The Works of Aphra Behn, Volume IV
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Title: The Works of Aphra Behn, Volume IV
Author: Aphra Behn
Editor: Montague Summers
Release date: November 15, 2008 [eBook #27273]
Most recently updated: August 4, 2016
Language: English
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THE WORKS
of
APHRA BEHN
Edited by
MONTAGUE SUMMERS
VOL. IV
Sir Patient Fancy
The Amorous Prince--The Widow Ranter
The Younger Brother
[Illustration: (Publisher’s Device)]
LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN
STRATFORD-ON-AVON: A. H. BULLEN
MCMXV
CONTENTS.
Page
Sir Patient Fancy 1
The Amorous Prince 117
The Widow Ranter 215
The Younger Brother; Or, The Amorous Jilt 311
Notes 401
SIR PATIENT FANCY.
[Transcriber’s Note:
Entrances and bracketed stage directions were printed in _italics_,
with proper names in roman type. The overall _italic_ markup has been
omitted for readability.]
ARGUMENT.
Sir Patient Fancy, a hypochondriacal old alderman, has taken a second
wife, Lucia, a young and beautiful woman who, although feigning great
affection and the strictest conjugal fidelity, intrigues with a gallant,
Charles Wittmore, the only obstacle to their having long since married
being mutual poverty. However, the jealousy and uxoriousness of the
doting husband give the lovers few opportunities; on one occasion,
indeed, as Lady Fancy is entertaining Wittmore in the garden they are
surprised by Sir Patient, and she is obliged to pass her visitor off
under the name of Fainlove as a suitor to her step-daughter, Isabella,
in which rôle he is accepted by Sir Patient. But Isabella has betrothed
herself to Lodwick, a son of the pedantic Lady Knowell: whilst Lucretia
Knowell loves Leander, the alderman’s nephew, in spite of the fact that
she is promised by her mother to Sir Credulous Easy, a bumpkinly knight
from Devonshire. Lodwick, who is a close friend of Leander, has been
previously known to Sir Credulous, and resolving to trick and befool the
coxcomb warmly welcomes him on his arrival in town. He persuades him, in
fine, to give a ridiculous serenade, or, rather, a hideous hubbub, of
noisy instruments under his mistress’ window. A little before this Lady
Knowell with a party of friends has visited Sir Patient, who is her next
neighbour, and the loud laughter, talking, singing and foppery so enrage
the precise old valetudinarian that he resolves to leave London
immediately for his country house, a circumstance which would be fatal
to his wife’s amours. Wittmore and she, however, persuade him that he is
very ill, and on being shown his face in a looking-glass that magnifies
instead of in his ordinary mirror, he imagines that he is suddenly
swollen and puffed with disease, and so is led lamenting to bed, leaving
the coast clear for the nonce. Isabella, however, has made an
assignation with Lodwick at the same time that her stepmother eagerly
awaits her own gallant, and in the dark young Knowell is by mistake
escorted to Lucia’s chamber, whilst Wittmore encountering Isabella, and
thinking her Lady Fancy, proceeds to act so amorously that the error is
soon discovered and the girl flies from his ardour. In her hurry,
however, she rushes blundering into Lucia’s bedchamber, where she finds
Knowell. It is just at this moment that Sir Credulous Easy’s deafening
fanfare re-echoes in the street, and Sir Patient, awakened and
half-stunned by the pandemonium, is led grouty and bawling into his
wife’s room, where he discovers Knowell, whom Lucia has all this time
taken for Wittmore; but her obvious confusion and dismay thereon are
such that Sir Patient does not suspect the real happenings, which she
glozes over with a tale concerning Isabella. Meantime the serenaders are
dispersed and routed by a band of the alderman’s servants and clerks.
Sir Credulous courting Lucretia, who loathes him, meets Knowell bringing
a tale of a jealous rival able to poison at a distance by means of some
strangely subtle venom, upon which the Devonshire knight conceals
himself in a basket, hoping to be conveyed away to his old uncle in
Essex, whereas he is merely transported next door. Sir Patient, who
surprises his lady writing a love-letter, which she turns off by
appending Isabella’s name thereto, is so overwhelmed with her seeming
affection and care for his family that he presents her with eight
thousand pounds in gold and silver, and resolves to marry his daughter
to Fainlove (Wittmore) without any further delay. But whilst he is gone
down to prayers and Lucia is entertaining her lover, the old nurse
informs him that his little daughter Fanny has long been privy to an
intrigue between Knowell and Isabella, whereupon, in great perturbation,
he rushes upstairs again to consult with his wife, who hurries Wittmore
under the bed. Sir Patient, however, warmed with cordials which he
quaffs to revive his drooping spirits, does not offer to quit the
chamber, but lies down on the bed, and the gallant is only enabled to
slip out unobserved after several accidents each of which nearly betrays
his presence. Upon the marriage morning Isabella in a private interview
rejects her pseudo-suitor with scorn and contumely, whereat Knowell, who
has of intent been listening, reveals to her that it is his friend
Wittmore and no real lover who is seemingly courting her, and with his
help, whilst Sir Patient is occupied with a consultation of doctors
(amongst whom Sir Credulous appears disguised as a learned member of the
faculty), Isabella and Knowell are securely married. Lady Knowell, who
has feigned a liking for Leander, generously gives him to Lucretia, Sir
Patient’s attention being still engrossed by the physicians who assemble
in great force. Soon after, at Leander’s instigation, in order to test
his wife, Sir Patient feigns to be dead of a sudden apoplexy, and for a
few moments, whilst others are present, Lucia laments him with many
plaints and tears, but immediately changes when she is left alone with
Wittmore. The lovers’ plans, however, are overheard by the husband, who
promptly confronts his wife with her duplicity. Amazed and confounded
indeed, he forgives Leander and his daughter for marrying contrary to
his former wishes; and when Lucia coolly announces her intention to play
the hypocrite and puritan no more, but simply to enjoy herself with the
moneys he has settled on her without let or proviso, he humorously
declares he will for his part also drop the prig and canter, and turn
town gallant and spark.
SOURCE.
In spite of Mrs. Behn’s placid assertion in her address ‘To the Reader’
that she has only taken ‘but a very bare hint’ from a foreign source,
_Le Malade Imaginaire_, the critics who cried out that _Sir Patient
Fancy_ ‘was made out of at least four French plays’ are patently right.
Sir Patient is, of course, Argan throughout and in detail; moreover, in
the scene where the old alderman feigns death, there is very copious and
obvious borrowing from Act III of _Le Malade Imaginaire_. Some of the
doctors’ lingo also comes from the third and final interlude of
Molière’s comedy, whilst the idea of the medical consultation is
pilfered from _L’Amour Médecin_, Act II, ii. Sir Credulous Easy is
Monsieur de Porceaugnac, but his first entrance is taken wholesale from
Brome’s _The Damoiselle; or, The New Ordinary_ (8vo, 1653), Act II, i,
where Amphilus and Trebasco discourse exactly as do Curry and his
master. The pedantic Lady Knowell is a mixture of Philaminte and Bélise
from _Les Femmes Savantes_. The circumstance in Act IV, ii, when Lucia,
to deceive her husband, appends Isabella’s name to the love-letter she
has herself just written, had already been used by Wycherley at the
commencement of Act V of that masterpiece of comedy, _The Country Wife_
(4to, 1675, produced in 1672), where Mrs. Pinchwife, by writing ‘your
slighted Alithea’ as the subscription of a letter, completely befools
her churlish spouse.
Molière’s comedies, which were so largely conveyed in _Sir Patient
Fancy_, have been a gold mine for many of our dramatists. From _Le
Malade Imaginaire_ Miller took his _Mother-in-Law; or, The Doctor the
Disease_, produced at the Haymarket, 12 February, 1734, and Isaac
Bickerstaffe, _Dr. Last in his Chariot_, produced at the same theatre 25
August, 1769. In this farce Bickerstaffe further introduces the famous
consultation scene from _L’Amour Médecin_, a play which had been made
use of by Lacy, _The Dumb Lady; or, The Farrier made a Physician_
(1672); by Owen Swiney, _The Quacks; or, Love’s the Physician_, produced
at Drury Lane, 18 March, 1705; by Miller, _Art and Nature_, produced at
the same theatre 16 February, 1738; and in an anonymous one act piece,
which is little more than a bare translation under the title _Love is
the Doctor_, performed once only at Lincoln’s Inn Fields, 4 April, 1734.
_Monsieur de Pourceaugnac_ supplied Ravenscroft with material no less
than three times. In _Mamamouchi; or, The Citizen turn’d Gentleman_,
acted early in 1672, we have Sir Simon Softhead, who is Pourceaugnac in
detail; in _The Careless Lovers_, produced at the Duke’s House in 1673,
and again in _The Canterbury Guests; or, A Bargain Broken_, played at
the Theatre Royal in 1694, we have _in extenso_ Act II, Scenes viii, ix,
x, of the French comedy. Crowne’s Sir Mannerley Shallow (_The Country
Wit_, 1675) comes from the same source. _Squire Trelooby_, produced at
Lincoln’s Inn Fields, 20 March, 1704, and revived as _The Cornish
Squire_ at Drury Lane, 3 January, 1734, is ascribed to Vanbrugh,
Congreve, and Walsh; but this, as well as a farce produced at Dublin in
1720 by Charles Shadwell and entitled _The Plotting Lovers; or, The
Dismal Squire_, cannot claim to be anything but translations. Miller’s
_Mother-in-Law_, again, includes much of _Monsieur de Pourceaugnac_; and
Thomas Sheridan’s _Captain O’Blunder; or, The Brave Irishman_, produced
at Goodman’s Fields, 31 January, 1746, is a poor adaptation. Mrs.
Parsons abbreviated Molière to _The Intrigues of a Morning_, played at
Covent Garden, 18 April, 1792, a jejune effort. _Les Femmes Savantes_
was rather racily transformed by Thomas Wright into _The Female
Virtuosoes_, and produced at Drury Lane in 1693. It was revived as _No
Fools like Wits_ at Lincoln’s Inn Fields, 10 January, 1721, to
anticipate Cibber’s _The Refusal; or, The Ladies’ Philosophy_, which had
a run of six nights. Miller, in his _The Man of Taste_, once more had
resource to Molière. His play was produced at Drury Lane, 6 March, 1735.
It has no value.
Of all these borrowers Mrs. Behn is infinitely the best. _Sir Patient
Fancy_ is, indeed, an excellent comedy, and had she used more leisure
might have been improved to become quite first rate. Perhaps she
plagiarized so largely owing to the haste with which her play was
written and staged, but yet everything she touched has been invested
with an irresistible humour. A glaring example of her hurry remains in
the fact that the ‘precise clerk’ of Sir Patient has a double
nomenclature. In Act III he appears as Abel; in Act IV, iii, he is
referred to as Bartholomew, and under this last name has an exit marked
in Act V. This character is only on the stage twice and is given but
some three or four lines to speak. Obviously, when writing her fourth
act, Aphra forgot she had already christened him.
THEATRICAL HISTORY.
_Sir Patient Fancy_ was produced at the Duke’s Theatre, Dorset Garden,
in January, 1678, with an exceptionally strong cast which included both
Betterton and his wife. It met with the great success it fully deserved.
The critics, indeed, were not slow to detect Mrs. Behn’s plagiarisms,
but the only real opposition was negligible disapproval of a modest
clique, who a few years later vainly tried to damn _The Lucky Chance_.
After the death of the two famous comedians Antony Leigh and James Nokes
in December, 1692, _Sir Patient Fancy_, owing to the inability of
succeeding actors to sustain the two rôles, Sir Patient and Sir
Credulous, which had been created by this gifted pair, completely
dropped out of the repertory of the theatre. It was not singular in its
fate, for Cibber expressly tells us that D’Urfey’s excellent comedy _The
Fond Husband_, and Crowne’s satirical _City Politics_, ‘lived only by
the extraordinary performance of Nokes and Leigh.’
TO THE READER.
I Printed this Play with all the impatient haste one ought to do, who
would be vindicated from the most unjust and silly aspersion, Woman
could invent to cast on Woman; and which only my being a Woman has
procured me; _That it was Baudy_, the least and most Excusable fault in
the Men writers, to whose Plays they all crowd, as if they came to no
other end than to hear what they condemn in this: _but from a Woman it
was unnaturall_: but how so Cruell an unkindness came into their
imaginations I can by no means guess; unless by those whose Lovers by
long absence, or those whom Age or Ugliness have rendered a little
distant from those things they would fain imagin here--But if such as
these durst profane their Chast ears with hearing it over again, or
taking it into their serious Consideration in their Cabinets; they would
find nothing that the most innocent Virgins can have cause to blush at:
but confess with me that no Play either Ancient or Modern has less of
that Bug-bear Bawdry in it. Others to show their breeding (as _Bays_
sayes) cryed it was made out of at least four _French_ Plays, when I had
but a very bare hint from one, the _Malad Imagenere_, which was given me
translated by a Gentleman infinitely to advantage; but how much of the
_French_ is in this, I leave to those who do indeed understand it and
have seen it at the Court. The play had no other Misfortune but that of
coming out for a Womans: had it been owned by a Man, though the most
Dull Unthinking Rascally Scribler in Town, it had been a most admirable
Play. Nor does it’s loss of Fame with the Ladies do it much hurt, though
they ought to have had good Nature and justice enough to have attributed
all its faults to the Authours unhappiness, who is forced to write for
Bread and not ashamed to owne it, and consequently ought to write to
please (if she can) an Age which has given severall proofs it was by
this way of writing to be obliged, though it is a way too cheap for men
of wit to pursue who write for Glory, and a way which even I despise as
much below me.
SIR PATIENT FANCY.
PROLOGUE,
Spoken by Mr. _Betterton_.
We write not now, as th’ antient Poets writ,
For your Applause of Nature, Sense and Wit;
But, like good Tradesmen, what’s in fashion vent,
And cozen you, to give ye all content.
True Comedy, writ even in _Dryden’s_ Style,
Will hardly raise your Humours to a Smile.
Long did his Sovereign Muse the Scepter sway,
And long with Joy you did true Homage pay:
But now, like happy States, luxurious grown,
The Monarch Wit unjustly you dethrone,
And a Tyrannick Commonwealth prefer,
Where each small Wit starts up and claims his share;
And all those Laurels are in pieces torn,
Which did e’er while one sacred Head adorn.
Nay, even the Women now pretend to reign;
Defend us from a Poet _Joan_ again!
That Congregation’s in a hopeful way
To Heaven, where the Lay-Sisters teach and pray.
Oh the great Blessing of a little Wit!
I’ve seen an elevated Poet sit,
And hear the Audience laugh and clap, yet say,
Gad after all, ‘tis a damn’d silly Play:
He unconcern’d, cries only--Is it so?
No matter, these unwitty things will do,
When your fine fustian useless Eloquence
Serves but to chime asleep a drousy Audience.
Who at the vast expence of Wit would treat,
That might so cheaply please the Appetite?
Such homely Fare you’re like to find to night:
Our Author
Knows better how to juggle than to write:
Alas! a Poet’s good for nothing now,
Unless he have the knack of conjuring too;
For ‘tis beyond all natural Sense to guess
How their strange Miracles are brought to pass.
Your Presto Jack be gone, and come again,
With all the Hocus Art of Legerdemain;
Your dancing Tester, Nut-meg, and your Cups,
Out-does your Heroes and your amorous Fops.
And if this chance to please you, by that rule,
He that writes Wit is much the greater Fool.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
MEN.
Sir _Patient Fancy_, an old rich Alderman,
and one that fancies himself always sick, Mr. _Anthony Leigh_.
_Leander Fancy_, his Nephew,
in love with _Lucretia_, Mr. _Crosby_.
_Wittmore_, Gallant to the Lady _Fancy_,
a wild young Fellow of a small Fortune, Mr. _Betterton_.
_Lodwick Knowell_, Son to the Lady
_Knowell_, in love with _Isabella_, Mr. _Smith_.
Sir _Credulous Easy_, a foolish _Devonshire_
Knight, design’d to marry _Lucretia_, Mr. _Nokes_.
_Curry_, his Groom, Mr. _Richards_.
_Roger_, Footman to the Lady _Fancy_.
_Abel (Bartholomew)_,
Clerk to Sir _Patient Fancy_.
_Brunswick_, a friend to _Lodwick Knowell_.
Monsieur _Turboon_, a French Doctor.
A Fat Doctor.
An Amsterdam Doctor.
A Leyden Doctor.
Page to the Lady _Knowell_.
Guests, Six Servants to Sir _Patient_, Ballad-Singers
and Serenaders.
WOMEN.
The Lady _Fancy_, Young Wife
to Sir _Patient_, Mrs. _Currer_.
The Lady _Knowell_, an affected learned
Woman, Mother to _Lodwick_ and _Lucretia_, Mrs. _Gwin_.
_Lucretia_, Daughter to the L. _Knowell_, Mrs. _Price_.
_Isabella_, Daughter to Sir _Patient Fancy_, Mrs. _Betterton_.
_Fanny_, a Child of seven Years old,
Daughter to Sir _Patient Fancy_.
_Maundy_, the Lady _Fancy’s_ Woman, Mrs. _Gibbs_.
_Betty_, Waiting-woman to _Isabella_.
_Antic_, Waiting-woman to _Lucretia_.
Nurse.
SCENE _London_, in two Houses.
ACT I.
SCENE I. A Room in Lady _Knowell’s_ House.
Enter _Lucretia_ with _Isabella_.
_Isab._ ‘Tis much I owe to Fortune, my dear _Lucretia_, for being so
kind to make us Neighbours, where with Ease we may continually exchange
our Souls and Thoughts without the attendance of a Coach, and those
other little Formalities that make a Business of a Visit; it looks so
like a Journey, I hate it.
_Lucr._ Attendance is that Curse to Greatness that confines the Soul,
and spoils good Humour; we are free whilst thus alone, and can laugh at
the abominable Fopperies of this Town.
_Isab._ And lament the numberless Impertinences wherewith they
continually plague all young Women of Quality.
_Lucr._ Yet these are the precious things our grave Parents still chuse
out to make us happy with, and all for a filthy Jointure, the undeniable
argument for our Slavery to Fools.
_Isab._ Custom is unkind to our Sex, not to allow us free Choice; but we
above all Creatures must be forced to endure the formal Recommendations
of a Parent, and the more insupportable Addresses of an odious Fop;
whilst the Obedient Daughter stands--thus--with her Hands pinn’d before
her, a set Look, few Words, and a Mein that cries--Come marry me: out
upon’t.
_Lucr._ I perceive then, whatever your Father designs, you are resolv’d
to love your own way.
_Isab._ Thou mayst lay thy Maidenhead upon’t, and be sure of the
Misfortune to win.
_Lucr._ My Brother _Lodwick’s_ like to be a happy Man then.
_Isab._ Faith, my dear _Lodwick_ or no body in my heart, and I hope thou
art as well resolv’d for my Cousin _Leander_.
_Lucr._ Here’s my Hand upon’t, I am; yet there’s something sticks upon
my stomach, which you must know.
_Isab._ Spare the Relation, for I have observ’d of late your Mother to
have order’d her Eyes with some softness, her Mouth endeavouring to
sweeten it self into Smiles and Dimples, as if she meant to recal
Fifteen again, and gave it all to _Leander_, for at him she throws her
Darts.
_Lucr._ Is’t possible thou should’st have perceived it already?
_Isab._ Long since.
_Lucr._ And now I begin to love him, ‘twould vex me to see my Mother
marry him--well, I shall never call him Father.
_Isab._ He’ll take care to give himself a better Title.
_Lucr._ This _Devonshire_ Knight too, who is recommended to my Mother as
a fit Husband for me, I shall be so tormented with--My Brother swears
he’s the pertest, most unsufferable Fool he ever saw; when he was at my
Uncle’s last Summer, he made all his Diversion.
_Isab._ Prithee let him make ours now, for of all Fops your Country Fop
is the most tolerable Animal; those of the Town are the most unmanagable
Beasts in Nature.
_Lucr._ And are the most noisy, keeping Fops.
_Isab._ Keeping begins to be as ridiculous as Matrimony, and is a
greater Imposition upon the Liberty of Man; the Insolence and Expence of
their Mistresses has almost tir’d out all but the Old and Doting part of
Mankind: The rest begin to know their value, and set a price upon a good
Shape, a tolerable Face and Mein:--and some there are who have made
excellent Bargains for themselves that way, and will flatter ye and jilt
ye an Antiquated Lady as artfully as the most experienc’d Miss of ‘em
all.
_Lucr._ Lord, Lord! what will this World come to?--but this Mother of
mine--_Isabella_.
[Sighs.
_Isab._ Is discreet and virtuous enough, a little too affected, as being
the most learned of her Sex.
_Lucr._ Methinks to be read in the Arts, as they call ‘em, is the
peculiar Province of the other Sex.
_Isab._ Indeed the Men would have us think so, and boast their Learning
and Languages; but if they can find any of our Sex fuller of Words, and
to so little purpose as some of their Gownmen, I’ll be content to change
my Petticoats for Pantaloons, and go to a Grammar-school.
_Lucr._ Oh, they’re the greatest Babelards in Nature.
_Isab._ They call us easy and fond, and charge us with all weakness; but
look into their Actions of Love, State or War, their roughest business,
and you shall find ‘em sway’d by some who have the luck to find their
Foibles; witness my Father, a Man reasonable enough, till drawn away by
doting Love and Religion: what a Monster my young Mother makes of him!
flatter’d him first into Matrimony, and now into what sort of Fool or
Beast she pleases to make him.
_Lucr._ I wonder she does not turn him to Christianity; methinks a
Conventicle should ill agree with her Humour.
_Isab._ Oh, she finds it the only way to secure her from his Suspicion,
which if she do not e’er long give him cause for, I am mistaken in her
Humour.--
Enter L. _Knowell_ and _Leander_.
But see your Mother and my Cousin _Leander_, who seems, poor man, under
some great Consternation, for he looks as gravely as a Lay-Elder
conducting his Spouse from a Sermon.
L. _Kno._ Oh, fy upon’t. See, Mr. _Fancy_, where your Cousin and my
_Lucretia_ are idling: _Dii boni_, what an insupportable loss of time’s
this?
_Lean._ Which might be better imploy’d, if I might instruct ‘em, Madam.
L. _Kno._ Ay, Mr. _Fancy_, in Consultation with the Antients.--Oh the
delight of Books! when I was of their age, I always imploy’d my looser
Hours in reading--if serious, ‘twas _Tacitus_, _Seneca_, _Plutarch’s
Morals_, or some such useful Author; if in an Humour gay, I was for
Poetry, _Virgil_, _Homer_ or _Tasso_. Oh that Love between _Renaldo_ and
_Armida_, Mr. _Fancy_! Ah the Caresses that fair _Corcereis_ gave, and
received from the young Warrior, ah how soft, delicate and tender! Upon
my Honour I cannot read them in the Excellence of their Original
Language, without I know not what Emotions.
_Lean._ Methinks ‘tis very well in our Mother Tongue, Madam.
L. _Kno._ O, Faugh, Mr. _Fancy_, what have you said, Mother Tongue! Can
any thing that’s great or moving be express’d in filthy _English_?--I’ll
give you an Energetical proof, Mr. _Fancy_; observe but divine _Homer_
in the _Grecian_ Language--_Ton d’ apamibominous prosiphe podas ochus
Achilleus!_ Ah how it sounds! which English’t dwindles into the most
grating stuff:--Then the swift-foot _Achilles_ made reply: oh, faugh.
_Lucr._ So now my Mother’s in her right Sphere.
L. _Kno._ Come, Mr. _Fancy_, we’ll pursue our first design of retiring
into my Cabinet, and reading a leaf or two in _Martial_; I am a little
dull, and wou’d fain laugh.
_Lean._ Methinks, Madam, Discourse were much better with these young
Ladies. Dear Lucretia, find some way to release me.
[Aside.
L. _Kno._ Oh, how I hate the impertinence of Women, who for the
generality have no other knowledge than that of dressing; I am uneasy
with the unthinking Creatures.
_Lucr._ Indeed ‘tis much better to be entertaining a young Lover alone;
but I’ll prevent her, if possible.
[Aside.
L. _Kno._ No, I am for the substantial pleasure of an Author.
_Philosophemur!_ is my Motto,--I’m strangely fond of you, Mr. _Fancy_,
for being a Scholar.
_Lean._ Who, Madam, I a Scholar? the greatest Dunce in Nature--Malicious
Creatures, will you leave me to her mercy?
[To them aside.
_Lucr._ Prithee assist him in his misery, for I am Mudd, and can do
nothing towards it.
[Aside.
_Isab._ Who, my Cousin _Leander_ a Scholar, Madam?
_Lucr._ Sure he’s too much a Gentleman to be a Scholar.
_Isab._ I vow, Madam, he spells worse than a Country Farrier when he
prescribes a Drench.
_Lean._ Then, Madam, I write the leudest hand.
_Isab._ Worse than a Politician or a States-man.
_Lucr._ He cannot read it himself when he has done.
_Lean._ Not a word on’t, Madam.
_L. Kno._ This agreement to abuse him, I understand-- [Aside.
--Well, then, Mr. _Fancy_, let’s to my Cabinet--your hand.
_Lean._ Now shall I be teas’d unmercifully,--I’ll wait on you, Madam.
[Exit Lady.
--Find some means to redeem me, or I shall be mad.
[Exit _Lean._
Enter _Lodwick_.
_Lod._ Hah, my dear Isabella here, and without a Spy! what a blessed
opportunity must I be forc’d to lose, for there is just now arriv’d my
Sister’s Lover, whom I am oblig’d to receive: but if you have a mind to
laugh a little--
_Isab._ Laugh! why, are you turn’d Buffoon, Tumbler, or Presbyterian
Preacher?
_Lod._ No, but there’s a Creature below more ridiculous than either of
these.
_Lucr._ For love’s sake, what sort of Beast is that?
_Lod._ Sir _Credulous Easy_, your new Lover just come to town Bag and
Baggage, and I was going to acquaint my Mother with it.
_Isab._ You’ll find her well employ’d with my Cousin _Leander_.
_Lucr._ A happy opportunity to free him: but what shall I do now,
Brother?
_Lod._ Oh, let me alone to ruin him with my Mother: get you gone,
I think I hear him coming, and this Apartment is appointed for him.
_Lucr._ Prithee haste then, and free _Leander_, we’ll into the Garden.
[Exeunt _Luc._ and _Isab._
A Chair and a Table. Enter Sir_ Credulous _in a riding habit.
_Curry_ his Groom carrying a Portmantle._
_Lod._ Yes--’tis the Right Worshipful, I’ll to my Mother with the News.
[Ex. _Lod._
Sir _Cred._ Come undo my Portmantle, and equip me, that I may look like
some body before I see the Ladies--_Curry_, thou shalt e’en remove now,
_Curry_, from Groom to Footman; for I’ll ne’er keep Horse more, no, nor
Mare neither, since my poor _Gillian’s_ departed this Life.
_Cur._ ‘Ds diggers, Sir, you have griev’d enough for your Mare in all
Conscience; think of your Mistress now, Sir, and think of her no more.
Sir _Cred._ Not think of her! I shall think of her whilst I live, poor
Fool, that I shall, though I had forty Mistresses.
_Cur._ Nay, to say truth, Sir, ‘twas a good-natur’d civil beast, and so
she remain’d to her last gasp, for she cou’d never have left this World
in a better time, as the saying is, so near her Journey’s End.
Sir _Cred._ A civil Beast! Why, was it civilly done of her, thinkest
thou, to die at _Branford_, when had she liv’d till to morrow, she had
been converted into Money and have been in my Pocket? for now I am to
marry and live in Town, I’ll sell off all my Pads; poor Fool, I think
she e’en died for grief I wou’d have sold her.
_Cur._ ‘Twas unlucky to refuse Parson _Cuffet’s_ Wife’s Money for her,
Sir.
Sir _Cred._ Ay, and to refuse her another kindness too, that shall be
nameless which she offer’d me, and which wou’d have given me good luck
in Horse-flesh too; Zoz, I was a modest fool, that’s truth on’t.
_Cur._ Well, well, Sir, her time was come you must think, and we are all
Mortal as the saying is.
Sir _Cred._ Well, ‘twas the lovingst Tit:--but Grass and Hay, she’s
gone--where be her Shoes, _Curry_?
_Cur._ Here, Sir, her Skin went for good Ale at _Branford_.
[Gives him the Shoes.
Sir _Cred._ Ah, how often has she carry’d me upon these Shoes to Mother
_Jumbles_; thou remember’st her handsome Daughter, and what pure Ale she
brew’d; between one and t’other my Rent came short home there; but let
that pass too, and hang sorrow, as thou sayst, I have something else to
think on.
[Takes his things out, lays them upon the Table.
And, _Curry_, as soon as I am drest, go you away to St. _Clement’s
Church-yard_, to _Jackson_ the Cobler there.
_Cur._ What, your Dog-tutor, Sir?
Sir _Cred._ Yes, and see how my Whelp proves, I put to him last
Parliament.
_Cur._ Yes, Sir.
Enter _Leander_, and starts back seeing Sir _Cred._
Sir _Cred._ And ask him what Gamesters come to the Ponds now adays, and
what good Dogs.
_Cur._ Yes, Sir.
_Lean._ This is the Beast _Lodwick_ spoke of; how could I laugh were he
design’d for any but _Lucretia!_
[Aside.
Sir _Cred._ And dost hear, ask him if he have not sold his own Dog
_Diver_ with the white Ear; if I can purchase him, and my own Dog prove
right, I’ll be Duke of Ducking-Pond, ads zoz.
[Sir _Cred._ dresses himself.
Well, I think I shall be fine anon, he.
_Cur._ But zo, zo, Sir, as the saying is, this Suit’s a little out of
fashion, ‘twas made that very year I came to your Worship, which is five
Winters, and as many Summers.
Sir _Cred._ What then Mun, I never wear it, but when I go to be drunk,
and give my Voice for a Knight o’th’ Shire, and here at _London_ in Term
time, and that but eight times in Eight Visits to Eight several Ladies
to whom I was recommended.
_Cur._ I wonder that amongst eight you got not one, Sir.
Sir _Cred._ Eight! Zoz, I had Eight score, Mun; but the Devil was in
’.m, they were all so forward, that before I cou’d seal and deliver,
whip, quoth _Jethro_, they were either all married to some body else,
or run quite away; so that I am resolv’d if this same _Lucretia_ proves
not right, I’ll e’en forswear this Town and all their false Wares,
amongst which, zoz, I believe they vent as many false Wives as any
_Metropolitan_ in Christendom, I’ll say that for’t, and a Fiddle for’t,
i’faith:--come give me my Watch out,--so, my Diamond Rings too: so,
I think I shall appear pretty well all together, _Curry_, hah?
_Lean._ Like some thing monstrously ridiculous, I’ll be sworn.
[Aside.
_Cur._ Here’s your Purse of broad Gold, Sir, that your Grandmother gave
you to go a wooing withal, I mean to shew, Sir.
Sir _Cred._ Ay, for she charg’d me never to part with it;--so, now for
the Ladies.
[Shakes his Ribbons.
Enter _Lodwick_.
_Lod._ _Leander_, what mak’st thou here, like a Holy-day Fool gazing at
a Monster?
_Lean._ Yes; And one I hope I have no great reason to fear.
_Lod._ I am of thy opinion; away, my Mother’s coming; take this
opportunity with my Sister, she’s i’th’ Garden, and let me alone with
this Fool, for an Entertainment that shall shew him all at once: away--
[Exit _Lean._
[_Lod._ goes in to Sir _Cred._
Sir _Cred._ _Lodwick_, my dear Friend! and little Spark of
Ingenuity--Zoz, Man, I’m but just come to Town.
[Embrace.
_Lod._ ‘Tis a joyful hearing, Sir.
Sir _Cred._ Not so joyful neither, Sir, when you shall know poor
_Gillian’s_ dead, my little grey Mare; thou knew’st her, mun: Zoz, ‘thas
made me as melancholy as the Drone of a _Lancashire_ Bag-pipe. But let
that pass; and now we talk of my Mare, Zoz, I long to see this Sister of
thine.
_Lod._ She’ll be with you presently, Sir _Credulous_.
Sir _Cred._ But hark ye, Zoz, I have been so often fob’d off in these
matters, that between you and I, _Lodwick_, if I thought I shou’d not
have her, Zoz, I’d ne’er lose precious time about her.
_Lod._ Right, Sir; and to say truth, these Women have so much
Contradiction in ‘em, that ‘tis ten to one but a Man fails in the Art of
pleasing.
Sir _Cred._ Why, there’s it:--therefore prithee, dear _Lodwick_, tell me
a few of thy Sister’s Humors, and if I fail,--then hang me, Ladies, at
your Door, as the Song says.
_Lod._ Why, faith, she has many odd Humors hard enough to hit.
Sir _Cred._ Zoz, let ‘em be as hard as _Hercules_ his Labors in the Vale
of _Basse_, I’ll not be frighted from attempting her.
_Lod._ Why, she’s one of those fantastick Creatures that must be courted
her own way.
Sir _Cred._ Why, let’s hear her way.
_Lod._ She must be surpriz’d with strange Extravagancies wholly out of
the Road and Method of common Courtship.
Sir _Cred._ Shaw, is that all? Zoz, I’m the best in Christendom at your
out-of-the-way bus’nesses.--Now do I find the Reason of all my ill
Success; for I us’d one and the same method to all I courted, whatever
their Humors were; hark ye, prithee give me a hint or two, and let me
alone to manage Matters.
_Lod._ I have just now thought of a way that cannot but take--
Sir _Cred._ Zoz, out with it, Man.
_Lod._ Why, what if you should represent a dumb Ambassador from the
Blind God of Love.
Sir _Cred._ How, a dumb Ambassador? Zoz, Man, how shall I deliver my
Embassy then, and tell her how much I love her?--besides, I had a pure
Speech or two ready by heart, and that will be quite lost.
[Aside.
_Lod._ Fy, fy! how dull you are! why, you shall do it by Signs, and I’ll
be your Interpreter.
Sir _Cred._ Why, faith, this will be pure; I understand you now, Zoz,
I am old excellent at Signs;--I vow this will be rare.
_Lod._ It will not fail to do your business, if well manag’d--but stay,
here’s my Sister, on your life not a syllable.
Enter _Lean._ _Lucr._ and _Isab._
Sir _Cred._ I’ll be rackt first, Mum budget,--prithee present me, I long
to be at it, sure.
[He falls back, making Faces and Grimaces.
_Lod._ Sister, I here present you with a worthy Knight, struck dumb with
Admiration of your Beauty; but that’s all one, he is employ’d Envoy
Extraordinary from the blind God of Love: and since, like his young
Master, he must be defective in one of his Senses, he chose rather to be
dumb than blind.
_Lucr._ I hope the small Deity is in good Health, Sir?
_Isab._ And his Mistress _Psyche_, Sir?
[He smiles and bows, and makes Signs.
_Lod._ He says that _Psyche_ has been sick of late, but somewhat
recovered, and has sent you for a Token a pair of Jet Bracelets, and a
Cambrick Handkerchief of her own spinning, with a Sentence wrought in’t,
_Heart in hand, at thy command._
[Looking every word upon Sir _Credulous_ as he makes signs.
Sir _Cred._ Zoz, _Lodwick_, what do you mean? I’m the Son of an
_Egyptian_ if I understand thee.
[Pulls him, he signs to him to hold his peace.
_Lod._ Come, Sir, the Tokens, produce, produce--
[He falls back making damnable signs.
How! Faith, I’m sorry for that with all my heart,--he says, being
somewhat put to’t on his Journey, he was forced to pawn the Bracelets
for half a Crown, and the Handkerchief he gave his Landlady on the Road
for a Kindness received,--this ‘tis when People will be fooling--
Sir _Cred._ Why, the Devil’s in this _Lodwick_, for mistaking my Signs
thus: hang me if ever I thought of Bracelets or a Handkerchief, or ever
received a Civility from any Woman Breathing,--is he bewitcht trow?
[Aside.
_Lean._ _Lodwick_, you are mistaken in the Knight’s meaning all this
while. Look on him, Sir,--do not you guess from that Look, and wrying of
his Mouth, that you mistook the Bracelets for Diamond Rings, which he
humbly begs, Madam, you would grace with your fair Hand?
_Lod._ Ah, now I perceive it plain.
Sir _Cred._ A Pox of his Compliment. Why, this is worse than
t’other.--What shall I do in this case?--should I speak and undeceive
them, they would swear ‘twere to save my Jems: and to part with
’.m--Zoz, how simply should I look!--but hang’t, when I have married
her, they are my own again.
[Gives the Rings, and falls back into Grimaces. _Leander_ whispers
to _Lodwick_.
_Lod._ Enough--Then, Sister, she has sent you a Purse of her own
knitting full of Broad Gold.
Sir. _Cred._ Broad Gold! why, what a Pox does the Man conjure?
_Lod._ Which, Sister, faith, you must accept of, you see by that Grimace
how much ‘twill grieve him else.
Sir _Cred._ A pretty civil way this to rob a Man.--Why, _Lodwick_,--why,
what a Pox, will they have no mercy?--Zoz, I’ll see how far they’ll
drive the Jest.
[Gives the Gold and bows, and scrapes and screws.
_Lod._ Say you so, Sir? well I’ll see what may be done.--Sister, behold
him, and take pity on him; he has but one more humble request to make
you, ‘tis to receive a Gold Watch which he designs you from himself.
Sir _Cred._ Why, how long has this Fellow been a Conjurer? for he does
deal with the Devil, that’s certain,--_Lodwick_--
[Pulls him.
_Lod._ Ay do, speak and spoil all, do.
Sir _Cred._ Speak and spoil all, quoth he! and the Duce take me if I am
not provok’d to’t; why, how the Devil should he light slap-dash, as they
say, upon every thing thus? Well, Zoz, I’m resolv’d to give it her, and
shame her if she have any Conscience in her.
[Gives his Watch with pitiful Grimaces.
_Lod._ Now, Sister, you must know there’s a Mystery in this Watch, ‘tis
a kind of Hieroglyphick that will instruct you how a Married Woman of
your Quality ought to live.
Sir _Cred._ How, my Watch Mysteries and Hieroglyphicks! the Devil take
me, if I knew of any such Virtues it had.
[They are all looking on the Watch.
_Lod._ Beginning at Eight, from which down to Twelve you ought to imploy
in dressing, till Two at Dinner, till Five in Visits, till Seven at the
Play, till Nine i’th’ Park, Ten at Supper with your Lover, if your
Husband be not at home, or keep his distance, which he’s too well bred
not to do; then from Ten to Twelve are the happy Hours the Bergere,
those of intire Enjoyment.--
Sir _Cred._ Say you so? hang me if I shall not go near to think I may
chance to be a Cuckold by the shift.
_Isab._ Well, Sir, what must she do from Twelve till Eight again?
_Lod._ Oh! those are the dull Conjugal Hours for sleeping with her own
Husband, and dreaming of Joys her absent Lover alone can give her.
Sir _Cred._ Nay, an she be for Sleeping, Zoz, I am as good at that as
she can be for her Heart; or Snoring either.
_Lod._ But I have done; Sir _Credulous_ has a dumb Oration to make you
by way of farther Explanation.
Sir _Cred._ A dumb Oration! now do I know no more how to speak a dumb
Speech than a Dog.
_Luc._ Oh, I love that sort of Eloquence extremely.
_Lod._ I told you this would take her.
Sir _Cred._ Nay, I know your silent Speeches are incomparable, and I
have such a Speech in my Head.
_Lod._ Your Postures, your Postures, begin, Sir.
[He puts himself into a ready Posture as if he would speak, but
only makes Faces.
Enter _Page_.
_Pag._ Sir, my Lady desires to speak with you. [To _Lean._
_Lean._ I’ll wait on her,--a Devil on’t.--
_Pag._ I have command to bring you, Sir, instantly.
_Lean._ This is ill luck, Madam, I cannot see the Farce out; I’ll wait
on you as soon as my good Fortune will permit me.
[Exit with _Page_.
_Luc._ He’s going to my Mother, dear _Isabella_, let’s go and hinder
their Discourse: Farewel, Sir Ambassador, pray remember us to _Psyche_,
not forgetting the little blind Archer, ha, ha, ha.--
[Ex. _Lucr._ and _Isab._ laughing.
Sir _Cred._ So, I have undone all, they are both gone, flown I protest;
why, what a Devil ail’d em? Now have I been dumb all this while to no
purpose, you too never told her my meaning right; as I hope to breathe,
had any but yourself done this, I should have sworn by _Helicon_ and all
the rest of the Devils, you had had a design to have abus’d me, and
cheated me of all my Moveables too.
_Lod._ What a hopeful Project was here defeated by my mistake! but
courage, Sir _Credulous_, I’ll put you in a way shall fetch all about
again.
Sir _Cred._ Say you so? ah, dear _Lodwick_, let me hear it.
_Lod._ Why, you shall this Night give your Mistress a Serenade.
Sir _Cred._ How! a Serenade!
_Lod._ Yes, but it must be perform’d after an Extravagant manner, none
of your dull amorous Night-walking Noises so familiar in this Town;
_Lucretia_ loves nothing but what’s great and extravagant, and passes
the reach of vulgar practice.
Sir _Cred._ What think you of a silent Serenade? Zoz, say but the word
and it shall be done, Man, let me alone for Frolicks, i’faith.
_Lod._ A silent one! no, that’s to wear a good humour to the Stumps;
I wou’d have this want for no Noise; the extremes of these two Addresses
will set off one another.
Sir _Cred._ Say you so? what think you then of the Bagpipe, Tongs, and
Gridiron, Cat-calls, and loud-sounding Cymbals?
_Lod._ Naught, naught, and of known use; you might as well treat her
with Viols and Flute-doux, which were enough to disoblige her for ever.
Sir _Cred._ Why, what think you then of the King of _Bantam’s_ own
Musick.
_Lod._ How! the King of _Bantam’s_ Musick?
Sir _Cred._ Ay, Sir, the King of _Bantam’s_: a Friend of mine had a
Present sent him from thence, a most unheard of curiosity I’ll assure
you.
_Lod._ That, that by all means, Sir.
Sir _Cred._ Well, I’ll go borrow ‘em presently.
_Lod._ You must provide your self of a Song.
Sir _Cred._ A Song! hang’t, ‘tis but rummaging the Play-Books, stealing
thence is lawful Prize--Well, Sir, your Servant.
[Exit.
Enter _Leander_.
_Lod._ I hope ‘twill be ridiculous enough, and then the Devil’s in’t if
it do not do his Business with my Mother, for she hates all impertinent
Noises but what she makes herself. She’s now going to make a Visit to
your Uncle, purposely to give me an opportunity to _Isabella_.
_Lean._ And I’m ingag’d to wait on her thither, she designs to carry the
Fiddles too; he’s mad enough already, but such a Visit will fit him for
Bedlam.
_Lod._ No matter, for you have all a leud Hand with him; between his
continual imaginary Sickness, and perpetual Physic, a Man might take
more Pleasure in an Hospital. What the Devil did he marry a young Wife
for? and they say a handsome Creature too.
_Lean._ To keep up his Title of Cuckold I think, for she has Beauty
enough for Temptation, and no doubt makes the right use on’t: wou’d I
cou’d know it, that I might prevent her cheating my Uncle longer to my
undoing.
_Lod._ She’ll be cunning enough for that, if she have Wit: but now thou
talk’st of Intrigues, when didst see _Wittmore_? that Rogue has some
lucky Haunt which we must find out.--But my Mother expects your
attendance; I’ll go seek my Sister, and make all the Interest there I
can for you, whilst you pay me in the same Coin to _Isabella_. _Adieu._
_Lean._ Trust my Friendship.--
[Ex. severally.
ACT II.
SCENE I. A Garden to Sir _Patient Fancy’s_ House.
Enter Lady _Fancy_, _Wittmore_, and _Maundy_.
_Wit._ Enough, my charming Mistress, you’ve set my Soul at Peace, and
chas’d away those Fears and Doubts my Jealousy created there.
_Maun._ Mr. _Wittmore’s_ satisfy’d of your Constancy, Madam; though had
I been your Ladyship, I should have given him a more substantial Proof,
which you might yet do, if you wou’d make handsome use of your time.
_Wit._ _Maundy_ advises well; my dearest, let’s withdraw to yonder
Covert Arbour, whose kind Shades will secure us a Happiness that Gods
might envy.
[Offers to lead her out.
L. _Fan._ I dare not for the world, Sir _Patient_ is now asleep, and
’.is to those few Minutes we are oblig’d for this Enjoyment, which
shou’d Love make us transgress, and he shou’d wake and surprize us, we
are undone for ever: no, let us employ this little time we have in
consulting how we may be often happy, and securely so: Oh, how I
languish for the dear opportunity!
_Wit._ And cou’d you guess what Torments I have suffer’d in these few
fatal Months that have divided us, thou wou’dst pity me.
L. _Fan._ --But to our Business; for though I am yet unsuspected by my
Husband, I am eternally plagu’d with his Company; he’s so fond of me, he
scarce gives me time to write to thee, he waits on me from room to room,
hands me in the Garden, shoulders me in the Balcony, nay, does the
office of my Women, dresses and undresses me, and does so smirk at his
handywork: In fine, dear _Wittmore_, I am impatient till I can have less
of his Company, and more of thine.
_Wit._ Does he never go out of Town?
L. _Fan._ Never without me.
_Wit._ Nor to Chuch?
L. _Fan._ To a Meeting-house you mean, and then too carries me, and is
as vainly proud of me as of his rebellious Opinion, for his Religion
means nothing but that, and Contradiction; which I seem to like too,
since ‘tis the best Cloke I can put on to cheat him with.
_Wit._ Right, my fair Hypocrite.
L. _Fan._ But, dear _Wittmore_, there’s nothing so comical as to hear me
cant, and even cheat those Knaves, the Preachers themselves, that delude
the ignorant Rabble.
_Wit._ What Miracles cannot your Eyes and Tongue perform!
L. _Fan._ Judge what a fine Life I lead the while, to be set up with an
old formal doting sick Husband, and a Herd of snivelling grinning
Hypocrites, that call themselves the teaching Saints; who under pretence
of securing me to the number of their Flock, do so sneer upon me, pat my
Breasts, and cry fie, fie upon this fashion of tempting Nakedness.
[Through the Nose.
_Wit._ Dear Creature, how cou’d we laugh at thy new way of living, had
we but some Minutes allow’d us to enjoy that Pleasure alone.
L. _Fan._ Think, dear _Wittmore_, think, _Maundy_ and I have thought
over all our Devices to no purpose.
_Wit._ Pox on’t, I’m the dullest dog at plotting, thinking, in the
world; I should have made a damnable ill Town Poet: Has he quite left
off going to the Change?
L. _Fan._ Oh, he’s grown cautiously rich, and will venture none of his
substantial Stock in transitory Traffick.
_Wit._ Has he no mutinous Cabal, nor Coffee-houses, where he goes
religiously to consult the Welfare of the Nation?
L. _Fan._ His imagin’d Sickness has made this their Rendesvouz.
_Wit._ When he goes to his blind Devotion, cannot you pretend to be
sick? that may give us at least two or three opportunities to begin
with.
L. _Fan._ Oh! then I should be plagu’d with continual Physick and
Extempore Prayer till I were sick indeed.
_Wit._ Damn the humorous Coxcomb and all his Family, what shall we do?
L. _Fan._ Not all, for he has a Daughter that has good Humour, Wit, and
Beauty enough to save her,--stay--that has jogg’d a Thought, as the
Learned say, which must jog on, till the motion have produc’d something
worth my thinking.--
Enter _Roger_ running.
_Maun._ Ad’s me, here’s danger near, our Scout comes in such haste.
L. _Fan._ _Roger_, what’s the matter?
_Rog._ My Master, Madam, is risen from sleep, and is come in to the
Garden.--See, Madam, he’s here.
L. _Fan._ What an unlucky Accident was this?
_Wit._ What shall I do, ‘tis too late to obscure my self?
L. _Fan._ He sees you already, through the Trees,--here--keep your
distance, your Hat under your Arm; so, be very ceremonious, whilst I
settle a demure Countenance.--
_Maun._ Well, there never came good of Lovers that were given to too
much talking; had you been silently kind all this while, you had been
willing to have parted by this time.
Enter Sir _Patient_ in a Night-Gown, reading a Bill.
Sir _Pat._ Hum,--Twelve Purges for this present _January_--as I take it,
good Mr. Doctor, I took but Ten in all _December._--By this Rule I am
sicker this Month, than I was the last.--And, good Master Apothecary,
methinks your Prizes are somewhat too high: at this rate no body wou’d
be sick.--Here, _Roger_, see it paid however,--Ha, hum. [Sees ‘em, and
starts back.] What’s here, my Lady Wife entertaining a leud Fellow of
the Town? a flaunting Cap and Feather Blade.
L. _Fan._ Sir _Patient_ cannot now be spoken with. But, Sir, that which
I was going just now to say to you, was, that it would be very
convenient in my opinion to make your Addresses to _Isabella_,--’twill
give us opportunities. [Aside.] We Ladies love no Imposition; this is
Counsel my Husband perhaps will not like, but I would have all Women
chuse their Man, as I have done,--my dear _Wittmore_.
[Aside.
Sir _Pat._ I profess ingenuously an excellent good Lady this of mine,
though I do not like her Counsel to the young Man, who I perceive would
be a Suitor to my Daughter _Isabella_.
_Wit._ Madam, should I follow my inclinations, I should pay my Vows no
where but there,--but I am inform’d Sir _Patient_ is a Man so positively
resolv’d.--
L. _Fan._ That you should love his Wife. [Aside.
_Wit._ And I’ll comply with that Resolve of his, and neither love nor
marry _Isabella_, without his Permission; and I doubt not but I shall by
my Respects to him gain his Consent,--to cuckold him.
[Aside.
Sir _Pat._ I profess ingenuously, a very discreet young Man.
_Wit._ But, Madam, when may I promise my self the satisfaction of coming
again? For I’m impatient for the Sight and Enjoyment of the fair Person
I love.
L. _Fan._ Sir, you may come at night, and something I will do by that
time shall certainly give you that access you wish for.
_Wit._ May I depend upon that Happiness?
L. _Fan._ Oh, doubt not my power over Sir _Patient_.
Sir _Pat._ My Lady _Fancy_, you promise largely.
L. _Fan._ Sir _Patient_ here!
_Wit._ A Devil on him, wou’d I were well off: now must I dissemble,
profess, and lye most confoundedly.
Sir _Pat._ Your Servant, Sir, your Servant.--My Lady _Fancy_, your
Ladyship, is well entertain’d I see; have a care you make me not
jealous, my Lady _Fancy_.
L. _Fan._ Indeed I have given you cause, Sir _Patient_, for I have been
entertaining a Lover, and one you must admit of too.
Sir _Pat._ Say you so, my Lady _Fancy_?--Well, Sir, I am a Man of
Reason, and if you shew me good causes why, can bid you welcome, for I
do nothing without Reason and Precaution.
_Wit._ Sir, I have--
Sir _Pat._ I know what you wou’d say, Sir; few Words denoteth a Wise
Head,--you wou’d say that you have an Ambition to be my Son-in-Law.
_Wit._ You guess most right, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ Nay, Sir, I’ll warrant I’ll read a Man as well as the best,
I have studied it.
_Wit._ Now, Invention, help me or never.
Sir _Pat._ Your Name, I pray?
[Putting off his Hat gravely at every Word.
_Wit._ _Fainlove_, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ Good Mr. _Fainlove_, your Country?
_Wit._ _Yorkshire_, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ What, not Mr. _Fainlove’s_ Son of _Yorkshire_, who was
knighted in the good days of the late Lord Protector?
[Off his Hat.
_Wit._ The same, Sir.--I am in, but how to come off again the Devil take
me if I know.
[Aside.
Sir _Pat._ He was a Man of admirable parts, believe me, a notable Head
piece, a publick-spirited Person, and a good Commonwealths-man, that he
was, on my word.--Your Estate, Sir, I pray?
[Hat off.
_Wit._ I have not impair’d it, Sir, and I presume you know its
value:--For I am a Dog if I do.
[Aside.
Sir _Pat._ O’ my Word, ‘tis then considerable, Sir; for he left but one
Son, and fourteen hundred Pounds _per Annum_, as I take it: which Son,
I hear, is lately come from _Geneva_, whither he was sent for virtuous
Education. I am glad of your Arrival, Sir.--Your Religion, I pray?
_Wit._ You cannot doubt my Principles, Sir, since educated at _Geneva_.
Sir _Pat._ Your Father was a discreet Man: ah, Mr. _Fainlove_, he and I
have seen better days, and wish we cou’d have foreseen these that are
arriv’d.
_Wit._ That he might have turn’d honest in time, he means, before he had
purchas’d Bishops Lands.
Sir _Pat._ Sir, you have no Place, Office, Dependance or Attendance at
Court, I hope?
_Wit._ None, Sir,--Wou’d I had--so you were hang’d. [Aside.
L. _Fan._ Nay, Sir, you may believe, I knew his Capacities and Abilities
before I would encourage his Addresses.
Sir _Pat._ My Lady _Fancy_, you are a discreet Lady;--Well, I’ll marry
her out of hand, to prevent Mr. _Lodwick’s_ hopes: for though the young
man may deserve well, that Mother of his I’ll have nothing to do with,
since she refused to marry my Nephew.
[Aside.
Enter _Fanny_.
_Fan._ Sir Father, here’s my Lady _Knowell_, and her Family come to see
you.
Sir _Pat._ How! her whole Family! I am come to keep open House; very
fine, her whole Family! she’s Plague enough to mortify any good
Christian,--Tell her, my Lady and I am gone forth; tell her any thing to
keep her away.
_Fan._ Shou’d I tell a lye, Sir Father, and to a Lady of her Quality?
Sir _Pat._ Her Quality and she are a Couple of Impertinent things, which
are very troublesome, and not to be indur’d I take it.
_Fan._ Sir, we shou’d bear with things we do not love sometimes, ‘tis a
sort of Trial, Sir, a kind of Mortification fit for a good Christian.
Sir _Pat._ Why, what a notable talking Baggage is this! How came you by
this Doctrine?
_Fan._ I remember, Sir, you preach’d it once to my Sister, when the old
Alderman was the Text, whom you exhorted her to marry, but the wicked
Creature made ill use on’t.
Sir _Pat._ Go your way for a prating Huswife, go, and call your Sister
hither. [Exit _Fanny_.] --Well, I’m resolv’d to leave this Town, nay,
and the World too, rather than be tormented thus.
L. _Fan._ What’s the matter, Dear, thou dost so fret thy self?
Sir _Pat._ The matter! my House, my House is besieged with Impertinence;
the intolerable Lady, Madam _Romance_, that walking Library of profane
Books is come to visit me.
L. _Fan._ My Lady _Knowell_?
Sir _Pat._ Yes, that Lady of eternal Noise and hard Words.
L. _Fan._ Indeed ‘tis with pain I am oblig’d to be civil to her, but I
consider her Quality, her Husband was too an Alderman, your Friend, and
a great Ay and No Man i’ th’ City, and a painful Promoter of the good
Cause.
Sir _Pat._ But she’s a Fop, my Lady _Fancy_, and ever was so, an idle
conceited she Fop; and has Vanity and Tongue enough to debauch any
Nation under civil Government: but, Patience, thou art a Virtue, and
Affliction will come.--Ah, I’m very sick, alas, I have not long to dwell
amongst the Wicked, Oh, oh.--_Roger_, is the Doctor come?
Enter _Roger_.
_Rog._ No, Sir, but he has sent you a small draught of a Pint, which you
are to take, and move upon’t.
Sir _Pat._ Ah,--Well, I’ll in and take it;--Ah--Sir, I crave your
Patience for a moment, for I design you shall see my Daughter, I’ll not
make long work on’t, Sir: alas, I would dispose of her before I die:
Ah,--I’ll bring her to you, Sir, Ah, Ah.--
[Goes out with _Roger_.
L. _Fan._ He’s always thus when visited, to save Charges,--But how, dear
_Wittmore_, cam’st thou to think of a Name and Country so readily?
_Wit._ Egad, I was at the height of my Invention, and the Alderman
civilly and kindly assisted me with the rest; but how to undeceive him--
L. _Fan._ Take no care for that, in the mean time you’ll be shreudly
hurt to have the way laid open to our Enjoyment, and that by my
Husband’s procurement too: But take heed, dear _Wittmore_, whilst you
only design to feign a Courtship, you do it not in good earnest.
_Wit._ Unkind Creature!
L. _Fan._ I would not have you endanger her Heart neither: for thou hast
Charms will do’t.--Prithee do not put on thy best Looks, nor speak thy
softest Language; for if thou dost, thou canst not fail to undo her.
_Wit._ Well, my pretty Flatterer, to free her Heart and thy Suspicions,
I’ll make such aukward Love as shall persuade her, however she chance to
like my Person, to think most leudly of my Parts.--But ‘tis fit I take
my leave, for if _Lodwick_ or _Leander_ see me here, all will be ruin’d;
death, I had forgot that.
L. _Fan._ _Leander’s_ seldom at home, and you must time your Visits: but
see Sir _Patient’s_ return’d, and with him your new Mistress.
Enter Sir _Patient_ and _Isabella_.
Sir _Pat._ Here’s my Daughter _Isabella_, Mr. _Fainlove_: she’ll serve
for a Wife, Sir, as times go; but I hope you are none of
those.--Sweet-heart, this Gentleman I have design’d you, he’s rich and
young, and I am old and sickly, and just going out of the World, and
would gladly see thee in safe Hands.
_Maun._ He has been just going this twenty Years. [Aside.
Sir _Pat._ Therefore I command you to receive the tenders of his
Affection.
Enter _Fanny_.
_Fan._ Sir Father, my Lady _Knowell’s_ in the Garden.
L. _Fan._ My Dear, we must go meet her in decency.
Sir _Pat._ A hard case, a Man cannot be sick in quiet.
[Exit with L. _Fan._
_Isab._ A Husband, and that not _Lodwick_! Heaven forbid. [Aside.
_Wit._ Now Foppery assist to make me very ridiculous,--Death, she’s very
pretty and inviting; what an insensible Dog shall I be counted to refuse
the Enjoyment of so fair, so new a Creature, and who is like to be
thrown into my Arms too whether I will or not?--but Conscience and my
Vows to the fair Mother: No, I will be honest.--Madam,--as Gad shall
save me, I’m the Son of a Whore, if you are not the most Belle Person I
ever saw, and if I be not damnably in love with you; but a pox take all
tedious Courtship, I have a free-born and generous Spirit; and as I hate
being confin’d to dull Cringing, Whining, Flattering, and the Devil and
all of Foppery, so when I give an Heart, I’m an Infidel, Madam, if I do
not love to do’t frankly and quickly, that thereby I may oblige the
beautiful Receiver of my Vows, Protestations, Passions, and Inclination.
_Isab._ You’re wonderful ingaging, Sir, and I were an Ingrate not to
facilitate a return for the Honour you are pleas’d to do me.
_Wit._ Upon my Reputation, Madam, you’re a civil well-bred Person, you
have all the Agreemony of your Sex, _la belle Taille_, _la bonne Mine_,
& _Reparteeé bien_, and are _tout oure toore_, as I’m a Gentleman, _fort
agreeable_.--If this do not please your Lady, and nauseate her, the
Devil’s in ‘em both for unreasonable Women.--
[To _Maun._
_Fan._ Gemini, Sister, does the Gentleman conjurer?
_Isab._ I know not, but I’m sure I never saw a more affected Fop.
_Maun._ O, a damnable impertinent Fop! ‘tis pity, for he’s a proper
Gentleman.
_Wit._ Well, if I do hold out, Egad, I shall be the bravest young Fellow
in Christendom: But, Madam, I must kiss your Hand at present, I have
some Visits to make, Devoirs to pay, necessities of Gallantry only, no
Love Engagements, by _Jove_, Madam; it is sufficient I have given my
Parole to your Father, to do him the honour of my Alliance; and an
unnecessary Jealousy will but disoblige, Madam, your Slave.--Death,
these Rogues see me, and I’m undone.--
[Exit.
Enter Lady _Fancy_, Lady _Knowell_, Sir _Credulous_ and
_Lucretia_, with other Women and Men, _Roger_ attending.
L. _Kno._ _Isabella_, your Servant, Madam: being sensible of the
insociable and solitary Life you lead, I have brought my whole Family to
wait on your Ladyship, and this my Son _in Futuro_, to kiss your Hands,
I beseech your Ladyship to know him for your humble Servant: my Son and
your Nephew, Madam, are coming with the Musick too, we mean to pass the
whole Day with your Ladyship:--and see they are here.
Enter _Lodwick_ pulling in _Wittmore_, _Leander_ with them.
_Lod._ Nay, since we have met thee so luckily, you must back with us.
_Wit._ You must excuse me, Gentlemen.
_Lod._ We’ll shew you two or three fine Women.
_Wit._ Death, these Rogues will ruin me--but I have Business, Gentlemen,
that--
_Lean._ That must not hinder you from doing Deeds of Charity: we are all
come to teeze my Uncle, and you must assist at so good a Work;--come,
gad, thou shall make love to my Aunt.--I wou’d he wou’d effectually.
[Aside.
_Lod._ Now I think on’t, what the Devil dost thou make here?
_Wit._ Here!--oh, Sir--a--I have a design upon the Alderman.
_Lod._ Upon his handsome Wife thou meanest; ah, Rogue!
_Wit._ Faith, no,--a--’tis to--borrow Mony of him; and as I take it,
Gentlemen, you are not fit Persons for a Man of Credit to be seen with,
I pass for a graver Man.
_Lod._ Well, Sir, take your Course--but, egad, he’ll sooner lend thee
his Wife than his Money.
[Exit _Wittmore_, they come in.
_Lean._ Aunt, I have taken the boldness to bring a Gentleman of my
Acquaintance to kiss your Ladyship’s Hands.
_Lod._ Thy Aunt!--death, she’s very handsome.--Madam, your most humble
Servant.
[Kisses the L. _Fan._
_Lean._ Prithee imploy this Fool, that I may have an opportunity to
entertain thy Sister.
_Lod._ Sir _Credulous_, what, not a Word? not a Compliment? Hah,--be
brisk, Man, be gay and witty, talk to the Ladies.
Sir _Cred._ Talk to ‘em! why, what shall I say to ‘em?
_Lod._ Any thing, so it be to little purpose.
Sir _Cred._ Nay, Sir, let me alone for that matter--but who are they,
prithee?
_Lod._ Why, that’s my Lady _Fancy_, and that’s her Daughter-in-Law,
salute ‘em, Man.--
Sir _Cred._ Fair Lady,--I do protest and vow, you are the most beautiful
of all Mothers-in-Law, and the World cannot produce your equal.
_Lod._ The Rogue has but one method for all Addresses. [They laugh.
L. _Kno._ Oh, absurd! this, Sir, is the beautiful Mother-in-Law.
[To L. _Fan._
Enter Sir _Patient_.
Sir _Cred._ Most noble Lady, I cry your mercy. Then, Madam, as the Sun
amongst the Stars, or rather as the Moon not in conjunction with the
Sun, but in her opposition, when one rises the other sets, or as the
Vulgar call it, Full Moon--I say, as the Moon is the most beautiful of
all the sparkling Lights, even so are you the most accomplish’d Lady
under the Moon--and, Madam, I am extremely sensible of your Charms and
celestial Graces.
[To _Isabella_.
Sir _Pat._ Why, this is abominable and insupportable.
_Lucr._ I find, Sir, you can talk to purpose when you begin once.
Sir _Cred._ You are pleased to say so, noble Lady: but I must needs say,
I am not the worst bred Gentleman for a Country Gentleman that ever you
saw; for you must know, incomparable Lady, that I was at the University
three Years, and there I learnt my Logick and Rhetorick, whereby I
became excellent at Repartee, sweet Lady. As for my Estate, my Father
died since I came of Age, and left me a small younger Brother’s Portion,
dear Lady.
_Lucr._ A younger Brother’s, Sir?
Sir _Cred._ Ha, ha, I know what you would infer from that now: but you
must know, delicious Lady, that I am all the Children my Father had.
_Lucr._ Witty, I protest.
Sir _Cred._ Nay, Madam, when I set on’t I can be witty.
_Lean._ Cruel _Lucretia_, leave ‘em, and let us snatch this opportunity
to talk of our own Affairs.
Sir _Cred._ For you must know, bright Lady, though I was pleas’d to
railly my self, I have a pretty competent Estate of about 3000_l._ a
Year, and am to marry Madam _Lucretia_.
L. _Fan._ You are a happy Man, Sir.
Sir _Cred._ Not so happy neither, inestimable Lady, for I lost the
finest Mare yesterday,--but let that pass: were you never in
_Devonshire_, Madam?
L. _Fan._ Never, Sir.
Sir _Cred._ In troth, and that’s pity, sweet Lady; for if you lov’d
Hawking, Drinking, and Whoring,--oh, Lord, I mean Hunting; i’faith,
there be good Fellows would keep you Company, Madam.
Sir _Pat._ This is a Plot upon me, a mere Plot.--My Lady _Fancy_, be
tender of my Reputation, Foppery’s catching, and I had as lieve be a
Cuckold as Husband to a vain Woman.
Sir _Cred._ Zoz, and that may be as you say, noble Sir. Lady, pray what
Gentleman’s this?--Noble Sir, I am your most humble Servant.
Sir _Pat._ Oh, cry your mercy, Sir. [Walks away.
Sir _Cred._ No Offence, dear Sir, I protest: ‘slife, I believe ‘tis the
Master of the House, he look’d with such Authority;--why, who cares, let
him look as big as the four Winds, East, West, North and South, I care
not this,--therefore I beg your Pardon, noble Sir.
Sir _Pat._ Pray spare your Hat and Legs, Sir, till you come to Court,
they are thrown away i’th’ City.
Sir _Cred._ O Lord! dear Sir, ‘tis all one for that, I value not a Leg
nor an Arm amongst Friends, I am a _Devonshire_ Knight, Sir, all the
World knows, a kind of Country Gentleman, as they say, and am come to
Town, to marry my Lady _Knowell’s_ Daughter.
Sir _Pat._ I’m glad on’t, Sir. [Walks away, he follows.
Sir _Cred._ She’s a deserving Lady, Sir, if I have any Judgment; and I
think I understand a Lady, Sir, in the Right Honourable way of
Matrimony.
Sir _Pat._ Well, Sir, that is to say, you have been married before, Sir;
and what’s all this to me, good Sir?
Sir _Cred._ Married before! incomparable, Sir! not so neither, for
there’s difference in Men, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ Right, Sir, for some are Wits, and some are Fools.
Sir _Cred._ As I hope to breathe, ‘twas a saying of my Grandmother’s,
who us’d to tell me, Sir, that bought Wit was best. I have brought Money
to Town for a small purchase of that kind; for, Sir, I wou’d fain set up
for a Country Wit.--Pray, Sir, where live the Poets, for I wou’d fain be
acquainted with some of them.
Sir _Pat._ Sir, I do not know, nor do I care for Wits and Poets. Oh,
this will kill me quite; I’ll out of Town immediately.
Sir _Cred._ But, Sir, I mean your fine railing Bully Wits, that have
Vinegar, Gall and Arsenick in ‘em, as well as Salt and Flame, and Fire,
and the Devil and all.
Sir _Pat._ Oh, defend me! and what is all this to me, Sir?
Sir _Cred._ Oh, Sir, they are the very Soul of Entertainment; and, Sir,
it is the prettiest sport to hear ‘em rail and haul at one another--Zoz,
wou’d I were a Poet.
Sir _Pat._ I wish you were, since you are so fond of being rail’d
at.--If I were able to beat him, I would be much angry,--but Patience is
a Virtue, and I will into the Country.
[Aside.
Sir _Cred._ ‘Tis all one case to me, dear Sir,--but I should have the
pleasure of railing again, _cum privilegio_; I love fighting with those
pointless Weapons.--Zoz, Sir, you know if we Men of Quality fall out--
(for you are a Knight I take it) why, there comes a Challenge upon it,
and ten to one some body or other is run through the Gills; why, a Pox
on’t, I say, this is very damnable, give me Poet’s Licence.--
L. _Fan._ Take him off in pity. [To _Leander_.
_Lod._ Indeed Railing is a Coin only current among the Poets, Sir
_Credulous_.
Sir _Pat._ Oh blest Deliverance!--what a profane Wretch is here, and
what a leud World we live in--Oh _London_, _London_, how thou aboundest
in Iniquity! thy young Men are debauch’d, thy Virgins defloured, and thy
Matrons all turn’d Bauds! My Lady _Fancy_, this is not Company for you,
I take it, let us fly from this vexation of Spirit, on the never-failing
Wings of Discretion.--
[Going to lead Lady _Fancy_ off,--the Lady _Knowell_ speaking to
_Isabella_ all this while.
L. _Kno._ How! marry thee to such a Fop, say’st thou? Oh egregious!--as
thou lovest _Lodwick_, let him not know his Name, it will be dangerous,
let me alone to evade it.
_Isab._ I know his fiery Temper too well to trust him with the secret.
L. _Kno._ Hark ye, Sir, and do you intend to do this horrible thing?--
Sir _Pat._ What thing, my Lady _Knowell_?
L. _Kno._ Why, to marry your Daughter, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ Yes, Madam.
L. _Kno._ To a beastly Town Fool? _Monstrum horrendum!_
Sir _Pat._ To any Fool, except a Fool of your Race, of your
Generation.--
L. _Kno._ How! a Fool of my Race, my Generation! I know thou meanest my
Son, thou contumelious Knight, who, let me tell thee, shall marry thy
Daughter _invito te_, that is, (to inform thy obtuse Understanding) in
spite of thee; yes, shall marry her, though she inherits nothing but thy
dull Enthusiasms, which had she been legitimate she had been possest
with.
Sir _Pat._ Oh abominable! you had best say she is none of my Daughter,
and that I was a Cuckold.--
L. _Kno._ If I should, Sir, it would not amount to _Scandalum Magnatum_:
I’ll tell thee more, thy whole Pedigree,--and yet for all this,
_Lodwick_ shall marry your Daughter, and yet I’ll have none of your
Nephew.
Sir _Pat._ Shall he so, my Lady _Knowell_? I shall go near to out-trick
your Ladyship, for all your politick Learning. ‘Tis past the Canonical
Hour, as they call it, or I wou’d marry my Daughter instantly; I profess
we ne’er had good days since these Canonical Fopperies came up again,
mere Popish Tricks to give our Children time for Disobedience,--the next
Justice wou’d ha’ serv’d turn, and have done the Business at any Hour:
but Patience is a Virtue--_Roger_, go after Mr. _Fainlove_, and tell him
I wou’d speak with him instantly.
[Exit _Roger_.
L. _Kno._ Come, come, Ladies, we lose fleeting time, upon my Honour, we
do; for, Madam, as I said, I have brought the Fiddles, and design to
sacrifice the intire Evening to your Ladyship’s Diversion.
Sir _Cred._ Incomparable Lady, that was well thought on; Zoz, I long to
be jigging.
Sir _Pat._ Fiddles, good Lord! why, what am I come to?--Madam, I take
it, Sir _Patient Fancy’s_ Lady is not a proper Person to make one at
immodest Revellings, and profane Masqueradings.
L. _Fan._ Why; ah, ‘tis very true, Sir, but we ought not to offend a
Brother that is weak, and consequently, a Sister.
Sir _Pat._ An excellent Lady this, but she may be corrupted, ah, she may
fall; I will therefore without delay, carry her from this wicked Town.
L. _Kno._ Come, come, Gentlemen, let’s in; Mr. _Fancy_, you must be my
Man;--Sir _Credulous_, come, and you, sweet Sir, come, Ladies,--_Nunc
est saltandum_, &c.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II. Changes to a Chamber.
Enter Sir _Patient_ as before, Lady _Fancy_, _Wittmore_, _Maundy_,
and _Roger_ with things.
Sir _Pat._ _Maundy_, fetch my Clothes, I’ll dress me and out of Town
instantly,--persuade me not.
[To _Wit._
_Roger_, is the Coach ready, _Roger_?
_Rog._ Yes, Sir, with four Horses.
L. _Fan._ Out of Town! Oh, I’m undone then, there will be no hopes of
ever seeing _Wittmore_. [Aside.] --_Maundy_, oh, help me to contrive my
stay, or I’m a dead Woman.--Sir, sure you cannot go and leave your
Affairs in Town.
Sir _Pat._ Affairs! what Affairs?
L. _Fan._ Why, your Daughter’s Marriage, Sir:--and--Sir,--not, Sir, but
that I desire of all things in the World the Blessing of being alone
with you, far from the Noise and leud Disorders of this filthy Town.
Sir _Pat._ Most excellent Woman! ah, thou art too good for sinful Man,
and I will therefore remove thee from the Temptations of it.--_Maundy_,
my Clothes--Mr. _Fainlove_, I will leave _Isabella_ with my Lady
_Fidget_, my Sister, who shall to morrow see you married, to prevent
farther Inconveniences.
L. _Fan._ What shall I do?
_Maun._ Madam, I have a Design, which considering his Spleen, must this
time do our Business,--’tis--
[Whispers.
L. _Fan._ I like it well, about it instantly, hah--
[Ex. _Maundy_.
Alas, Sir, what ails your Face? good Heaven,--look, _Roger_.
Sir _Pat._ My Face! why, what ails my Face? hah!
L. _Fan._ See, Mr. _Fainlove_, oh, look on my Dear, is he not strangely
alter’d?
_Wit._ Most wonderfully.
Sir _Pat._ Alter’d, hah--why, where, why, how alter’d?--hah, alter’d say
you?
_Wit._ Lord, how wildly he stares!
Sir _Pat._ Hah, stare wildly!
_Rog._ Are you not very sick, Sir?
L. _Fan._ Sick! oh, Heavens forbid!--How does my dearest Love?
Sir _Pat._ Methinks I feel myself not well o’th’ sudden--ah--a kind of
shivering seizes all my Limbs,--and am I so much chang’d?
_Wit._ All over, Sir, as big again as you were.
L. _Fan._ Your Face is frightfully blown up, and your dear Eyes just
starting from your Head; oh, I shall sound with the apprehension on’t.
[Falls into _Wittmore’s_ Arms.
Sir _Pat._ My Head and Eyes so big, say you: oh, I’m wondrous sick o’th’
sudden,--all over say you--oh, oh--Ay, I perceive it now, my Senses fail
me too.
L. _Fan._ How, Sir, your Senses fail you?
_Wit._ That’s a very bad sign, believe me.
Sir _Pat._ Oh, ay, for I can neither feel nor see this mighty growth you
speak of.
[Falls into a Chair, with great signs of Disorder.
_Wit._ Alas, I’m sorry for that, Sir.
_Rog._ Sure, ‘tis impossible, I’ll run and fetch a Glass, Sir.
[Offers to go.
L. _Fan._ Oh, stay, I wou’d not for the world he should see what a
Monster he is,--and is like to be before to morrow.
[Aside.
_Rog._ I’ll fit him with a Glass,--I’ll warrant ye, it shall advance our
Design.
[Exit _Roger_.
Enter _Maundy_ with the Clothes, she starts.
_Maun._ Good Heaven, what ails you, Sir?
Sir _Pat._ Oh--oh--’tis so.
_Maun._ Lord, how he’s swoln! see how his Stomach struts.
Sir _Pat._ Ah, ‘tis true, though I perceive it not.
_Maun._ Not perceive it, Sir! put on your Clothes and be convinc’d,--try
’.m, Sir.
[She pulls off his Gown, and puts on his Doublet and Coat, which
come not near by a handful or more.
Sir _Pat._ Ah, it needs not,--mercy upon me!-- [Falls back.
I’m lost, I’m gone! Oh Man, what art thou but a Flower? I am poison’d,
this talking Lady’s Breath’s infectious; methought I felt the Contagion
steal into my Heart; send for my Physicians, and if I die I’ll swear
she’s my Murderer: oh, see, see, how my trembling increases, oh, hold my
Limbs, I die.--
Enter _Roger_ with a magnifying Glass, shews him the Glass; he
looks in it.
_Rog._ I’ll warrant I’ll shew his Face as big as a Bushel. [Aside.
Sir _Pat._ Oh, oh,--I’m a dead Man, have me to Bed, I die away, undress
me instantly, send for my Physicians, I’m poison’d, my Bowels burn,
I have within an _Ætna_, my Brains run round, Nature within me reels.
[They carry him out in a Chair.
_Wit._ And all the drunken Universe does run on Wheels, ha, ha, ha.
Ah, my dear Creature, how finely thou hast brought him to his Journy’s
end!
L. _Fan._ There was no other way but this to have secur’d my Happiness
with thee; there needs no more than that you come anon to the Garden
Back-gate, where you shall find admittance;--Sir _Patient_ is like to
lie alone to night.
_Wit._ Till then ‘twill be a thousand Ages.
L. _Fan._ At Games of Love Husbands to cheat is fair,
‘Tis the Gallant we play with on the square.
[Exeunt severally.
ACT III.
SCENE I.
_Scene draws off to a room in Sir _Patient Fancy’s_ house, and discovers
Lady _Knowell_, _Isabella_, _Lucretia_, _Lodwick_, _Leander_,
_Wittmore_, Sir _Credulous_, other Men and Women, as going to dance._
L. _Kno._ Come, one Dance more, and then I think we shall have
sufficiently teaz’d the Alderman, and ‘twill be time to part.--Sir
_Credulous_, where’s your Mistress?
Sir _Cred._ Within a Mile of an Oak, dear Madam, I’ll warrant
you.--Well, I protest and vow, sweet Lady, you dance most nobly,--Why,
you dance--like--like a--like a hasty Pudding, before _Jove_.
[They dance some Antick, or Rustick Antick. _Lodwick_ speaking to
_Isabella_.
SONG made by a Gentleman.
_Sitting by yonder River side,
_Parthenia_ thus to _Cloe_ cry’d,
Whilst from the fair Nymph’s Eyes apace
Another Stream o’er-flow’d her beauteous Face;
Ah happy Nymph, said she, that can
So little value that false Creature, Man._
_Oft the perfidious things will cry,
Alas they burn, they bleed, they die;
But if they’re absent half a Day,
Nay, let ‘em be but one poor Hour away,
No more they die, no more complain,
But like unconstant Wretches live again._
_Lod._ Well, have you consider’d of that Business yet, _Isabella_?
_Isab._ What business?
_Lod._ Of giving me admittance to night.
_Isab._ And may I trust your honesty?
_Lod._ Oh, doubt me not, my mother’s resolv’d it shall be a match
between you and I, and that very consideration will secure thee:
besides, who would first sully the Linen they mean to put on?
_Isab._ Away, here’s my Mother.
Enter Lady _Fancy_ and _Maundy_.
L. _Fan._ Madam, I beg your pardon for my absence, the effects of my
Obedience, not Will; but Sir _Patient_ is taken very ill o’th’ sudden,
and I must humbly intreat your Ladyship to retire, for Rest is only
essential to his Recovery.
L. _Kno._ Congruously spoken, upon my Honour. Oh, the impudence of this
Fellow your Ladyship’s Husband, to espouse so fair a Person only to make
a Nurse of!
L. _Fan._ Alas, Madam!--
L. _Kno._ A Slave, a very Houshold Drudge.--Oh, faugh, come never
grieve;--for, Madam, his Disease is nothing but Imagination,
a Melancholy which arises from the Liver, Spleen, and Membrane call’d
_Mesenterium_; the _Arabians_ name the Distemper _Myrathial_, and we
here in _England_, _Hypochondriacal Melancholy_; I cou’d prescribe a
most potent Remedy, but that I am loth to stir the Envy of the College.
L. _Fan._ Really, Madam, I believe--
L. _Kno._ But as you say, Madam, we’ll leave him to his Repose; pray do
not grieve too much.
_Lod._ Death! wou’d I had the consoling her, ‘tis a charming Woman!
L. _Kno._ Mr. _Fancy_, your Hand; Madam, your most faithful
Servant.--_Lucretia_, come, _Lucretia_.--Your Servant, Ladies and
Gentleman.
L. _Fan._ A Devil on her, wou’d the Nimbleness of her Ladyship’s Tongue
were in her Heels, she wou’d make more haste away: oh, I long for the
blest minute.
_Lod._ _Isabella_, shall I find admittance anon?
_Isab._ On fair Conditions.
_Lod._ Trust my Generosity.--Madam, your Slave. [Ex.
[To L. _Fan._ gazing on her, goes out.
Sir _Cred._ Madam, I wou’d say something of your Charms and celestial
Graces, but that all Praises are as far below you, as the Moon in her
Opposition is below the Sun;--and so, luscious Lady, I am yours: Now for
my Serenade--
[Ex. all but L. _Fan._ and _Maundy_.
L. _Fan._ _Maundy_, have you commanded all the Servants to bed?
_Maun._ Yes, Madam, not a Mouse shall stir, and I have made ready the
Chamber next the Garden for your Ladyship.
L. _Fan._ Then there needs no more but that you wait for _Wittmore’s_
coming to the Garden-Gate, and take care no Lights be in the House for
fear of Eyes.
_Maun._ Madam, I understand Lovers are best by dark, and shall be
diligent: the Doctor has secur’d Sir _Patient_ by a sleeping Pill, and
you are only to expect your approaching Happiness.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II. Lady _Knowell’s_ Chamber.
Enter Lady _Knowell_ and _Leander_.
L. _Kno._ _Leander_, raise your Soul above that little trifle
_Lucretia_;--cannot you guess what better Fate attends you? fy, how dull
you are! must I instruct you in plain right-down Terms? and tell you,
that I propose you Master of my Fortune.--Now possibly you understand
me.
Enter _Lucretia_, and peeps.
_Lean._ I wish I did not, Madam,
Unless I’d Virtue to deserve the Bounty;
I have a thousand Faults Dissimulation hides,
Inconstant, wild, debauch’d as Youth can make me.
_Lucr._ All that will not do your Business. [Aside.
L. _Kno._ Yet you wou’d have my Daughter take you with all these Faults;
they’re Virtues there, but to the name of Mother, they all turn
retrograde: I can endure a Man
As wild and as inconstant as she can;
I have a Fortune too that can support that Humour,
That of _Lucretia_ does depend on me,
And when I please is nothing;
I’m far from Age or Wrinkles, can be courted
By Men, as gay and youthful as a new Summer’s Morn,
Beauteous as the first Blossoms of the Spring,
Before the common Sun has kiss’d their Sweets away,
If with salacious Appetites I lov’d.
_Lean._ Faith, Madam, I cou’d wish--
L. _Kno._ That I were but Fifteen: but
If there be inequality in Years,
There is so too in Fortunes, that might add
A Lustre to my Eyes, Charms to my Person,
And make me fair as _Venus_, young as _Hebe_.
_Lean._ Madam, you have enough to engage any unconquer’d Heart; but
’.was, I thought, with your allowance I dispos’d of mine, and ‘tis a
Heart that knows not how to change.
L. _Kno._ Then ‘tis a foolish unambitious Heart, unworthy of the
Elevation it has not glorious Pride enough to aim at:--Farewel,
Sir,--when you are wiser, you may find admittance.
[Goes out.
_Lean._ Stay, Madam--
Enter _Lucretia_.
_Lucr._ For what? to hear your Penitence! Forgive me, Madam, I will be a
Villain, forget my Vows of Love, made to _Lucretia_.
And sacrifice both her, and those to Interest.
Oh, how I hate this whining and dissembling!
_Lean._ Do, triumph o’er a wretched Man, _Lucretia_.
_Lucr._ How! wretched in loving me so entirely, or that you cannot marry
my Mother, and be Master of her mighty Fortune? ‘Tis a Temptation indeed
so between Love and Interest, hang me if ever I saw so simple a Look as
you put on when my Mother made love to you.
_Lean._ You may easily guess the Confusion of a Man in my Circumstances,
to be languishing for the lov’d Daughter, and pursu’d by the hated
Mother, whom if I refuse will ruin all my hopes of thee.
_Lucr._ Refuse her! I hope you have more Wit.
_Lean._ _Lucretia_, cou’d she make a Monarch of me, I cou’d not marry
her.
_Lucr._ And you wou’d be so wise to tell her so?
_Lean._ I wou’d no more abuse her, than I cou’d love her.
_Lucr._ Yet that last must be done.
_Lean._ How!
_Lucr._ Dost believe me so wicked to think I mean in earnest? No, tell
her a fine Story of Love and Liking, gaze on her, kiss her Hands, and
sigh, commend her Face and Shape, swear she’s the Miracle of the Age for
Wit, cry up her Learning, vow you were an Ass not to be sensible of her
Perfections all this while; what a Coxcomb, to doat upon the Daughter
when such Charms were so visible in the Mother? Faith, she’ll believe
all this.
_Lean._ It may be so, but what will all this serve for?
_Lucr._ To give us time and opportunity to deceive her, or I’m mistaken.
_Lean._ I cannot teach my Tongue so much Deceit.
_Lucr._ You may be a Fool, and cry, Indeed forsooth I cannot love, for
alas I have lost my Heart, and am unworthy of your proffer’d
Blessings--do, and see her marry me in spite to this Fop _Easy_, this
Knight of Nonsense: no, no, dissemble me handsomely and like a
Gentleman, and then expect your good Fortune.
Enter _Antick_.
_Ant._ Madam, your Mother’s coming.
_Lucr._ Away then, she must not see us together, she thinks you gone.
_Lean._ But must I carry off no Comfort with me?
_Lucr._ Will you expose me to the incens’d Jealousy of a Parent? go, or
I shall hate ye.
[Thrusts him out.
SCENE III. A Garden.
Enter _Maundy_ by dark: Opens the Garden-Door.
_Maun._ Now am I return’d to my old Trade again, fetch and carry my
Lady’s Lovers; I was afraid when she had been married, these Night-works
wou’d have ended; but to say truth, there’s a Conscience to be used in
all things, and there’s no reason she should languish with an old Man
when a Young Man may be had.--The Door opens, he’s come.--
Enter _Lodwick_.
I see you’re a punctual Lover, Sir, pray follow me as softly as you can.
_Lod._ This is some one whom I perceive _Isabella_ has made the
Confident to our Amours.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV. _Draws off, and discovers L. _Fancy_ in her Night-gown, in a
Chamber as by the dark._
L. _Fan._ Oh, the agreeable Confusion of a Lover high with expectation
of the approaching Bliss! What Tremblings between Joy and Fear possess
me? All my whole Soul is taken up with _Wittmore_; I’ve no Ideas, no
Thoughts but of _Wittmore_, and sure my Tongue can speak no other
Language, but his Name.--Who’s there?
Enter _Maundy_ leading _Lodwick_.
_Maun._ Madam, ‘tis I, and your expected Lover here--I put him into your
hands, and will wait your Commands in the next Chamber.
[Exit _Maun._
_Lod._ Where are you, my dearest Creature?
L. _Fan._ Here--give me your Hand, I’ll lead you to those Joys we both
so long have sigh’d for.
_Lod._ Hah! to Joys; sure she doth but dally with me. [Aside.
L. _Fan._ Why come you not on, my dear?
_Lod._ And yet, why this Admission, and i’ th’ dark too, if she design’d
me none but virtuous Favours?--What damn’d Temptation’s this?
L. _Fan._ Are you bewitch’d? what is’t that frights you?
_Lod._ I’m fix’d: Death, was ever such a Lover?
Just ready for the highest Joys of Love,
And like a bashful Girl restrain’d by Fear
Of an insuing Infamy--I hate to cuckold my own Expectations.
L. _Fan._ Heavens! what can you mean?
_Lod._ Death, what’s this?--sure ‘tis not Virtue in me,--Pray Heaven it
be not Impotence!--Where got I this damn’d Honesty, which I never found
my self master of till now!--why shou’d it seize me when I had least
need on’t?
L. _Fan._ What ails you? are you mad?--we are safe, and free as Winds
let loose to ruffle all the Groves; what is’t delays you then? Soft.
_Lod._ Pox o’ this thought of Wife, the very Name destroys my appetite.
Oh, with what Vigour I could deal my Love
To some fair leud unknown,
To whom I’d never made a serious Vow!
L. _Fan._ Tell me the Mystery of this sudden Coldness: have I kept my
Husband in Town for this? Nay, persuaded him to be very sick to serve
our purpose, and am I thus rewarded--ungrateful Man!
_Lod._ Hah,--’tis not _Isabella’s_ Voice,--your Husband, say you?
[Takes hold greedily of her Hand.
L. _Fan._ Is safe, from any fear of interrupting us.
Come--these Delays do ill consist with Love
And our Desires; at least if they are equal.
_Lod._ Death, ‘tis the charming Mother!
What lucky Star directed me to night?
O my fair Dissembler, let us haste
To pay the mighty Tributes due to Love.
L. _Fan._ Follow me then with careful Silence,--for _Isabella’s_ Chamber
joins to this, and she may hear us.
_Lod_. Not Flowers grow, nor smooth Streams glide away,
Not absent Lovers sigh, nor breaks the Day,
More silently than I’ll those Joys receive,
Which Love and Darkness do conspire to give.
[Exeunt.
SCENE V. Changes again to a Garden.
Enter _Isabella_ and _Fanny_ in their Night-gowns.
_Isab._ Well, I have no mind to let this dear mad Devil _Lodwick_ in to
night.
_Fan._ Why, Sister, this is not the first Venture you have made of this
kind, at this Hour, and in this Place; these Arbours were they
tell-tales, cou’d discover many pretty stories of your Loves, and do you
think they’ll be less faithful now? pray trust them once again. Oh, I do
so love to hear Mr. _Lodwick_ protest, and vow, and swear, and
dissemble, and when you don’t believe him, rail at you,--avads, ‘tis the
prettiest Man--
_Isab._ I have a strange apprehension of being surpriz’d to night.
_Fan._ I’ll warrant you, I’ll sit on yon Bank of Pinks, and when I hear
a Noise I’ll come and tell you; so _Lodwick_ may slip out at the back
Gate, and we may be walking up and down as if we meant no harm.
_Isab._ You’ll grow very expert in the Arts of Love, _Fanny_.
_Fan._ When I am big enough I shall do my Endeavour, for I have heard
you say, Women were born to no other end than to love: And ‘tis fit I
should learn to live and die in my calling.--Come, open the Gate, or
you’ll repent it, we shall have my Father marry you within a day or two
to that ugly Man that speaks hard Words,--avads, I can’t abide him.
_Isab._ What Noise is that?
_Fan._ Why, ‘tis Mr. _Lodwick_ at the Garden-Door;--let him in whilst
I’ll to my flowry Bank, and stand Centinel.--
[Runs off. _Isabella_ opens the Gate.
Enter _Wittmore_.
_Wit._ Who’s there?
_Isab._ Speak low, who shou’d it be but the kind Fool her self, who can
deny you nothing but what you dare not take?
_Wit._ Not take! what’s that? hast thou reserves in store?
--Oh, come and let me lead thee to thy Bed,
Or seat thee on some Bank of softer Flowers,
Where I may rifle all thy unknown Store.
_Isab._ How! surely you’re not in earnest?--Do you love me?
_Wit._ Love thee! by thy dear self, all that my Soul adores,
I’m all impatient Flame! all over Love!
--You do not use to doubt, but since you do,
Come, and I’ll satisfy thy obliging Fears,
And give thee Proofs how much my Soul is thine,
I’ll breathe it all anew into thy Bosom.--
Oh, thou art fit for the transporting Play,
All loose and wanton, like the Queen of Love
When she descends to meet the Youth in Shades.
_Isab._ And are you, Sir, in earnest? can it be?
_Wit._ That question was severe, what means my Love?
What pretty Art is this to blow my Flame?
Are you not mine? did we not meet t’enjoy?
I came not with more vigorous eager Haste,
When our first Sacrifice to Love we paid,
Than to perform that Ceremony now.
Come do not let the Sacred Fire burn out,
Which only was prepar’d for Love’s rich Altar,
And this is the divine, dark, silent Minute--
[Goes to lead her off.
_Isab._ Hold, Ravisher, and know this saucy Passion
Has render’d back your Interest. Now I hate ye,
And my Obedience to my Father’s Will
Shall marry me to _Fainlove_, and I’ll despise ye.
[Flings from him.
_Wit._ Hah! _Isabella!_ Death, I have made sweet work,--stay, gentle
Maid,--she’ll ruin all if she go:--stay--she knew me, and cunningly drew
me to this Discovery; I’ll after her and undeceive her.
[Runs after her.
_A confused Noise of the Serenade, the_
SCENE VI draws off to Lady _Fancy’s_ Anti-chamber.
Enter _Isabella_ groping as in the dark.
_Isab._ Pray Heaven I get undiscover’d to my Chamber, where I’ll make
Vows against this perjured Man; hah, sure he follows still; no
Wood-Nymph ever fled before a Satyr, with half that trembling haste I
flew from _Lodwick_.--Oh, he has lost his Virtue, and undone me.
[Goes out groping, and the noise of Serenade again.
SCENE VII. _Changes to Lady _Fancy’s_ Bed-chamber, discovers her as
before; _Lodwick_ as just risen in Disorder from the Bed, buttoning
himself, and setting himself in order; and Noise at the Door of
unlatching it._
Enter _Isabella_ groping, Sir _Patient_ without.
L. _Fan._ It is this Door that open’d, and which I thought I had
secur’d.
Sir _Pat._ [Within.] Oh, insupportable, abominable, and not to be
indur’d!
_Isab._ Hah, my Father! I’m discover’d and pursu’d,--grant me to find
the Bed.
L. _Fan._ Heavens! ‘twas my Husband’s Voice, sure we’re betray’d. It
must be so, for what Devil but that of Jealousy cou’d raise him at this
late hour?
_Isab._ Hah, where am I, and who is’t that speaks-- [To her self.
_Lod._ So, he must know that I have made a Cuckold of him. [Aside.
Sir _Pat._ [Within.] Call up my Men, the Coachman, Groom, and Butler,
the Footmen, Cook, and Gardiner; bid ‘em all rise and arm, with long
Staff, Spade and Pitchfork, and sally out upon the Wicked.
_Lod._ S’heart! what a Death shall I die:--is there no place of safety
hereabouts--for there is no resisting these unmerciful Weapons.
_Isab._ A Man’s Voice!
L. _Fan._ I know of none, nor how to prevent your Discovery.
Sir _Pat._ [Within.] Oh, oh, lead me forward, I’ll lie here on the
Garden-side, out of the hearing of this Hellish Noise.
L. _Fan._ Hah, Noise!--what means he?
_Lod._ Nay, I know not, is there no escaping?--
_Isab._ Who can they be that talk thus? sure I have mistook my Chamber.
L. _Fan._ Oh, he’s coming in--I’m ruin’d; what shall we do? here--get
into the Bed--and cover your self with the Clothes--quickly--oh, my
Confusion will betray me.
[_Lodwick_ gets into the Bed, _Isabella_ hides behind the Curtain
very near to him.
Enter Sir _Patient_, led by _Nurse_ and _Maundy_, with Lights.
_Maun._ Pray go back, Sir, my poor Lady will be frighted out of her Wits
at this danger you put your self into, the Noise shall be still’d.
L. _Fan._ Oh, what’s the matter with my Love? what, do you mean to
murder him? oh, lead him instantly back to his Bed.
Sir _Pat._ Oh, oh, no, I’ll lie here,--put me to bed, oh, I faint,--my
Chamber’s possest with twenty thousand Evil Spirits.
L. _Fan._ Possest! what sickly Fancy’s this?
Sir _Pat._ Ah, the House is beset, surrounded and confounded with
profane tinkling, with Popish Horn-Pipes, and Jesuitical Cymbals, more
Antichristian and Abominable than Organs, or Anthems.
_Nurse._ Yea verily, and surely it is the spawn of Cathedral Instruments
plaid on by Babylonish Minstrels, only to disturb the Brethren.
Sir _Pat._ Ay, ‘tis so, call up my Servants, and let them be first
chastiz’d and then hang’d; accuse ‘em for _French_ Papishes, that had a
design to fire the City, or any thing:--oh, I shall die--lead me gently
to this Bed.
L. _Fan._ To hinder him will discover all:--stay, Sir.--
Sir _Pat._ Hah, my Lady turn’d rebellious!--put me to Bed I say;--
[Throws himself forward to the Bed.] --hah--what’s here?--what are
thou,--a Man,--hah, a Man, Treason! betray’d! my Bed’s defil’d, my Lady
polluted, and I am cornuted; oh thou vile Serpent of my Bosom!
[She stands with her Face towards the Stage in signs of fear.
_Isab._ A Man, and in my virtuous Lady Mother’s Chamber! how fortunate
was I to light on this discovery!
L. _Fan._ Well, Sir, since you have seen him, I beseech you for my sake,
Dear, pardon him this one time.
[Coakesing him.
Sir _Pat._ Thou beg his Pardon! Oh, was ever heard such Impudence!
L. _Fan._ Indeed, my Love, he is to blame; but we that are judicious
should bear with the Frailities of Youth.
Sir _Pat._ Oh insupportable Audacity!--what canst thou say, false Woman?
L. _Fan._ Truly not much in his Defence, my Dear.
_Isab._ Oh cunning Devil!--
L. _Fan._ But, Sir, to hide the weakness of your Daughter, I have a
little strain’d my Modesty.--
_Isab._ Heavens! what says she?--
L. _Fan._ ‘Tis _Isabella’s_ Lover, Sir, whom I’ve conceal’d.
_Lod._ A good hint to save both our Credits.
Sir _Pat._ How, Mr. _Fainlove_ mean you?
[_Lodwick_ rises and comes a little more forward, _Isabella_ does
the like, till both meet at the feet of the Bed, and start,
_Lodwick_ looking simply.
L. _Fan._ Ay, my dear, Mr. _Fainlove_.
_Lod._ _Isabella_ here! must she know too what a fine inconstant Dog I
am?--
_Isab._ _Lodwick!_ and in my Mother’s Chamber! may I believe my Eyes!
Sir _Pat._ But how got he hither?--tell me that: oh Youth, Youth, to
what degree of Wickedness art thou arriv’d?
L. _Fan._ She appointed him to come this Night, Sir, and he going to her
Chamber, by mistake came into mine, it being the next to her’s.
_Maun._ But, Lord, Sir, had you heard how my Lady school’d him, whilst I
ran down to fetch a Light!
_Lod._ Now does my Conscience tell me, I am a damn’d Villain.--
[Aside, looking pitifully on _Isabella_.
L. _Fan._ But the poor Man presently perceiv’d his mistake, and beg’d my
pardon in such feeling Terms--that I vow I had not the heart to deny it
him.
_Isab._ Oh Traytor! wou’d thou hadst been that Ravisher I took thee for,
rather than such a Villain--false! and with my Mother too!
L. _Fan._ And just then, Sir, you came to the Door, and lest you shou’d
see him, intreated me to hide him from your Anger,--the Offence is not
so heinous, Sir, considering he is so soon to marry her.
Sir _Pat._ Well, Sir, and what have you to say in your Defence?--hah,
how, Mr. _Knowell_,--worse and worse,--why, how came you hither, Sir?
hah.--
L. _Fan._ Not _Wittmore_! oh, I am ruin’d and betray’d.
[Falls almost in a swoon.
Sir _Pat._ Hah, _Isabella_ here too!
_Isab._ Yes, Sir, to justify her Innocence.
Sir _Pat._ Hah! Innocence! and justify! take her away; go out of my
sight, thou Limb of Satan,--take her away, I say, I’ll talk with you to
morrow, Lady Finetricks--I will.--
_Isab._ --And I’ll know before I sleep, the mystery of all this, and who
’.was this faithless Man sent in his room to deceive me in the Garden.
[Goes out.
_Lod._ A plague of all ill-luck--how the Devil came she hither? I must
follow and reconcile her.
[Going out, Sir _Patient_ stays him.
Sir _Pat._ Nay, Sir, we must not part so till I have known the truth of
this Business, I take it.
_Lod._ Truth, Sir! oh, all that your fair Lady has said, Sir; I must
confess her Eyes have wounded me enough with Anger, you need not add
more to my Shame.--
L. _Fan._ Some little comfort yet, that he prov’d indeed to be
_Isabella’s_ Lover: Oh, that I should mistake so unluckily!
[Aside.
Sir _Pat._ Why, I thought it had been Mr. _Fainlove_.
L. _Fan._ By all that’s good, and so did I.
_Lod._ I know you did, Madam, or you had not been so kind to me: Your
Servant, dear Madam.--
[Going, Sir _Patient_ stays him.
L. _Fan._ Pray, Sir, let him go; oh, how I abominate the sight of a Man
that cou’d be so wicked as he has been!
Sir _Pat._ Ha,--good Lady, excellent Woman: well, Sir, for my Lady’s
sake I’ll let you pass with this, but if I catch you here again, I shall
spoil your Intrigues, Sir, marry, shall I, and so rest ye satisfied,
Sir.--
_Lod._ At this time, I am, Sir--Madam, a thousand Blessings on you for
this Goodness.
L. _Fan._ Ten thousand Curses upon thee,--go, boast the Ruin you have
made.
[Aside to _Lod._
Sir _Pat._ Come, no more Anger now, my Lady; the Gentleman’s sorry you
see, I’ll marry my pert Huswife to morrow for this.--_Maundy_, see the
Gentleman safe out:--ah, put me to Bed; ah, this Night’s Work will kill
me, ah, ah.
[Exeunt _Lodwick_ and _Maundy_.
_The Scene draws over Sir _Patient_ and Lady: draws again and discovers_
SCENE VIII. The Garden, _Wittmore_, _Fanny_, and _Isabella_.
_Isab._ How, Mr. _Fainlove_, it cannot be.
_Fan._ Indeed, Sister, ‘tis the same, for all he talks so; and he told
me his coming was but to try your Virtue only.
Enter _Lodwick_ and _Maundy_ as passing over, but stand.
_Isab._ That _Fainlove_! whom I am so soon to marry! and but this day
courted me in another Dialect!
_Wit._ That was my Policy, Madam, to pass upon your Father with. But I’m
a Man that knows the value of the Fair, and saw Charms of Beauty and of
Wit in you, that taught me to know the way to your Heart was to appear
my self, which now I do. Why did you leave me so unkindly but now?
_Lod._ Hah, what’s this? whilst I was grafting Horns on another’s Head,
some kind Friend was doing that good Office for me.
_Maun._ Sure ‘tis _Wittmore_!--oh that Dissembler--this was his Plot
upon my Lady, to gain time with _Isabella_.
[Aside.
_Wit._ And being so near my Happiness, can you blame me, if I made a
trial whether your Virtue were agreeable to your Beauty, great, and to
be equally ador’d?
_Lod._ Death, I’ve heard enough to forfeit all my Patience!--Draw, Sir,
and make a trial of your Courage too.--
_Wit._ Hah, what desperate Fool art thou? [Draws.
_Lod._ One that will see thee fairly damn’d, e’er yield his Interest up
in _Isabella_--oh thou false Woman!
[They fight out, _Isabella_, _Fanny_, and _Maundy_ run off.
SCENE IX. _Changes to the long Street, a Pageant of an Elephant coming
from the farther end with Sir _Credulous_ on it, and several others
playing on strange confused Instruments._
Sir _Cred._ This sure is extraordinary, or the Devil’s in’t, and I’ll
ne’er trust Serenade more.
[Come forward, and all play again.
--Hold, hold, now for the Song, which because I wou’d have most
deliciously and melodiously sung, I’ll sing my self; look
ye,--hum--hum.--
Sir _Credulous_ should have sung.
_Thou Grief of my Heart, and thou Pearl of my Eyes,
D’on thy Flannel Petticoat quickly, and rise;
And from thy resplendent Window discover
A Face that wou’d mortify any young Lover:
For I, like great _Jove_ transformed, do wooe,
And am amorous Owl, to wit to wooe, to wit to wooe.
A Lover, Ads Zoz, is a sort of a Tool
That of all Things you best may compare to an Owl:
For in some dark Shades he delights still to sit,
And all the Night long he crys wo to wit.
Then rise, my bright _Cloris_, and d’on on slip shoe:
And hear thy amorous Owl chant, wit to wooe, wit to wooe._
--Well, this won’t do, for I perceive no Window open, nor Lady bright
appear, to talk obligingly:--perhaps the Song does not please her: you
Ballad-singers, have you no good Songs of another fashion?
_1 Man._ Yes, Sir, Several, _Robin--Hark how the Waters fall, fall,
fall!_
Sir _Cred._ How, Man! Zoz, remove us farther off, for fear of wetting.
_1 Man._ No, no, Sir, I only gave my Fellow a hint of an excellent
Ballad that begins--_Ill-wedded Joys, how quickly do you fade!_
[Sings.
Sir _Cred._ Ay, ay, that, we’ll have that,--_Ill-wedded Joys, how
quickly do you fade_,-- [Sings.] That’s excellent! Oh, now the Windows
open, now, now shew your capering Tricks. [Vaulting.
[They all play again.
Enter _Roger_ and a Company of Fellows as out of Sir _Patient’s_
House, led on by _Abel_ a precise Clerk, all armed with odd
Weapons.
_Abel._ Verily, verily, here be these Babes of Perdition, these Children
of Iniquity.
_Rog._ A pox of your Babes and Children, they are Men, and Sons of
Whores, whom we must bang confoundedly, for not letting honest godly
People rest quietly in their Beds at Midnight.
Sir _Cred._ Who’s there?
_Rog._ There, with a Pox to you; cannot a Right-worshipful Knight, that
has been sick these Twenty Years with taking Physick, sleep quietly in
his own House for you; and must we be rais’d out of our Beds to quiet
your Hell-pipes, in the Devil’s name?
_Abel._ Down with _Gog_ and _Magog_, there; there’s the rotten Bell
weather that leads the rest astray, and defiles the whole Flock.
_Rog._ Hang your preaching, and let’s come to him, we’ll maul him.
[Beat Sir _Cred._
Sir _Cred._ Oh, Quarter, Quarter, Murder, Help, Murder, Murder!
Enter _Lodwick_.
_Lod._ Damn these Rascals, who e’er they were, that so unluckily
redeem’d a Rival from my Fury,--Hah, they are here,--Egad, I’ll have one
touch more with ‘em,--the Dogs are spoiling my design’d Serenade
too--have amongst ye.-- [Fights and beats ‘em off.] Sir _Credulous_, how
is’t?
Sir _Cred._ Who’s there? _Lodwick?_ Oh dear Lad, is’t thou that hast
redeem’d me from the inchanted Cudgels that demolish’d my triumphant
Pageant, and confounded my Serenade? Zoz, I’m half kill’d, Man,--I have
never a whole Bone about me sure.
_Lod._ Come in with me--a plague upon the Rascal that escap’d me.
[Exeunt.
ACT IV.
SCENE I. Lady _Knowell’s_ House.
Enter _Lucretia_, followed by Sir _Credulous_.
_Lucr._ Marry’d to morrow! and leave my Mother the possession of
_Leander_! I’ll die a thousand Deaths first.--How the Fool haunts me!
[Aside.
Sir _Cred._ Nay, delicious Lady, you may say your Pleasure; but I will
justify the Serenade to be as high a piece of Gallantry as was ever
practised in our Age, though not comparable to your Charms and celestial
Graces, which shou’d I praise as I ought, ‘twou’d require more time than
the Sun employs in his natural Motion between the Tropicks; that is to
say, a whole Year, (for by the way, I am no _Copernican_) for, Dear
Madam, you must know, my Rhetorick Master,--I say, my Rhetorick Master,
who was--
_Lucr._ As great a Coxcomb as your self;--pray leave me, I am
serious--I must go seek out _Lodwick_.
Sir _Cred._ Leave ye! I thank you for that, i’faith, before I have spoke
out my Speech; therefore I say, Divine Lady--because my Rhetorick Master
commanded the frequent use of _Hypallages_, _Allegories_, and the
richest Figures of that beauteous Art,--because my Rhetorick--
_Lucr._ I must leave the Fool, follow if you dare, for I have no leisure
to attend your Nonsense.
[Goes out.
Enter Lady _Knowell_.
L. _Kno._ What, alone, Sir _Credulous_? I left you with _Lucretia_.
Sir _Cred._ _Lucretia!_ I’m sure she makes a very _Tarquinius Sextus_ of
me, and all about this Serenade,--I protest and vow, incomparable Lady,
I had begun the sweetest Speech to her--though I say’t, such Flowers of
Rhetorick--’twou’d have been the very Nosegay of Eloquence, so it wou’d;
and like an ungrateful illiterate Woman as she is, she left me in the
very middle on’t, so snuffy I’ll warrant.
L. _Kno._ Be not discourag’d, Sir, I’ll adapt her to a reconciliation:
Lovers must sometimes expect these little _Belli fugaces_; the
_Grecians_ therefore truly named Love _Glucupicros Eros_.
Sir _Cred._ Nay, bright Lady, I am as little discourag’d as another, but
I’m sorry I gave so extraordinary a Serenade to so little purpose.
L. _Kno._ Name it no more, ‘twas only a Gallantry mistaken; but I’ll
accelerate your Felicity, and to morrow shall conclude the great
dispute, since there is such Volubility and Vicissitude in mundane
Affairs.
[Goes out.
Enter _Lodwick_, stays Sir _Credulous_ as he is going out the
other way.
_Lod._ Sir _Credulous_, whither away so fast?
Sir _Cred._ Zoz, what a Question’s there? dost not know I am to unty the
Virgin Zone to morrow, that is, barter Maiden-heads with thy Sister,
that is, to be married to her, Man, and I must to _Lincolns-Inn_ to my
Counsel about it?
_Lod._ My Sister just now told me of it; but, Sir, you must not stir.
Sir _Cred._ Why, what’s the matter?
_Lod._ Have you made your Will?
Sir _Cred._ My Will! no, why my Will, Man?
_Lod._ Then, for the good of your Friends and Posterity, stir not from
this place.
Sir _Cred._ Good Lord, _Lodwick_, thou art the strangest Man,--what do
you mean to fright a body thus?
_Lod._ You remember the Serenade last night?
Sir _Cred._ Remember it? Zoz, I think I do, here be the marks on’t
sure.--
[Pulls off his Peruke, and shews his Head broke.
_Lod._ Ads me, your Head’s broke.
Sir _Cred._ My Head broke! why, ‘twas a hundred to one but my Neck had
been broke.
_Lod._ Faith, not unlikely,--you know the next House is Sir _Patient
Fancy’s_; _Isabella_ too, you know, is his Daughter.
Sir _Cred._ Yes, yes, she was by when I made my dumb Oration.
_Lod._ The same,--this Lady has a Lover, a mad, furious, fighting,
killing Hector, (as you know there are enough about this Town) this
Monsieur supposing you to be a Rival, and that your Serenade was
address’d to her--
Sir _Cred._ Enough, I understand you, set those Rogues on to murder me.
_Lod._ Wou’d ‘twere no worse.
Sir _Cred._ Worse! Zoz, Man, what the Devil can be worse?
_Lod._ Why, he has vow’d to kill you himself wherever he meets you, and
now waits below to that purpose.
Sir _Cred._ Sha, sha, if that be all, I’ll to him immediately, and make
Affidavit I never had any such design. Madam _Isabella_! ha, ha, alas,
poor man, I have some body else to think on.
_Lod._ Affidavit! why, he’ll not believe you, should you swear your
Heart out: some body has possess’d him that you are a damn’d Fool, and a
most egregious Coward, a Fellow that to save your Life will swear any
thing.
Sir _Cred._ What cursed Luck’s this!--why, how came he to know I liv’d
here?
_Lod._ I believe he might have it from _Leander_, who is his Friend.
Sir _Cred._ _Leander!_ I must confess I never lik’d that _Leander_ since
yesterday.
_Lod._ He has deceiv’d us all, that’s the truth on’t; for I have lately
found out too, that he’s your Rival, and has a kind of a--
Sir _Cred._ Smattering to my Mistress, hah, and therefore wou’d not be
wanting to give me a lift out of this World; but I shall give her such a
go-by--my Lady _Knowell_ understands the difference between three
Thousand a Year, and--prithee what’s his Estate?
_Lod._ Shaw--not sufficient to pay Surgeons Bills.
Sir _Cred._ Alas, poor Rat, how does he live then?
_Lod._ Hang him, the Ladies keep him; ‘tis a good handsome Fellow, and
has a pretty Town-Wit.
Sir _Cred._ He a Wit! what, I’ll warrant he writes Lampoons, rails at
Plays, curses all Poetry but his own, and mimicks the Players--ha.
_Lod._ Some such common Notions he has that deceives the ignorant
Rabble, amongst whom he passes for a very smart Fellow,--’life, he’s
here.
Enter _Leander_.
Sir _Cred._ Why, what shall I do, he will not affront me before Company?
hah!
_Lod._ Not in our House, Sir,--bear up and take no notice on’t.
[_Lod._ whispers _Lean._
Sir _Cred._ No notice, quoth he? why, my very Fears will betray me.
_Lean._ Let me alone--_Lodwick_, I met just now with an _Italian_
Merchant, who has made me such a Present!
_Lod._ What is’t prithee?
_Lean._ A Sort of specifick Poison for all the Senses, especially for
that of smelling; so that had I a Rival, and I should see him at any
reasonable distance, I could direct a little of this Scent up to his
Brain so subtlely, that it shall not fail of Execution in a day or two.
Sir _Cred._ How--Poison!
[Shewing great Signs of Fear, and holding his Nose.
_Lean._ Nay, shou’d I see him in the midst of a thousand People, I can
so direct it, that it shall assault my Enemy’s Nostrils only, without
any effects on the rest of the Company.
Sir _Cred._ Oh,--I’m a dead Man!
_Lod._ Is’t possible?
_Lean._ Perhaps some little sneezing or so, no harm; but my Enemy’s a
dead Man, Sir, kill’d.
Sir _Cred._ Why, this is the most damn’d _Italian_ Trick I ever heard
of; why, this outdoes the famous Poisoner Madam _Brenvilliers_; well,
here’s no jesting, I perceive that, _Lodwick_.
_Lod._ Fear nothing, I’ll secure you. [Aside to him.
Enter _Wittmore_.
--_Wittmore!_ how is’t, Friend! thou lookest cloudy.
_Wit._ You’ll hardly blame me, Gentlemen, when you shall know what a
damn’d unfortunate Rascal I am.
_Lod._ Prithee what’s the matter?
_Wit._ Why, I am to be marry’d, Gentlemen, marry’d to day.
_Lod._ How, marry’d! nay, Gad, then thou’st reason; but to whom prithee?
_Wit._ There’s the Devil on’t again, to a fine young fair, brisk Woman,
that has all the Temptations Heaven can give her.
_Lod._ What pity ‘tis they shou’d be bestow’d to so wicked an end! Is
this your Intrigue, that has been so long conceal’d from your Friends?
_Lean._ We thought it had been some kind Amour, something of Love and
Honour.
_Lod._ Is she rich? if she be wondrous rich, we’ll excuse thee.
_Wit._ Her Fortune will be suitable to the Jointure I shall make her.
_Lod._ Nay then ‘tis like to prove a hopeful Match; what a Pox can
provoke thee to this, dost love her?
_Wit._ No, there’s another Plague, I am cursedly in love elsewhere; and
this was but a false Address, to hide that real one.
_Lod._ How, love another? in what quality and manner?
_Wit._ As a Man ought to love, with a good substantial Passion, without
any design but that of right-down honest Injoyment.
_Lod._ Ay, now we understand thee, this is something. Ah Friend, I had
such an Adventure last Night.--You may talk of your Intrigues and
substantial Pleasures, but if any of you can match mine,--Egad, I’ll
forswear Womankind.
_Lean._ An Adventure! prithee where?
Sir _Cred._ What, last Night, when you rescued me from the Bilbo-Blades!
indeed ye look’d a little furiously.
_Lod._ I had reason, I was just then come out of a Garden from fighting
with a Man whom I found with my Mistress; and I had at least known who’t
had been, but for the coming of those Rascals that set on you, who
parted us, whilst he made his escape in the Croud.
_Wit._ Death! that was I, who for fear of being known got away: was’t he
then that I fought with, and whom I learnt lov’d _Isabella_?
[Aside.
_Lod._ You must know, Gentlemen, I have a sort of a matrimonial Kindness
for a very pretty Woman, she whom I tell you I disturb’d in the Garden,
and last night she made me an Assignation in her Chamber: when I came to
the Garden-door by which I was to have admittance, I found a kind of
Necessary call’d a Baudy Waiting-Woman, whom I follow’d, and thought she
wou’d have conducted me to the right Woman; but I was luckily and in the
dark led into a Lady’s Chamber, who took me for a Lover she expected:
I found my happy mistake, and wou’d not undeceive her.
_Wit._ This could be none but _Lucia_. [Aside.
--Well, Sir, and what did you do there?
_Lod._ Do! why, what dost think? all that a Man inspir’d by Love cou’d
do, I followed all the dictates of Nature, Youth, and Vigor.
_Wit._ Oh, hold, my Heart--or I shall kill the Traitor. [Aside.
Sir _Cred._ Follow’d all the dictates of Nature, Youth and Vigor!
prithee what’s that?
_Lod._ I kiss’d a thousand times her balmy Lips, and greedily took in
the nimble Sighs she breath’d into my Soul.
_Wit._ Oh, I can scarce contain my self. [Aside.
Sir _Cred._ Pshaw, is that all, Man?
_Lod._ I clasp’d her lovely Body in my Arms,
And laid my Bosom to her panting Breast.
Trembling she seem’d all Love and soft Desire,
And I all Burnings in a youthful Fire.
Sir _Cred._ Bless us, the Man’s in a Rapture!
_Wit._ Damnation on them both.
Sir _Cred._ Well, to the point, Man: what didst do all this while?
_Lean._ Faith, I fancy he did not sleep, Sir _Credulous_.
_Lod._ No, Friend, she had too many Charms to keep me waking.
Sir _Cred._ Had she so? I shou’d have beg’d her Charms pardon, I tell
her that though.
_Wit._ Curse on my Sloth, Oh, how shall I dissemble? [Aside.
_Lean._ Thy Adventure was pretty lucky--but, _Wittmore_, thou dost not
relish it.
_Wit._ My Mind’s upon my Marriage, Sir; if I thought he lov’d
_Isabella_, I wou’d marry her to be reveng’d on him, at least I’ll vex
his Soul, as he has tortur’d mine.--Well, Gentlemen, you’ll dine with
me,--and give me your opinion of my Wife.
_Lod._ Where dost thou keep the Ceremony?
_Wit._ At Sir _Patient Fancy’s_, my Father-in-law.
_Lod._ How! Sir _Patient Fancy_ to be your Father-in-law?
_Lean._ My Uncle?
_Wit._ He’s fir’d,--’tis his Daughter, Sir, I am to marry.--
_Lod._ _Isabella!_ _Leander_, can it be? can she consent to this? and
can she love you?
_Wit._ Why, Sir, what do you see in me, shou’d render me unfit to be
belov’d?
[Angry.
_Lod._ Marry’d to day! by Heaven, it must not be, Sir.
[Draws him aside.
_Wit._ Why, Sir, I hope this is not the kind Lady who was so soft, so
sweet and charming last night.
_Lod._ Hold, Sir,--we yet are Friends.--
_Wit._ And might have still been so, hadst thou not basely rob’d me of
my Interest.
_Lod._ Death, do you speak my Language? [Ready to draw.
_Wit._ No, take a secret from my angry Heart, which all its Friendship
to thee cou’d not make me utter;--it was my Mistress you surpriz’d last
night.
_Lod._ Hah, my Lady _Fancy_ his Mistress? Curse on my prating Tongue.
[Aside.
Sir _Cred._ What a Devil’s all this, hard Words, Heart-burnings,
Resentments, and all that?
_Lean._ You are not quarrelling, I hope, my Friends?
_Lod._ All this, Sir, we suspected, and smok’d your borrowing Money last
night; and what I said was to gain the mighty secret that had been so
long kept from your Friends:--but thou hast done a baseness--
[Lays his Hand on his Sword.
_Lean._ Hold, what’s the matter?
_Wit._ Did you not rob me of the Victory then I’ve been so long a
toiling for?
_Lod._ If I had, ‘twould not have made her guilty, nor me a Criminal;
she taking me for one she lov’d, and I her for one that had no Interest
in my Friend: and who the Devil wou’d have refus’d so fine a Woman? Nor
had I but that I was prevented by her Husband.--But _Isabella_, Sir, you
must resign.
_Wit._ I will, provided that our Friendship’s safe; I am this day to
marry her, and if you can find a means to do’t in my room, I shall
resign my Interest to my Friend; for ‘tis the lovely Mother I adore.
_Lod._ And was it you I fought with in the Garden?
_Wit._ Yes, and thereby hangs a tale of a mistake almost equal to thine,
which I’ll at leisure tell you.
[Talks to _Lod._ and _Lean._
Sir _Cred._ I’m glad they’re Friends; Zoz, here was like to have been a
pretty Business; what damnable work this same Womankind makes in a
Nation of Fools that are Lovers?
_Wit._ Look ye, I am a damn’d dull Fellow at Invention, I’ll therefore
leave you to contrive matters by your selves, whilst I’ll go try how
kind Fortune will be to me this Morning, and see in what readiness my
Bride is. What you do must be thought on suddenly; I’ll wait on you
anon, and let you know how matters go.--I’m as impatient to know the
truth of this, as for an opportunity to enjoy _Lucia_.
[Goes out.
_Lod._ _Leander_, what shall I do?
_Lean._ You were best consult your Mother and Sister; Women are best at
Intrigues of this kind: But what becomes of me?
_Lod._ Let me alone to dispatch this Fool, I long to have him out of the
way, he begins to grow troublesome:--but now my Mother expects you.
_Lean._ Prithee be careful of me.-- [Exit _Lean._
Sir _Cred._ What was this long Whisper, something about me?
_Lod._ Why, yes, faith, I was persuading him to speak to his Friend
about this Business; but he swears there’s no hopes of a Reconciliation:
you are a dead Man, unless some cleanly conveyance of you be soon
thought on.
Sir _Cred._ Why, I’ll keep within doors, and defy Malice and foul
Weather.
_Lod._ Oh, he means to get a Warrant, and search for stolen Goods,
prohibited Commodities or Conventicles; there’s a thousand Civil
Pretences in this Town to commit Outrages--let me see.--
[They both pause a while.
Sir _Cred._ Well, I have thought,--and of such a Business, that the
Devil’s in’t if you don’t say I am a man of Intrigue.
_Lod._ What is’t?
Sir _Cred._ Ha, ha, ha, I must have leave to laugh to think how neatly I
shall defeat this Son of a Whore of a thunder thumping Hector.
_Lod._ Be serious, Sir, this is no laughing matter; if I might advise,
you should steal into the Country, for two or three days, till the
Business be blown over.
Sir _Cred._ Lord, thou art so hasty and conceited of thy own Invention,
thou wilt not give a Man leave to think in thy company: why, these were
my very thoughts; nay more, I have found a way to get off clever, though
he watch me as narrowly as an enraged Serjeant upon an Escape.
_Lod._ That indeed wou’d be a Master-piece.
Sir _Cred._ Why, look ye, do you see that great Basket there?
_Lod._ I do,--this you mean.-- [Pulls in a Basket.
Sir _Cred._ Very well, put me into this Basket, and cord me down, send
for a couple of Porters, hoist me away with a Direction, to an old Uncle
of mine, one Sir _Anthony Bubleton_ at _Bubleton-Hall_ in _Essex_; and
then whip slap-dash, as _Nokes_ says in the Play, I’m gone, and who’s
the wiser?
_Lod._ I like it well.
Sir _Cred._ Nay, lose no time in applauding, I’ll in, the Carrier goes
this Morning; farewel, _Lodwick_.--
[Goes Into the Basket.
I’ll be here again on _Thursday_. [_Lod._ writes a Direction.
Enter Boy.
_Lod._ By all means, Sir,--Who’s there,--call a couple of Porters.
[Exit Boy.
Sir _Cred._ One word more, the Carrier lies at the _Bell_ in
_Friday-street_, pray take care they set me not on my Head.--
[Pops in again.
Enter Boy and two Porters.
_Lod._ Come hither, cord up this Basket, and carry it where he shall
direct.--_Leander_ will never think he’s free from a Rival, till he have
him in his possession--To Mr. _Leander Fancy’s_ at the next door; say
’.is things for him out of the Country.--Write a Direction to him on the
Basket-lid. [Aside to the Boy.
[Porters going to carry off the Basket on a long Pole between ‘em.
Enter Lady _Knowell_.
L. _Kno._ What’s this? whither goes this Basket?
Sir _Cred._ Ah Lord! they are come with the Warrant.
[Peeps out of the Basket.
_Lod._ Only Books, Madam, offer’d me to buy, but they do not please me.
L. _Kno._ Books! nay then set down the Basket, Fellows, and let me
peruse ‘em; who are their Authors, and what their Language?
Sir _Cred._ A pox of all Learning, I say,--’tis my Mother-in-law.
[Porters going to set down the Basket.
_Lod._ Hold, hold, Madam, they are only _English_ and some Law-_French_.
L. _Kno._ Oh, faugh, how I hate that vile sort of Reading! up with ‘em
again, Fellows, and away.
[The Porters take up and go out.
_Lod._ God-a-mercy, Law-_French_. [Aside.
L. _Kno._ Law-_French_! out upon’t, I cou’d find in my heart to have the
Porters bring it back, and have it burnt for a Heresy to Learning.
_Lod._ Or thrown into the _Thames_, that it may float back to
_Normandy_, to have the Language new modell’d.
L. _Kno._ You say well; but what’s all this _ad Iphicli bonis_, where’s
Sir _Credulous_ all this while? his Affairs expect him.
_Lod._ So does _Leander_ your Ladyship within.
L. _Kno._ _Leander!_ _Hymen, Hymenæ_, I’ll wait on him, _Lodwick_; I am
resolv’d you shall marry _Isabella_ too; I have a design in my head that
cannot fail to give you the possession of her within this two or three
hours.
_Lod._ Such an Indulgence will make me the happiest of Men, and I have
something to say to your Ladyship that will oblige you to hasten the
design.
L. _Kno._ Come in, and let me know it.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II. _A Chamber in Sir _Patient Fancy’s_ House. A Table and
Chairs._
Enter Lady _Fancy_ in a Morning-dress, _Maundy_ with Pen, Ink and
Paper.
L. _Fan._ _Wittmore_ in the Garden, sayst thou, with _Isabella_! Oh
perjur’d Man! it was by his contrivance then I was betray’d last night.
_Maun._ I thought so too at first, Madam, till going to conduct Mr.
_Knowell_ through the Garden, he finding Mr. _Wittmore_ there with
_Isabella_ drew on him, and they both fought out of the Garden: what
mischief’s done I know not.--But, Madam, I hope Mr. _Knowell_ was not
uncivil to your Ladyship. I had no time to ask what pass’d between you.
L. _Fan._ Oh, name it not: I gave him all I had reserv’d for _Wittmore_.
I was so possess’d with the thoughts of that dear false one, I had no
sense free to perceive the cheat:--but I will be reveng’d.--Come let me
end my Letter, we are safe from interruption.
_Maun._ Yes, Madam, Sir _Patient_ is not yet up, the Doctors have been
with him, and tell him he is not so bad as we persuaded him.
L. _Fan._ And was he soft and kind?--By all that’s good, she loves him,
and they contriv’d this meeting.--My Pen and Ink--I am impatient to
unload my Soul of this great weight of Jealousy.--
[Sits down, and writes.
Enter Sir _Patient_, looking over her Shoulder a tip-toe.
_Maun._ Heaven! here’s Sir _Patient_, Madam.
L. _Fan._ Hah,--and ‘tis too late to hide the Paper; I was just going to
subscribe my Name.
Sir _Pat._ Good morrow, my Lady _Fancy_, your Ladyship is well employ’d,
I see.
L. _Fan._ Indeed I was, and pleasantly too: I am writing a Love-letter,
Sir.--But, my Dear, what makes you so soon up?
Sir _Pat._ A Love-letter!--let me see’t. [Goes to take it.
L. _Fan._ I’ll read it to you, Sir.
_Maun._ What mean you, Madam? [Aside.
Lady _Fancy_ reads.
It was but yesterday you swore you lov’d me, and I poor easy Fool
believ’d; but your last Night’s Infidelity has undeceiv’d my Heart,
and render’d you the falsest Man that ever Woman sigh’d for. Tell
me, how durst you, when I had prepared all things for our Enjoyment,
be so great a Devil to deceive my languishing Expectations? and in
your room send one that has undone
Your--
_Maun._ Sure she’s mad to read this to him.
Sir _Pat._ Hum,--I profess ingenuously--I think it is indeed a
Love-letter. My Lady _Fancy_, what means all this? as I take it, here
are Riddles and Mysteries in this Business.
L. _Fan._ Which thus, Sir, I’ll unfold.--
[Takes the Pen, and writes _Isabella_.
Sir _Pat._ How! undone--Your--_Isabella_, meaning my Daughter?
L. _Fan._ Yes, my Dear, going this morning into her Chamber, she not
being there, I took up a Letter that lay open on her Table, and out of
curiosity read it; as near as I can remember ‘twas to this purpose:
I writ it out now, because I had a mind thou shou’dst see’t; for I can
hide nothing from thee.
Sir _Pat._ A very good Lady, I profess! to whom is it directed?
L. _Fan._ Why,--Sir--What shall I say, I cannot lay it now on
_Lodwick_--
[Aside.
I believe she meant it to Mr. _Fainlove_, for whom else cou’d it be
design’d? she being so soon to marry him.
Sir _Pat._ Hah,--Mr. _Fainlove_! so soon so fond and amorous!
L. _Fan._ Alas, ‘tis the excusable fault of all young Women, thou knowst
I was just such another Fool to thee, so fond--and so in love.--
Sir _Pat._ Ha,--thou wert indeed, my Lady _Fancy_, indeed thou
wert.--But I will keep the Letter however, that this idle Baggage may
know I understand her Tricks and Intrigues.
[Puts up the Letter.
L. _Fan._ Nay then ‘twill out: No, I beseech you, Sir, give me the
Letter, I wou’d not for the World _Isabella_ shou’d know of my theft,
’.wou’d appear malicious in me:--Besides, Sir, it does not befit your
Gravity to be concern’d in the little Quarrels of Lovers.
Sir _Pat._ Lovers! Tell me not of Lovers, my Lady _Fancy_; with
Reverence to your good Ladyship, I value not whether there be Love
between ‘em or not. Pious Wedlock is my Business,--nay, I will let him
know his own too, that I will, with your Ladyship’s permission.
L. _Fan._ How unlucky I am!--Sir, as to his Chastisement, use your own
discretion, in which you do abound most plentifully. But pray let not
_Isabella_ hear of it; for as I wou’d preserve my Duty to thee, by
communicating all things to thee, so I wou’d conserve my good Opinion
with her.
Sir _Pat._ Ah, what a Blessing I possess in so excellent a Wife! and in
regard I am every day descending to my Grave.--ah--I will no longer hide
from thee the Provision I have made for thee, in case I die.--
L. _Fan._ This is the Musick that I long’d to hear.--Die!--Oh, that
fatal Word will kill me--
[Weeps.
Name it no more, if you’d preserve my Life.
Sir _Pat._ Hah--now cannot I refrain joining with her in affectionate
Tears.--No, but do not weep for me, my excellent Lady, for I have made a
pretty competent Estate for thee. Eight thousand Pounds, which I have
conceal’d in my Study behind the Wainscot on the left hand as you come
in.
L. _Fan._ Oh, tell me not of transitory Wealth, for I’m resolv’d not to
survive thee. Eight thousand Pound say you?--Oh, I cannot endure the
thoughts on’t.
[Weeps.
Sir _Pat._ Eight thousand Pounds just, my dearest Lady.
L. _Fan._ Oh, you’ll make me desperate in naming it,--is it in Gold or
Silver?
Sir _Pat._ In Gold, my dearest, the most part, the rest in Silver.
L. _Fan._ Good Heavens! why should you take such pleasure in afflicting
me? [Weeps.] --Behind the Wainscot say you?
Sir _Pat._ Behind the Wainscot, prithee be pacified,--thou makest me
lose my greatest Virtue, Moderation, to see thee thus: alas, we’re all
born to die.--
L. _Fan._ Again of dying! Uncharitable Man, why do you delight in
tormenting me?--On the left hand, say you as you go in?
Sir _Pat._ On the left hand, my Love: had ever Man such a Wife?
L. _Fan._ Oh, my Spirits fail me--lead me, or I shall faint,--lead me to
the Study, and shew me where ‘tis,--for I am able to hear no more of it.
Sir _Pat._ I will, if you will promise indeed and indeed, not to grieve
too much.
[Going to lead her out.
Enter _Wittmore_.
_Wit._ Heaven grant me some kind opportunity to speak with _Lucia_! hah,
she’s here,--and with her the fond Cuckold her Husband.--Death, he has
spy’d me, there’s no avoiding him.--
Sir _Pat._ Oh, are you there, Sir?--_Maundy_, look to my Lady,--I take
it, Sir, you have not dealt well with a Person of my Authority and
Gravity.
[Gropes for the Letter in his pocket.
_Wit._ So this can be nothing less than my being found out to be no
_Yorkshire_ Esq; a Pox of my _Geneva_ Breeding; it must be so, what the
Devil shall I say now?
Sir _Pat._ And this disingenuous dealing does ill become the Person you
have represented, I take it.
_Wit._ Represented! ay, there ‘tis, wou’d I were handsomely off o’ this
Business; neither _Lucia_ nor _Maundy_ have any intelligence in their
demure looks that can instruct a Man.--Why, faith, Sir,--I must
confess,--I am to blame--and that I have--a--
L. _Fan._ Oh, _Maundy_, he’ll discover all, what shall we do?
Sir _Pat._ Have what, Sir?
_Wit._ From my violent Passion for your Daughter--
L. _Fan._ Oh, I’m all Confusion.--
_Wit._ Egad, I am i’th wrong, I see by _Lucia’s_ Looks.
Sir _Pat._ That you have, Sir, you wou’d say, made a Sport and May-game
of the Ingagement of your Word; I take it, Mr. _Fainlove_, ‘tis not like
the Stock you come from.
_Wit._ Yes, I was like to have spoil’d all, ‘sheart, what fine work I
had made--but most certainly he has discover’d my Passion for his
Wife.--Well, Impudence assist me--I made, Sir, a trifle of my Word, Sir!
from whom have you this Intelligence?
Sir _Pat._ From whom shou’d I, Sir, but from my Daughter _Isabella_?
_Wit._ _Isabella!_ The malicious Baggage understood to whom my first
Courtship was address’d last Night, and has betray’d me.
Sir _Pat._ And, Sir, to let you see I utter nothing without Precaution,
pray read that Letter.
_Wit._ Hah--a Letter! what can this mean,--’tis _Lucia’s_ Hand, with
_Isabella’s_ Name to’t.--Oh, the dear cunning Creature, to make her
Husband the Messenger too.--How, I send one in my room!
[He reads.
L. _Fan._ Yes, Sir, you think we do not know of the Appointment you made
last Night; but having other Affairs in hand than to keep your Promise,
you sent Mr. _Knowell_ in your room,--false Man.
_Wit._ I send him, Madam! I wou’d have sooner died.
Sir _Pat._ Sir, as I take it, he cou’d not have known of your Designs
and Rendezvous without your Informations.--Were not you to have met my
Daughter here to night, Sir?
_Wit._ Yes, Sir, and I hope ‘tis no such great Crime, to desire a little
Conversation with the fair Person one loves, and is so soon to marry,
which I was hinder’d from doing by the greatest and most unlucky
Misfortune that ever arriv’d: but for my sending him, Madam, credit me,
nothing so much amazes me and afflicts me, as to know he was here.
Sir _Pat._ He speaks well, ingenuously, he does.--Well, Sir, for your
Father’s sake, whose Memory I reverence, I will for once forgive you.
But let’s have no more Night-works, no more Gambols, I beseech you, good
Mr. _Fainlove_.
_Wit._ I humbly thank ye, Sir, and do beseech you to tell the dear
Creature that writ this, that I love her more than Life or Fortune, and
that I wou’d sooner have kill’d the Man that usurp’d my place last
Night, than have assisted him.
L. _Fan._ Were you not false, then?--Now hang me if I do not credit him.
[Aside.
Sir _Pat._ Alas, good Lady! how she’s concern’d for my Interest, she’s
even jealous for my Daughter.
[Aside.
_Wit._ False! charge me not with unprofitable Sins; wou’d I refuse a
Blessing, or blaspheme a Power that might undo me? wou’d I die in my
full vigorous Health, or live in constant Pain? All this I cou’d, sooner
than be untrue.
Sir _Pat._ Ingenuously, my Lady _Fancy_, he speaks discreetly, and to
purpose.
L. _Fan._ Indeed, my Dear, he does, and like an honest Gentleman: and I
shou’d think my self very unreasonable not to believe him.--And, Sir,
I’ll undertake your Peace shall be made with your Mistress.
Sir _Pat._ Well, I am the most fortunate Man in a Wife, that ever had
the blessing of a good one.
_Wit._ Madam, let me fall at your Feet, and thank you for this
Bounty.--Make it your own case, and then consider what returns ought to
be made to the most passionate and faithful of Lovers.
[Kneels.
Sir _Pat._ I profess a wonderful good natur’d Youth, this; rise, Sir, my
Lady _Fancy_ shall do you all the kind Offices she can, o’ my word, she
shall.
L. _Fan._ I’m all Obedience, Sir, and doubtless shall obey you.
Sir _Pat._ You must, indeed you must; and, Sir, I’ll defer your
Happiness no longer, this Day you shall be marry’d.
_Wit._ This Day, Sir!--why, the Writings are not made.
Sir _Pat._ No matter, Mr. _Fainlove_; her Portion shall be equivalent to
the Jointure you shall make her, I take it, that’s sufficient.
_Wit._ A Jointure, quoth he! it must be in new _Eutopian_ Land
then.--And must I depart thus, without a kind Word, a Look, or a Billet,
to signify what I am to expect.
[Looking on her slily.
Sir _Pat._ Come, my Lady _Fancy_, shall I wait on you down to Prayer!
Sir, you will get your self in order for your Marriage, the great Affair
of human Life; I must to my Morning’s Devotion: Come, Madam.
[She endeavours to make Signs to _Wittmore_.
L. _Fan._ Alas, Sir, the sad Discourse you lately made me, has so
disorder’d me, and given me such a Pain in my Head, I am not able to
endure the Psalm-singing.
Sir _Pat._ This comes of your Weeping; but we’ll omit that part of th’
Exercise, and have no Psalm sung.
L. _Fan._ Oh, by no means, Sir, ‘twill scandalize the Brethren; for you
know a Psalm is not sung so much out of Devotion, as ‘tis to give notice
of our Zeal and pious Intentions: ‘tis a kind of Proclamation to the
Neighbourhood, and cannot be omitted.--Oh, how my Head aches!
_Wit._ He were a damn’d dull Lover, that cou’d not guess what she meant
by this.
[Aside.
Sir _Pat._ Well, my Lady _Fancy_, your Ladyship shall be obey’d,--come,
Sir, we’ll leave her to her Women. [Exit Sir _Pat._
[As _Wittmore_ goes out, he bows and looks on her; she gives him
a Sign.
_Wit._ That kind Look is a sufficient Invitation. [Exit.
L. _Fan._ _Maundy_, follow ‘em down, and bring _Wittmore_ back again.--
[Exit _Maun._] There’s now a necessity of our contriving to avoid this
Marriage handsomly,--and we shall at least make two Hours our own;
I never wish’d well to long Prayers till this Minute.
Enter _Wittmore_.
_Wit._ Oh my dear _Lucia_!
L. _Fan._ Oh _Wittmore_! I long to tell thee what a fatal Mistake had
like to have happened last Night.
_Wit._ My Friend has told me all, and how he was prevented by the coming
of your Husband from robbing me of those sacred Delights I languish for.
Oh, let us not lose inestimable Time in dull talking; but haste to give
each other the only Confirmation we can give, how little we are our own.
L. _Fan._ I see _Lodwick’s_ a Man of Honour, and deserves a Heart if I
had one to give him.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III. A Hall.
Enter Sir _Patient_ and _Roger_.
Sir _Pat._ _Roger_, is Prayer ready, _Roger_?
_Rog._ Truly nay, Sir, for Mr. _Gogle_ has taken too much of the
Creature this Morning, and is not in case, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ How mean you, Sirrah, that Mr. _Gogle_ is overtaken with
Drink?
_Rog._ Nay, Sir, he hath over-eaten himself at Breakfast only.
Sir _Pat._ Alas, and that’s soon done, for he hath a sickly Stomach as
well as I, poor Man. Where is _Bartholomew_ the Clerk? he must hold
forth then to day.
_Rog._ Verily he is also disabled: for going forth last Night by your
Commandment to smite the Wicked, he received a blow over the
_Pericranium_.--
Sir _Pat._ Why, how now, Sirrah, Latin! the Language of the Beast!
hah--and what then, Sir?
_Rog._ Which Blow, I doubt, Sir, hath spoil’d both his Praying and his
Eating.
Sir _Pat._ Hah! What a Family’s here? no Prayer to day!
Enter _Nurse_ and _Fanny_.
_Nurs._ Nay verily it shall all out, I will be no more the dark Lanthorn
to the deeds of Darkness.
Sir _Pat._ What’s the matter here? [Exit _Roger_.
_Nurs._ Sir, this young Sinner has long been privy to all the daily and
nightly meetings between Mr. _Lodwick_ and _Isabella_; and just now I
took her tying a Letter to a String in the Garden, which he drew up to
his Window: and I have born it till my Conscience will bear it no
longer.
Sir _Pat._ Hah, so young a Baud!--Tell me, Minion--private meeting! tell
me truth, I charge ye, when? where? how? and how often? Oh, she’s
debauch’d!--her Reputation ruin’d, and she’ll need a double Portion.
Come, tell me truth, for this little Finger here has told me all.
_Fan._ Oh Geminy, Sir, then that little Finger’s the hougesest great
Lyer as ever was.
Sir _Pat._ Huzzy, huzzy--I will have thee whip’d most unmercifully:
Nurse, fetch me the Rod.
_Fan._ Oh, pardon me, Sir, this one time, and I’ll tell all.
[Kneels.
--Sir--I have seen him in the Garden, but not very often.
Sir _Pat._ Often! Oh, my Family’s dishonoured. Tell me truly what he
us’d to do there, or I will have thee whipt without cessation. Oh, I’m
in a cold Sweat; there’s my fine Maid, was he with her long?
_Fan._ Long enough.
Sir _Pat._ Long enough!--oh, ‘tis so, long enough,--for what, hah? my
dainty Miss, tell me, and didst thou leave ‘em?
_Fan._ They us’d to send me to gather Flowers to make Nosegays, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ Ah, Demonstration; ‘tis evident if they were left alone that
they were naught, I know’t.--And where were they the while? in the close
Arbour?--Ay, ay--I will have it cut down, it is the Pent-house of
Iniquity, the very Coverlid of Sin.
_Fan._ No, Sir, they sat on the Primrose Bank.
Sir _Pat._ What, did they sit all the while, or stand--or--lie--or--oh,
how was’t?
_Fan._ They only sat indeed, Sir Father.
Sir _Pat._ And thou didst not hear a Word they said all the while?
_Fan._ Yes, I did, Sir, and the Man talk’d a great deal of this, and of
that, and of t’other, and all the while threw Jessamine in her Bosom.
Sir _Pat._ Well said, and did he nothing else?
_Fan._ No, indeed, Sir Father, nothing.
Sir _Pat._ But what did she say to the Man again?
_Fan._ She said, let me see.--Ay, she said, Lord, you’ll forget your
self, and stay till somebody catch us.
Sir _Pat._ Ah, very fine,--then what said he?
_Fan._ Then he said, Well if I must be gone, let me leave thee with this
hearty Curse, A Pox take thee all over for making me love thee so
confoundedly.
Sir _Pat._ Oh horrible!
_Fan._ --Oh, I cou’d live here for ever,--that was when he kist her--her
Hand only. Are you not a damn’d Woman for making so fond a Puppy of me?
Sir _Pat._ Oh unheard-of Wickedness!
_Fan._ Wou’d the Devil had thee, and all thy Family, e’er I had seen thy
cursed Face.
Sir _Pat._ Oh, I’ll hear no more, I’ll hear no more!--why, what a
blasphemous Wretch is this?
_Fan._ Pray, Sir Father, do not tell my Sister of this, she’ll be
horribly angry with me.
Sir _Pat._ No, no, get you gone.--Oh, I am Heart-sick--I’ll up and
consult with my Lady what’s fit to be done in this Affair. Oh, never was
the like heard of.--
[Goes out, _Fanny_ and _Nurse_ go the other way.
SCENE IV. _The Lady _Fancy’s_ Bed-Chamber; she’s discover’d with
_Wittmore_ in disorder. A Table, Sword, and Hat._
_Maun._ [Entering.] O Madam, Sir _Patient’s_ coming up.
L. _Fan._ Coming up, say you!
_Maun._ He’s almost on the top of the Stairs, Madam.
_Wit._ What shall I do?
L. _Fan._ Oh, damn him, I know not; if he see thee here after my
pretended Illness, he must needs discover why I feign’d.--I have no
excuse ready,--this Chamber’s unlucky, there’s no avoiding him;
here--step behind the Bed; perhaps he has only forgot his Psalm-Book and
will not stay long.
[_Wittmore_ runs behind the Bed.
Enter Sir _Patient_.
Sir _Pat._ Oh, oh, pardon this Interruption, my Lady _Fancy_--Oh, I am
half killed, my Daughter, my Honour--my Daughter, my Reputation.
L. _Fan._ Good Heavens, Sir, is she dead?
Sir _Pat._ I wou’d she were, her Portion and her Honour would then be
sav’d. But oh, I’m sick at Heart, _Maundy_, fetch me the Bottle of
_Mirabilis_ in the Closet,--she’s wanton, unchaste.
Enter _Maundy_ with the Bottle.
Oh, I cannot speak it; oh, the Bottle-- [Drinks.] she has lost her Fame,
her Shame, her Name.--Oh, [Drinks.] that is not the right Bottle, that
with the red Cork [Drinks.]
[Exit _Maundy_.
and is grown a very t’other-end-of-the-Town Creature, a very Apple of
_Sodom_, fair without and filthy within, what shall we do with her?
she’s lost, undone; hah!
Enter _Maundy_.
let me see, [Drinks.] this is [Drinks.] not as I take it-- [Drinks.]
--no, ‘tis not the right,--she’s naught, she’s leud, [Drinks.] --oh, how
you vex me-- [Drinks.] This is not the right Bottle yet,-- [Drinks.] No,
no, here.
[Gives her the Bottle.
_Maun._ You said that with the red Cork, Sir. [Goes out.
Sir _Pat._ I meant the blue;--I know not what I say.-- In fine, my Lady,
let’s marry her out of hand, for she is fall’n, fall’n to Perdition; she
understands more Wickedness than had she been bred in a profane Nunnery,
a Court,
Enter _Maundy_.
or a Play-house, [Drinks.] --therefore let’s marry her instantly, out of
hand [Drinks.] Misfortune on Misfortune. [Drinks.] --But Patience is a
wonderful Virtue, [Drinks.] --Ha--this is very comfortable,--very
consoling--I profess if it were not for these Creatures, ravishing
Comforts, sometimes, a Man were a very odd sort of an Animal [Drinks.]
But ah--see how all things were ordain’d for the use and comfort of Man.
[Drinks.]
L. _Fan._ I like this well: Ah, Sir, ‘tis very true, therefore receive
it plentifully and thankfully.
Sir _Pat._ [Drinks.] Ingenuously--it hath made me marvellous lightsome;
I profess it hath a very notable Faculty,--very knavish--and as it were,
waggish,--but hah, what have we there on the Table? a Sword and Hat?
[Sees _Wittmore’s_ Sword and Hat on the Table, which he had
forgot.
L. _Fan._ Curse on my Dulness.--Oh, these, Sir, they are Mr.
_Fainlove’s_--he being so soon to be marry’d and being straitned for
time, sent these to _Maundy_ to be new trim’d with Ribbon, Sir--that’s
all. Take ‘em away, you naughty Baggage, must I have Mens things seen in
my Chamber?
Sir _Pat._ Nay, nay, be not angry, my little Rogue; I like the young
Man’s Frugality well. Go, go your ways, get you gone, and finefy your
Knacks and Tranghams, and do your Business--go.
[Smiling on _Maundy_, gently beating her with his Hand: she goes
out, he bolts the Door after her, and sits down on the Bed’s feet.
L. _Fan._ Heavens, what means he!
Sir _Pat._ Come hither to me, my little Ape’s Face,--Come, come I
say--what, must I come fetch you?--Catch her, catch her--catch her,
catch her, catch her.
[Running after her.
L. _Fan._ Oh, Sir, I am so ill I can hardly stir.
Sir _Pat._ I’ll make ye well, come hither, ye Monky-face, did it, did
it, did it? alas for it, a poor silly Fool’s Face, dive it a blow, and
I’ll beat it.
L. _Fan._ You neglect your Devotion, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ No, no, no Prayer to day, my little Rascal,--no Prayer to
day--poor _Gogle’s_ sick.--Come hither, why, you refractory Baggage you,
come or I shall touze you, ingenuously I shall; tom, tom, or I’ll whip
it.
L. _Fan._ Have you forgot your Daughter, Sir, and your Disgrace?
Sir _Pat._ A fiddle on my Daughter, she’s a Chick of the old Cock I
profess; I was just such another Wag when young.--But she shall be
marry’d to morrow, a good Cloke for her Knavery; therefore come your
ways, ye Wag, we’ll take a nap together: good faith, my little Harlot,
I mean thee no harm.
L. _Fan._ No, o’ my Conscience.
Sir _Pat._ Why then, why then, you little Mungrel?
L. _Fan._ His precise Worship is as it were disguis’d, the outward Man
is over-taken--pray, Sir, lie down, and I’ll come to you presently.
Sir _Pat._ Away, you Wag, will you? will you?--Catch her there, catch
her.
L. _Fan._ I will indeed,--Death, there’s no getting from him,--pray lie
down--and I’ll cover thee close enough I’ll warrant thee.-- [Aside.
[He lies down, she covers him.
Had ever Lovers such spiteful luck! hah--surely he sleeps, bless the
mistaken Bottle.--Ay, he sleeps,--whilst, _Wittmore_--
[He coming out falls; pulls the Chair down, Sir _Patient_ flings
open the Curtain.
_Wit._ Plague of my over-care, what shall I do?
Sir _Pat._ What’s that, what Noise is that? let me see, we are not safe;
lock up the Doors, what’s the matter? What Thunder-Clap was that?
[_Wittmore_ runs under the Bed; she runs to Sir _Patient_, and
holds him in his Bed.
L. _Fan._ Pray, Sir, lie still, ‘twas I was only going to sit down, and
a sudden Giddiness took me in my Head, which made me fall, and with me
the Chair; there is no danger near ye, Sir--I was just coming to sleep
by you.
Sir _Pat._ Go, you’re a flattering Huswife; go, catch her, catch her,
catch her.
[Lies down, she covers him.
L. _Fan._ Oh, how I tremble at the dismal apprehension of being
discover’d! Had I secur’d my self of the eight thousand Pound, I wou’d
not value _Wittmore’s_ being seen. But now to be found out, wou’d call
my Wit in question, for ‘tis the Fortunate alone are wise.--
[_Wittmore_ peeps from under the Bed; she goes softly to the Door
to open it.
_Wit._ Was ever Man so plagu’d?--hah--what’s this?--confound my
tell-tale Watch, the Larum goes, and there’s no getting to’t to silence
it.--Damn’d Misfortune!
[Sir _Patient_ rises, and flings open the Curtains.
Sir _Pat._ Hah, what’s that?
L. _Fan._ Heavens! what’s the matter? we are destin’d to discovery.
[She runs to Sir _Patient_, and leaves the Door still fast.
Sir _Pat._ What’s that I say, what’s that? let me see, let me see, what
ringing’s that, Oh, let me see what ‘tis.
[Strives to get up, she holds him down.
L. _Fan._ Oh, now I see my Fate’s inevitable! Alas, that ever I was born
to see’t.
[Weeps.
_Wit._ Death, she’ll tell him I am here: Nay, he must know’t, a Pox of
all Invention and Mechanicks, and he were damn’d that first contriv’d a
Watch.
Sir _Pat._ Hah, dost weep?--why dost weep? I say, what Noise is that?
what ringing? hah.--
L. _Fan._ ‘Tis that, ‘tis that, my Dear, that makes me weep. Alas,
I never hear this fatal Noise, but some dear Friend dies.
Sir _Pat._ Hah, dies! Oh, that must be I, ay, ay, Oh.
L. _Fan._ I’ve heard it, Sir, this two Days, but wou’d not tell you of
it.
Sir _Pat._ Hah! heard it these two Days! Oh, what is’t a
Death-watch?--hah.--
L. _Fan._ Ay, Sir, a Death-watch, a certain Larum Death-watch, a thing
that has warn’d our Family this hundred Years, oh,--I’m the most undone
Woman!
_Wit._ A Blessing on her for a dear dissembling Jilt--Death and the
Devil, will it never cease?
Sir _Pat._ A Death-watch! ah, ‘tis so, I’ve often heard of these
things--methinks it sounds as if ‘twere under the Bed.--
[Offers to look, she holds him.
L. _Fan._ You think so, Sir, but that ‘tis about the Bed is my Grief; it
therefore threatens you: Oh wretched Woman!
Sir _Pat._ Ay, ay, I’m too happy in a Wife to live long: Well, I will
settle my House at _Hogsdowne_, with the Land about it, which is 500_l._
a Year upon thee, live or die,--do not grieve.--
[Lays himself down.
L. _Fan._ Oh, I never had more Cause; come try to sleep, your Fate may
be diverted--whilst I’ll to Prayers for your dear Health.-- [Covers him,
draws the Curtains.] I have almost run out all my stock of Hypocrisy,
and that hated Art now fails me.--Oh all ye Powers that favour distrest
Lovers, assist us now, and I’ll provide against your future Malice.
[She makes Signs to _Wittmore_, he peeps.
_Wit._ I’m impatient of Freedom, yet so much Happiness as I but now
injoy’d without this part of Suffering had made me too blest.--Death and
Damnation! what curst luck have I?
[Makes Signs to her to open the Door: whilst he creeps softly from
under the Bed to the Table, by which going to raise himself, he
pulls down all the Dressing-things: at the same instant Sir
_Patient_ leaps from the Bed, and she returns from the Door, and
sits on _Wittmore’s_ Back as he lies on his Hands and Knees, and
makes as if she swooned.
Sir _Pat._ What’s the matter? what’s the matter? has Satan broke his
everlasting Chain, and got loose abroad to plague poor Mortals?
hah--what’s the matter?
[Runs to his Lady.
L. _Fan._ Oh, help, I die--I faint--run down, and call for help.
Sir _Pat._ My Lady dying? oh, she’s gone, she faints,--what ho, who
waits?
[Cries and bauls.
L. _Fan._ Oh, go down and bring me help, the Door is lock’d,--they
cannot hear ye,--oh--I go--I die.--
[He opens the Door, and calls help, help.
_Wit._ Damn him! there’s no escaping without I kill the Dog.
[From under her, peeping.
L. _Fan._ Lie still, or we are undone.--
Sir _Patient_ returns with _Maundy_.
_Maun._ Hah, discover’d!
Sir _Pat._ Help, help, my Lady dies.
_Maun._ Oh, I perceive how’tis.--Alas, she’s dead, quite gone; oh, rub
her Temples, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ Oh, I’m undone then,-- [Weeps.] Oh my Dear, my virtuous Lady!
L. _Fan._ Oh, where’s my Husband, my dearest Husband--Oh, bring him near
me.
Sir _Pat._ I’m here, my excellent Lady.--
[She takes him about the Neck, and raises her self up, gives
_Wittmore_ a little kick behind.
_Wit._ Oh the dear lovely Hypocrite, was ever Man so near discovery?--
[Goes out.
Sir _Pat._ Oh, how hard she presses my Head to her Bosom!
_Maun._ Ah, that grasping hard, Sir, is a very bad Sign.
Sir _Pat._ How does my good, my dearest Lady _Fancy_?
L. _Fan._ Something better now, give me more Air,--that dismal Larum
Death-watch had almost kill’d me.
Sir _Pat._ Ah precious Creature, how she afflicts her self for
me.--Come, let’s walk into the Dining-room, ‘tis more airy, from thence
into my Study, and make thy self Mistress of that Fortune I have
design’d thee, thou best of Women.
[Exeunt, leading her.
ACT V.
SCENE I. _A Room in Sir _Patient Fancy’s_ House. A Table, and six
Chairs._
Enter _Isabella_ reading a Letter, _Betty_ tricking her.
_Isab._ How came you by this Letter?
_Bet._ Miss _Fanny_ receiv’d it by a String from his Window, by which he
took up that you writ to him this Morning.
_Isab._ What means this nicety? forbear I say.--
[Puts _Betty_ from her.
_Bet._ You cannot be too fine upon your Wedding-day.
_Isab._ Thou art mistaken, leave me,--whatever he says here to satisfy
my Jealousy, I am confirm’d that he was false: yet this assurance to
free me from this intended Marriage, makes me resolve to pardon him,
however guilty.--
Enter _Wittmore_.
How now! what means this Insolence? How dare you, having so lately made
your guilty approaches, venture again into my presence?
_Wit._ Why? Is there any danger, but what’s so visible in those fair
Eyes?
_Isab._ And there may lie enough, Sir, when they’re angry. By what
Authority do you make this saucy Visit?
_Wit._ That of a Husband, Madam; I come to congratulate the mighty Joy
this Day will bring you.
_Isab._ Thou darst not marry me, there will be danger in’t.
_Wit._ Why, sure you do not carry Death in your Embraces, I find no
Terror in that lovely Shape, no Daggers in that pretty scornful Look;
that Breath that utters so much Anger now, last night was sweet as
new-blown Roses are,--and spoke such Words, so tender and so kind.
_Isab._ And canst thou think they were address’d to thee?
_Wit._ No, nor cou’d the Shade of Night hide the Confusion which
disorder’d you, at the discovery that I was not he, the blessed he you
look’d for.
_Isab._ Leave me, thou hated Object of my Soul.
_Wit._ This will not serve your turn, for I must marry you.
_Isab._ Then thou art a Fool, and drawest thy Ruin on; why, I will hate
thee,--hate thee most extremely.
_Wit._ That will not anger me.
_Isab._ Why, I will never let thee touch me, nor kiss my Hand, nor come
into my sight.
_Wit._ Are there no other Women kind, fair, and to be purchas’d? he
cannot starve for Beauty in this Age, that has a stock to buy.
_Isab._ Why, I will cuckold thee, look to’t, I will most damnably.
_Wit._ So wou’d you, had you lov’d me, in a year or two; therefore like
a kind civil Husband, I’ve made provision for you, a Friend, and one I
dare trust my Honour with,--’tis Mr. _Knowell_, Madam.
_Isab._ _Lodwick!_ What Devil brought that Name to his knowledge?--Canst
thou know him, and yet dare hope to marry me?
_Wit._ We have agreed it, and on these conditions.
_Isab._ Thou basely injurest him, he cannot do a Deed he ought to blush
for: _Lodwick_ do this! Oh, do not credit it,--prithee be just and kind
for thy own Honour’s sake; be quickly so, the hasty minutes fly, and
will anon make up the fatal Hour that will undo me.
_Wit._ ‘Tis true, within an hour you must submit to _Hymen_, there’s no
avoiding it.
_Isab._ Nay, then be gone, my poor submissive Prayers, and all that dull
Obedience Custom has made us Slaves to.--Do sacrifice me, lead me to the
Altar, and see if all the holy mystick Words can conjure from me the
consenting Syllable: No, I will not add one word to make the Charm
complete, but stand as silent in the inchanting Circle, as if the
Priests were raising Devils there.
Enter _Lodwick_.
_Lod._ Enough, enough, my charming _Isabella_, I am confirm’d.
_Isab._ _Lodwick!_ what good Angel conducted thee hither?
_Lod._ E’en honest _Charles Wittmore_ here, thy Friend and mine, no
Bug-bear Lover he.
_Isab._ _Wittmore!_ that Friend I’ve often heard thee name? Now some
kind mischief on him, he has so frighted me, I scarce can bring my Sense
to so much order, to thank him that he loves me not.
_Lod._ Thou shalt defer that payment to more leisure; we’re Men of
business now. My Mother, knowing of a Consultation of Physicians which
your Father has this day appointed to meet at his House, has bribed
Monsieur _Turboone_ his _French_ Doctor in Pension, to admit of a Doctor
or two of her recommending, who shall amuse him with discourse till we
get ourselves married; and to make it the more ridiculous, I will
release Sir _Credulous_ from the Basket, I saw it in the Hall as I came
through, we shall have need of the Fool.
[Exit _Wittmore_.
Enter _Wittmore_, pulling in the Basket.
_Wit._ ‘Twill do well.
_Lod._ Sir _Credulous_, how is’t, Man? [Opens the Basket.
Sir _Cred._ What, am I not at the Carrier’s yet?--Oh _Lodwick_, thy
Hand, I’m almost poison’d--This Basket wants airing extremely, it smells
like an old Lady’s Wedding Gown of my acquaintance.--But what’s the
danger past, Man?
_Lod._ No, but there’s a necessity of your being for some time disguis’d
to act a Physician.
Sir _Cred._ How! a Physician! that I can easily do, for I understand
Simples.
_Lod._ That’s not material, so you can but banter well, be very grave,
and put on a starch’d Countenance.
Sir _Cred._ Banter! what’s that, Man?
_Lod._ Why, Sir, talking very much, and meaning just nothing; be full of
Words without any connection, sense or conclusion. Come in with me, and
I’ll instruct you farther.
Sir _Cred._ Pshaw, is that all? say no more on’t, I’ll do’t, let me
alone for Bantering--But this same damn’d Rival--
_Lod._ He’s now watching for you without and means to souse upon you;
but trust to me for your security; come away, I have your Habit ready.
[Goes out.] --This day shall make thee mine, dear _Isabella_.--
[Exit _Lodwick_ and _Wittmore_.
Enter Sir _Patient_, _Leander_, and _Roger_.
Sir _Pat._ Marry _Lucretia_! is there no Woman in the City fit for you,
but the Daughter of the most notorious fantastical Lady within the
Walls?
_Lean._ Yet that fantastical Lady you thought fit for a Wife for me,
Sir.
Sir _Pat._ Yes, Sir, Foppery with Money had been something; but a poor
Fop, hang’t, ‘tis abominable.
_Lean._ Pray hear me, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ Sirrah, Sirrah, you’re a Jackanapes, ingenuously you are,
Sir: marry _Lucretia_, quoth he?
_Lean._ If it were so, Sir, where’s her fault?
Sir _Pat._ Why, Mr. Coxcomb, all over. Did I with so much care endeavour
to marry thee to the Mother, only to give thee opportunity with
_Lucretia_?
Enter Lady _Knowell_.
_Lean._ This Anger shews your great Concern for me.
Sir _Pat._ For my Name I am, but ‘twere no matter if thou wert hang’d,
and thou deservest it for thy leud cavaliering Opinion.--They say thou
art a Papist too, or at least a Church-of-_England_ Man, and I profess
there’s not a Pin to chuse.--Marry _Lucretia_!
L. _Kno._ Were I querimonious, I shou’d resent the Affront this
_Balatroon_ has offer’d me.
_Isab._ Dear Madam, for my sake do not anger him now. [Aside to her.
L. _Kno._ Upon my Honour, you are very free with my Daughter, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ How! she here! now for a Peal from her eternal Clapper; I had
rather be confin’d to an Iron-mill.
L. _Kno._ Sure _Lucretia_ merits a Husband of as much worth as your
Nephew, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ A better, Madam, for he’s the leudest Hector in the Town; he
has all the Vices of Youth, Whoring, Swearing, Drinking, Damning,
Fighting,--and a thousand more, numberless and nameless.
L. _Kno._ Time, Sir, may make him more abstemious.
Sir _Pat._ Oh, never, Madam! ‘tis in’s Nature, he was born with it, he’s
given over to Reprobation, ‘tis bred i’th’ bone,--he’s lost.
_Lean._ This is the first good Office that ever he did me.
L. _Kno._ What think you, Sir, if in defiance of your Inurbanity, I take
him with all these Faults my self?
Sir _Pat._ How, Madam!
L. _Kno._ Without more Ambages, Sir, I have consider’d your former
Desires, and have consented to marry him, notwithstanding your
Exprobrations.
Sir _Pat._ May I believe this, Madam? and has your Ladyship that
Goodness?--and hast thou, my Boy, so much Wit? Why, this is something
now.--Well, he was ever the best and sweetest-natur’d Youth.--Why, what
a notable Wag’s this? and is it true, my Boy, hah?
_Lean._ Yes, Sir, I had told you so before, had you permitted me to
speak.
Sir _Pat._ Well, Madam, he is only fit for your excellent Ladyship, he
is the prettiest civillest Lad.--Well, go thy ways; I shall never see
the like of thee; no--Ingenuously, the Boy’s made for ever; two thousand
Pounds a Year, besides Money, Plate and Jewels; made for ever.--Well,
Madam, the satisfaction I take in this Alliance, has made me resolve to
give him immediately my Writings of all my Land in _Berkshire_, five
hundred Pounds a year, Madam: and I wou’d have you married this Morning
with my Daughter, so one Dinner and one Rejoicing will serve both.
L. _Kno._ That, Sir, we have already agreed upon.
Sir _Pat._ Well, I’ll fetch the Writings. Come, _Isabella_, I’ll not
trust you out of my sight to day.
[Ex. Sir _Pat._ and _Isab._
_Lean._ Well then, Madam, you are resolv’d upon this business of
Matrimony.
L. _Kno._ Was it not concluded between us, Sir, this Morning? and at the
near approach do you begin to fear?
_Lean._ Nothing, Madam, since I’m convinc’d of your Goodness.
L. _Kno._ You flatter, Sir, this is mere Adulation.
_Lean._ No, I am that wild Extravagant my Uncle render’d me, and cannot
live confin’d.
L. _Kno._ To one Woman you mean? I shall not stand with you for a
Mistress or two; I hate a dull morose unfashionable Blockhead to my
Husband; nor shall I be the first example of a suffering Wife, Sir.
Women were created poor obedient things.
_Lean._ And can you be content to spare me five or six nights in a week?
L. _Kno._ Oh, you’re too reasonable.
_Lean._ And for the rest, if I get drunk, perhaps I’ll give to you: yet
in my drink I’m damn’d ill-natur’d too, and may neglect my Duty; perhaps
shall be so wicked, to call you cunning, deceitful, jilting, base, and
swear you have undone me, swear you have ravish’d from my faithful Heart
all that cou’d make it bless’d or happy.
Enter _Lucretia_ weeping.
L. _Kno._ How now, _Lucretia_!
_Lucr._ Oh Madam, give me leave to kneel before, and tell you, if you
pursue the Cruelty I hear you’re going to commit, I am the most lost,
most wretched Maid that breathes; we two have plighted Faiths, and
shou’d you marry him, ‘twere so to sin as Heaven would never pardon.
L. _Kno._ Rise, Fool.
_Lucr._ Never till you have given me back _Leander_, or leave to live no
more.--Pray kill me, Madam; and the same Flowers that deck your nuptial
Bed,
Shall serve to strow my Herse, when I shall lie
A dead cold Witness of your Tyranny.
L. _Kno._ Rise; I still design’d him yours.--I saw with pleasure, Sir,
your reclination from my Addresses.--I have proved both your Passions,
and ‘twere unkind not to crown ‘em with the due Præmium of each others
Merits.
[Gives her to _Lean._
_Lean._ Can Heaven and you agree to be so bountiful?
L. _Kno._ Be not amaz’d at this turn, _Rotat omne fatum_.--But no
more,--keep still that mask of Love we first put on, till you have
gain’d the Writings: for I have no Joy beyond cheating that filthy Uncle
of thine.--_Lucretia_, wipe your Eyes, and prepare for _Hymen_, the Hour
draws near. _Thalessio_, _Thalessio_, as the _Romans_ cry’d.
_Lucr._ May you still be admir’d as you deserve!
Enter Sir _Patient_ with Writings, and _Isabella_.
Sir _Pat._ How, Madam _Lucretia_, and in Tears?
L. _Kno._ A little disgusted, Sir, with her Father-in-law, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ Oh, is that all? hold up thy Head, Sweet-heart, thy turn’s
next.--Here, Madam, I surrender my Title, with these Writings, and with
’.m my Joy, my Life, my Darling, my _Leander_.--Now let’s away, where’s
Mr. _Fainlove_?
_Isab._ He’s but stept into _Cheapside_, to fit the Ring, Sir, and will
be here immediately.
Sir _Pat._ I have Business anon about eleven of the Clock,
a Consultation of Physicians, to confer about this Carcase of mine.
_Lean._ Physicians, Sir, what to do?
Sir _Pat._ To do! why, to take their advice, Sir, and to follow it.
_Lean._ For what, I beseech you, Sir?
Sir _Pat._ Why, Sir, for my Health.
_Lean._ I believe you are not sick, Sir, unless they make you so.
Sir _Pat._ They make me so!--Do you hear him, Madam--Am not I sick, Sir?
not I, Sir _Patient Fancy_, sick?
L. _Kno._ He’ll destroy my Design.--How, Mr. _Fancy_, not Sir _Patient_
sick? or must he be incinerated before you’ll credit it?
Sir _Pat._ Ay, Madam, I want but dying to undeceive him, and yet I am
not sick!
_Lean._ Sir, I love your Life, and wou’d not have you die with Fancy and
Conceit.--
Sir _Pat._ Fancy and Conceit! do but observe him, Madam,--what do you
mean, Sir, by Fancy and Conceit?
L. _Kno._ He’ll ruin all;--why, Sir,--he means--
Sir _Pat._ Nay, let him alone, let him alone, (with your Ladyship’s
pardon)--Come, Sir,--Fancy and Conceit, I take it, was the Question in
debate.--
_Lean._ I cannot prove this to you, Sir, by force of Argument, but by
Demonstration I will, if you will banish all your cozening Quacks, and
take my wholesome Advice.
Sir _Pat._ Do but hear him, Madam: not prove it!
L. _Kno._ Sir, he means nothing.--Not sick! alas, Sir, you’re very sick.
Sir _Pat._ Ay, ay, your Ladyship is a Lady of profound Knowledge.--Why,
have I not had the advice of all the Doctors in _England_, and have I
not been in continual Physick this twenty Years:--and yet I am not sick!
Ask my dear Lady, Sir, how sick I am, she can inform you.
[L. _Kno._ goes and talks to _Isab._
_Lean._ She does her endeavour, Sir, to keep up the Humour.
Sir _Pat._ How, Sir?
_Lean._ She wishes you dead, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ What said the Rascal? wishes me dead!
_Lean._ Sir, she hates you.
Sir _Pat._ How! hate me! what, my Lady hate me?
_Lean._ She abuses your Love, plays tricks with ye, and cheats ye, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ Was ever so profane a Wretch! What, you will not prove this
neither?
_Lean._ Yes, by demonstration too.
Sir _Pat._ Why, thou saucy Varlet, Sirrah, Sirrah, thank my Lady here I
do not cudgel thee.--Well, I will settle the rest of my Estate upon her
to morrow, I will, Sir; and thank God you have what you have, Sir, make
much on’t.
_Lean._ Pardon me, Sir, ‘tis not my single Opinion, but the whole City
takes notice on’t: that I tell it you, Sir, is the Effect of my Duty,
not Interest. Pray give me leave to prove this to you, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ What, you are at your Demonstration again?--come--let’s hear.
_Lean._ Why, Sir, give her frequent opportunities,--and then surprize
her;--or, by pretending to settle all upon her,--give her your Power,
and see if she do not turn you out of Doors;--or--by feigning you are
sick to death--or indeed by dying.
Sir _Pat._ I thank you, Sir,--this indeed is Demonstration, I take it.
[Pulls off his Hat.
_Lean._ I mean but feigning, Sir; and be a witness your self of her
Sorrow, or Contempt.
Sir _Pat._ [Pauses.] Hah--hum,--why, ingenuously, this may be a very
pretty Project.--Well, Sir, suppose I follow your advice?--nay,
I profess I will do so, not to try her Faith, but to have the pleasure
to hear her conjugal Lamentations, feel her Tears bedew my Face, and her
sweet Mouth kissing my Cheeks a thousand times; verily a wonderful
Comfort.--And then, Sir, what becomes of your Demonstration?--
Enter _Wittmore_ with the Ring.
Oh--Mr. _Fainlove_, come, come, you’re tardy, let’s away to Church.
Enter _Roger_.
_Rog._ Sir, here is Doctor _Turboon_, and those other Doctors your
Worship expected.
Enter Lady _Fancy_ and _Bartholomew_.
Sir _Pat._ The Doctors already!--well, bring ‘em up; come, Madam, we
have waited for your Ladyship,--bring up the Doctors, _Roger_.
[Exit _Roger_.
L. _Fan._ _Wittmore_, I have now brought that design to a happy
Conclusion, for which I married this formal Ass; I’ll tell thee more
anon,--we are observ’d.
L. _Kno._ Oh, _Lodwick’s_ come!
Enter _Lodwick_, Monsieur _Turboon_, Fat Doctor, _Amsterdam_,
_Leyden_, Sir _Credulous_.
Sir _Pat._ Doctor _Turboon_, your Servant, I expected you not this two
hours.
_Turb._ Nor had ee com, Sir, bot for dese wordy Gentlemen, whos Affairs
wode not permit dem to come at your hoar.
Sir _Pat._ Are they English pray?
_Turb._ Dis is, Sir,-- [Pointing to _Lod._] an admirable Physician, and
a rare Astrologer.--Dis speaks good _English_, bot a _Collender_ born.
[Points to Sir _Cred._
Sir _Cred._ What a pox, does the Fellow call me a Cullender?
_Lod._ He means a _High-Dutch-man_ of the Town of _Collen_, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ Sir, I have heard of your Fame.--Doctor, pray entertain these
Gentlemen till my return, I’ll be with you presently.
_Lod._ Sir, I hope you go not forth to day. [Gazing on his Face.
Sir _Pat._ Not far, Sir.
_Lod._ There is a certain Star has rul’d this two days, Sir, of a very
malignant Influence to Persons of your Complection and
Constitution.--Let me see--within this two hours and six minutes, its
Malice will be spent, till then it will be fatal.
Sir _Pat._ Hum, reign’d this two Days?--I profess and things have gone
very cross with me this two Days,--a notable Man this.
L. _Kno._ Oh, a very profound Astrologer, Sir, upon my Honour, I know
him.
Sir _Pat._ But this is an Affair of that Importance, Sir,--
_Lod._ If it be more than Health or Life, I beg your pardon, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ Nay, no Offence, Sir, I beseech you, I’ll stay, Sir.
L. _Kno._ How! Sir _Patient_ not see us married?
Sir _Pat._ You shall excuse me, Madam.
L. _Fan._ This was lucky; Oh Madam, wou’d you have my Dear venture out,
when a malignant Star reigns! not for the World.
Sir _Pat._ No, I’ll not stir; had it been any Star but a malignant Star,
I had waited on your Ladyship: but these malignant Stars are very
pernicious Stars. Nephew, take my Lady _Knowell_, Mr. _Fainlove_ my
Daughter; and _Bartholomew_ do you conduct my Lady, the Parson stays for
you, and the Coaches are at the Door.
[Exeunt L. _Kno._ _Lean._ _Wit._ and _Isab._ L. _Fancy_ and
_Bartholomew_.
Enter _Boy_.
_Boy._ Sir, my Lady has sent for you. [Exit.
_Lod._ Sir, I’ll be with you presently; Sir _Credulous_, be sure you lug
him by the Ears with any sort of Stuff till my return. I’ll send you a
Friend to keep you in countenance.
Sir _Pat._ Please you to sit, Gentlemen? [Exit _Lod._
_Amst._ Please you, Sir. [To Sir _Cred._ who bows and runs back.
Sir _Cred._ Oh Lord, sweet Sir, I hope you do not take me--Nay,
I beseech you, Noble Sir--Reverend Sir.
[Turning from one to t’other.
_Leyd._ By no means, Sir, a Stranger.
Sir _Cred._ I beseech you--_Scavantissimi Doctores_,--incomparable
Sir,--and you--or you.
_Fat_ D. In troth, Sir, these Compliments are needless, I am something
corpulent, and love my ease.
[Sits.
Sir _Cred._ Generous Sir, you say well; therefore _Conlicentia_, as the
_Grecians_ have it.
[Sits.
_Amst._ --Brother.--
_Leyd._ Nay, good Brother,--Sir _Patient_--
Sir _Pat._ Ingenuously, not before you, Mr. Doctor.
_Leyd._ Excuse me, Sir, an Alderman, and a Knight.--
Sir _Pat._ Both below the least of the learned Society.
_Leyd._ Since you will have it so.
[All sit and cry hum,--and look gravely.
Sir _Cred._ Hum--hum, most Worthy, and most Renowned--_Medicinæ
Professores, qui hic assemblati estis, & vos altri Messiores_; I am now
going to make a Motion for the publick Good of us all, but will do
nothing without your Doctorships Approbation.
Sir _Pat._ Judiciously concluded.
Sir _Cred._ The question then is, _Reverentissimi Doctores_,
whether--for mark me, I come to the matter in hand, hating long
Circumstances of Words; there being no necessity, as our learned Brother
_Rabelais_ observes in that most notorious Treatise of his call’d
_Garagantua_; there is, says he, no necessity of going over the Hedge
when the Path lies fair before ye: therefore, as I said before, I now
say again, coming to my Question; for as that admirable _Welch_ Divine
says, in that so famous Sermon of his, upon her Creat Cranfather _Hadam_
and her Creat Cranmother _Heeve_ concerning the Happell,--and her will,
warrant her, her will keep her to her Text still,--so I stick close to
my question, which is, _Illustrissimi Doctores_, whether it be not
necessary to the Affair in hand--to take--a Bottle; and if your
Doctorships are of my opinion--hold up your Thumbs.
[All hold up their Thumbs.
--Look, Sir, you observe the Votes of the learned _Cabalists_.
Sir _Pat._ Which shall be put in Act forthwith--I like this Man well, he
does nothing without mature Deliberation.
Enter _Brunswick_.
_Brun._ By your leaves, Gentlemen--Sir _Credulous_-- [Whispers.
Sir _Cred._ Oh--’tis _Lodwick’s_ Friend, the Rascal’s dress’d like
_Vanderbergen_ in the _Strand_:--Sir _Patient_, pray know this glorious
Doctor, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ A Doctor, Sir?
Sir _Cred._ A Doctor, Sir! yes, and as eloquent a Doctor, Sir, as ever
set Bill to Post: why, ‘tis--the incomparable--_Brunswick_, _High-Dutch_
Doctor.
Sir _Pat._ You’re welcome, Sir,--Pray sit; ah.--Well, Sir, you are come
to visit a very crazy sickly Person, Sir.
_Brun._ Pray let me feel your Pulse, Sir;--what think you, Gentlemen, is
he not very far gone?--
[Feels his Pulse, they all feel.
Sir _Cred._ Ah, far, far.--Pray, Sir, have you not a certain wambling
Pain in your Stomach, Sir, as it were, Sir, a--a pain, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ Oh, very great, Sir, especially in a Morning fasting.
Sir _Cred._ I knew it by your stinking Breath, Sir--and are you not
troubled with a Pain in your Head, Sir?
Sir _Pat._ In my Head, Sir?
Sir _Cred._ I mean a--kind of a--Pain,--a kind of a _Vertigo_, as the
_Latins_ call it; and a _Whirligigoustiphon_, as the _Greeks_ have it,
which signifies in _English_, Sir, a Dizzie-swimming kind--of a do ye
see--a thing--that--a--you understand me.
Sir _Pat._ Oh, intolerable, intolerable!--why, this is a rare Man!
_Fat_ D. Your Reason, Sir, for that? [To Sir _Cred._
Sir _Cred._ My Reason, Sir? why, my Reason, Sir, is this, _Haly_ the
_Moore_, and _Rabbi Isaac_, and some thousands more of learned
_Dutchmen_, observe your dull Wall Eye and your
Whir--_Whirligigoustiphon_, to be inseparable.
_Brun._ A most learned Reason!
_Fat_ D. Oh, Sir, inseparable.
Sir _Cred._ And have you not a kind of a--something--do ye mark me, when
you make Water, a kind of a stopping--and--a--do ye conceive me, I have
forgot the _English_ Term, Sir, but in Latin ‘tis a _Stronggullionibus_.
Sir _Pat._ Oh, Sir, most extremely, ‘tis that which makes me desperate,
Sir.
Sir _Cred._ Your ugly Face is an infallible Sign; your _Dysurie_, as the
_Arabicks_ call it, and your ill-favour’d Countenance, are constant
Relatives.
_All._ Constant, constant.
Sir _Cred._ Pray how do you eat, Sir?
Sir _Pat._ Ah, Sir, there’s my distraction. Alas, Sir, I have the
weakest Stomach--I do not make above four Meals a-day, and then indeed I
eat heartily--but alas, what’s that to eating to live?--nothing, Sir,
nothing.--
Sir _Cred._ Poor Heart, I pity him.
Sir _Pat._ And between Meals, good Wine, Sweet-meats, Caudles,--Cordials
and Mirabilises, to keep up my fainting Spirits.
Sir _Cred._ A Pox of his Aldermanship: an the whole Bench were such
notable Swingers, ‘twould famish the City sooner than a Siege.
_Amst._ Brothers, what do you think of this Man?
_Leyd._ Think, Sir? I think his Case is desperate.
Sir _Cred._ Shaw, Sir, we shall soon rectify the quiblets and quillities
of his Blood, if he observes our Directions and Diet, which is to eat
but once in four or five days.
Sir _Pat._ How, Sir, eat but once in four or five days? such a Diet,
Sir, would kill me; alas, Sir, kill me.
Sir _Cred._ Oh no, Sir, no; for look ye, Sir, the Case is thus, do you
mind me--so that the Business lying so obvious, do ye see, there is a
certain Method, do ye mark me--in a--Now, Sir, when a Man goes about to
alter the course of Nature,--the case is very plain, you may as well
arrest the Chariot of the Sun, or alter the Eclipses of the Moon; for,
Sir, this being of another Nature, the Nature of it is to be unnatural,
you conceive me, Sir?--therefore we must crave your absence, Sir, for a
few Minutes, till we have debated this great Affair.
Sir _Pat._ With all my heart, Sir, since my Case is so desperate, a few
hours were not too much.
[Ex. Sir _Pat._
Sir _Cred._ Now, Sir, my service to you. [Drinks.
Enter _Fanny_.
_Fan._ Oh living heart! what do all these Men do in our House? sure they
are a sort of new-fashion’d Conventiclers:--I’ll hear ‘em preach.
[They drink round the while.
_Amst._ Sir, my service to you, and to your good Lady, Sir.
_Leyd._ Again to you, Sir, not forgetting your Daughters: they are fine
Women, Sir, let Scandal do its worst.
[Drinks.
_Turb._ To our better trading, Sir.
_Brun._ Faith, it goes but badly on, I had the weekly Bill, and ‘twas a
very thin Mortality; some of the better sort die indeed, that have good
round Fees to give.
_Turb._ Verily, I have not kill’d above my five or six this Week.
_Brun._ How, Sir, kill’d?
_Turb._ Kill’d, Sir! ever whilst you live, especially those who have the
grand _Verole_; for ‘tis not for a Man’s Credit to let the Patient want
an Eye or a Nose, or some other thing. I have kill’d ye my five or six
dozen a Week--but times are hard.
_Brun._ I grant ye, Sir, your Poor for Experiment and Improvement of
Knowledge: and to say truth, there ought to be such Scavengers as we to
sweep away the Rubbish of the Nation.
[Sir _Cred._ and _Fat_ seeming in Discourse.
Sir _Cred._ Nay, an you talk of a Beast, my service to you, Sir--
[Drinks.] Ay, I lost the finest Beast of a Mare in all _Devonshire_.
_Fat_ D. And I the finest Spaniel, Sir.
[Here they all talk together till you come to--_purpose, Sir_.
_Turb._ Pray, what News is there stirring?
_Brun._ Faith, Sir, I am one of those Fools that never regard whether
_Lewis_ or _Philip_ have the better or the worst.
_Turb._ Peace is a great Blessing, Sir, a very great Blessing.
_Brun._ You are i’th right, Sir, and so my service to you, Sir.
_Leyd._ Well, Sir, _Stetin_ held out nobly, though the Gazettes are
various.
_Amst._ There’s a world of Men kill’d they say; why, what a shame ‘tis
so many thousands should die without the help of a Physician.
_Leyd._ Hang ‘em, they were poor Rogues, and not worth our killing; my
service to you, Sir, they’ll serve to fill up Trenches.
Sir _Cred._ Spaniel, Sir! no Man breathing understands Dogs and Horses
better than my self.
_Fat_ D. Your pardon for that, Sir.
Sir _Cred._ For look ye, Sir, I’ll tell you the Nature of Dogs and
Horses.
_Fat_ D. So can my Groom and Dog-keeper; but what’s this to th’ purpose,
Sir?
[Here they leave off.
Sir _Cred._ To th’ purpose, Sir! good Mr. _Hedleburgh_, do you
understand what’s to th’ purpose? you’re a _Dutch_ Butter-ferkin,
a Kilderkin, a Double Jug.
_Fat_ D. You’re an ignorant Blockhead, Sir.
Sir _Cred._ You lye, Sir, and there I was with you again.
_Amst._ What, quarrelling, Men of your Gravity and Profession.
Sir _Cred._ That is to say, Fools and Knaves: pray, how long is’t since
you left Toping and Napping, for Quacking, good Brother Cater-tray?--but
let that pass, for I’ll have my Humour, and therefore will quarrel with
no Man, and so I drink.--
[Goes to fill again.
_Brun._ --But, what’s all this to the Patient, Gentlemen?
Sir _Cred._ Ay,--the Wine’s all out,--and Quarrels apart, Gentlemen, as
you say, what do you think of our Patient? for something I conceive
necessary to be said for our Fees.
_Fat_ D. I think that unless he follows our Prescriptions he’s a dead
Man.
Sir _Cred._ Ay, Sir, a dead Man.
_Fat_ D. Please you to write, Sir, you seem the youngest Doctor.
[To _Amst._
_Amst._ Your Pardon, Sir, I conceive there maybe younger Doctors than I
at the Board.
Sir _Cred._ A fine Punctilio this, when a Man lies a dying [Aside.]
--Sir, you shall excuse me, I have been a Doctor this 7 Years.
[They shove the Pen and Paper from one to the other.
_Amst._ I commenc’d at _Paris_ twenty years ago.
_Leyd._ And I at _Leyden_, almost as long since.
_Fat_ D. And I at _Barcelona_ thirty.
Sir _Cred._ And I at _Padua_, Sir.
_Fat_ D. You at _Padua?_
Sir _Cred._ Yes, Sir, I at _Padua_; why, what a pox, do ye think I never
was beyond Sea?
_Brun._ However, Sir, you are the youngest Doctor, and must write.
Sir _Cred._ I will not lose an inch of my Dignity.
_Fat_ D. Nor I.
_Amst._ Nor I.
_Leyd._ Nor I. [Put the Paper from each other.
_Brun._ Death, what Rascals are these?
Sir _Cred._ Give me the Pen--here’s ado about your _Paduas_ and
Punctilioes.
[Sets himself to write.
_Amst._ Every morning a Dose of my Pills _Merda queorusticon_, or the
Amicable Pill.
Sir _Cred._ Fasting?
_Leyd._ Every Hour sixscore drops of _Adminicula Vitæ_.
Sir _Cred._ Fasting too? [Sir _Cred._ writes still.
_Fat_ D. At Night twelve Cordial Pills, _Gallimofriticus_.
_Turb._ Let Blood once a Week, a Glister once a day.
_Brun._ Cry Mercy, Sir, you’re a _French_ Man.--After his first Sleep,
threescore restorative Pills, call’d _Cheatus Redivivus_.
Sir _Cred._ And lastly, fifteen Spoonfuls of my _Aqua Tetrachymagogon_,
as often as ‘tis necessary; little or no Breakfast, less Dinner, and go
supperless to Bed.
_Fat_ D. Hum, your _Aqua Tetrachymagogon_?
Sir _Cred._ Yes, Sir, my _Tetrachymagogon_; for look ye, do you see,
Sir, I cur’d the Arch-Duke of _Strumbulo_ of a _Gondileero_, of which he
dy’d, with this very _Aqua Tetrachymagogon_.
Enter Sir _Patient_.
Sir _Pat._ Well, Gentlemen, am I not an intruder?
_Fat_ D. Sir, we have duly consider’d the state of your Body; and are
now about the Order and Method you are to observe.
_Brun._ Ay, this Distemper will be the occasion of his Death.
Sir _Cred._ Hold, Brothers, I do not say the occasion of his Death; but
the occasional Cause of his Death.
[Sir _Pat._ reads the Bill.
Sir _Pat._ Why, here’s no time allow’d for eating, Gentlemen.
_Amst._ Sir, we’ll justify this Prescription to the whole College.
_Leyd._ If he will not follow it, let him die.
_All._ Ay, let him die.
Enter _Lodwick_ and _Leander_.
_Lod._ What, have you consulted without me, Gentlemen?
[_Lod._ reads the Bill.
Sir _Pat._ Yes, Sir, and find it absolutely necessary for my Health,
Sir, I shou’d be starv’d: and yet you say I am not sick, Sir.
[To _Lean._
_Lod._ Very well, very well.
Sir _Pat._ No Breakfast, no Dinner, no Supper?
Sir _Cred._ Little or none, but none’s best.
Sir _Pat._ But, Gentlemen, consider, no small thing?
_All._ Nothing, nothing.
Sir _Cred._ Sir, you must write for your Fee. [To _Lod._
_Lod._ Now I think on’t, Sir, you may eat [Writes.
a roasted Pippin cold upon a Vine-leaf, at night.
_Lean._ Do you see, Sir, what damn’d canting Rascals these Doctors are?
Sir _Pat._ Ay, ay, if all Doctors were such, ingenuously, I shou’d soon
be weary of Physick.
_Lean._ Give ‘em their Fees, Sir, and send ‘em to the Devil for a
Company of Cheats.
Sir _Pat._ Truth is, there is no faith in ‘em,--well, I thank you for
your Care and Pains.
[Gives ‘em Fees.
Sir _Cred._ Sir, if you have any occasion for me, I live at the
red-colour’d Lanthorn, with eleven Candles in’t, in the _Strand_; where
you may come in privately, and need not be ashamed, I having no Creature
in my House but my self, and my whole Family.--
_Ick quam Van Neder Landt te spreken
End helpen Van Pocken end ander gebreken._
That’s a top of my Bill, sweet Sir.
[Exeunt Doctors.
_Fan._ Lord, Sir Father, why do you give ‘em Money?
_Lean._ For talking Nonsense this Hour or two upon his Distemper.
_Fan._ Oh lemini, Sir, they did not talk one word of you, but of Dogs
and Horses, and of killing Folks, and of their Wives and Daughters; and
when the Wine was all out, they said they wou’d say something for their
Fees.
Sir _Pat._ Say you so!--Knaves, Rogues, Cheats, Murderers! I’ll be
reveng’d on ‘em all,--I’ll ne’er be sick again,--or if I be, I’ll die
honestly of my self without the assistance of such Rascals,--go, get you
gone.--
[To _Fan._ who goes out.
_Lean._ A happy resolution! wou’d you wou’d be so kind to your self as
to make a trial of your Lady too; and if she prove true, ‘twill make
some kind of amends for your so long being cozen’d this way.
Sir _Pat._ I’ll about it, this very minute about it,--give me a Chair.--
[He sits.
_Lean._ So, settle your self well, disorder your Hair,--throw away your
Cane, Hat and Gloves,--stare, and rowl your Eyes, squeeze your Face into
Convulsions,--clutch your Hands, make your Stomach heave, so, very
well,--now let me alone for the rest--Oh, help, help, my Lady, my Aunt,
for Heavens sake, help,--come all and see him die.
[Weeps.
Enter _Wittmore_, Lady _Fancy_, _Isabella_, _Lucretia_, Lady
_Knowell_, _Roger_, and _Nurse_.
_Wit._ _Leander_, what’s the matter?
_Lean._ See, Madam, see my Uncle in the Agonies of Death.
L. _Fan._ My dearest Husband dying, Oh! [Weeps.
_Lean._ How hard he struggles with departing Life!
_Isab._ Father, dear Father, must I in one day receive a Blessing with
so great a Curse? Oh,--he’s just going, Madam.--
[Weeps.
L. _Fan._ Let me o’ertake him in the Shades below, why do you hold me,
can I live without him? do I dissemble well?--
[Aside to _Wit._
Sir _Pat._ Not live without me!--do you hear that, Sirrah?
[Aside to _Lean._
_Lean._ Pray mark the end on’t, Sir,--feign,--feign.--
L. _Kno._ We left him well, how came he thus o’th’ sudden?
_Lean._ I fear ‘tis an Apoplexy, Madam.
L. _Fan._ Run, run for his Physician; but do not stir a foot.
[Aside to _Roger_.
Look up, and speak but one kind word to me.
Sir _Pat._ What crys are these that stop me on my way?
L. _Fan._ They’re mine,--your Lady’s--oh, surely he’ll recover.
[Aside.
Your most obedient Wife’s.
Sir _Pat._ My Wife’s, my Heir, my sole Executrix.
L. _Fan._ Hah, is he in’s Senses? [Aside to _Wit._
Oh my dear Love, my Life, my Joy, my All, [Crys.
Oh, let me go; I will not live without him.
[Seems to faint in _Wittmore’s_ Arms. All run about her.
Sir _Pat._ Do ye hear that, Sirrah?
_Lean._ Have yet a little Patience, die away,--very well--Oh, he’s
gone,--quite gone.
[L. _Fan._ swoons.
L. _Kno._ Look to my Lady there, [Swoons again.
--Sure she can but counterfeit. [Aside. [They all go about her.
Sir _Pat._ Hah, my Lady dying!
_Lean._ Sir, I beseech you wait the event. Death! the cunning Devil will
dissemble too long and spoil all,--here--carry the dead Corps of my
dearest Uncle to his Chamber. Nurse, to your Care I commit him now.
[Exeunt with Sir _Pat._ in a Chair.
[All follow but _Wittmore_; who going the other way, meets Sir
_Credulous_ and _Lodwick_, as before.
_Wit._ _Lodwick!_ the strangest unexpected News, Sir _Patient’s_ dead!
Sir _Cred._ How, dead! we have play’d the Physicians to good purpose,
i’faith, and kill’d the Man before we administer’d our Physick.
_Wit._ Egad, I fear so indeed.
_Lod._ Dead!
_Wit._ As a Herring, and ‘twill be dangerous to keep these habits
longer.
Sir _Cred._ Dangerous! Zoz, Man, we shall all be hang’d, why, our very
Bill dispatch’d him, and our Hands are to’t,--Oh, I’ll confess all.--
[Offers to go.
_Lod._ Death, Sir, I’ll cut your Throat if you stir.
Sir _Cred._ Wou’d you have me hang’d for Company, Gentlemen? Oh, where
shall I hide my self, or how come at my Clothes?
_Lod._ We have no time for that; go get you into your Basket again, and
lie snug, till I have convey’d you safe away,--or I’ll abandon you.--
[Aside to him.
‘Tis not necessary he shou’d be seen yet, he may spoil _Leander’s_
Plot.
[Aside.
Sir _Cred._ Oh, thank ye, dear _Lodwick_,--let me escape this bout, and
if ever the Fool turn Physician again, may he be choak’d with his own
_Tetrachymagogon_.
_Wit._ Go, haste and undress you, whilst I’ll to _Lucia_.
[Exeunt _Lod._ and Sir _Cred._
As _Wittmore_ is going out at one Door, enter Sir _Patient_ and
_Leander_ at the other Door.
_Lean._ Hah, _Wittmore_ there! he must not see my Uncle yet.
[Puts Sir _Pat._ back.
[Exit _Wit._
Sir _Pat._ Nay, Sir, never detain me, I’ll to my Lady, is this your
Demonstration?--Was ever so virtuous a Lady--Well, I’ll to her, and
console her poor Heart; ah, the Joy ‘twill bring her to see my
Resurrection!--I long to surprize her.
[Going off cross the Stage.
_Lean._ Hold, Sir, I think she’s coming,--blest sight, and with her
_Wittmore_!
[Puts Sir _Pat._ back to the Door.
Enter Lady _Fancy_ and _Wittmore_.
Sir _Pat._ Hah, what’s this?
L. _Fan._ Now, my dear _Wittmore_, claim thy Rites of Love without
controul, without the contradiction of wretched Poverty or Jealousy: Now
undisguised thou mayst approach my Bed, and reign o’er all my Pleasures
and my Fortunes, of which this Minute I create thee Lord, And thus begin
my Homage.--
[Kisses him.
Sir _Pat._ Sure ‘tis some Fiend! this cannot be my Lady.
_Lean._ ‘Tis something uncivil before your face, Sir, to do this.
_Wit._ Thou wondrous kind, and wondrous beautiful; that Power that made
thee with so many Charms, gave me a Soul fit only to adore ‘em; nor wert
thou destin’d to another’s Arms, but to be render’d still more fit for
mine.
Sir _Pat._ Hah, is not that _Fainlove_, _Isabella’s_ Husband? Oh
Villain! Villain! I will renounce my Sense and my Religion.
[Aside.
L. _Fan._ Another’s Arms! Oh, call not those hated
Thoughts to my remembrance,
Lest it destroy that kindly Heat within me,
Which thou canst only raise and still maintain.
Sir _Pat._ Oh Woman! Woman! damn’d dissembling Woman. [Aside.
L. _Fan._ Come, let me lead thee to that Mass of Gold he gave me to be
despis’d;
And which I render thee, my lovely Conqueror,
As the first Tribute of my glorious Servitude.
Draw in the Basket which I told you of, and is amongst the Rubbish in
the Hall. [Exit _Wittmore_.] That which the Slave so many Years was
toiling for, I in one moment barter for a Kiss, as Earnest of our future
Joys.
Sir _Pat._ Was ever so prodigal a Harlot? was this the Saint? was this
the most tender Consort that ever Man had?
_Lean._ No, in good faith, Sir.
Enter _Wittmore_ pulling in the Basket.
L. _Fan._ This is it, with a direction on’t to thee, whither I design’d
to send it.
_Wit._ Good morrow to the Day, and next the Gold;
Open the Shrine, that I may see my Saint--
Hail the World’s Soul,-- [Opens the Basket, Sir _Cred._ starts up.
L. _Fan._ O Heavens! what thing art thou?
Sir _Cred._ O, Pardon, Pardon, sweet Lady, I confess I had a hand in’t.
L. _Fan._ In what, thou Slave?--
Sir _Cred._ Killing the good believing Alderman;--but ‘twas against my
Will.
L. _Fan._ Then I’m not so much oblig’d to thee,--but where’s the Money,
the 8000_l._ the Plate and Jewels, Sirrah?
_Wit._ Death, the Dog has eat it.
Sir _Cred._ Eat it! Oh Lord, eat 8000_l._ Wou’d I might never come out
of this Basket alive, if ever I made such a Meal in my Life.
_Wit._ Ye Dog, you have eat it; and I’ll make ye swallow all the Doses
you writ in your Bill, but I’ll have it upward or downward.
[Aside.
Sir _Pat._ Hah, one of the Rogues my Doctors.
Sir _Cred._ Oh, dear Sir, hang me out of the way rather.
Enter _Maundy_.
_Maun._ Madam, I have sent away the Basket to Mr. _Wittmore’s_ Lodgings.
L. _Fan._ You might have sav’d your self that Labour, I now having no
more to do, but to bury the stinking Corps of my quandom Cuckold,
dismiss his Daughters, and give thee quiet possession of all.
[To _Wit._
Sir _Pat._ Fair Lady, you’ll take me along with you?
[Snaps, pulls off his Hat, and comes up to her.
L. _Fan._ My Husband!--I’m betray’d--
Sir _Pat._ Husband! I do defy thee, Satan, thou greater Whore than she
of _Babylon_; thou Shame, thou Abomination to thy Sex.
L. _Fan._ Rail on, whilst I dispose my self to laugh at thee.
Sir _Pat._ _Leander_, call all the House in to be a Witness of our
Divorce.
[Exit _Lean._
L. _Fan._ Do, and all the World, and let ‘em know the Reason.
Sir _Pat._ Methinks I find an Inclination to swear,--to curse my self
and thee, that I cou’d no better discern thee; nay, I’m so chang’d from
what I was, that I think I cou’d even approve of Monarchy and
Church-Discipline, I’m so truly convinc’d I have been a Beast and an Ass
all my Life.
Enter Lady _Knowell_, _Isabella_, _Lucretia_, _Leander_,
_Lodwick_, _Fanny_, &c.
L. _Kno._ Hah, Sir _Patient_ not dead?
Sir _Pat._ Ladies and Gentlemen, take notice that I am a Cuckold,
a crop-ear’d snivelling Cuckold.
Sir _Cred._ A Cuckold! sweet Sir, shaw, that’s a small matter in a Man
of your Quality.
Sir _Pat._ And I beg your pardon, Madam, for being angry that you call’d
me so. [To L. _Kno._] And yours, dear _Isabella_, for desiring you to
marry my good Friend there [Points to _Wit._] whose name I perceive I
was mistaken in:--and yours, _Leander_, that I wou’d not take your
Advice long since: and yours, fair Lady, for believing you
honest,--’twas done like a credulous Coxcomb:--and yours, Sir, for
taking any of your Tribe for wise, learned or honest.
[To Sir _Credulous_.
_Wit._ Faith, Sir, I deceiv’d ye only to serve my Friend; and, Sir, your
Daughter is married to Mr _Knowell_: your Wife had all my stock of Love
before, Sir.
[_Lod._ and _Isab._ kneel.
Sir _Pat._ Why, God-a-mercy--some comfort that,--God bless ye.--I shall
love Disobedience while I live for’t.
_Lod._ I am glad on’t, Sir, for then I hope you will forgive _Leander_,
who has married my Sister, and not my Mother.
Sir _Pat._ How! has he served me so?--I’ll make him my Heir for’t, thou
hast made a Man of me, my Boy, and, faith, we will be merry,--Fair Lady,
you may depart in peace, fair Lady, restoring my Money, my Plate, my
Jewels and my Writings, fair Lady.--
L. _Fan._ You gave me no Money, Sir, prove it if you can; and for your
Land, ‘twas not settled with this Proviso, if she be honest?
Sir _Pat._ ‘Tis well thou dost confess I am a Cuckold, for I wou’d have
it known, fair Lady.
L. _Fan._ ‘Twas to that end I married you, good Alderman.
Sir _Pat._ I’faith, I think thou didst, Sweet-heart, i’faith, I think
thou didst.
_Wit._ Right, Sir, we have long been Lovers, but want of Fortune made us
contrive how to marry her to your good Worship. Many a wealthy Citizen,
Sir, has contributed to the maintenance of a younger Brother’s Mistress;
and you are not the first Man in Office that has been a Cuckold, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ Some comfort that too, the Brethren of the Chain cannot laugh
at me.
Sir _Cred._ A very pleasant old Fellow this: faith, I cou’d be very
merry with him now, but that I am damnable sad.--Madam, I shall desire
to lay the Saddle on the right Horse.
[To L. _Kno._
L. _Kno._ What mean you, Sir?
Sir _Cred._ Only, Madam, if I were as some Men are, I should not be as I
am.
L. _Kno._ It may be so, Sir.
Sir _Cred._ I say no more, but matters are not carried so swimmingly,
but I can dive into the meaning on’t.
[Sir _Patient_ talks this while to _Lodwick_.
L. _Kno._ I hate this hypothetical way of arguing, answer me
categorically.
Sir _Cred._ Hypothetical and Categorical! what does she mean now?
[Aside.] --Madam, in plain _English_, I am made a _John-a-Nokes_ of,
_Jack-hold-my-staff_, a _Merry Andrew_ Doctor, to give _Leander_ time to
marry your Daughter; and ‘twas therefore I was hoisted up in the
Basket;--but as the play says, ‘tis well ‘tis no worse: I’d rather lose
my Mistress than my Life.
Sir _Pat._ But how came this Rascal _Turboon_ to admit you?
_Lod._ For the Lucre of our Fees, Sir, which was his recompence.
Sir _Pat._ I forgive it you, and will turn Spark, they live the merriest
Lives--keep some City Mistress, go to Court, and hate all Conventicles.
_You see what a fine City-Wife can do
Of the true-breed; instruct her Husband too:
I wish all civil Cuckolds in the Nation
Would take example by my Reformation._
EPILOGUE,
Spoken by Mrs. _Gwin_.
I here and there o’erheard a Coxcomb cry, [Looking about.
Ah, Rot it--’tis a Woman’s Comedy,
One, who because she lately chanc’d to please us,
With her damn’d Stuff, will never cease to teeze us.
What has poor Woman done, that she must be
Debar’d from Sense, and sacred Poetry?
Why in this Age has Heaven allow’d you more,
And Women less of Wit than heretofore?
We once were fam’d in story, and could write
Equal to Men; cou’d govern, nay, cou’d fight.
We still have passive Valour, and can show, }
Wou’d Custom give us leave, the active too, }
Since we no Provocations want from you. }
For who but we cou’d your dull Fopperies bear,
Your saucy Love, and your brisk Nonsense hear;
Indure your worse than womanish Affectation,
Which renders you the Nusance of the Nation;
Scorn’d even by all the Misses of the Town,
A Jest to Vizard Mask, the _Pit-Buffoon_;
A Glass by which the admiring Country Fool
May learn to dress himself _en Ridicule:_
Both striving who shall most ingenious grow
In Leudness, Foppery, Nonsense, Noise and Show.
And yet to these fine things we must submit
Our Reason, Arms, our Laurels, and our Wit.
Because we do not laugh at you, when leud,
And scorn and cudgel ye when you are rude.
That we have nobler Souls than you, we prove,
By how much more we’re sensible of Love;
Quickest in finding all the subtlest ways
To make your Joys, why not to make you Plays?
We best can find your Foibles, know our own, }
And Jilts and Cuckolds now best please the Town; }
Your way of Writing’s out of fashion grown. }
Method, and Rule--you only understand;
Pursue that way of Fooling, and be damn’d.
Your learned Cant of Action, Time and Place,
Must all give way to the unlabour’d Farce.
To all the Men of Wit we will subscribe:
But for your half Wits, you unthinking Tribe,
We’ll let you see, whate’er besides we do,
How artfully we copy some of you:
And if you’re drawn to th’ Life, pray tell me then,
Why Women should not write as well as Men.
* * * * *
* * * *
NOTES: Sir Patient Fancy
NOTES ON THE TEXT.
+To the Reader+
p. 7, l. 1 _To the Reader._ Only in 4to 1678.
+Dramatis Personæ+
p. 10 _Dramatis Personæ._ I have added ‘_Abel_ (_Bartholmew_), Clerk
to _Sir Patient Fancy_; _Brunswick_, a friend to _Lodwick Knowell_;
_Antic_, Waiting-woman to _Lucretia_; Nurse; Guests.’ In former
editions the physicians are grouped together as ‘Five Doctors’, and
The Lady _Knowell_ is mistakenly termed ‘Mother to _Lodwick_ and
_Isabella_’, which I have corrected to ‘and _Lucretia_’. I have noted
the confusion of ‘Abel’ and ‘Bartholmew’ in the introduction, pp. 5-6.
+ACT I: Scene i+
p. 11, l. 2 I have added ‘in Lady Knowell’s House.’
p. 13, l. 14 _Foibles._ 4to 1678 ‘feables’.
p. 14, l. 17 _apamibominous ... podas._ 4to 1678 ‘apamibominus ...
Podis’.
p. 15, l. 3 _Mudd._ 1724 ‘mad’.
+ACT I: Scene ia+
p. 16, l. 12 _now, Curry, from._ 1724 omits ‘Curry’.
p. 16, l. 25 _Branford._ 1724 here and _infra_ ‘Brentford’.
p. 16, l. 30 _Cuffet’s._ 1724 ‘Cusset’s’.
p. 22, l. 22 _not._ Erroneously omitted by 4to 1678.
p. 23, l. 2 _a Dog._ 4to 1678 ‘the Dog.’
p. 23, l. 16 _with Page._ I have added the Page’s exit.
p. 25, l. 20 _Ex. severally._ 4to 1678 adds ‘The End of the First
Act.’
+ACT II: Scene i+
p. 25, l. 22 _to Sir Patient Fancy’s House._ I have added these words.
p. 33, l. 27 _Exit with L. Fan._ I have added the necessary ‘with
L. Fan.’ 4to 1678 reads ‘Goes out.’
p. 35, l. 2 _Roger attending._ I have added this entrance of Roger
here.
p. 36, l. 21 _Enter Sir Patient._ 4to 1678 gives this entrance after
‘mercy’, l. 22.
p. 40, l. 25 _Exit Roger._ I have added this exit here, and at p. 43,
l. 2.
+ACT II: Scene ii+
p. 44, l. 6 _Exeunt severally._ 4to 1678 adds ‘The End of the Second
Act.’
+ACT III: Scene i+
p. 44, l. 9 _to a room in Sir Patient Fancy’s house._ I have supplied
this locale.
p. 45, l. 11 _and Maundy._ I have supplied Maundy’s entrance here.
+ACT III: Scene ii+
p. 47, l. 1 _a thousand Faults._ 1724 mistakenly reads ‘a thousand
hidden Faults’.
p. 48, l. 34 _in spite to._ 1724 ‘in spite of’ which makes nonsense
of the passage.
+ACT III: Scene iii+
p. 49, l. 8 _Scene III._ I have numbered this and all the succeeding
scenes of Act III.
+ACT III: Scene vii+
p. 53, l. 32 _Within._ Not in any previous edition.
p. 54, l. 10 _Within._ All previous editions print this stage
direction as part of Sir Patient’s speech.
p. 54, l. 19 _Discovery._ All previous editions here have ‘Enter Sir
Patient’, which is a very patent error. I have supplied ‘Within’ as
stage direction.
+ACT III: Scene viii+
p. 59, l. 6 _Isabella, Fanny._ I have supplied ‘Fanny’ to this stage
direction.
+ACT III: Scene ix+
p. 59, l. 19 _D’on._ 4to 1678 misprints ‘D’on on Flannel’.
p. 60, l. 13 _Enter Roger._ I have supplied the names ‘Roger’ and
‘Abel’ to this stage direction.
p. 61, l. 13 _Exeunt._ 4to 16
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