to cozen him, if I were the devil, and he Jack
Loveby.

_Enter_ FAILER _at the other end of the stage_.

_Fail_. What will become of me to-night! I am just in the
condition of an out-lying deer, that's beaten from his walk for
offering to rut. Enter I dare not, for Burr.

_Lov_. I hear a voice, but nothing do I see. Speak, what thou
art?

_Fail_. There he is, watching for me. I must venture to run by
him; and, when I am in, I hope my cousin Trice will defend me. The
devil would not lie abroad in such a night.

_Lov_. I thought it was the devil, before he named himself.

[FAILER _goes to run off, and falls into_ LOVEBY'S _arms_.

_Lov_. Honest Satan, well encountered! I am sorry, with all my
heart, it is so dark. 'Faith, I should be very glad to see thee at my
lodging; pr'ythee, let's not be such strangers to one another for the
time to come. And what hast thou got under thy cloak there, little
Satan? I warrant thou hast brought me some more money.

_Fail_. Help, help; thieves! thieves!

[LOVEBY _lets him go_.

_Lov_. This is Failer's voice: How the devil was I mistaken! I
must get off, ere company comes in.

[_Exit_ Loveby.

_Fail_. Thieves! thieves!

_Enter_ Trice, Burr, _and_ Timorous, _undressed_.

_All_. Where! where!

_Fail_. One was here just now; and it should be Loveby by his
voice, but I have no witness.

_Trice_. It cannot be; he wants no money.

_Burr_. Come, sirrah; I'll take pity on you to-night: You shall
lie in the truckle-bed.

_Trice_. Pox o' this noise! it has disturbed me from such a dream
of eating!--[Exeunt.



ACT III. SCENE I.

_Enter_ Constance _and_ Isabella.


_Const_. Twas ill luck to have the meeting broke last night, just
as Setstone was coming towards him.

_Isa_. But, in part of recompence, you'll have the pleasure of
putting him on farther straits. O, these little mischiefs are meat and
drink to me.

_Const_. He shall tell me from whence he has his money: I am
resolved now to try him to the utmost.

_Isa_. I would devise something for him to do, which he could not
possibly perform.

_Const_. As I live, yonder he comes, with the jewel in his hand
he promised me. Pr'ythee, leave me alone with him.

_Isa_. Speed the plough! If I can make no sport, I'll hinder
none. I'll to my knight, Sir Timorous; shortly you shall hear news
from Dametas[A].

[Footnote A: A foolish character in Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia, who
seems to have become proverbial.]

[_Exit_ ISABELLA.

_Enter_ LOVEBY.

_Lov_. Look you, madam, here's the jewel; do me the favour to
accept it, and suppose a very good compliment delivered with it.

_Const_. Believe me, a very fair jewel. But why will you be at
this needless charge? What acknowledgment do you expect? You know I
will not marry you.

_Lov_. How the devil do I know that? I do not conceive myself,
under correction, so inconsiderable a person.

_Const_. You'll alter your partial opinion, when I tell you, 'tis
not a flash of wit fires me, nor is it a gay out-side can seduce me to
matrimony.

_Lov_. I am neither fool, nor deformed, so much as to be
despicable. What do I want?

_Const_. A good estate, that makes every thing handsome: Nothing
can look well without it.

_Lov_. Does this jewel express poverty?

_Const_. I conjure you by your love to me, tell me one truth not
minced by your invention, how came you by this jewel?

_Lov_. 'Tis well I have a voucher. Pray ask your own jeweller,
Setstone, if I did not buy it of him.

_Const_. How glad you are now, you can tell a truth so near a
lie. But where had you the money, that purchased it? Come--without
circumstances and preambles--

_Lov_. Umph--Perhaps, that may be a secret.

_Const_. Say, it be one; yet he, that loved indeed, could not
keep it from his mistress.

_Lov_. Why should you be thus importunate?

_Const_. Because I cannot think you love me, if you will not
trust that to my knowledge, which you conceal from all the world
beside.

_Lov_. You urge me deeply--

_Const_. Come, sweet servant, you shall tell me; I am resolved to
take no denial. Why do you sigh?

_Lov_. If I be blasted, it must out.

_Const_. Either tell me, or resolve to take your leave for ever.

_Lov_. Then know, I have my means,--I know not how.

_Const_. This is a fine secret.

_Lov_. Why, then, if you will needs know, 'tis from the devil; I
have money from him, what, and when I please.

_Const_. Have you sealed a covenant, and given away your soul for
money?

_Lov_. No such thing intended on my part.

_Const_. How then?

_Lov_. I know not yet what conditions he'll propose. I should
have spoke with him last night, but that a cross chance hindered it.

_Const_. Well, my opinion is, some great lady, that is in love
with you, supplies you still; and you tell me an incredible tale of
the devil, merely to shadow your infidelity.

_Lov_. Devise some means to try me.

_Const_. I take you at your word. You shall swear freely to
bestow on me whatever you shall gain this unknown way; and, for a
proof, because you tell me you can have money, what, and when you
please, bring me a hundred pounds ere night.--If I do marry him for
a wit, I'll see what he can do; he shall have none from me.
[_Aside_.

_Lov_. You overjoy me, madam; you shall have it, an 'twere twice
as much.

_Const_. How's this?

_Lov_. The devil a cross that I have, or know where to get; but
I must promise well, to save my credit.--Now, devil, if thou dost
forsake me!

[_Aside_.

_Const_. I mistrust you; and, therefore, if you fail, I'll
have your hand to show against you; here's ink and paper. [LOVEBY
_writes_.

_Enter_ BURR, _and_ TIMOROUS.

_Burr_. What makes Loveby yonder? He's writing somewhat.

_Tim_. I'll go see. [_Looks over him_.

_Lov_. Have you no more manners than to overlook a man when he's
a writing?--Oh! is't you, Sir Timorous? You may stand still; now I
think on't, you cannot read written hand.

_Burr_. You are very familiar with Sir Timorous.

_Lov_. So am I with his companions, sir.

_Burr_. Then there's hopes you and I may be better acquainted. I
am one of his companions.

_Lov_. By what title? as you are an ass, sir?

_Const_. No more, Loveby.

_Lov_. I need not, madam. Alas! this fellow is only the solicitor
of a quarrel, 'till he has brought it to an head; and will leave the
fighting part to the courteous pledger. Do not I know these fellows?
You shall as soon persuade a mastiff to fasten on a lion, as one of
those to engage with a courage above their own: They know well enough
whom they can beat, and who can beat them.

_Enter _FAILER _at a distance_.

_Fail_. Yonder they are: Now, would I compound for a reasonable
sum, that I were friends with Burr. If I am not, I shall lose Sir
Timorous.

_Const_. O, servant, have I spied you? let me run into your arms.

_Fail_. I renounce my lady Constance: I vow to gad, I renounce
her.

_Tim_. To your task, Burr.

_Enter NONSUCH and ISABELLA_.

_Const_. Hold, gentlemen! no sign of quarrel.

_Non_. O, friends! I think I shall go mad with grief: I have lost
more money.

_Lov_. Would I had it: that's all the harm I wish myself. Your
servant, madam; I go about the business.

_Exit LOVEBY_.

_Non_. What! does he take no pity on me?

_Const_. Pr'ythee, moan him, Isabella.

_Isa_. Alas, alas, poor uncle! could they find in their hearts to
rob him!

_Non_. Five hundred pounds, out of poor six thousand pounds
a-year! I, and mine, are undone for ever.

_Fail_. Your own house, you think, is clear, my lord?

_Const_. I dare answer for all there, as much as for myself.

_Burr_. Oh, that he would but think that Loveby had it!

_Fail_. If you'll be friends with me, I'll try what I can
persuade him to.

_Burr_. Here's my hand, I will, dear heart.

_Fail_. Your own house being clear, my lord, I am apt to suspect
this Loveby for such a person. Did you mark how abruptly he went out?

_Non_. He did indeed, Mr Failer. But why should I suspect him?
his carriage is fair, and his means great; he could never live after
this rate, if it were not.

_Fail_. This still renders him the more suspicious: He has no
land, to my knowledge.

_Burr_. Well said, mischief. [_Aside_.

_Const_. My father's credulous, and this rogue has found the
blind side of him; would Loveby heard him! [_To_ ISABELLA.

_Fail_. He has no means, and he loses at play; so that, for my
part, I protest to gad, I am resolved he picks locks for his living.

_Burr_. Nay, to my knowledge, he picks locks.

_Tim_. And to mine.

_Fail_. No longer ago than last night he met me in the dark, and
offered to dive into my pockets.

_Non_. That's a main argument for suspicion.

_Fail_. I remember once, when the keys of the Exchequer were lost
in the Rump-time, he was sent for upon an extremity, and, egad, he
opens me all the locks with the blade-bone of a breast of mutton.

_Non_. Who, this Loveby?

_Fail_. This very Loveby. Another time, when we had sate up very
late at ombre in the country, and were hungry towards morning, he
plucks me out (I vow to gad I tell you no lie) four ten-penny nails
from the dairy lock with his teeth, fetches me out a mess of milk, and
knocks me 'em in again with his head, upon reputation.

_Isa_. Thou boy!

_Non_. What shall I do in this case? My comfort is, my gold's all
marked.

_Const_. Will you suspect a gentleman of Loveby's worth, upon the
bare report of such a rascal as this Failer?

_Non_. Hold thy tongue, I charge thee; upon my blessing hold thy
tongue. I'll have him apprehended before he sleeps; come along with
me, Mr Failer.

_Fail_. Burr, look well to Sir Timorous; I'll be with you
instantly.

_Const_. I'll watch you by your favour. [_Aside.
[Exeunt_ NONSUCH _and_ FAILER, CONSTANCE _following them_.

_Isa_. A word, Sir Timorous.

_Burr_. [Gets _behind_.] She shall have a course at the
knight, and come up to him, but when she is just ready to pinch, he
shall give such a loose from her, shall break her heart.

_Isa_. Burr there still, and watching us? There's certainly some
plot in this, but I'll turn it to my own advantage. [_Aside_.

_Tim. Did you mark Burr's retirement, madam?

_Isa_ Ay; his guilt, it seems, makes him shun your company.

_Tim_. In what can he be guilty?

_Isa_. You must needs know it; he courts your mistress.

_Tim_. Is he, too, in love with my lady Constance?

_Isa_. No, no: but, which is worse, he courts me.

_Tim_. Why, what have I to do with you? You know I care not this
for you.

_Isa_. Perhaps so; but he thought you did: and good reason for
it.

_Tim_. What reason, madam?

_Isa_. The most convincing in the world: He knew my cousin
Constance never loved you: He has heard her say, you were as
invincibly ignorant as a town-fop judging a new play: as shame-faced
as a great overgrown school-boy: in fine, good for nothing but to be
wormed out of your estate, and sacrificed to the god of laughter.

_Tim_. Was your cousin so barbarous to say this?

_Isa_. In his hearing.

_Tim_. And would he let me proceed in my suit to her?

_Isa_. For that I must excuse him; he never thought you could
love one of my cousin's humour; but took your court to her, only as
a blind to your affection for me; and, being possessed with that
opinion, he thought himself as worthy as you to marry me.

_Tim_. He is not half so worthy; and so I'll tell him, in a fair
way.

_Burr_. [_To a Boy entering_.] Sirrah, boy, deliver this
note to madam Isabella; but be not known I am so near.

_Boy_. I warrant you, sir.

_Burr_. Now, Fortune, all I desire of thee is, that Sir Timorous
may see it; if he once be brought to believe there is a kindness
between her and me, it will ruin all her projects.

_Isa_. [_To the Boy_.] From whom?

_Boy_. From Mr Burr, madam.

_Isa_. [Reads.] _These for Madam Isabella. Dear rogue, Sir
Timorous knows nothing of our kindness, nor shall for me; seem still
to have designs upon him; it will hide thy affection the better to thy
servant,_ BURR.

_Isa_. Alas, poor woodcock, dost thou go a-birding? Thou hast
e'en set a springe to catch thy own neck. Look you here, Sir Timorous;
here's something to confirm what I have told you. [_Gives him the
letter_.

_Tim_. D, e, a, r, _dear_; r, o, g, u, e, _rogue_.
Pray, madam, read it; this written hand is such a damned pedantic
thing, I could never away with it.

_Isa_. He would fain have robbed you of me: Lord, Lord! to see
the malice of a man.

_Tim_. She has persuaded me so damnably, that I begin to think
she's my mistress indeed.

_Isa_. Your mistress? why, I hope you are not to doubt that, at
this time of day. I was your mistress from the first day you ever saw
me.

_Tim_. Nay, like enough you were so; but I vow to gad now, I was
wholly ignorant of my own affection.

_Isa_. And this rogue pretends he has an interest in me, merely
to defeat you: Look you, look you, where he stands in ambush, like a
Jesuit behind a Quaker, to see how his design will take.

_Tim_. I see the rogue: Now could I find in my heart to marry you
in spite to him; what think you on't, in a fair way?

_Isa_. I have brought him about as I could wish; and now I'll
make my own conditions. [_Aside_.] Sir Timorous, I wish you well;
but he I marry must promise me to live at London: I cannot abide to be
in the country, like a wild beast in the wilderness, with no Christian
soul about me.

_Tim_. Why, I'll bear you company.

_Isa_. I cannot endure your early hunting-matches there; to have
my sleep disturbed by break of day, with heigh, Jowler, Jowler! there
Venus, ah Beauty! and then a serenade of deep-mouthed curs, to answer
the salutation of the huntsman, as if hell were broke loose about me:
and all this to meet a pack of gentlemen savages, to ride all day,
like mad-men, for the immortal fame of being first in at the hare's
death: to come upon the spur, after a trial at four in the afternoon,
to destruction of cold meat and cheese, with your lewd company in
boots; fall a-drinking till supper time, be carried to bed, tossed out
of your cellar, and be good for nothing all the night after.

_Tim_. Well, madam, what is it you would be at? you shall find me
reasonable to all your propositions.

_Isa_. I have but one condition more to add; for I will be as
reasonable as you; and that is a very poor request--to have all the
money in my disposing.

_Tim_. How, all the money?

_Isa_. Ay, for I am sure I can huswife it better for your honour;
not but that I shall be willing to encourage you with pocket-money, or
so, sometimes.

_Tim_. This is somewhat hard.

_Isa_. Nay, if a woman cannot do that, I shall think you have
an ill opinion of my virtue: Not trust your own flesh and blood, Sir
Timorous?

_Tim_. Well, is there any thing more behind?

_Isa_. Nothing more, only the choice of my own company, my own
hours, and my own actions: These trifles granted me, in all things of
moment, I am your most obedient wife and servant, Isabella.

_Tim_. Is't a match, then?

_Isa_. For once I am content it shall; but 'tis to redeem you
from those rascals, Burr and Failer--that way, Sir Timorous, for fear
of spies; I'll meet you at the garden door.--[_Exit_ TIMOROUS.] I
have led all women the way, if they dare but follow me.
  _And now march off, if I can scape but spying,
  With my drums beating, and my colours flying_.

[_Exit_.

_Burr_. So, their wooing's at an end; thanks to my wit.

_Enter_ FAILER.

_Fail_. O Burr! whither is it Sir Timorous and Madam Isabella are
gone together?

_Burr_. Adore my wit, boy; they are parted, never to meet again.

_Fail_. I saw them meet just now at the garden-door: So ho, ho,
ho, who's within there! Help here quickly, quickly.

_Enter_ NONSUCH _and two Servants_.

_Non_. What's the matter?

_Fail_. Your niece Isabella has stolen away Sir Timorous.

_Non_. Which way took they?

_Fail_. Follow me, I'll show you.

_Non_. Break your necks after him, you idle varlets.

[_Exeunt_.


SCENE II.

_Enter_ LOVEBY. LOVEBY'S _collar unbuttoned, band carelessly
on, hat on the table, as new risen from sleep_.

_Lov_. Boy! how long have I slept, boy?

_Enter Boy_.

_Boy_. Two hours and a half, sir.

_Lov_. What's a-clock, sirrah?

_Boy_. Near four, sir.

_Lov_. Why, there's it: I have promised my lady Constance an
hundred pounds ere night; I had four hours to perform it in, when I
engaged to do it; and I have slept out more than two of them. All
my hope to get this money lies within the compass of that hat there.
Before I lay down, I made bold a little to prick my finger, and write
a note, in the blood of it, to this same friend of mine in t'other
world, that uses to supply me: the devil has now had above two hours
to perform it in; all which time I have slept, to give him the better
opportunity: time enough for a gentleman of his agility to fetch it
from the East Indies, out of one of his temples where they worship
him; or, if he were lazy, and not minded to go so far, 'twere but
stepping over sea, and borrowing so much money out of his own bank at
Amsterdam: hang it, what's an hundred pounds between him and me?
Now does my heart go pit-a-pat, for fear I should not find the money
there: I would fain lift it up to see, and yet I am so afraid of
missing: Yet a plague, why should I fear he'll fail me; the name of a
friend's a sacred thing; sure he'll consider that. Methinks, this hat
looks as if it should have something under it: If one could see the
yellow boys peeping underneath the brims now: Ha! [_Looks under
round about_.] In my conscience I think I do. Stand out o'the way,
sirrah, and be ready to gather up the pieces, that will flush out of
the hat as I take it up.

_Boy_. What, is my master mad, trow?

[LOVEBY _snatches up the hat, looks in it hastily, and sees nothing
but the paper_.

_Low_. Now, the devil take the devil! A plague! was ever man
served so as I am! [_Throws his hat upon the ground_.] To break
the bands of amity for one hundred pieces! Well, it shall be more out
of thy way than thou imaginest, devil: I'll turn parson, and be at
open defiance with thee: I'll lay the wickedness of all people upon
thee, though thou art never so innocent; I'll convert thy bawds and
whores; I'll Hector thy gamesters, that they shall not dare to swear,
curse, or bubble; nay, I'll set thee out so, that thy very usurers and
aldermen shall fear to have to do with thee.

[_A noise within of_ ISABELLA _and_ FRANCES.

_Enter_ FRANCES, _thrusting back_ ISABELLA _and_
TIMOROUS.

_Franc_. How now, what's the matter?

_Isa_. Nay, sweet mistress, be not so hard-hearted; all I desire
of you is but harbour for a minute: you cannot, in humanity, deny that
small succour to a gentlewoman.

_Franc_. A gentlewoman! I thought so; my house, affords no
harbour for gentlewomen: you are a company of proud harlotries: I'll
teach you to take place of tradesmen's wives, with a wannion to you.

_Lov_. How's this! Madam Isabella!

_Isa_. Mr Loveby! how happy am I to meet with you in my distress!

_Lov_. What's the matter, madam?

_Isa_. I'll tell you, if this gentlewoman will give me leave.

_Franc_. No, gentlewoman, I will not give you leave; they are
such as we maintain your pride, as they say. [ISABELLA _and_
LOVEBY _whisper_.] Our husbands trust you, and you must go before
their wives. I am sure my good-man never goes to any of your lodgings,
but he comes home the worse for it, as they say.

_Lov_. Is that all? pr'ythee, good landlady, for my sake
entertain my friends.

_Franc_. If the gentleman's worship had come alone, it may be I
might have entertained him; but for your minion!

_Enter_ NONSUCH, FAILER, BURR, _and Officers. Cry within, Here,
here_.

_Fail_. My lord, arrest Sir Timorous upon a promise of marriage
to your daughter, and we'll witness it.

_Tim_. Why, what a strange thing of you's this, madam Isabella,
to bring a man into trouble thus!

_Fail_. You are not yet married to her?

_Tim_. Not that I remember.

_Isa_. Well, Failer, I shall find a time to reward your
diligence.

_Lov_. If the knight would have owned his action, I should have
taught some of you more manners, than to come with officers into my
lodging.

_Franc_. I'm glad with all my heart this minx is prevented of her
design: the gentleman had got a great catch of her, as they say. His
old father in the country would have given him but little thanks
for it, to see him bring down a fine-bred woman, with a lute, and a
dressing-box, and a handful of money to her portion.

_Isa_. Good Mistress Whatdeelack! I know your quarrel to the
ladies; do they take up the gallants from the tradesmen's wives? Lord,
what a grievous thing it is, for a she citizen to be forced to have
children by her own husband!

_Franc_. Come, come, you're a slanderful huswife, and I squorn
your harlotry tricks, that I do, so I do.

_Isa_. Steeple-hat your husband never gets a good look when he
comes home, except he brings a gentleman to dinner; who, if he casts
an amorous eye towards you, then, "Trust him, good husband, sweet
husband, trust him for my sake: Verily the gentleman's an honest man,
I read it in his countenance: and if you should not be at home to
receive the money, I know he will pay the debt to me." Is't not so,
mistress?

_Enter_ BIBBER _in slippers, with a skein of silk about his
neck_.

_Franc_. Will you see me wronged thus, under my own roof, as they
say, William?

_Isa_. Nay, 'tis very true, mistress: you let the men, with old
compliments, take up new clothes; I do not mean your wife's clothes,
Mr Merchant-Tailor.

_Bib_. Good, i'faith! a notable smart gentlewoman!

_Isa_. Look to your wife, sir, or, in time, she may undo your
trade; for she'll get all your men-customers to herself.

_Bib_. An' I should be hanged, I can forbear no longer. [_He
plucks out his measure, and runs to_ ISABELLA, _to take measure
of her_.

_Isa_. How now! what means Prince Pericles by this?

_Bib_. [_On his knees_.] I must beg your ladyship e'en to
have the honour to trust you but for your gown, for the sake of that
last jest, flowered sattin, wrought tabby, silver upon any grounds; I
shall run mad if I may not trust your ladyship.

_Franc_. I think you are mad already, as they say, William: You
shall not trust her--

[_Plucks him back_.

_Bib_. Let me alone, Frances: I am a lion when I am angered.

_Isa_. Pray do not pull your lion by the tail so, mistress--In
these clothes, that he now takes measure of me for, will I marry Sir
Timorous; mark that, and tremble, Failer.

_Fail_. Never threaten me, madam; you're a person I despise.

_Isa_. I vow to gad, I'll be even with you, sir.

[_Exit_.

_Non_. [_To the Bailiff's_.]--And when you have arrested
him, be sure you search him for my gold.

_Bailiffs_. [_To_ LOVEBY.] We arrest you, sir, at my Lord
Nonsuch's suit.

_Lov_. Me, you rascals!

_Non_. Search him for my gold; you know the marks on't.

_Lov_. If they can find any marked or unmarked gold about me,
they'll find more than I can. You expect I should resist now; no, no;
I'll hamper you for this.

_Bail_. There's nothing to be found about him.

_Fail_. 'Tis no matter, to prison with him; there all his debts
will come upon him.

_Lov_. What, hurried to durance, like a stinkard!

_Job_. Now, as I live, a pleasant gentleman; I could find in my
heart to bail him; but I'll overcome myself, and steal away. [_Is
going_.

_Bail_. Come, sir, we must provide you of another lodging; but I
believe you'll scarce like it.

_Lov_. If I do not, I ask no favour; pray turn me out of doors.

_Bib_. Turn him out of doors! What a jest was there? Now, an' I
should be hanged, I cannot forbear bailing him: Stay, officers, I bail
him body and soul for that jest.

_Fail_. Let us begone in time, Burr.

[_Exeunt_ BURR, FAILER, _and_ TIMOROUS.

_Franc_. You shall not bail him.

_Bib_. I know I am a rogue to do it; but his wit has prevailed
upon me, and a man must not go against his conscience. There,
officers.

_Lov_. to _Non_. Old man, if it were not for thy daughter--

_Non_. Well, well; take your course, sir.

[_Exeunt_ NONSUCH _and Bailiffs_.

_Lov_. Come, Will, I'll thank thee at the tavern. Frances,
remember this the next time you come up to make my bed.

_Franc_. Do your worst, I fear you not, sir. This is twice to
day, William; to trust a gentlewoman, and bail a ragamuffin: I am sure
he called you cuckold but yesterday, and said he would make you one.

_Lov_. Look you, Frances, I am a man of honour, and, if I said
it, I'll not break my word with you.

_Bib_. There he was with you again, Frances: An excellent good
jest, i'faith la.

_Franc_. I'll not endure it, that I won't, so I won't: I'll go to
the justice's worship, and fetch a warrant for him.

_Lov_. But, landlady, the word cuckold will bear no action in the
law, except you could prove your husband prejudiced by it. Have any
of his customers forsook him for't? Or any mercer refused to trust him
the less, for my calling him so?

_Franc_. Nay, I know not for the mercers; perhaps the citizens
may take it for no slander among one another, as they say: but for the
gentlemen--

_Lov_. Will, have they forsaken thee upon it?

_Bib_. No, I assure you, sir.

_Lov_. No, I warrant 'em: A cuckold has the signification of an
honest well-meaning citizen; one, that is not given to jealousies or
suspicions; a just person to his wife, &c.; one that, to speak the
worst of him, does but to her, what he would be content should be done
to her by other men.

_Franc_. But that another man should be the father of his
children, as they say; I don't think that a civil thing, husband.

_Lov_. Not civil, landlady! why all things are civil, that are
made so by custom.

_Bib_. Why may not he get as fine children as I, or any man?

_Franc_. But if those children, that are none of yours, should
call you father, William!

_Bib_. If they call me father, and are none of mine, I am the
more beholden to 'em.

_Franc_. Nay, if that be your humour, husband, I am glad I
know it, that I may please you the better another time, as they say.
[_Exit_ FRANCES.

_Bib_. Nay, but Frances, Frances! 'tis such another woman.
[_Exit_ BIBBER.

_Lov_. 'Tis such another man:--My coat and sword, boy, I must go
to Justice Trice's; bring the women; and come after me. [_Exit_
LOVEBY.



ACT IV. SCENE I.

_A Table set with Cards upon it_.

TRICE _walking: Enter Servant_.


_Serv_. Sir, some company is without upon justice-business.

_Trice_. Saucy rascal, to disturb my meditations. [_Exit
Servant_.--Ay, it shall be he: Jack Loveby, what think'st thou of
a game at piquet, we two, hand to fist? you and I will play one single
game for ten pieces: 'Tis deep stake, Jack, but 'tis all one between
us two: You shall deal, Jack:--Who I, Mr Justice! that's a good
one; you must give me use for your hand then; that's six i'the
hundred.--Come, lift, lift;--mine's a ten; Mr Justice:--mine's a king;
oh ho, Jack, you deal. I have the advantage of this, i'faith, if I can
keep it. [_He deals twelve a piece, two by two, and looks on his
own cards_.] I take seven, and look on this--Now for you, Jack
Loveby.

_Enter_ LOVEBY _behind_.

_Lov_. How's this? Am I the man he fights with?

_Trice_. I'll do you right, Jack; as I am an honest man, you
must discard this; there's no other way: If you were my own brother, I
could do no better for you.--Zounds, the rogue has a quint-major, and
three aces younger hand.--[_Looks on the other cards_.] Stay;
what am I for the point? But bare forty, and he fifty-one: Fifteen,
and five for the point, twenty, and three by aces, twenty-three;
well, I am to play first: one, twenty-three; two, twenty-three; three,
twenty-three; four, twenty-three;--Pox on't, now I must play into his
hand: five:--now you take it, Jack;--five, twenty-four, twenty-five,
twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, and the
cards forty.

_Lov_. Hitherto it goes well on my side.--

_Trice_. Now I deal: How many do you take, Jack? All. Then I am
gone: What a rise is here! Fourteen by aces, and a sixieme-major; I
am gone, without looking into my cards.--[_Takes up an ace and
bites it_.] Ay, I thought so: If ever man play'd with such cursed
fortune, I'll be hanged, and all for want of this damned ace--there's
your ten pieces, with a pox to you, for a rooking beggarly rascal as
you are.

LOVEBY _enters_.

_Lov_. What occasion have I given you for these words, sir? Rook
and rascal! I am no more rascal than yourself, sir.

_Trice_. How's this! how's this!

_Lov_. And though for this time I put up, because I am a winner--
[_Snatches the gold_.

_Trice_. What a devil do'st thou put up? Not my gold, I hope,
Jack?

_Lov_. By your favour, but I do; and 'twas won fairly: a sixieme,
and fourteen by aces, by your own confession,--What a pox, we don't
make childrens' play, I hope?

_Trice_. Well, remember this, Jack; from this hour I forswear
playing with you when I am alone; what, will you bate me nothing on't?

_Lov_. Not a farthing, Justice; I'll be judged by you; if I had
lost, you would have taken every piece on't: What I win, I win--and
there's an end.

_Enter Servant_.

_Serv_. Sir, these people stay without, and will not be answered.

_Trice_. Well, what's their business?

_Serv_. Nay, no great matter; only a fellow for getting a wench
with child.

_Trice_. No great matter, say'st thou? 'Faith, but it is. Is he a
poor fellow, or a gentleman?

_Serv_. A very poor fellow, sir.

_Trice_. Hang him, rogue; make his mittimus immediately; must
such as he presume to get children?

_Lov_. Well considered: A poor lousy rascal, to intrench upon
the game of gentlemen! He might have passed his time at nine-pins, or
shovel-board; that had been fit sport for such as he: Justice, have no
mercy on him.

_Trice_. No, by the sword of justice will I not.

_Lov_. Swear'st thou, ungracious boy[A]? That's too much, on the
other hand, for a gentleman. I swear not, I drink not, I curse not,
I cheat not; they are unnecessary vices: I save so much out of those
sins, and take it out in that one necessary vice of wenching.

[Footnote A: Henry IV. Part 1. Act ii. Scene 4.]

_Enter_ LOVEBY'S _Boy_.

_Boy_. Sir, the parties are without, according to your order.

_Lov_. 'Tis well; bring 'em in, boy.

_Enter Lady Du_ LAKE, _and two or three Whores_.

Justice, I recommend this ancient gentlewoman, with these virtuous
ladies, to thy patronage; for her part, she is a person of exemplary
life and behaviour; of singular conduct to break through, and patience
to bear the assaults of fortune: A general benefactress of mankind,
and, in fine, a promoter of that great work of nature, love.

_Trice_. Or, as the vulgar translation hath it, a very sufficient
and singular good bawd: Is't not so, boy?

_Lov_. Ay, boy: Now for such a pettifogging fellow as thy clerk
to persecute this lady; pr'ythee think on't: Tis a grievance of the
free-born subject.

_L. Du Lake_. To see the ingratitude of this generation! That I,
that have spent my youth; set at nought my fortune; and, what is more
dear to me, my honour, in the service of gentlemen; should now, in my
old age, be left to want and beggary, as if I were the vilest and most
unworthy creature upon God's earth! [_Crying_.

_Lov_. Nay, good mother, do not take it so bitterly.

_L. Du Lake_. I confess, the unkindness of it troubles me.

_Lov_. Thou shalt not want, so long as I live.--Look, here's five
pieces of cordial gold, to comfort thy heart with: I won it, e'en now,
off Mr Justice; and I dare say he thinks it well bestowed.

_Trice_. My money's gone to very pious uses.

_L. Du Lake_. [_Laying her hand on_ LOVEBY'S _head_.]
Son Loveby, I knew thy father well; and thy grandfather before him.
Fathers they were both to me; and I could weep for joy to see how thou
tak'st after them. [_Weeping again_.] I wish it lay in my power
too to gratify this worthy Justice in my vocation.

_Trice_. 'Faith, I doubt I am past that noble sin.

_Lov_. Pr'ythee, good magistrate, drink to her, and wipe sorrow
from her eyes.

_Trice_. Right reverend, my service to you in canary. [_She
drinks after him, and stays at half a glass_.

_L. Du Lake_. 'Tis a great way to the bottom; but heaven is
all-sufficient to give me strength for it. [_Drinks it up_.] Why,
God's blessing on your heart, son Trice! I hope 'tis no offence to
call you son? hem!--hem!--Son Loveby, I think my son Trice and I are
much of the same years: let me see, son, if nature be utterly extinct
in you: Are you ticklish, son Trice? [_Tickles him_.

_Trice_. Are you ticklish, Mother Du Lake?

[_Tickles her sides. She falls off her chair; he falls off his to
her; they roll one over the other_.

_Lov_. I would have all London now show me such another sight of
kindness in old age. [_They help each other up_.] Come, a dance,
a dance; call for your clerk, Justice; he shall make one, in sign of
amity. Strike up, fidlers!

[_They dance a round dance, and sing the tune_.

_Enter_ ISABELLA _and_ CONSTANCE.

_Isa_. Are you at that sport, i'faith? Have among you, blind
harpers. [_She falls into the dance_.

[_At the dance's ending_, LOVEBY _sees_ CONSTANCE.

_Trice_. Is she come? A pox of all honest women at such a time!

_Lov_. If she knows who these are, by this light, I am undone.

_Const_. Oh, servant! I come to mind you of your promise. Come,
produce my hundred pounds; the time's out I set you.

_Lov_. Not till dark night, upon my reputation! I have not yet
spoke with the gentleman in the black pantaloons; you know he seldom
walks abroad by day-light. Dear madam, let me wait on you to your
coach; and, if I bring it not within this hour, discard me utterly.

_Const_. You must give me leave to salute the company. What are
they?

_Lov_. Persons of quality of my acquaintance; but I'll make your
excuse to 'em.

_Const_. Nay, if they are persons of quality, I shall be rude to
part from 'em so abruptly.

_Lov_. Why so?--the devil owed me a shame; and now he has paid
me. I must present 'em, whate'er come on't. [_Aside_.]--This,
madam, is my Lady Du Lake--the Lady Springwell--the Lady Hoyden.

[_She and_ ISABELLA _salute them_.

_Isa_. What a whiff was there came from my Lady Hoyden; and what
a garlic breath my Lady Springwell had!

_Trice_. Ha, ha, ha, ha!

_Lov_. Do not betray me, Justice; if you do--[_Aside_.

_Isa_. Oh, are you thereabouts, sir? then I smell a rat, i'faith;
but I'll say nothing. [_Aside_.

_Const_. Ladies, I am an humble servant to you all; and account
it my happiness to have met with so good company at my cousin Trice's.

_Trice_. Ha, ha, ha!

_L. Du Lake_. Are these two ladies of your acquaintance, son
Loveby?

_Lov_. Son, quoth a'! a pox of our relation! [_Aside_.

_L. Du Lake_. I shall be glad to be better known to your
ladyships.

_Const_. You too much honour your servants, madam.

_Isa_. How Loveby fidges up and down! In what pain he is! well,
if these be not they, they call whores, I'll be hanged, though I never
saw one before. [_Aside_.

_Lov_. Will your ladyship please to go, madam?

_Const_. I must beg the favour of these ladies first, that I may
know their lodgings, and wait on them.

_L. Du. Lake_. It will be our duty to pay our respects first to
your ladyship.

_Const_. I beg your ladyship's pardon, madam--

_L. Du Lake_. Your ladyship shall excuse us, madam--

_Isa_. Trice. Ha, ha, ha!

_Low_. Ah, devil grin you! [_Aside_.

_Trice_. I must go out, and laugh my belly-full.

[_Exit_ TRICE.

_Const_. But in earnest, madam, I must have no denial; I beseech
your ladyship instruct me, where I may tender my devoirs.

_L. Du Lake_. Since your ladyship commands me, madam, I dare
disobey no longer. My lodgings are in St Lucknor's Lane, at the Cat
and Fiddle.

_Const_. Whereabouts is that lane, servant?

_Lov_. Faith, madam, I know not that part o'the town.--Lord, how
I sweat for fear! [_Aside_.

_Const_. And yours, madam, where, I beseech your ladyship?

_2 Whore_. In Dog and Bitch yard, an't please your ladyship.

_3 Whore_. And mine in Sodom, so like your ladyship.

_Const_. How, Loveby! I did not think you would have used me
thus?

_Lov_. I beseech your ladyship, but hear my justification as I
lead you.

_Const_. By no means, sir; that were such a rudeness to leave
persons of quality, to wait upon me: Unhand me, sir.

_Isa_. Ha, ha, ha!--[_Exeunt_ CONST. ISA.

_Lov_. I am ruined! for ever ruined. Plague, had you no places in
the town to name, but Sodom, and Lucknor's Lane, for lodgings!

_L. Du Lake_. If any prejudice arise from it, upon my honour,
son, 'twas by mistake, and not intended you: I thought she desired to
have been admitted of the quality.

_Lov_. I was curst, when I had first to do with you.

[_Kicks them_.

_L. Du Lake_. Well, I thank heaven, that has indued me with such
patience.

[_Exeunt all but_ LOVEBY _and his Boy_.

_Lov_. I have made a fair hand on't to-day;--both lost my
mistress, and hear no news from my friend below: The world frowns upon
me, and the devil and my mistress have forsaken me: My godfathers and
godmothers have promised well for me: Instead of renouncing them, they
have renounced me.

_Boy_. Sir, I saw my Lady Constance smile as she went out: I am
confident she's angry but from the teeth outwards: you might easily
make fair weather with her, if you could get the money you promised
her, but there's the devil--

_Lov_. Where is he, boy? shew me him quickly.

_Boy_. Marry, God bless us! I mean, sir, there's the difficulty.

_Lov_. Damned rogue, to put me in hope so--

_Enter_ BIBBER _at the other end_.

_Lov_. Uds so, look where Bibber is: Now I think on't, he offered
me a bag of forty pounds, and the lease of his house yesterday: But
that's his pocky humour; when I have money, and do not ask him, he
will offer it; but when I ask him, he will not lend a farthing.--Turn
this way, sirrah, and make as though we did not see him.

_Bib_. Our gentleman, I think, a-talking with his boy there.

_Lov_. You understand me?--

_Boy_. I warrant you, sir.

_Lov_. No news yet; what an unlucky rascal 'tis! if the rogue
should hereafter be reduced to the raiment of his own shreds, I should
not pity him.

_Bib_. How's this!

_Lov_. Now is this rascal hunting after jests, to make himself
the greatest to all that know him.

_Bib_. This must be me.

_Boy_. I can hear neither tale nor tidings of him: I have
searched him in all his haunts; amongst his creditors; and in all
companies where they are like to break the least jest. I have visited
the coffee-houses for him; but among all the news there, I heard none
of him.

_Bib_. Good, i' faith.

_Lov_. Where's the warrant? I'll put in my own name, since I
cannot find him.

_Boy_. Sir, I gave it a scrivener at next door, because I could
not write, to fill up the blank place with Mr Bibber's name.

_Lov_. What an unlucky vermin 'tis! now, for an hundred pound,
could I have gratified him with a waiter's place at the custom-house,
that had been worth to him an hundred pound a-year upon the nail.

_Bib_. Could you so, could you so, sir? give me your hand, and I
thank you heartily, Mr Loveby.

_Lov_. Art thou honest Will? faith, 'tis not worth thy thanks,
till it be done: I wish I had the money for thee.

_Bib_. How much is't, sir?

_Lov_. An hundred pounds would do it.

_Bib_. Let me see: forty, I have already by me; take that in
part, sir;--and that, and the lease of my house, would over-do it.

_Lov_. By all means thy lease, Will: ne'er scruple at that; hang
a piece of parchment, and two bits of soft wax! thou shalt do't, thou
shalt, boy.

_Bib_. Why, then I will, sir:--But stay, stay: now I think on't,
Frances has one hundred and twenty pieces of old grandam-and-aunt gold
left her, that she would never let me touch: if we could get that, Mr
Loveby! but she'll never part with it.

_Lov_. Tis but saying the place is for her; a waiting woman's
place in the custom-house: Boy, go, and tell her on't immediately.
[_Exit Boy_

_Bib_. Hold a little; she has been very desirous to get a place
in court, that she might take place as the queen's servant.

_Lov_. She shall have a dresser's place, if thou'lt keep counsel.
The worst on't is, I have never a warrant ready.

_Bib_. 'Tis all one for that, sir; she can neither write nor
read; 'tis but my telling her 'tis a warrant, and all's well. I can't
but laugh to think how she'll be choused.

_Lov_. And you too: [_Aside_.] Mum, she's here, Will.

_Enter_ FRANCES.

_Franc_. A waiting-woman's place in the custom-house! there's
news for me! thank you, kind Mr Loveby; you have been instrumental, I
hear, of my preferment.

_Lov_. No, 'tis a dresser's place at court, landlady.

_Franc_. O gemini! that's better news.

_Bib_. Aye, but you must make haste and fetch an hundred pieces:
I can assure you five hundred are bidden for it: And the courtiers are
such slippery youths, they are ever for the fairest chapman.

_Franc_. I'll fetch it presently;--oh how my heart quops now, as
they say: I'll fetch it presently: Sweet Mr Loveby, if the business
can be done, it shall be a good thing in your worship's way, I promise
you: O the father! that it could be done: O sweet father! [Loveby
_plucks out a paper_.

_Lov_. Here, Mr Bibber, pray put in Madam Bibber's name into the
warrant.

_Bib_. Madam Bibber! there's joy!--I must call you wife no more,
'tis Madam Bibber now.

_Franc_. Pray read it, Mr Bibber.

_Bib_. An order for the admission of the illustrious lady, Madam
Bibber, into her majesty's service.

_Franc_. Pray give me the paper, I'll have nobody touch it but
myself; I am sure my money pays for it, as they say. These are the
finest words; Madam Bibber! pray, chicken, shew me where Madam is
written, that I may kiss it all over. I shall make bold now to bear
up to those flirting gentlewomen, that sweep it up and down with their
long tails. I thought myself as good as they, when I was as I was; but
now I am as I am.

_Lov_. Good landlady, dispatch, and bring the money--

_Franc_. Truly, in the place of a dresser, I dare be bold to say,
as they say, I shall give their majesties worships good content: I'll
go fetch it.

[_Exit_ FRANCES.

_Bib_. We must keep the poor soul in ignorance as long as we
can, sir; for when she has once smoked it, I have no other way but to
retreat into the body of my janizaries, my journey-men; and never come
out into her presence more. Where will you be at nine o'clock, sir,
that we may rejoice over our good fortune?

_Lov_. Call me at my Lord Nonsuch's house, and I'll go with you.

_Bib_. We'll have the fiddles, and triumph, i'faith.

[_Exit_ BIBBER.

_Lov_. Lord, how eager this vermin was to cheat himself! Well,
I'll after; I long to finger these Jacobus's: Perhaps they may make my
peace again with my mistress.

[_Exit _LOVEBY.


SCENE II.

_Enter_ FAILER _and_ NONSUCH. [CONSTANCE _and_ ISABELLA
_listening_.]


_Fail_. I vow to gad, my lord, Sir Timorous is the most dejected
person in the world, and full of regret for what is past. 'Twas his
misfortune to be drawn in by such a person as Madam Isabella.

_Non_. Tis well his estate pleads for him; he should ne'er set
foot more within my doors else.

_Fail_. I'll be security for him for time to come: Leave it to
me to get the licence: All I desire is, your daughter may be ready
to-morrow morning.

_Non_. Well, let me alone with her.

[_Exeunt_ FAILER _and_ NONSUCH.

_Isa_. You heard the dreadful sound, to-morrow, cousin.

_Const_. I would not throw myself away upon this fool, if I could
help it.

_Isa_. Better marry a tertian ague than a fool, that's certain;
there's one good day and night in that.

_Const_. And yet thou art mad for him thyself.

_Isa_. Nay, the fool is a handsome fool, that's somewhat; but
'tis not that; 'tis a kind of fancy I have taken to a glass coach, and
six Flanders mares; rich liveries, and a good fortune.

_Const_. Pr'ythee do not mind me of 'em; for though I want 'em
not, yet I find all women are caught with gaieties: One grain more
would turn the balance on his side; I am so vexed at the wild courses
of this Loveby.

_Isa_. Vexed? why vexed? the worst you can say of him is, he
loves women: And such make the kindest husbands, I'm told. If you had
a sum of money to put out, you would not look so much whether the man
were an honest man, (for the law would make him that) as if he were a
good sufficient pay-master.

_Enter_ SETSTONE.

_Const_. As I live, thou art a mad girl.

_Set_. She must be used as mad folks are then; had into the dark
and cured.

_Const_. But all this is no comfort to the word, to-morrow.

_Isa_. Well, what say you, if I put you to-night into the arms of
Loveby?

_Const_. My condition's desperate, and past thy physic.

_Isa_. When physic's past, what remains but to send for the
divine? here's little Nicodemus, your father's chaplain: I have spoke
with him already; for a brace of angels he shall make all sure betwixt
you without a license; aye, and prove ten at night a more canonical
hour than ten i'the morning.

_Const_. I see not which way thou can'st perform it; but if thou
do'st, I have many admirations in store for thee. [_Whispers_.

_Isa_. Step in, and get a cushion underneath your apron.

_Const_. O, I must be with child, it seems!

_Isa_. And Loveby shall bring you to bed to-night, if the devil
be not in the dice: away, make haste;--[_Exit_ CONSTANCE.]
Setstone, be not you far off: I shall have need of you too: I hear my
uncle coming--Methinks I long to be revenged of this wicked
elder, for hindering of my marriage to-day: Hark you, Setstone--
[_Whispers;_

_Set_. Tis impossible, madam; 'twill never take.

_Isa_. I warrant you; do not I know him? he has not brains
enough, if they were buttered, to feed a blackbird--Nay, no
replies--out of what I have said, you may instruct my cousin too.

[_Exit_ SETSTONE.

_Enter_ NONSUCH.

_Isa_. Oh, are you there, sir? Faith, it was kindly done of you
to hinder me of a good husband this afternoon: And but for one thing,
I would resolve to leave your house.

_Non_. I'm glad there's any thing will stay thee.

_Isa_. If I stay, 'tis for love of my cousin Constance, not of
you: I should be loth to leave her in this sad condition.

_Non_. What condition?

_Isa_. Nay, I know not; she has not worn her busk this fortnight.
I think she's grown fat o'the sudden.

_Non_. O devil, devil! what a fright I'm in!

_Isa_. She has qualms too every morning: ravens mightily for
green fruit; and swoons at the sight of hot meat.

_Non_. She's with child: I am undone! I am undone!

_Isa_. I understand nothing of such matters: She's but in the
next room; best call her, and examine her about it.

_Non_. Why Constance, Constance!

_Enter_ CONSTANCE, _as with child_.

_Isa_. Now for a broad-side; turn your prow to him, cousin.

[_To her_.

_Non_. Now, gentlewoman! is this possible?

_Const_. I do not reach your meaning, sir.

_Non_. Where have you been of late?

_Const_. I seldom stir without you, sir: These walls most
commonly confine me.

_Non_. These walls can get no children; nor these hangings;
though there be men wrought in 'em.

_Isa_. Yet, by your favour, nuncle, children may be wrought
behind the hangings.

_Non_. O Constance, Constance! How have my grey hairs deserved
this of thee? Who got that belly there?

_Const_. You, I hope, sir.

_Non_. Tell me the truth, for I will know it; come, the story.

_Const_. The story's quickly told, sir; I am with child.

_Non_. And who is the father?

_Const_. I do not know, sir.

_Non_. Not know! went there so many to't?

_Const_. So far from that, that there were none at all, to my
best knowledge, sir.

_Non_. Was't got by miracle? Who was the father?

_Const_. Who got your money, sir, that you have lost?

_Non_. Nay, Heaven knows who got that.

_Const_. And, Heaven knows who got this: for, on my conscience,
he, that had your money, was the father on't.

_Non_. The devil it was as soon.

_Const_. That's all I fear, sir.

_Isa_. 'Tis strange;--and yet 'twere hard, sir, to suspect my
cousin's virtue, since we know the house is haunted.

_Non_. 'Tis true, that nothing can be laid, though under lock and
key, but it miscarries.

_Isa_. 'Tis not to be believed, what these villainous spirits can
do: they go invisible.

_Const_. First, they stole away my prayer-book; and, a little
after that, a small treatise I had against temptation; and when they
were gone, you know, sir--

_Isa_. If there be such doings, pray heaven we are not all with
child. 'Tis certain, that none live within these walls, but they have
power of: I have reared Toby, the coachman, any time this fortnight.

_Non_. Out, impudence! A man with child! why 'tis unnatural.

_Isa_. Ay, so is he that got it.

_Non_. Thou art not in earnest?

_Isa_. I would I were not:--Hark! I hear him groan hither. Come
in, poor Toby.

_Enter_ TOBY, _the coachman, with an urinal_.

_Non_. How now! what have you there, sirrah?

_Tob_. An't please your worship, 'tis my water. I had a spice
o'the new disease here i'the house; and so carried it to master
doctor.

_Non_. Well; and what did he say to you?

_Tob_. He told me very sad news, an' please you: I am somewhat
bashful to speak on't.

_Isa_. Out with it, man.

_Tob_. Why, truly, he told me, the party that owned the water was
with child.

_Isa_. I told you so, uncle.

_Non_. To my best remembrance, I never heard of such a thing
before.

_Tob_. I never stretch out myself to snap my whip, but it goes to
the heart of me.

_Isa_. Alas, poor Toby!

_Non_. Begone, and put off your livery, sirrah!--You shall not
stay a minute in my service.

_Tob_. I beseech your good worship, be good to me; 'twas the
first fault I ever committed in this kind. I have three poor children
by my wife; and if you leave me to the wide world, with a new charge
upon myself--

_Non_. Begone! I will not hear a word.

_Tob_. If I must go, I'll not go alone: Ambrose Tinis, the cook,
is as bad as I am.

_Non_. I think you'll make me mad. Call the rascal hither! I
must account with him on another score, now I think on't.

_Enter_ AMBROSE TINIS.

_Non_. Sirrah, what made you send a pheasant with one wing to the
table yesterday?

_Amb_. I beseech your worship to pardon me; I longed for't.

_Isa_. I feared as much.

_Amb_. And I beseech your worship let me have a boy, to help me
in the kitchen; for I find myself unable to go through with the work.
Besides, the doctor has warned me of stooping to the fire, for fear of
a mischance.

_Non_. Why, are you with child, sirrah?

_Amb_. So he tells me; but, if I were put to my oath, I know not
that ever I deserved for't.

_Non_. Still worse and worse. And here comes Setstone groaning.

_Enter_ SETSTONE.

_Set_. O, sir! I have been so troubled with swooning fits; and
have so longed for cherries!

_Non_. He's poopt too.

_Isa_. Well, this is not the worst yet: I suspect something more
than I will speak of.

_Non_. What dost thou suspect, ha!

_Isa_. Is not your lordship with child, too?

_Non_. Who, I with child! marry, heaven forbid! What dost thou
see by me, to ground it on?

_Isa_. You're very round of late;--that's all, sir.

_Non_. Round! that's only fat, I hope. I have had a very good
stomach of late, I'm sure.

_Isa_. Alas, and well you may;--You eat for two, sir.

_Non_. Setstone, look upon me, and tell me true: Do you observe
any alteration in me?

_Set_. I would not dishearten your ladyship--your lordship, I
would say--but I have observed, of late, your colour goes and comes
extremely. Methinks your lordship looks very sharp, and bleak i'the
face, and mighty puffed i'the body.

_Non_. O, the devil! Wretched men, that we are all! Nothing
grieves me, but that, in my old age, when others are past
child-bearing, I should come to be a disgrace to my family.

_Const_. How do you, sir? Your eyes look wondrous dim. Is not
there a mist before 'em?

_Isa_. Do you not feel a kicking in your belly--When do you look,
uncle?

_Non_. Uh, uh!--Methinks, I am very sick o'the sudden.

_Isa_. What store of old shirts have you against the good time?
Shall I give you a shift, uncle?

_Non_. Here's like to be a fine charge towards! We shall all be
brought to-bed together! Well, if I be with devil, I will have such
gossips: an usurer, and a scrivener, shall be godfathers.

_Isa_. I'll help you, uncle; and Sawney's two grannies shall be
godmothers. The child shall be christened by the directory; and the
gossips' gifts shall be the gude Scotch kivenant.

_Const. Set. Non. Tob. Amb_. Uh! uh! uh!

_Isa_. What rare music's here!

_Non_. Whene'er it comes from me, 'twill kill me; that's certain.

_Set_. Best take a vomit.

_Isa_. An't come upward, the horns will choke him.

_Non_. Mass! and so they will.

_Isa_. Your only way, is to make sure o'the man-midwife.

_Non_. But my child's dishonour troubles me the most. If I could
but see her well married, before I underwent the labour and peril of
child-bearing!--What would you advise, niece?

_Isa_. That which I am very loth to do. Send for honest Jack
Loveby, and let him know the truth on't: He's a fellow without a
fortune, and will be glad to leap at the occasion.

_Non_. But why Loveby, of all the world? 'Tis but staying 'till
to-morrow, and then Sir Timorous will marry her.

_Const_. Uh!--I swell so fast, I cannot hide it 'till to-morrow.

_Isa_. Why, there's it now!

_Non_. I'll send for the old alderman, Getwell, immediately:
He'll father the devil's bastard, I warrant you.

_Isa_. Fie, uncle! my cousin's somewhat too good yet for an
alderman. If it were her third child, she might hearken to you.

_Non_. Well, since it must be so, Setstone, go you to Loveby;
make my excuse to him for the arrest, and let him know, what fortune
may attend him.

_Isa_. Mr Setstone, pray acquaint him with my cousin's affection
to him; and prepare him to father the cushion underneath her
petticoat.

[_Aside to_ SETSTONE. _Exit_.]

_Set_. I'll bring him immediately.

_Isa_. When he comes, uncle, pray cover your great belly with
your hat, that he may not see it.

_Non_. It goes against my heart to marry her to this Loveby; but,
what must be, must be.

_Enter_ LOVEBY.

_Const_. O, Mr Loveby! The welcomest man alive! You met Setstone,
I hope, that you came so opportunely?

_Lov_. No, faith, madam; I came of my own accord.

_Isa_. 'Tis unlucky; he's not prepared.

_Lov_. Look you, madam, I have brought the hundred pounds; the
devil was as punctual as three o' clock at a playhouse. Here; 'tis
right, I warrant it, without telling: I took it upon his word.

[_Gives it_.

_Const_. Your kindness shall be requited, servant: But I sent for
you upon another business. Pray, cousin, tell it him, for I am ashamed
to do't.

_Lov_. Ha! 'tis not that great belly, I hope. Is't come to that?

_Isa_. Hark you, Mr Loveby; a word with you.

_Lov_. A word with you, madam: Whither is your cousin bound?

_Isa_. Bound, sir?

_Lov_. Ay, bound: Look you, she's under sail, with a lusty
fore-wind.

_Non_. I sent for you, sir; but, to be plain with you, 'twas more
out of necessity than love.

_Lov_. I wonder, my lord, at your invincible ill-nature. You
forget the arrest, that I passed by: But this it is to be civil to
unthankful persons; 'tis feeding an ill-natured dog, that snarls while
he takes victuals from your hand.

_Non_. All friends! all friends! No ripping up old stories; you
shall have my daughter.

_Lov_. Faith, I see your lordship would let lodgings ready
furnished; but I am for an empty tenement.

_Non_. I had almost forgot my own great belly. If he should
discover that too! [_Claps his hat before it_.

_Isa. [To Lov_.] You will not hear me, sir. 'Tis all roguery, as
I live.

_Lov_. Flat roguery, I'll swear! If I had been father on't, nay,
if I had but laid my breeches upon the bed, I would have married her:
But I see we are not ordained for one another.

[_Is going_.

_Non_. I beseech you, sir.

_Lov_. Pray cover, my lord.

_Isa_. He does his great belly, methinks.

_Non_. I'll make it up in money to you.

_Lov_. That cannot tempt me. I have a friend, that shall be
nameless, that will not see me want; and so, your servant.

[_Exit_ LOVEBY.

_Isa_. I'll after, and bring him back.

_Non_. You shall not stir after him;--Does he scorn my daughter?

_Isa_. Lord, how fretful you are! This breeding makes you so
peevish, uncle.

_Non_. 'Tis no matter, she shall straight be married to Sir
Timorous.

_Const_. I am ruined, cousin.

[_Aside_.

_Isa_. I warrant you.--My lord, I wish her well married to Sir
Timorous; but Loveby will certainly infect him with the news of her
great belly.

_Non_. I'll dispatch it, ere he can speak with him.

_Isa_. Whene'er he comes, he'll see what a _bona roba_ she
is grown.

_Non_. Therefore, it shall be done i'the evening.

_Isa_. It shall, my lord.

_Const_. Shall it?

[Aside.

_Isa_. Let me alone, cousin.--And to this effect she shall write
to him, that, to conform to your will, and his modesty, she desires
him to come hither alone this evening.

_Non_. Excellent wench!--I'll get my chaplain ready.

[_Exit_ NONSUCH.

_Const_. How can you hope to deceive my father?

_Isa_. If I don't, I have hard luck.

_Const_. You go so strange a way about, your bowl must be well
bias'd to come in.

_Isa_. So plain a ground, there's not the least rub in't. I'll
meet Sir Timorous in the dark; and, in your room, marry him.

_Const_. You'll be sure to provide for one.

_Isa_. You mistake me, cousin:--Oh! here's Setstone again.

_Enter_ SETSTONE.

Mr Jeweller, you must again into your devil's shape, and speak with
Loveby. But pray be careful not to be discovered.

_Set_. I warrant you, madam. I have cozened wiser men than he in
my own shape; and, if I cannot continue it in a worse, let the devil,
I make bold with, e'en make as bold with me.

_Isa_. You must guide him, by back ways, to my uncle's house, and
so to my cousin's chamber, that he may not know where he is when he
comes there. The rest I'll tell you as we go along.

[_Exeunt_.


SCENE III.

_Enter_ TIMOROUS; _after him_ BURR _and_ FAILER.


_Tim_. Here, here, read this note; there's news for us.

_Fail_. Let me see't. [_Reads_.

_Sir Timorous, Be at the garden-door at nine this evening; there
I'll receive you with my daughter. To gratify your modesty I designed
this way, after I had better considered on it: and pray leave your
caterpillars, Burr and Failer, behind you. Yours,_ Nonsuch.

There is some trick in this, whate'er it be. But this word,
caterpillars--You see, Burr, Sir Timorous is like to be lured from us.
[_Aside_.

_Burr_. Is there no prevention? [_Aside_.

_Fail_. One way there is.--Sir Timorous, pray walk a turn, while
Burr and I confer a little upon this matter.--Look you, Burr, there is
but one remedy in nature, I vow to gad; that is, for you to have a new
Sir Timorous, exceeding this person in bounty to you. Observe, then;
in Sir Timorous' place will I go, and, egad, I'll marry my lady
Constance; and then, from the bowels of friendship, bless thee with a
thousand pounds, besides lodging and diet for thy life, boy.

_Burr_. Umph, very well thought on.--No, sir! you shall trust
to my bounty; I'll go in his place. Murmur or repine, speak the least
word, or give thy lips the least motion, and I'll beat thee till thou
art not in condition to go.

_Fail_. I vow to gad, this is extreme injustice.--Was it not my
invention?

_Burr_. Why, dost thou think thou art worthy to make use of thy
own invention?--Speak another word, d'ye see!--Come, help me quickly
to strip Sir Timorous; his coat may conduce to the deceit.--Sir
Timorous, by your leave. [_Fatts on him_.

_Tim_. O, Lord! what's the matter?--Murder? murder!

_Burr_. D'ye open? I have something in my pocket that will serve
for a gag, now I think on't.

[_Gags, and binds him_.

So, lie there, knight. Come, sir, and help to make me Sir Timorous;
and, when I am married, remember to increase your manners with my
fortune.--Yet we'll always drink together. [_Exeunt_.



ACT V. SCENE I.

_Enter_ CONSTANCE, ISABELLA, _and_ NONSUCH.


_Const_. This is just the knight's hour; and lovers seldom come
after their time.

_Non_. Good night, daughter; I'll to bed, and give you joy
to-morrow morning. [_Exit_.

_Isa_. I'm glad he's gone: What, your train takes?

_Const_. Yes, yes; Loveby will come: Setstone has been with him
in disguise; and promised him golden mountains, if he will not be
wanting to his own fortune.

_Isa_. Is your habit provided too?

_Const_. All is ready.

_Isa_. Away then; for this is the place where we must part like
knights errant, that take several paths to their adventures.

_Const_. 'Tis time, for I hear somebody come along the alley;
without question 'tis Timorous. Farewell; the chaplain stays for me in
the chamber.

_Isa_. And I'll post after you to matrimony; I have laid a fresh
parson at the next stage, that shall carry me tantivy.

[_Exit_ CONSTANCE.

_Enter_ BURR _with_ TIMOROUS'S _coat on_.

_Burr_. My lady Constance!

_Isa_. The same: Sir Timorous?

_Burr_. The same.

_Isa_. Sir Timorous takes me for my cousin.

[_Aside_.

_Burr_. My lady Constance mistakes me for the knight.

[_Aside_.

_Isa_. Here, sir; through the dark walk: 'tis but a little way
about--He's my own beyond redemption--

[_Aside_.

_Burr_. The Indies are mine; and a handsome lady into the
bargain.

[_Excunt_.

_Enter_ FAILER, _dogging them, as they go off_.

_Fail_. He shall be hanged, ere he shall get her. Thus far I have
dogged them, and this way I am sure they must pass, ere they come to
the house. The rogue had got the old dog-trick of a statesman; to fish
things out of wiser heads than his own, and never so much as to take
notice of him that gave the counsel--

_Enter ISABELLA and BURR again_.

Now, if I can but give her the hint without his knowledge!--Madam--my
lady Constance!

_Isa_. What voice is that?

_Fail_. A word in private, or you are undone--Pray step aside.

_Burr._ Where are you, madam?

_Isa_. Immediately, Sir Timorous.

_Fail_. You are mistaken, madam; 'tis not Sir Timorous, but Burr
in his clothes; he has stripped the knight, gagged him, and locked him
up.

_Isa_. Failer?

_Fail_. The same. I could not but prevent your unhappiness,
though I hazard my person in the discovery, I vow to gad, madam.

_Burr_. Who's that talks to you, my lady Constance?

_Isa_. A maid of my acquaintance, that's come to take her leave
of me before I marry; the poor soul does so pity me.

_Burr_. How will that maid lie, thinking of you and me to-night!

_Isa_. Has he the key about him? [_To FAILER_.

_Fail_. I think so, madam.

_Isa_. Could not you possibly pick his pocket, and give me the
key? then let me alone to release Sir Timorous; and you shall be
witness of the wedding.

_Fail_. Egad, you want your cousin Isabella's wit to bring that
to pass, madam.

_Isa_. I warrant you, my own wit will serve to fool Burr--and you
too, or I am much deceived. [_Aside_.

_Fail_. I am a little apprehensive of the rascal's fingers, since
I felt them last; and yet my fear has not power to resist the sweet
temptation of revenge; I vow to gad I'll try, madam.

_Isa_. Never fear; let me alone to keep him busy.

_Burr_. Come, madam, and let me take off these tasteless kisses
the maid gave you; may we not join lips before we are married?

_Isa_. No; fie, Sir Timorous.

[_They struggle a little, and in that time FAILER picks his pocket
of the key_.

_Fail_. I have it--here it is--now, shift for yourself, as I'll
do; I'll wait you in the alley.

[_Exit_.

_Isa_. Sir Timorous, pray go into my chamber, and make no noise
till I return; I'll but fetch the little man of God, and follow you in
a twinkling.

_Burr_. There's no light, I hope?

_Isa_. Not a spark.

_Burr_. For to light me to the mark--

[_Exit_.

_Isa_. What a scowering have I 'scaped to-night! Fortune, 'tis
thou hast been ingenious for me! Allons, Isabella! Courage! now to
deliver my knight from the enchanted castle.

[_Exit_.

_Enter LOVEBY, led by SETSTONE, antickly habited; with a torch in
one hand, and a wand in the other_.

_Lov_. What art thou, that hast led me this long hour through
lanes and alleys, and blind passages?

_Set_. I am thy genius; and conduct thee to wealth, fame, and
honour; what thou comest to do, do boldly; fear not; with this rod I
charm thee; and neither elf nor goblin now can harm thee.

_Lov_. Well, march on; if thou art my genius, thou art bound to
be answerable for me; I'll have thee hanged, if I miscarry.

_Set_. Fear not, my son.

_Lov_. Fear not, quotha! then, pr'ythee, put on a more familiar
shape:--one of us two stinks extremely: Pr'ythee, do not come so near
me; I do not love to have my face bleached like a tiffany with thy
brimstone.

_Set_. Fear not, but follow me.

_Lov_. 'Faith, I have no great mind to't; I am somewhat godly at
present; but stay a month longer, and I'll be proud, and fitter for
thee. In the mean time, pr'ythee, stay thy stomach with some Dutchman;
an Hollander, with butter, will fry rarely in hell.

_Set_. Mortal, 'tis now too late for a retreat; go on, and live;
step back, and thou art mine.

_Lorn_. So I am, however, first or last; but for once I'll trust
thee. [_Exeunt_.


SCENE II.

_The scene opens, and discovers CONSTANCE, and a Parson by her; she
habited like Fortune.

Enter again_.


_Set_. Take here the mighty queen of good and ill, Fortune; first
marry, then enjoy thy fill Of lawful pleasures; but depart ere morn;
Slip from her bed, or else thou shalt be torn Piecemeal by fiends;
thy blood caroused in bowls, And thy four quarters blown to the top of
Paul's.

_Lov_. By your favour, I'll never venture. Is marrying the
business? I'll none, I thank you.

[_Here CONSTANCE whispers SETSTONE_.

_Set_. Fortune will turn her back if twice denied.

_Lav_. Why, she may turn her girdle too on t'other side[A]. This
is the devil; I will not venture on her.

[Footnote A: A usual expression of indifference for a man's
displeasure.]

_Set_. Fear not; she swears thou shalt receive no harm.

_Lov_. Ay, if a man durst trust her; but the devil is got into
such an ill name of lying--

_Set_. Whene'er you are not pleased, it shall be lawful to sue
out your divorce.

_Lov_. Ay, but where shall I get a lawyer? there you are
aforehand with me; you have retained most of them already. For the
favours I have received, I am very much her servant; but, in the way
of matrimony, Mr Parson there can tell you 'tis an ordinance, and must
not be entered into without mature deliberation; besides, marriages,
you know, are made in heaven; and that I am sure this was not.

_Set_. She bids you then, at least, restore that gold, which she,
too lavishly, poured out on you, unthankful man.

_Lov_. Faith, I have it not at present; 'tis all gone, as I am a
sinner; but, 'tis gone wickedly; all spent in the devil her father's
service.

_Set_. Where is the grateful sense of all your favours? Come,
fiends, with flesh-hooks, tear the wretch in pieces, And bear his soul
upon your leather wings, Below the fountain of the dark abyss.

_Lov_. What, are you a-conjuring? If you are good at that sport,
I can conjure as well as you--[_Draws his sword_.

_Const_. Hold; for Heaven's sake, hold! I am no spirit; touch but
my hand; ghosts have no flesh and blood. [_Discovering_.

_Lov_. My lady Constance! I began to suspect it might be a trick,
but never could imagine you the author. It seems you are desirous I
should father this _hans en kelder_ here?

_Const_. I know not how, without a blush, to tell you, it was a
cheat I practised for your love.

_Set_. A mere tympany, sir, raised by a cushion; you see 'tis
gone already.

_Const_. Setstone was sent to have acquainted you; but, by the
way, unfortunately missed you.

_Lev_. Twas you, then, that supplied me all this while with
money? pretty familiar, I hope to make thee amends ere I sleep
to-night. Come, parson, pr'ythee make haste and join us. I long to be
out of her debt, poor rogue.

[_The parson takes them to the side of the stage; they turn their
backs to the audience, while he mumbles to them_.

_Set_. I'll be the clerk; Amen--give you joy, Mr Bridegroom, and
Mrs Bride.

_Lov. Const_. Thanks, honest Setstone.

[_BIBBER, FRANCES, and music without--they play_.

_Music_. God give your worship a good even, Mr Loveby.

_Const_. Hark! what noise is that! Is this music of your
providing, Setstone?

_Set_. Alas, madam, I know nothing of it.

_Lov_. We are betrayed to your father; but the best on't is, he
comes too late to hinder us--fear not, madam, I'll bear you through
them all.

[_As they rush out, BIBBER, FRANCES, and Music are entering in;
BIBBER and FRANCES are beaten down.--Exeunt LOVEBY; CONSTANCE,
SETSTONE, and Parson_.

_All cry out_. Oh the devil! the devil! the devil!

_Bib_. Lord bless us, where are you, Frances!

_Fran_. Here, William! this is a judgment, as they say, upon
you, William, for trusting wits, and calling gentlemen to the tavern,
William.

_Bib_. No; 'twas a judgment upon you, for desiring preferment at
court, Frances. Let's call up the watch, and Justice Trice, to have
the house searched.

_Fran_. Ay, ay; there's more devils there, I warrant you.
[_Exeunt_.

_Enter LOVEBY, CONSTANCE, and SETSTONE again_.

_Lov_. It was certainly Will Bibber and his wife, with music;
for, now I remember myself, I 'pointed him this hour at your father's
house: but we frighted them worse than they frighted us.

_Const_. Our parson ran away too, when they cried out the devil!

_Lov_. He was the wiser; for if the devil had come indeed, he has
preached so long against him, it would have gone hard with him.

_Set_. Indeed, I have always observed parsons to be more fearful
of the devil than other people.

_Lov_. Oh, the devil's the spirit, and the parson's the flesh;
and betwixt those two there must be a war; yet, to do them both right,
I think in my conscience they quarrel only like lawyers for their
fees, and meet good friends in private, to laugh at their clients.

_Const_. I saw him run in at my cousin Isabella's chamber door,
which was wide open; I believe she's returned: We'll fetch a light
from the gallery, and give her joy.

_Lov_. Why, is she married, madam?

_Const_. I'll tell you as we go. [_Exeunt_.


SCENE III.

_BURR and the Parson enter, meeting in the dark_.


_Burr_. My lady Constance, are you come again? That's well; I
have waited sufficiently for you in the dark.

_Par_. Help, help, help, good Christian people! the devil, the
devil's here.

_Burr_. 'Tis I, madam; what do you mean?

_Par_. Avoid, Satan! avoid, avoid.

_Burr_. What have I here, the hairy woman?

_Enter LOVEBY, and CONSTANCE with the light_.

Ha! yonder's my lady Constance! who have I got? a stone priest, by
this good light. How's this, Loveby too!

_Lov_. Burr a-beating my reverend clergy? What makes you here at
this unseasonable hour? I'll know your business. [_Draws_.

_Burr_. Will you, sir? [_They fight_.

_Const. Set. Par_. Help, murder, murder!

_Enter, at one door, TRICE drunk, with the Watch; BIBBER and FRANCES
following; at the other, NONSUCH and Servants, and FAILER_.

_Non_. Murder, murder! beat down their weapons. Will you
murder Sir Timorous, Mr Loveby?--[_They disarm both_.] Sir
Timorous?--ha, Burr! Thieves, thieves!--sit down, good Mr Justice, and
take their examinations. Now I shall know how my money went.

_Trice_. They shall have justice, I warrant them. [_Goes to
sit, and misses the chair_.

_Bib_. The justice is almost dead drunk, my lord.

_Fran_. But an't please your worship, my lord, this is not the
worst sight that we have seen here to-night in your worship's house;
we met three or four hugeous ugly devils, with eyes like saucers, that
threw down my husband, that threw down me, that made my heart so panck
ever since, as they say!--

_Non_. The devil again in my house?

_Lov_. Nay, here he was, that's certain; he brought me hither, I
know not how myself, and married me; Mr Setstone there can justify it:
But the best is, I have a charm about me, that will lay him yet ere
midnight.

_Fail_. And I vow to gad, my lord, I know as little how I came
hither as any man.

_Burr_. Nor I.

_Trice_. Nor I.

_Lot_. No, I dare swear do'st thou not, Mr Justice.

_Trice_. But I wonder how the devil durst come into our ward,
when he knows I have been at the duties of--my family--this evening.

_Enter one of the Watch, with_ TIMOROUS _and_ ISABELLA.

_Watch_. An please your worship, I met this couple in the street
late, and so, seeing them to be a man and woman, I brought them along
with me, upon suspicion of felony together.

_Fran_. This is the proud minx, that sought shelter in my house
this afternoon, Mr Justice.

_Fail_. Sir Timorous and Madam Isabella! I vow to gad, we are
undone, Burr.--

_Isa_. Do not you know me, Mr Justice?

_Lov_. Justice is blind, he knows nobody.

_Isa_. My name is Isabella.

_Fran_. No, thy name is Jezebella; I warrant you, there's none
but rogues and papists would be abroad at this time of night.

_Bib_. Hold, Frances.--

_Trice_. She's drunk, I warrant her, as any beast. I wonder,
woman, you do not consider what a crying sin drunkenness is: Whom do
you learn it from in our parish? I am sure you never see me worse.

_Isa_. Burr and Failer, acknowledge yourselves a couple of
recreant knights: Sir Timorous is mine: I have won him in fair field
from you.

_Const_. Give you joy, cousin, give you joy!

_Lov_. Married!

_Isa_. And in Diana's grove, boy.

_Lov_. Why, 'tis fine, by Heaven; 'tis wondrous fine; as the poet
goes on sweetly.

_Tim_. I am sure they had gagged me, and bound me, and stripped
me almost stark naked, and locked me up as fast as a butterfly, 'till
she came and made me a man again; and therefore I have reason to love
her the longest day I have to live.

_Isa_. Ay, and the longest night too, or you are to blame. And
you have one argument I love you, if the proverb be true, for I took
you almost in your bare shirt.

_Burr_. So much for us, Failer!

_Const_. Well, my lord, it had as good out at first as at last:
I must beg your lordship's blessing for this gentleman and myself.
[_Both kneel_.

_Non_. Why, you are not married to him, I hope! he's married to
the devil.

_Lov_. 'Twas a white devil of your lordship's getting, then; Mr
Setstone and the reverend here can witness it.

_Set. Par_. We must speak truth, my lord.

_Non_. Would I had another child for your sake! you should ne'er
see a penny of my money.

_Lov_. Thank you, my lord; but methinks 'tis much better as it
is.

_Isa_. Come, nuncle, 'tis in vain to hold out, now 'tis past
remedy: 'Tis like the last act of a play, when people must marry; and
if fathers will not consent then, they should throw oranges at them
from the galleries. Why should you stand off, to keep us from a dance?

_Non_. But there's one thing still that troubles me; that's her
great belly, and my own too.

_Const_. Nay, for mine, my lord, 'tis vanished already; 'twas but
a trick to catch the old one.

_Lov_. But I'll do my best; she shall not be long without
another.

_Isa_. But as for your great belly, nuncle, I know no way to rid
you on't, but by taking out your guts.

_Lov_. 'Tis such a pretty smart rascal, 'tis well I am pleased
with my own choice: but I could have got such Hectors, and poets, and
gamesters, out of thee!--

_Const_. No, no; two wits could never have lived well together;
want would have so sharpened you upon one another.

_Isa_. A wit should naturally be joined to a fortune; by the same
reason your vintners feed their hungry wines.

_Const_. And if Sir Timorous and I had married, we two fortunes
must have built hospitals with our money; we could never have spent it
else.

_Lov_. Or what think you of paying courtiers' debts with it?

_Isa_. Well, to shew I am in charity with my enemies, I'll make
a motion: While we are in town, let us hire a large house, and live
together: Burr and Failer--

_Fail_. Shall be utterly discarded; I knew 'twould come to that,
I vow to gad.

_Isa_. Shall be our guests.

[_BURR and FAILER throw up their caps, and cry, Vive Madam
ISABELLA!_

_Lov_. And Bibber shall make our wedding clothes without
trusting.

_Bib_. No, henceforward I'll trust none but landed men, and such
as have houses and apple-trees in the country, now I have got a place
in the custom-house.

_Fran_. Nothing vexes me, but that this flirting gentlewoman
should go before me; but I'll to the herald's office, and see whether
the queen's majesty's dresser, should not take place of any knight's
wife in Christendom.

_Bib_. Now all will out--no more, good Frances.

_Fran_. I will speak, that I will, so I will: What! shall I be a
dresser to the queen's majesty, and nobody must know on't? I'll
send Mr Church-warden word on't; and, gentlemen, when you come to St
Bride's church (if ever you come to church, gentlemen), you shall see
me in the pew that's next the pulpit; thank Mr Loveby's worship for
it.

_Lov_. Spare your thanks, good landlady; for the truth is, they
came too late, the place is gone; and so is yours, Will; but you shall
have two hundred pounds for one, if that will satisfy you.

_Fran_. This is bitter news, as they say.

_Lov_. Cheer up thy wife, Will. Where are the fiddles? A dance
should do it.

_Bib_. I'll run and call them.

_Isa_. I have found out that, will comfort her: Henceforward I
christen her by the name of Madam Bibber.

_All_. A Madam Bibber, a Madam Bibber!

_Fran_. Why, I thank you, sweet gentlemen and ladies; this is a
cordial to my drooping spirits: I confess I was a little eclipsed; but
I'll cheer up with abundance of love, as they say. Strike up, fiddles.

_Lov_. That's a good wench.

DANCE.

_Trice_. This music and a little nod has recovered me. I'll in,
and provide for the sack posset.

_Non_. To bed, to bed; 'tis late. Son Loveby, get me a boy
to-night, and I'll settle three thousand a-year upon him the first day
he calls me grandsire.

_Lov_. I'll do my best, To make the bargain sure before I sleep.
Where love and money strike, the blow goes deep.

[_Exeunt omnes_.



EPILOGUE,

WHEN IT WAS FIRST ACTED.


The _Wild Gallant_ has quite played out his game;
He's married now, and that will make him tame;
Or if you think marriage will not reclaim him,
The critics swear they'll damn him, but they'll tame him.
Yet, though our poet's threatened most by these,
They are the only people he can please:
For he, to humour them, has shown to-day,
That which they only like, a wretched play:
But though his play be ill, here have been shown
The greatest wits, and beauties of the town;
And his occasion having brought you here,
You are too grateful to become severe.
There is not any person here so mean,
But he may freely judge each act and scene:
But if you bid him chuse his judges, then,
He boldly names true English gentlemen:
For he ne'er thought a handsome garb or dress
So great a crime, to make their judgment less:
And with these gallants he these ladies joins,
To judge that language, their converse refines.
But if their censures should condemn his play,
Far from disputing, he does only pray
He may Leander's destiny obtain:
Now spare him, drown him when he comes again.



EPILOGUE,

WHEN REVIVED.


Of all dramatic writing, comic wit,
As 'tis the best, so 'tis most, hard to hit.
For it lies all in level to the eye,
Where all may judge, and each defect may spy.
Humour is that, which every day we meet,
And therefore known as every public street;
In which, if e'er the poet go astray,
You all can point, 'twas there he lost his way.
But, what's so common, to make pleasant too,
Is more than any wit can always do.
For 'tis like Turks, with hen and rice to treat;
To make regalios out of common meat.
But, in your diet, you grow savages:
Nothing but human flesh your taste can please;
And, as their feasts with slaughtered slaves began,
So you, at each new play, must have a man.
Hither you come, as to see prizes fought;
If no blood's drawn, you cry, the prize is naught.
But fools grow wary now; and, when they see
A poet eyeing round the company,
Straight each-man for himself begins to doubt;
They shrink like seamen when a press comes out.
Few of them will be found for public use,
Except you charge an oaf upon each house,
Like the train bands, and every man engage
For a sufficient fool, to serve the stage.
And when, with much ado, you get him there,
Where he in all his glory should appear,
Your poets make him such rare things to say,
That he's more wit than any man i' th' play:
But of so ill a mingle with the rest,
As when a parrot's taught to break a jest.
Thus, aiming to be fine, they make a show,
As tawdry squires in country churches do.
Things well considered, 'tis so hard to make
A comedy, which should the knowing take,
That our dull poet, in despair to please,
Does humbly beg, by me, his writ of ease.
'Tis a land-tax, which he's too poor to pay;
You therefore must some other impost lay.
Would you but change, for serious plot and verse,
This motely garniture of fool and farce,
Nor scorn a mode, because 'tis taught at home,
Which does, like vests, our gravity become,
Our poet yields you should this play refuse:
As tradesmen, by the change of fashions, lose,
With some content, their fripperies of France,
In hope it may their staple trade advance.




THE RIVAL LADIES,

A TRAGI-COMEDY



THE RIVAL LADIES.


This play, like that which preceded it, is a drama of intrigue,
borrowed from the Spanish, and claiming merit only in proportion to
the diversity and ingenuity of the incidents represented. On this
point every reader can decide for himself; and it would be an invidious
task to point out blemishes, where, to own the truth, there are but
few beauties. The ease with which the affections of almost every
female in the drama are engrossed by Gonsalvo, and afterwards
transferred to the lovers, upon whom the winding up of the plot made
it necessary to devolve them, will, it is probable, strike every
reader as unnatural. In truth, when the depraved appetite of the
public requires to be gratified by trick and bustle, instead of nature
and sentiment, authors must sacrifice the probable, as well as the
simple, process of events.

The author seems principally to have valued himself on this piece,
because it contains some scenes executed in rhyme, in what was then
called the heroic manner. Upon this opinion, which Dryden lived to
retract, I have ventured to offer my sentiments in the Life of the
Author. In other respects, though not slow in perceiving and avouching
his own merit, our author seems to consider the "Rival Ladies" as no
very successful dramatic effort.

The "Rival Ladies" is supposed to have been first acted in 1663, and
was certainly published in the year following. Of its success we know
nothing particular. It is probable, the flowing verse, into which some
part of the dialogue is thrown, with the strong point and antithesis,
which distinguishes Dryden's works, and particularly his argumentative
poetry, tended to redeem the credit of the author of the "Wild
Gallant."



THE RIGHT HONOURABLE ROGER, EARL OF ORRERY[1].

[Footnote 1: This distinguished person was fifth son of Richard Boyle,
known by the title of the great Earl of Cork. His first title was Lord
Broghill, under which he distinguished himself in Ireland.
Cromwell, although his lordship was a noted royalist, and in actual
correspondence with the exiled monarch, had so much confidence in
his honour and talents, that he almost compelled him to act as lord
lieutenant of that kingdom, under the stipulation that he was to come
under no oaths, and only to act against the rebel Irish, then the
common enemy. He was instrumental in the restoration, and created earl
of Orrery by Charles II, in 1660, He deserved Dryden's panegyric in
every respect, except as a poet--the very character, however, in which
he is most complimented, and perhaps was best pleased to be so. He
wrote, 1st, The Art of War--2d, Parthenissa, a romance--3d, Some
Poems--4th; Eight Plays--5th, State Tracts.]


My Lord,

This worthless present was designed you long before it was a play;
when it was only a confused mass of thoughts, tumbling over one
another in the dark; when the fancy was yet in its first work,
moving the sleeping images of things towards the light, there to be
distinguished, and then either chosen or rejected by the judgment; it
was yours, my lord, before I could call it mine. And, I confess, in
that first tumult of my thoughts, there appeared a disorderly kind of
beauty in some of them, which gave me hope, something, worthy my lord
of Orrery, might be drawn from them: But I was then in that eagerness
of imagination, which, by overpleasing fanciful men, flatters them
into the danger of writing; so that, when I had moulded it into that
shape it now bears, I looked with such disgust upon it, that the
censures of our severest critics are charitable to what I thought
(and still think) of it myself: It is so far from me to believe this
perfect, that I am apt to conclude our best plays are scarcely so; for
the stage being the representation of the world, and the actions in
it, how can it be imagined, that the picture of human life can be more
exact than life itself is? He may be allowed sometimes to err, who
undertakes to move so many characters and humours, as are requisite in
a play, in those narrow channels which are proper to each of them; to
conduct his imaginary persons through so many various intrigues and
chances, as the labouring audience shall think them lost under every
billow; and then, at length, to work them so naturally out of their
distresses, that, when the whole plot is laid open, the spectators may
rest satisfied, that every cause was powerful enough to produce the
effect it had; and that the whole chain of them was with such due
order linked together, that the first accident would naturally beget
the second, till they all rendered the conclusion necessary.

These difficulties, my lord, may reasonably excuse the errors of
my undertaking; but for this confidence of my dedication, I have an
argument, which is too advantageous for me not to publish it to the
world. It is the kindness your lordship has continually shown to all
my writings. You have been pleased, my lord, they should sometimes
cross the Irish seas, to kiss your hands; which passage (contrary
to the experience of others) I have found the least dangerous in the
world. Your favour has shone upon me at a remote distance, without the
least knowledge of my person; and (like the influence of the heavenly
bodies) you have done good, without knowing to whom you did it. It is
this virtue in your lordship, which emboldens me to this attempt; for,
did I not consider you as my patron, I have little reason to desire
you for my judge; and should appear with as much awe before you in the
reading, as I had when the full theatre sat upon the action. For, who
could so severely judge of faults as he, who has given testimony he
commits none? Your excellent poems have afforded that knowledge of it
to the world, that your enemies are ready to upbraid you with it, as
a crime for a man of business to write so well. Neither durst I have
justified your lordship in it, if examples of it had not been in the
world before you; if Xenophon had not written a romance, and a certain
Roman, called Augustus Caesar, a tragedy, and epigrams. But their
writing was the entertainment of their pleasure; yours is only a
diversion of your pain. The muses have seldom employed your thoughts,
but when some violent fit of the gout has snatched you from affairs
of state; and, like the priestess of Apollo, you never come to deliver
his oracles, but unwillingly, and in torment. So that we are obliged
to your lordship's misery for our delight: You treat us with the cruel
pleasure of a Turkish triumph, where those, who cut and wound their
bodies, sing songs of victory as they pass, and divert others with
their own sufferings. Other men endure their diseases; your lordship
only can enjoy them. Plotting and writing in this kind are certainly
more troublesome employments than many which signify more, and are of
greater moment in the world: The fancy, memory, and judgment, are then
extended (like so many limbs) upon the rack; all of them reaching
with their utmost stress at nature; a thing so almost infinite and
boundless, as can never fully be comprehended, but where the images of
all things are always present. Yet I wonder not your lordship succeeds
so well in this attempt; the knowledge of men is your daily practice
in the world; to work and bend their stubborn minds, which go not all
after the same grain, but each of them so particular a way, that
the same common humours, in several persons, must be wrought upon by
several means. Thus, my lord, your sickness is but the imitation of
your health; the poet but subordinate to the statesman in you; you
still govern men with the same address, and manage business with the
same prudence; allowing it here (as in the world) the due increase and
growth, till it comes to the just height; and then turning it when it
is fully ripe, and nature calls out, as it were, to be delivered.
With this only advantage of ease to you in your poetry, that you
have fortune here at your command; with which wisdom does often
unsuccessfully struggle in the world. Here is no chance, which you
have not foreseen; all your heroes are more than your subjects, they
are your creatures; and though they seem to move freely in all the
sallies of their passions, yet you make destinies for them, which
they cannot shun. They are moved (if I may dare to say so) like the
rational creatures of the Almighty Poet, who walk at liberty, in their
own opinion, because their fetters are invisible; when, indeed, the
prison of their will is the more sure for being large; and, instead of
an absolute power over their actions, they have only a wretched desire
of doing that, which they cannot chuse but do[1].

[Footnote 1: The earl of Orrery was author of several plays. If the
reader is not disposed to admit, that his habit of composing them,
when tormented by the gout, enhanced their value, it may be allowed to
apologise for their faults.]

I have dwelt, my lord, thus long upon your writing, not because you
deserve not greater and more noble commendations, but because I am not
equally able to express them in other subjects. Like an ill swimmer,
I have willingly staid long in my own depth; and though I am eager of
performing more, yet am loth to venture out beyond my knowledge: for
beyond your poetry, my lord, all is ocean to me. To speak of you as a
soldier, or a statesman, were only to betray my own ignorance; and I
could hope no better success from it, than that miserable rhetorician
had, who solemnly declaimed before Hannibal, of the conduct of armies,
and the art of war. I can only say, in general, that the souls of
other men shine out at little crannies; they understand some one
thing, perhaps, to admiration, while they are darkened on all the
other parts; but your lordship's soul is an entire globe of light,
breaking out on every side; and, if I have only discovered one beam
of it, it is not that the light falls unequally, but because the body,
which receives it, is of unequal parts.

The acknowledgment of which is a fair occasion offered me, to retire
from the consideration of your lordship to that of myself. I here
present you, my lord, with that in print, which you had the goodness
not to dislike upon the stage; and account it happy to have met you
here in England; it being, at best, like small wines, to be drunk out
upon the place, and has not body enough to endure the sea.

I know not whether I have been so careful of the plot and language as
I ought; but, for the latter, I have endeavoured to write English, as
near as I could distinguish it from the tongue of pedants, and that
of affected travellers. Only I am sorry, that (speaking so noble a
language as we do) we have not a more certain measure of it, as they
have in France, where they have an academy erected for that purpose,
and endowed with large privileges by the present king. I wish we might
at length leave to borrow words from other nations, which is now a
wantonness in us, not a necessity; but so long as some affect to speak
them, there will not want others, who will have the boldness to write
them.

But I fear, lest, defending the received words, I shall be accused for
following the new way, I mean, of writing scenes in verse. Though, to
speak properly, it is not so much a new way amongst us, as an old
way new revived; for, many years before Shakspeare's plays, was the
tragedy of Queen Gorboduc, in English verse, written by that famous
Lord Buckhurst, afterwards earl of Dorset, and progenitor to that
excellent person, who (as he inherits his soul and title) I wish may
inherit his good fortune[1]. But, supposing our countrymen had not
received this writing till of late; shall we oppose ourselves to the
most polished and civilised nations of Europe? Shall we, with the same
singularity, oppose the world in this, as most of us do in pronouncing
Latin? Or do we desire that the brand, which Barclay has (I hope
unjustly) laid upon the English, should still continue? _Angli suos
ac sua omnia impense mirantur; caeteras nationes despectui habent_.
All the Spanish and Italian tragedies, I have yet seen, are writ in
rhyme. For the French, I do not name them, because it is the fate of
our countrymen to admit little of theirs among us, but the basest of
their men, the extravagancies of their fashions, and the frippery of
their merchandise. Shakspeare (who, with some errors not to be avoided
in that age, had undoubtedly a larger soul of poesy than ever any of
our nation) was the first who, to shun the pains of continual rhyming,
invented[A] that kind of writing which we call blank verse, but the
French, more properly, _prose mesuré_; into which the English
tongue so naturally slides, that, in writing prose, it is hardly to be
avoided. And therefore, I admire some men should perpetually stumble
in a way so easy, and, inverting the order of their words, constantly
close their lines with verbs, which, though commended sometimes in
writing Latin, yet we were whipt at Westminster if we used it twice
together. I knew some, who, if they were to write in blank verse,
_Sir, I ask your pardon_, would think it sounded more heroically
to write, _Sir, I your pardon ask_. I should judge him to have
little command of English, whom the necessity of a rhyme should force
often upon this rock; though sometimes it cannot easily be avoided;
and indeed this is the only inconvenience with which rhyme can be
charged. This is that which makes them say, rhyme is not natural; it
being only so, when the poet either makes a vicious choice of words,
or places them, for rhyme sake, so unnaturally as no man would in
ordinary speaking; but when it is so judiciously ordered, that the
first word in the verse seems to beget the second, and that the next,
till that becomes the last word in the line, which, in the negligence
of prose, would be so; it must then be granted, rhyme has all the
advantages of prose, besides its own. But the excellence and dignity
of it were never fully known till Mr Waller taught it; he first made
writing easily an art; first shewed us to conclude the sense, most
commonly in distichs, which, in the verse of those before him, runs
on for so many lines together, that the reader is out of breath to
overtake it. This sweetness of Mr Waller's lyric poesy was afterwards
followed in the epic by Sir John Denham, in his Cooper's-Hill, a poem
which, your Lordship knows, for the majesty of the style, is, and
ever will be, the exact standard of good writing. But if we owe the
invention of it to Mr Waller, we are acknowledging for the noblest use
of it to Sir William D'Avenant, who at once brought it upon the stage,
and made it perfect, in the Siege of Rhodes.

[Footnote 1: The tragedy of Ferrex and Perrex (which is the proper
title) was written by Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, afterwards
earl of Dorset, and Thomas Norton, a barrister at law. In Sackville's
part of the play, which comprehends the two last acts, there is some
poetry worthy of the author of the sublime Introduction to the Mirror
of Magistrates. While both the authors were out of England, one
William Griffiths published a spurious copy, under the title of
Gorboduc, the name of one of the principal personages, who is not,
however, _queen_, but _king_, of England, But, what was a
wider mistake, considering Dryden's purpose of mentioning the work, it
is not written in rhyme, but in blank verse, excepting the choruses,
which are in stanzas of six lines. The name of the queen is Videna.
Sir Philip Sydney says, "Gorboduc is full of stately speeches and well
sounding phrases, climbing up to the height of Seneca his style, and
as full of notable morality, which it doth most delightfully teach,
and thereby obtain the very end of poetry."]

[Footnote A: This is a mistake. Marlow, and several other dramatic
authors, used blank verse before the days of Shakspeare.]

The advantages which rhyme has over blank verse are so many, that
it were lost time to name them. Sir Philip Sidney, in his Defence
of Poesy, gives us one, which, in my opinion, is not the least
considerable; I mean the help it brings to memory, which rhyme so
knits up, by the affinity of sounds, that, by remembering the last
word in one line, we often call to mind both the verses. Then, in the
quickness of repartees (which in discoursive scenes fall very often),
it has so particular a grace, and is so aptly suited to them, that the
sudden smartness of the answer, and the sweetness of the rhyme, set
off the beauty of each other. But that benefit which I consider most
in it, because I have not seldom found it, is, that it bounds and
circumscribes the fancy. For imagination in a poet is a faculty so
wild and lawless, that, like an high-ranging spaniel, it must have
clogs tied to it, lest it out-run the judgment. The great easiness of
blank verse renders the poet too luxuriant; he is tempted to say many
things, which might better be omitted, or at least shut up in fewer
words; but when the difficulty of artful rhyming is interposed, where
the poet commonly confines his sense to his couplet, and must contrive
that sense into such words, that the rhyme shall naturally follow
them, not they the rhyme; the fancy then gives leisure to the judgment
to come in, which, seeing so heavy a tax imposed, is ready to cut off
all unnecessary expences. This last consideration has already answered
an objection which some have made, that rhyme is only an embroidery of
sense, to make that, which is ordinary in itself, pass for excellent
with less examination. But certainly, that, which most regulates the
fancy, and gives the judgment its busiest employment, is like to bring
forth the richest and clearest thoughts. The poet examines that most,
which he produceth with the greatest leisure, and which, he knows,
must pass the severest test of the audience, because they are aptest
to have it ever in their memory; as the stomach makes the best
concoction, when it strictly embraces the nourishment, and takes
account of every little particle as it passes through. But, as the
best medicines may lose their virtue, by being ill applied, so is it
with verse, if a fit subject be not chosen for it. Neither must the
argument alone, but the characters and persons, be great and
noble; otherwise, (as Scaliger says of Claudian) the poet will
be _ignobitiore materiâ depressus_. The scenes, which, in my
opinion, most commend it, are those of argumentation and discourse, on
the result of which the doing or not doing some considerable action
should depend.

But, my lord, though I have more to say upon this subject, yet I must
remember, it is your lordship to whom I speak; who have much better
commended this way by your writing in it, than I can do by writing for
it. Where my reasons cannot prevail, I am sure your lordship's example
must. Your rhetoric has gained my cause; at least the greatest part of
my design has already succeeded to my wish, which was to interest so
noble a person in the quarrel, and withal to testify to the world how
happy I esteem myself in the honour of being,

MY LORD,

Your Lordship's most humble,
and most obedient servant,
JOHN DRYDEN.



PROLOGUE

'Tis much desired, you judges of the town
Would pass a vote to put all prologues down;
For who can show me, since they first were writ,
They e'er converted one hard-hearted wit?
Yet the world's mended well; in former days
Good prologues were as scarce as now good plays.
For the reforming poets of our age,
In this first charge, spend their poetic rage:
Expect no more when once the prologue's done;
The wit is ended ere the play's begun.
You now have habits, dances, scenes, and rhymes;
High language often; ay, and sense, sometimes.
As for a clear contrivance, doubt it not;
They blow out candles to give light to th' plot.
And for surprise, two bloody-minded men
Fight till they die, then rise and dance again.
Such deep intrigues you're welcome to this day:
But blame yourselves, not him who writ the play;
Though his plot's dull, as can be well desired,
Wit stiff as any you have e'er admired:
He's bound to please, not to write well; and knows,
There is a mode in plays as well as clothes;
Therefore, kind judges--


_Second Prologue enters_.

2.--Hold; would you admit
For judges all you see within the pit?

1. Whom would he then except, or on what score?

2. All, who (like him) have writ ill plays before;
For they, like thieves condemned, are hangmen made,
To execute the members of their trade.
All that are writing now he would disown,
But then he must except--even all the town;
All cholerick, losing gamesters, who, in spite,
Will damn to day, because they lost last night;
All servants, whom their mistress' scorn upbraids;
All maudlin lovers, and all slighted maids;
All, who are out of humour, or severe;
All, that want wit, or hope to find it here.



DRAMATIS PERSONAE


DON GONSALVO DE PERALTA, _a young gentleman newly arrived from the
Indies, in love with_ JULIA.
DON RODORIGO DE SYLVA, _in love with the same lady_.
DON MANUEL DE TORRES, _brother to_ JULIA.

JULIA, _elder sister to_ DON MANUEL, _promised to_ RODORIGO.
HONORIA, _younger sister to_ DON MANUEL, _disguised in the
habit of a man, and going by the name of_ HIPPOLITO, _in love
with_ GONSALVO.
ANGELINA, _sister to_ DON RODORIGO, _in man's habit, likewise
in love with_ GONSALVO, _and going by the name of_ AMIDEO.

_Servants, Robbers, Seamen, and Masquers_.


SCENE--_Alicant_.



THE RIVAL LADIES.

ACT I.

SCENE I--_A Wood_.

_Enter_ GONSALVO _and a Servant_.


_Gon_. Nay, 'twas a strange as well as cruel storm,
To take us almost in the port of Sevile,
And drive us up as far as Barcelona;
The whole plate fleet was scattered, some part wrecked;
There one might see the sailors diligent
To cast o'erboard the merchant's envied wealth,
While he, all pale and dying, stood in doubt,
Whether to ease the burden of the ship,
By drowning of his ingots, or himself.

_Serv_. Fortune, sir, is a woman everywhere,
But most upon the sea.

_Gons_. Had that been all,
I should not have complained; but, ere we could
Repair our ship, to drive us back again,
Was such a cruelty--

_Serv_. Yet that short time you staid at Barcelona
You husbanded so well, I think you left
A mistress there.

_Gons_. I made some small essays
Of love; what might have been I cannot tell:
But, to leave that, upon what part of Spain
Are we now cast?

_Serv_. Sir, I take that city to be Alicant.

_Gons_. Some days must of necessity be spent
In looking to our ship; then back again
For Sevile.

_Serv_. There you're sure you shall be welcome.

_Gons_. Aye, if my brother Rodoric be returned
From Flanders; but 'tis now three years since I
Have heard from him, and, since I saw him, twelve.

_Serv_. Your growth, and your long absence in the Indies,
Have altered you so much, he'll scarcely know you.

_Gons_. I'm sure I should not him, and less my sister;
Who, when I with my uncle went this voyage,
Was then one of those little prating girls,
Of whom fond parents tell such tedious stories:
Well, go you back.

_Serv_. I go, sir.

_Gons_. And take care
None of the seamen slip ashore.

_Serv_. I shall, sir. [_Exit Servant_.

_Gons_. I'll walk a little while among these trees,
Now the fresh evening air blows from the hills,
And breathes the sweetness of the orange flowers
Upon me, from the gardens hear the city.

_Robbers within_.

_1 Rob_. I say, make sure, and kill him.

_Hip_. For heaven's dear sake have pity on my youth.

[_Within_.

_Gons_. Some violence is offered in the wood
By robbers to a traveller: Whoe'er
Thou art, humanity obliges me
To give thee succour.

_Hip_. Help! ah cruel men! [_Within_.

_Gons_. This way, I think, the voice came; 'tis not far. [_Exit_.

_The_ SCENE _draws, and discovers_ HIPPOLITO _bound to a
tree, and two Robbers by him with drawn swords_.

_2 Rob_. Strip him, and let him go.

_1 Rob_. Dispatch him quite; off with his doublet quickly.

_Hip_. Ah me, unfortunate!

_Enter_ GONSALVO, _seizes the sword of one of them, and runs
him through; then, after a little resistance, disarms the other_.

_2 Rob_. If you have mercy in you, spare my life;
I never was consenting to a deed
So black as murder, though my fellow urged me:
I only meant to rob, and I am punished
Enough, in missing of my wicked aim.

_Gons_. Do they rob angels here? This sweet youth has
A face so like one, which I lately saw,
It makes your crime of kin to sacrilege:
But live; and henceforth
Take nobler courses to maintain your life:
Here's something that will rescue you from want,
'Till you can find employment.
[_Gives him gold, and unbinds_ HIPPOLITO.

_Hip_. What strange adventure's this! How little hoped I,
When thus disguised I stole from Barcelona,
To be relieved by brave Gonsalvo here? [_Aside_.

_2 Rob_. That life, you have preserved, shall still be yours;
And that you may perceive, how much my nature
Is wrought upon by this your generous act,
That goodness, you have shown to me, I'll use
To others for your sake, if you dare trust me
A moment from your sight.

_Gons_. Nay, take your sword;
I will not so much crush a budding virtue,
As to suspect. [_Gives him his sword. Exit Robber_.
--Sweet youth, you shall not leave me,
Till I have seen you safe.

_Hip_. You need not doubt it:
Alas! I find I cannot, if I would:
I am but freed to be a greater slave: [_Aside_.
How much am I obliged, sir, to your valour!

_Gons_. Rather to your own sweetness, pretty youth;
You must have been some way preserved, though I
Had not been near; my aid did but prevent
Some miracle more slowly setting out
To save such excellence.

_Hip_. How much more gladly could I hear those words,
If he, that spoke them, knew he spoke to me! [_Aside_.

_Enter the Robber again with Don_ MANUEL, _and_
JULIA, _bound_.

My brother and my sister prisoners too!
They cannot sure discover me through this
Disguise; however, I'll not venture it.
 [_Steps behind the trees_.

_2 Rob_. This gentleman and lady
 [_To_ GONS. _privately_.
My fellows bound. [_Exit Robber_.

_Man_. We must prepare to die;
This is the captain of the Picarons.

_Jul_. Methinks he looks like one; I have a strange
Aversion to that man; he's fatal to me.

_Gons_. I ne'er saw excellence in womankind
 [_Stares on her_.
Till now, and yet discern it at the first:
Perfection is discovered in a moment;
He, that ne'er saw the sun before, yet knows him.

_Jul_. How the villain stares upon me!

_Gons_. Wonder prepares my soul, and then love enters:
But wonder is so close pursued by love,
That, like a fire, it warms as soon as born.

_Man_. If we must die, what need these circumstances?

_Jul_. Heaven defend me from him!

_Gons_. Why, madam, can you doubt a rudeness from me?
Your very fears and griefs create an awe,
Such majesty they bear; methinks, I see
Your soul retired within her inmost chamber.
Like a fair mourner sit in state, with all
The silent pomp of sorrow round about her.

_Man_. Your language does express a man, bred up
To worthier ways than those you follow now.

_Gons_. What does he mean? [_Aside_.

_Man_. If (as it seems) you love; love is a passion,
Which kindles honour into noble acts:
Restore my sister's liberty; oblige her,
And see what gratitude will work.

_Gons_. All this is stranger yet.

_Man_. Whate'er a brother's power
To-morrow can do for you, claim it boldly.

_Gons_. I know not why you think yourselves my prisoners;
This lady's freedom is a thing too precious
To be disposed by any but herself:
But value this small service as you please,
Which you reward too prodigally, by
Permitting me to pay her more.

_Jul_. Love from an outlaw? from a villain, love?
If I have that power on thee, thou pretend'st,
Go and pursue thy mischiefs, but presume not
To follow me:--Come, brother. [_Ex_. Jul. _and_ Man.

_Gons_. Those foul names of outlaw and of villain
I never did deserve: They raise my wonder. [_Walks_.
Dull that I was, not to find this before!
She took me for the captain of the robbers;
It must be so; I'll tell her her mistake.

[_Goes out hastily, and returns immediately_.

She's gone, she's gone, and who or whence she is
I cannot tell; methinks, she should have left
A track so bright, I might have followed her;
Like setting suns, that vanish in a glory.
O villain that I am! O hated villain!

_Enter_ HIPPOLITO _again_.

_Hip_. I cannot suffer you to wrong yourself
So much; for, though I do not know your person,
Your actions are too fair, too noble, sir,
To merit that foul name.

_Gons_. Pr'ythee, do not flatter me; I am a villain;
That admirable lady said I was.

_Hip_. I fear, you love her, sir.

_Gons_. No, no, not love her:
Love is the name of some more gentle passion;
Mine is a fury, grown up in a moment
To an extremity, and lasting in it;
An heap of powder set on fire, and burning
As long as any ordinary fuel.

_Hip_. How could he love so soon? and yet, alas!
What cause have I to ask that question,
Who loved him the first minute that I saw him?
I cannot leave him thus, though I perceive
His heart engaged another way. [_Aside_.

Sir, can you have such pity on my youth, [To Him.
On my forsaken and my helpless youth,
To take me to your service?

_Gons_. Would'st thou serve
A madman? how can he take care of thee,
Whom fortune and his reason have abandoned?
A man, that saw, and loved, and disobliged,
Is banished, and is mad, all in a moment.

_Hip_. Yet you alone have title to my service;
You make me yours by your preserving me:
And that's the title heaven has to mankind.

_Gons_. Pr'ythee, no more.

_Hip_. I know your mistress too.

_Gons_. Ha! dost thou know the person I adore?
Answer me quickly; speak, and I'll receive thee:
Hast thou no tongue?

_Hip_. Why did I say I knew her?
All I can hope for, if I have my wish
To live with him, is but to be unhappy. [Aside.

_Gons_. Thou false and lying boy, to say thou knew'st
her;
Pr'ythee, say something, though thou cozen'st me.

_Hip_. Since you will know, her name is Julia, sir,
And that young gentleman you saw, her brother,
Don Manuel de Torres.

_Gons_. Say I should take thee, boy, and should
employ thee
To that fair lady, would'st thou serve me faithfully?

_Hip_. You ask me an hard question: I can die
For you; perhaps I cannot woo so well.

_Gons_. I knew thou would'st not do't.

_Hip_. I swear I would:
But, sir, I grieve to be the messenger
Of more unhappy news; she must be married
This day to one Don Roderick de Sylva,
Betwixt whom and her brother there has been.
A long (and it was thought a mortal) quarrel,
But now it must for ever end in peace:
For, happening both to love each others sisters,
They have concluded it in a cross marriage;
Which, in the palace of Don Rodorick,
They went to celebrate from their countryhouse,
When, taken by the thieves, you rescued them.

_Gons_. Methinks I am grown patient on a sudden,
And all my rage is gone: like losing gamesters,
Who fret and storm, and swear at little losses;
But, when they see all hope of fortune vanished,
Submit, and gain a temper by their ruin.

_Hip_. Would you could cast this love, which troubles you,
Out of your mind!

_Gons_. I cannot, boy; but since
Her brother, with intent to cozen me,
Made me the promise of his best assistance,
I'll take some course to be revenged of him.

[_Is going out_.

But stay--I charge thee, boy, discover not
To any, who I am.

_Hip_. Alas, I cannot, sir; I know you not.

_Gons_. Why, there's it; I am mad again; Oh love!

_Hip_. Oh love! [_Exeunt_.



SCENE II.

_Enter two Servants of Don_ RODORICK'S, _placing
chairs, and talking as they place them_.


_1 Serv_. Make ready quickly there; Don Manuel
And his fair sister, that must be our lady,
Are coming in.

_2 Serv_. They have been long expected;
'Tis evening now, and the canonic hours
For marriage are past.

_1 Serv_. The nearer bedtime,
The better still; my lord will not defer it:
He swears, the clergy are no fit judges
Of our necessities.

_2 Serv_. Where is my lord?

_1 Serv_. Gone out to meet his bride.

_2 Serv_. I wonder that my lady Angelina
Went not with him; she's to be married too.

_1 Serv_. I do not think she fancies much the man:
Only, to make the reconcilement perfect
Betwixt the families, she's passive in it;
The choice being but her brother's, not her own.

_2 Serv_. Troth, were't my case, I cared not who
chose for me.

_1 Serv_. Nor I; 'twould save the process of a tedious
passion,
A long law-suit of love, which quite consumes
An honest lover, ere he gets possession:
I would come plump, and fresh, and all my self,
Served up to my bride's bed like a fat fowl,
Before the frost of love had nipped me through.
I look on wives as on good dull companions,
For elder brothers to sleep out their time with;
All, we can hope for in the marriage-bed,
Is but to take our rest; and what care I,
Who lays my pillow for me?

_Enter a Poet with verses_.

_1 Serv_. Now, what's your business, friend?

_Poet_. An epithalamium, to the noble bridegrooms.

_1 Serv_. Let me see; what's here? as I live,
 [_Takes it_.
Nothing but downright bawdry: Sirrah, rascal,
Is this an age for ribaldry in verse;
When every gentleman in town speaks it
With so much better grace, than thou canst write it?
I'll beat thee with a stave of thy own rhymes.

_Poet_. Nay, good sir--[_Runs off, and Exit_.

_2 Serv_. Peace, they are here.

[_Enter_ Don RODORICK, _Don_ MANUEL, JULIA, _and Company_.

_1 Serv_. My lord looks sullenly, and fain would
hide it.

_2 Serv_. Howe'er he weds Don Manuel's sister, yet
I fear he's hardly reconciled to him.

_Jul_. I tremble at it still.

_Rod_. I must confess
Your danger great; but, madam, since 'tis past,
To speak of it were to renew your fears.
My noble brother, welcome to my breast.
Some, call my sister; say, Don Manuel,
Her bridegroom, waits.

_Man_. Tell her, in both the houses
There now remains no enemy but she.

_Rod_. In the mean time let's dance; madam, I
hope You'll grace me with your hand.--

[_Enter_ LEONORA, _woman to_ ANGELINA; _takes the two men aside_.

_Leon_. O sir, my lady Angelina--

_Rod_. Why comes she not?

_Leon_. Is fallen extremely sick.

_Both_. How?

_Leon_. Nay, trouble not yourselves too much;
These fits are usual with her, and not dangerous.

_Rod_. O rarely counterfeited.
 [_Aside_.

_Man_. May not I see her?

_Leon_. She does, by me, deny herself that honour.
 [_As she speaks, steals a note into his hand_.
I shall return, I hope, with better news;
In the mean time she prays, you'll not disturb
The company.
 [_Exit _LEONORA.

_Rod_. This troubles me exceedingly.

_Man_. A note put privately into my hand
By Angelina's woman? She's my creature:
There's something in't; I'll read it to myself.--
[_Aside_.

_Rod_. Brother, what paper's that?

_Man_. Some begging verses,
Delivered me this morning on my wedding.

_Rod_. Pray, let me see them.

_Man_. I have many copies,
Please you to entertain yourself with these.
[_Gives him another paper_. MANUEL _reads_.

SIR,
_My lady feigns this sickness to delude you:
Her brother hates you still; and the plot is,
That he shall marry first your sister,
And then deny you his_.--

_Yours_, LEONORA.

POSTSCRIPT.

_Since I writ this, I have so wrought upon her,
(Who, of herself, is timorous enough)
That she believes her brother will betray her,
Or else be forced to give her up to you;
Therefore, unknown to him, she means to fly:
Come to the garden door at seven this evening,
And there you may surprise her; mean time, I
Will keep her ignorant of all things, that
Her fear may still increase_.

_Enter_ LEONORA _again_.

_Rod_. How now? How does your lady?

_Leon_. So ill, she cannot possibly wait on you.

_Man_. Kind heaven, give me her sickness!

_Rod_. Those are wishes:
What's to be done?

_Man_. We must defer our marriages.

_Rod_. Leonora, now! [_Aside to her_

_Leon_. My lady, sir, has absolutely charged,
Her brother's should go forward.

_Rod_. Absolutely!

_Leon_. Expressly, sir; because, she says, there are
So many honourable persons here,
Whom to defraud of their intended mirth,
And of each others company, were rude:
So, hoping your excuse--[_Exit_ LEONORA.

_Rod_. That privilege of power, which brothers have
In Spain, I never used, therefore submit
My will to hers; but with much sorrow, sir,
My happiness should go before, not wait
On yours: Lead on.

_Man_. Stay, sir; though your fair sister, in respect
To this assembly, seems to be content
Your marriage should proceed, we must not want
So much good manners as to suffer it.

_Rod_. So much good manners, brother?

_Man_.--I have said it.
Should we, to show our sorrow for her sickness,
Provoke our easy souls to careless mirth,
As if our drunken revels were designed
For joy of what she suffers?

_Rod_. 'Twill be over
In a few days.

_Man_. Your stay will be the less.

_Rod_. All things are now in readiness, and must not
Be put off, for a peevish humour thus.

_Man_. They must; or I shall think you mean not fairly.

_Rod_. Explain yourself.

_Man_. That you would marry first,
And afterwards refuse me Angelina.

_Rod_.--Think so.

_Man_. You are--

_Rod_. Speak softly.

_Man_. A foul villain.

_Rod_. Then--

_Man_. Speak softly.

_Rod_. I'll find a time to tell you, you are one.

_Man_. 'Tis well.
Ladies, you wonder at our private whispers,
 [_To the company_.
But more will wonder when you know the cause;
The beauteous Angelina is fallen ill;
And, since she cannot with her presence grace
This day's solemnity, the noble Roderick
Thinks fit it be deferred, 'till she recover;
Then, we both hope to have your companies.

_Lad_. Wishing her health, we take our leaves.
 [_Exeunt company_.
_Rod_. Your sister yet will marry me.

_Man_. She will not: Come hither, Julia.

_Jul_. What strange afflicting news is this you tell us?

_Man_. 'Twas all this false man's plot, that when he had
Possest you, he might cheat me of his sister.

_Jul_. Is this true, Roderick?--Alas, his silence
Does but too much confess it: How I blush
To own that love, I cannot yet take from thee!
Yet for my sake be friends.

_Man_. 'Tis now too late:
I am by honour hindered.

_Rod_. I by hate.

_Jul_. What shall I do?

_Man_. Leave him, and come away;
Thy virtue bids thee.

_Jul_. But love bids me stay.

_Man_. Her love's so like my own, that I should blame
The brother's passion in the sister's flame.
Rodorick, we shall meet.--He little thinks
I am as sure this night of Angelina,
As he of Julia. [_Aside. Exit_ MANUEL.

_Rod_. Madam, to what an ecstasy of joy
Your goodness raises me! this was an act
Of kindness, which no service e'er can pay.

_Jul_. Yes, Rodorick, 'tis in your power to quit
The debt you owe me.

_Rod_. Do but name the way.

_Jul_. Then briefly thus; 'tis to be just to me,
As I have been to you.

_Rod_. You cannot doubt it.

_Jul_. You know I have adventured, for your sake,
A brother's anger, and the world's opinion:
I value neither; for a settled virtue
Makes itself judge, and, satisfied within,
Smiles at that common enemy, the world.
I am no more afraid of flying censures,
Than heaven of being fired with mounting sparkles.

_Rod_. But wherein must my gratitude consist?

_Jul_. Answer yourself, by thinking what is fit
For me to do.

_Rod_. By marriage, to confirm
Our mutual love.

_Jul_. Ungrateful Rodorick!
Canst thou name marriage, while thou entertain'st
A hatred so unjust against my brother?

_Rod_. But, unkind Julia, you know the causes
Of love and hate are hid deep in our stars,
And none but heaven can give account of both.

_Jul_. Too well I know it: for my love to thee
Is born by inclination, not by judgment;
And makes my virtue shrink within my heart,
As loth to leave it, and as loth to mingle.

_Rod_. What would you have me do?

_Jul_. Since I must tell thee,
Lead me to some near monastery; there
(Till heaven find out some way to make us happy)
I shall be kept in safety from my brother.

_Rod_. But more from me; what hopes can Rodorick
have,
That she, who leaves him freely, and unforced,
Should ever of her own accord return?

_Jul_. Thou hast too great assurance of my faith,
That, in despite of my own self, I love thee.
Be friends with Manuel, I am thine; 'till when
My honour's. Lead me.

[_Exeunt_.



SCENE III.--_The representation of a Street discovered
by twilight_.

_Enter Don_ MANUEL, _solus_.


_Man_. This is the time and place, where I expect
My fugitive mistress; if I meet with her,
I may forget the wrongs, her brother did me;
If otherwise, his blood shall expiate them.
I hope her woman keeps her ignorant
How all things passed, according to her promise.

_A door opens,--Enter_ ANGELINA _in boy's clothes_.
LEONORA _behind at the door_.

_Leon_. I had forgot to tell him of this habit
She has put on; but sure he'll know her in it.

[_Aside_.

_Man_. Who goes there?

_Ang_. 'Tis Don Manuel's voice; I must run back:
The door shut on me?--Leonora! where?--Does
she not follow me? I am betrayed.

_Man_. What are you?

_Ang_. A poor boy.

_Man_. Do you belong to Rodorick?

_Ang_. Yes, I do.

_Man_. Here's money for you; tell me where's his
sister?

_Ang_. Just now I met her coming down the stairs,
Which lead into the garden.

_Man_. 'Tis well; leave me
In silence.

_Ang_. With all my heart; was ever such a 'scape?
[_Exit running_.

_Man_. She cannot now be long; sure by the moons shine
I shall discover her:

_Enter_ RODORICK _and_ JULIA.

This must be she; I'll seize her.

_Jul_. Help me, Roderick.

_Rod_. Unhand the lady, villain.

_Man_. Roderick!
I'm glad we meet alone; now is the time
To end our difference.

_Rod_. I cannot stay.

_Man_. You must.

_Rod_. I will not.

_Man_. 'Tis base to injure any man; but yet
Tis far more base, once done, not to defend it.

_Rod_. Is this an hour, for valiant men to fight?
They love the sun should witness what they do;
Cowards have courage, when they see not death;
And fearful hares, that sculk in forms all day,
Yet fight their feeble quarrels by the moonlight.

_Man_. No; light and darkness are but poor distinctions
Of such, whose courage comes by fits and starts.

_Rod_. Thou urgest me above my patience;
This minute of my life was not my own,
But hers, I love beyond it. [_They draw, and fight_.

_Jul_. Help, help! none hear me!
Heaven, I think, is deaf too:
O Roderick! O brother!

_Enter_ GONSALVO, _and_ HIPPOLITO.

_Jul_. Whoe'er you are, if you have honour, part
them! [MANUEL _stumbles, and falls_.

_Gons_. Hold, sir, you are too cruel; he, that kills
At such advantage, fears to fight again.

[_Holds_ RODORICK.

_Man_. Cavalier, I may live to thank you for this
favour. [_Rises_.

_Rod_. I will not quit you so.

_Man_. I'll breathe, and then--

_Jul_. Is there no way to save their lives?

_Hip_. Run out of sight,
If 'tis concerning you they quarrel.

[JULIA _retires to a corner_.

_Hip_. Help, help, as you are cavaliers; the lady.
For whom you thus contend, is seized by some
Night-robbing villains.

_All_. Which way took they?

_Hip_. 'Twas so dark I could not see distinctly.

_Rod_. Let us divide; I this way. [_Exit_.

_Gons_. Down yonder street I'll take.

_Man_. And I down that. [_Exeunt severally_.

_Hip_. Now, madam, may we not lay by our fear?
They are all gone.

_Jul_. Tis true; but we are here,
Exposed to darkness, without guide or aid,
But of ourselves.

_Hip_. And of ourselves afraid.

_Jul_. These dangers, while 'twas light, I could
despise;
Then I was bold, but watched by many eyes:
Ah! could not heaven for lovers find a way,
That prying people still might sleep by day?

_Enter_ ANGELINA.

_Hip_. Methinks I'm certain I discover some.

_Jul_. This was your speaking of them, made them
come.

_Hip_. There is but one, perhaps he may go by.

_Ang_. Where had I courage for this bold disguise,
Which more my nature than my sex belies?
Alas! I am betrayed to darkness here;
Darkness, which virtue hates, and maids most fear:
Silence and solitude dwell every where:
Dogs cease to bark; the waves more faintly roar,
And roll themselves asleep upon the shore:
No noise but what my footsteps make, and they
Sound dreadfully, and louder than by day:
They double too, and every step I take
Sounds thick, methinks, and more than one could
make.
Ha! who are these?
I wished for company, and now I fear.
Who are you, gentle people, that go there?

_Jul_. His voice is soft as is the upper air,
Or dying lovers' words: O pity us.
Ang. O pity me! take freely as your own
My gold, my jewels; spare my life alone.

_Hip_. Alas, he fears as much as we.

_Jul_. What say you,
Sir, will you join with us?

_Ang_. Yes, madam; but
If you would take my sword, you'll use it better.

_Hip_. Ay, but you are a man.

_Ang_. Why, so are you.

_Hip_. Truly my fear had made me quite forget it.

_Enter GONSALVO_.

_Gons_. Hippolito! how barbarous was I
To leave my boy! Hippolito!

_Hip. _Here, here.
Now, madam, fear not, you are safe.

_Jul_. What is become, sir, of those gentlemen?

_Gons_. Madam, they all went several ways; not like
To meet.

_Jul_. What will become of me?

_Gons_. Tis late,
And I a stranger in the town; yet all
Your dangers shall be mine.

_Jul_. You're noble, sir.

_Gons_. I'll pawn the hopes of all my love, to see
You safe.

_Jul_. Whoe'er your mistress be, she has
My curses, if she prove not kind.

_Ang_. And mine.

_Hip_. My sister will repent her, when she knows
For whom she makes that wish; but I'll say nothing,
Till day discovers it. [_Aside_.] A door opens;
I hope it is some inn.

[_A door opens, at which a Servant appears_.

_Ang_. Friend, can you lodge us here?

_Serv_. Yes, friend, we can.

_Jul_. How shall we be disposed?

_Serv_. As nature would;
The gentleman and you: I have a rule,
That, when a man and woman ask for lodging,
They are ever husband and wife.

_Jul_. Rude and unmannered!

_Gons_. Sir, this lady must be lodged apart.

_Serv_. Then the two boys, that are good for nothing
But one another, they shall go together.

_Ang_. Lie with a man! sweet heaven defend me!

_Hip_. Alas, friend, I ever lie alone.

_Serv_. Then to save trouble, sir, because 'tis late,
One of the youths shall be disposed with you.

_Ang_. Who, I! not for the world.

_Hip_. Neither of us; for, though I would not lodge with you
Myself, I never can endure he should.

_Ang_. Why then, to end the difference, if you please.
I and that lady will be bed-fellows.

_Hip_. No, she and I will lodge together rather.

_Serv_. You are sweet youths indeed; not for the world
You would not lodge with men! none but the lady
Would serve your turn.

_Aug_. Alas, I had forgot I am a boy;
I am so lately one. [_Aside_.

_Serv_. Well, well; all shall be lodged apart.

_Gons_. to Hip. I did not think you harboured wanton
thoughts;
So young, so bad?

_Hip_. I can make no defence,
But must be shamed by my own innocence. [_Exeunt_.



ACT II.

SCENE I.--_A Chamber_.

[_Enter_ GONSALVO, HIPPOLITO, _and_ ANGELINA _as_ AMIDEO _at a
distance_.


_Gon_. Hippolito, what is this pretty youth,
That follows us?

_Hip_. I know not much of him:
Handsome you see, and of graceful fashion;
Of noble blood, he says, and I believe him;
But in some deep distress; he'll tell no more,
And I could cry for that, which he has told.
So much I pity him.

_Gon_. My pretty youth,
Would I could do thee any service.

_Ang_. Sir,
The greatest you can do me, is accepting mine.

_Hip_. How's this? methinks already I begin
To hate this boy, whom but even now I moaned,
You serve my master? Do you think I cannot
Perform all duties of a servant better,
And with more care, than you?

_Ang_. Better you may,
But never with more care:
Heaven, which is served with angels, yet admits
Poor man to pay his duty, and receives it.

_Hip_. Mark but, my lord, how ill behaved a youth,
How very ugly, what a dwarf he is.

_Ang_. My lord, I yet am young enough to grow,
And 'tis the commendation of a boy,
That he is little. [_Cries_.

_Gons_. Pr'ythee, do not cry;
Hippolito, 'twas but just now you praised him,
And are you changed so soon?

_Hip_. On better view.

_Gons_. What is your name, sweet heart?

_Hip_. Sweet heart! since I
Have served you, you ne'er called me so.

_Ang_. O, ever,
Ever call me by that kind name; I'll own
No other, because I would still have that.

_Hip_. He told me, sir, his name was Amideo;
Pray,

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