(In my Opinion) with a saucy Play;
In which the Author does presume to shew,
That Coxcomb,_ ab Origine--_was Beau.
Truly I think the thing of so much weight, }
That if some sharp Chastisement ben't his Fate, }
Gad's Curse, it may in time destroy the State. }
I hold no one its Friend, I must confess,
Who wou'd discauntenance you Men of Dress.
Far, give me leave t'abserve, good Clothes are Things
Have ever been of great Support to Kings:
All Treasons come fram Slovens; it is nat
Within the reach of Gentle Beaux to plat;
They have no Gall; no Spleen, no Teeth, no Stings,
Of all Gad's Creatures, the most harmless Things.
Thro' all Recard, no Prince was ever slain
By one who had a Feather in his Brain,
They're Men of too refin'd an Education,
To squabble with a Court--for a vile dirty Nation.
I'm very pasitive, you never saw
A tho'ro' Republican a finish'd Beau.
Nor truly shall you very often see
A ~Jacobite~ much better drest than he:
In short, thro' all the Courts that I have been in,
Your Men of Mischief--still are in faul Linen.
Did ever one yet dance the ~Tyburn~ Jigg,
With a free Air, or a well pawder'd Wig?
Did ever Highway-man yet bid you stand,
With a sweet bawdy Snuff-Box in his Hand?
Ar do you ever find they ask your Purse
As Men of Breeding do?----Ladies, Gad's Curse,
This Author is a Dag, and 'tis not fit
You shou'd allow him e'en one Grain of Wit:
To which, that his Pretence may ne'er be nam'd,
My humble Motion is----he may be damn'd._
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE
PROVOK'D WIFE.
A
COMEDY.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
PROLOGUE.
Spoken by Mrs. _Bracegirdle_.
_Since 'tis th' Intent and Business of the Stage,
To copy out the Follies of the Age;
To hold to every Man a faithful Glass,
And shew him of what Species he's an Ass:
I hope the next that teaches in the School,
Will shew our Author he's a scribbling Fool.
And that the Satire may be sure to bite, }
Kind Heav'n! inspire some venom'd Priest to write, }
And grant some ugly Lady may indite. }
For I wou'd have him lash'd, by Heavens! I wou'd,
Till his Presumption swam away in Blood.
Three Plays at once proclaim a Face of Brass, }
No matter what they are; That's not the Case-- }
To write three Plays, e'en that's to be an Ass. }
But what I least forgive, he knows it too,
For to his Cost he lately has known you--
Experience shews, to many a Writer's Smart,
You hold a Court where Mercy ne'er had part;
So much of the old Serpent's Sting you have,
You love to Damn, as Heaven delights to Save.
In foreign Parts, let a bold Volunteer, }
For Public Good, upon the Stage appear, }
He meets ten thousand Smiles to dissipate his Fear. }
All tickle on th' adventuring young Beginner,
And only scourge th' incorrigible Sinner;
They touch indeed his Faults, but with a Hand
So gentle, that his Merit still may stand;
Kindly they buoy the Follies of his Pen,
That he may shun 'em when he writes again.
But 'tis not so in this good-natur'd Town, }
All's one, an Ox, a Poet, or a Crown; }
Old ~England~'s Play was always knocking down._ }
Dramatis Personæ.
MEN.
_Constant_, Mr. _Verbruggen_.
_Heartfree_, Mr. _Hudson_.
Sir _John Brute_, Mr. _Betterton_.
_Treble_, a Singing-Master, Mr. _Bowman_.
_Rasor_, Valet de Chambre to Sir _John Brute_, Mr. _Bowen_.
Justice of the Peace, Mr. _Bright_.
Lord _Rake_, } Companions to
Col. _Bully_, } Sir _John Brute_.
Constable _and_ Watch.
WOMEN.
Lady _Brute_, Mrs. _Barry_.
_Belinda_, her Niece, Mrs. _Bracegirdle_.
Lady _Fancyfull_, Mrs. _Bowman_.
_Madamoiselle_, Mrs. _Willis_.
_Cornet_ and _Pipe_, Servants to Lady _Fancyfull_.
[Illustration]
THE
PROVOK'D WIFE.
[Illustration]
+ACT+ I. +SCENE+ I.
+SCENE+, _Sir ~John Brute~'s House_.
_Enter Sir ~John~, solus._
What cloying Meat is Love--when Matrimony's the Sauce to it! Two Years
Marriage has debauch'd my five Senses. Every thing I see, every thing
I hear, every thing I feel, every thing I smell, and every thing I
taste--methinks has Wife in't. No Boy was ever so weary of his Tutor,
no Girl of her Bib, no Nun of doing Penance, or old Maid of being
chaste, as I am of being married. Sure there's a secret Curse entail'd
upon the very Name of Wife. My Lady is a young Lady, a fine Lady, a
witty Lady, a virtuous Lady,--and yet I hate her. There is but one
thing on Earth I loath beyond her: That's Fighting. Would my Courage
come up to a fourth part of my Ill-Nature, I'd stand buff to her
Relations, and thrust her out of doors. But Marriage has sunk me down
to such an Ebb of Resolution, I dare not draw my Sword, tho' even to
get rid of my Wife. But here she comes.
_Enter ~Lady Brute~._
_Lady Brute._ Do you dine at home to-day, Sir _John_?
_Sir John._ Why, do you expect I should tell you what I don't know
myself?
_Lady Brute._ I thought there was no harm in asking you.
_Sir John._ If thinking wrong were an excuse for Impertinence, Women
might be justify'd in most things they say or do.
_Lady Brute._ I'm sorry I have said any thing to displease you.
_Sir John._ Sorrow for things past is of as little importance to me, as
my dining at home or abroad ought to be to you.
_Lady Brute._ My Enquiry was only that I might have provided what you
lik'd.
_Sir John._ Six to four you had been in the wrong there again; for what
I lik'd yesterday I don't like to-day; and what I like to-day, 'tis
odds I mayn't like to-morrow.
_Lady Brute._ But if I had ask'd you what you lik'd?
_Sir John._ Why then there wou'd have been more asking about it than
the thing was worth.
_Lady Brute._ I wish I did but know how I might please you.
_Sir John._ Ay, but that sort of Knowledge is not a Wife's Talent.
_Lady Brute._ Whate'er my Talent is, I'm sure my Will has ever been to
make you easy.
_Sir John._ If Women were to have their Wills, the World wou'd be
finely govern'd.
_Lady Brute._ What reason have I given you to use me as you do of late?
It once was otherwise: You marry'd me for Love.
_Sir John._ And you me for Money: So you have your Reward, and I have
mine.
_Lady Brute._ What is it that disturbs you?
_Sir John._ A Parson.
_Lady Brute._ Why, what has he done to you?
_Sir John._ He has married me.
[_Exit Sir ~John~._
_Lady ~Brute~ sola._
The Devil's in the Fellow, I think----I was told before I married him,
that thus 'twou'd be: But I thought I had Charms enough to govern him;
and that where there was an Estate, a Woman must needs be happy; so
my Vanity has deceiv'd me, and my Ambition has made me uneasy. But
there's some Comfort still; if one wou'd be reveng'd of him, these are
good times; a Woman may have a Gallant, and a separate Maintenance
too--The surly Puppy--yet he's a Fool for't: for hitherto he has been
no Monster: But who knows how far he may provoke me? I never lov'd
him, yet I have been ever true to him; and that, in spite of all the
Attacks of Art and Nature upon a poor weak Woman's Heart, in favour of
a tempting Lover. Methinks so noble a Defence as I have made, shou'd
be rewarded with a better Usage--Or who can tell?----Perhaps a good
part of what I suffer from my Husband, may be a Judgment upon me for
my Cruelty to my Lover.----Lord, with what pleasure could I indulge
that Thought, were there but a Possibility of finding Arguments to
make it good!----And how do I know but there may?--Let me see----What
opposes?--My matrimonial Vow----Why, what did I vow? I think I promis'd
to be true to my Husband. Well; and he promis'd to be kind to me. But
he han't kept his Word----Why then I'm absolv'd from mine--Ay, that
seems clear to me. The Argument's good between the King and the People,
why not between the Husband and the Wife? O, but that Condition was not
exprest--No matter, 'twas understood. Well, by all I see, if I argue
the matter a little longer with myself, I shan't find so many Bug-bears
in the Way as I thought I shou'd. Lord, what fine Notions of Virtue do
we Women take up upon the Credit of old foolish Philosophers! Virtue's
its own Reward, Virtue's this, Virtue's that----Virtue's an Ass, and a
Gallant's worth forty on't.
_Enter ~Belinda~._
_Lady Brute._ Good-morrow, dear Cousin.
_Bel._ Good-morrow, Madam; you look pleas'd this Morning.
_Lady Brute._ I am so.
_Bel._ With what, pray?
_Lady Brute._ With my Husband.
_Bel._ Drown Husbands; for your's is a provoking Fellow: As he went out
just now, I pray'd him to tell me what time of Day 'twas; and he ask'd
me if I took him for the Church-Clock, that was oblig'd to tell all the
Parish.
_Lady Brute._ He has been saying some good obliging things to me too.
In short, _Belinda_, he has us'd me so barbarously of late, that I
cou'd almost resolve to play the downright Wife--and cuckold him.
_Bel._ That would be downright indeed.
_Lady Brute._ Why, after all, there's more to be said for't than
you'd imagine, Child. I know, according to the strict Statute-Law of
Religion, I shou'd do wrong: But if there were a Court of Chancery in
Heav'n, I'm sure I shou'd cast him.
_Bel._ If there were a House of Lords, you might.
_Lady Brute._ In either I should infallibly carry my Cause. Why, he is
the first Aggressor, not I.
_Bel._ Ay, but you know we must return Good for Evil.
_Lady Brute._ That may be a Mistake in the Translation--Pr'ythee be of
my Opinion, _Belinda_; for I'm positive I'm in the right; and if you'll
keep up the Prerogative of a Woman, you'll likewise be positive you
are in the right, whenever you do any thing you have a mind to. But I
shall play the Fool, and jest on, till I make you begin to think I'm in
earnest.
_Bel._ I shan't take the Liberty, Madam, to think of any thing that you
desire to keep a Secret from me.
_Lady Brute._ Alas, my Dear, I have no Secrets. My Heart cou'd never
yet confine my Tongue.
_Bel._ Your Eyes, you mean; for I'm sure I have seen them gadding, when
your Tongue has been lock'd up safe enough.
_Lady Brute._ My Eyes gadding! Pr'ythee after who, Child?
_Bel._ Why, after one that thinks you hate him, as much as I know you
love him.
_Lady Brute._ _Constant_ you mean.
_Bel._ I do so.
_Lady Brute._ Lord, what shou'd put such a thing into your Head?
_Bel._ That which puts things into most People's Heads, Observation.
_Lady Brute._ Why what have you observ'd, in the Name of Wonder?
_Bel._ I have observed you blush when you met him; force yourself away
from him; and then be out of humour with every thing about you: In a
Word, never was poor Creature so spurr'd on by Desire, and so rein'd in
with Fear.
_Lady Brute._ How strong is Fancy!
_Bel._ How weak is Woman!
_Lady Brute._ Pr'ythee, Niece, have a better Opinion of your Aunt's
Inclination.
_Bel._ Dear Aunt, have a better Opinion of your Niece's Understanding.
_Lady Brute._ You'll make me angry.
_Bel._ You'll make me laugh.
_Lady Brute._ Then you are resolv'd to persist?
_Bel._ Positively.
_Lady Brute._ And all I can say----
_Bel._ Will signify nothing.
_Lady Brute._ Tho' I should swear 'twere false--
_Bel._ I should think it true.
_Lady Brute._ Then let us both forgive; [_Kissing her._] for we have
both offended: I, in making a Secret; you, in discovering it.
_Bel._ Good Nature may do much: But you have more Reason to forgive
one, than I have to pardon t'other.
_Lady Brute._ 'Tis true, _Belinda_, you have given me so many Proofs
of your Friendship, that my Reserve has been indeed a Crime: But that
you may more easily forgive me, remember, Child, that when our Nature
prompts us to a thing our Honour and Religion have forbid us; we wou'd
(wer't possible) conceal even from the Soul itself, the Knowledge of
the Body's Weakness.
_Bel._ Well, I hope, to make your Friend amends, you'll hide nothing
from her for the future, tho' the Body shou'd still grow weaker and
weaker.
_Lady Brute._ No, from this Moment I have no more Reserve; and for a
Proof of my Repentance, I own, _Belinda_, I'm in danger. Merit and
Wit assault me from without; Nature and Love sollicit me within; my
Husband's barbarous Usage piques me to Revenge; and _Satan_, catching
at the fair Occasion, throws in my way that Vengeance, which of all
Vengeance pleases Women best.
_Bel._ 'Tis well _Constant_ don't know the Weakness of the
Fortification; for o' my Conscience he'd soon come on to the Assault.
_Lady Brute._ Ay, and I'm afraid carry the Town too. But whatever you
may have observ'd, I have dissembled so well as to keep him ignorant.
So you see I'm no Coquette, _Belinda_: And if you follow my Advice,
you'll never be one neither. 'Tis true, Coquetry is one of the main
Ingredients in the natural Composition of a Woman; and I, as well as
others, cou'd be well enough pleas'd to see a Crowd of young Fellows
ogling, and glancing, and watching all Occasions to do forty foolish
officious Things: Nay, shou'd some of 'em push on, even to hanging or
drowning, why--'faith--if I shou'd let pure Woman alone, I shou'd e'en
be but too well pleas'd with it.
_Bel._ I'll swear 'twould tickle me strangely.
_Lady Brute._ But after all, 'tis a vicious Practice in us, to give
the least Encouragement but where we design to come to a Conclusion.
For 'tis an unreasonable thing to engage a Man in a Disease, which we
beforehand resolve we never will apply a Cure to.
_Bel._ 'Tis true; but then a Woman must abandon one of the supreme
Blessings of her Life. For I am fully convinc'd, no Man has half that
Pleasure in possessing a Mistress, as a Woman has in jilting a Gallant.
_Lady Brute._ The happiest Woman then on Earth must be our Neighbour.
_Bel._ O the impertinent Composition! She has Vanity and Affectation
enough to make her a ridiculous Original, in spite of all that Art and
Nature ever furnish'd to any of her Sex before her.
_Lady Brute._ She concludes all Men her Captives; and whatever Course
they take, it serves to confirm her in that Opinion.
_Bel._ If they shun her, she thinks 'tis Modesty, and takes it for a
Proof of their Passion.
_Lady Brute._ And if they are rude to her, 'tis Conduct, and done to
prevent Town-talk.
_Bel._ When her Folly makes 'em laugh; she thinks they are pleased with
her Wit.
_Lady Brute._ And when her Impertinence makes 'em dull, concludes they
are jealous of her Favours.
_Bel._ All their Actions and their Words, she takes for granted, aim at
her.
_Lady Brute._ And pities all other Women, because she thinks they envy
her.
_Bel._ Pray, out of pity to ourselves, let us find a better Subject;
for I'm weary of this. Do you think your Husband inclined to Jealousy?
_Lady Brute._ O, no; he does not love me well enough for that. Lord,
how wrong Men's Maxims are! They are seldom jealous of their Wives,
unless they are very fond of 'em; whereas they ought to consider the
Women's Inclinations; for there depends their Fate. Well, Men may talk;
But they are not so wise as we----that's certain.
_Bel._ At least in our Affairs.
_Lady Brute._ Nay, I believe we shou'd out-do 'em in the Business of
the State too: For, methinks, they do and undo, and make but bad Work
on't.
_Bel._ Why then don't we get into the Intrigues of Government as well
as they?
_Lady Brute._ Because we have Intrigues of our own, that make us more
Sport, Child. And so let's in and consider of 'em.
[_Exeunt._
+SCENE+, _A Dressing-Room_.
_Enter Lady ~Fancyfull~, ~Madamoiselle~, and ~Cornet~._
_Lady Fan._ How do I look this Morning?
_Cor._ Your Ladyship looks very ill, truly.
_Lady Fan._ Lard, how ill-natur'd thou art, _Cornet_, to tell me so,
tho' the thing shou'd be true! Don't you know that I have Humility
enough to be but too easily out of Conceit with myself? Hold the Glass;
I dare swear that will have more Manners than you have. _Madamoiselle_,
let me have your Opinion too.
_Madam._ My opinion pe, Matam, dat your Latyship never look so well in
your Life.
_Lady Fan._ Well, the _French_ are the prettiest, obliging People; they
say the most acceptable, well-manner'd things--and never flatter.
_Madam._ Your Latyship say great Justice inteed.
_Lady Fan._ Nay, every thing's just in my House but _Cornet_. The
very Looking-Glass gives her the _Dementi_. But I'm almost afraid it
flatters me, it makes me look so very engaging.
[_Looking affectedly in the Glass._
_Madam._ Inteed, Matam, your face pe handsomer den all de Looking-Glass
in de World, _croyez moy_.
_Lady Fan._ But is it possible my Eyes can be so languishing--and so
very full of Fire?
_Madam._ Matam, if de Glass was Burning-Glass, I believe your Eyes set
de Fire in de House.
_Lady Fan._ You may take that Night-gown, _Madamoiselle_; get out of
the Room, _Cornet_; I can't endure you. This Wench, methinks, does look
so unsufferably ugly.
_Madam._ Every ting look ugly, Matam, dat stand by your Latyship.
_Lady Fan._ No really, _Madamoiselle_, methinks you look mighty pretty.
_Madam._ Ah Matam! de Moon have no Eclat ven de Sun appear.
_Lady Fan._ O pretty Expression! Have you ever been in Love,
_Madamoiselle_?
Madam. _Ouy_, Matame.
[_Sighing._
_Lady Fan._ And were you belov'd again?
Madam. _Non_, Matame.
_Lady Fan._ O ye Gods! What an unfortunate Creature shou'd I be in such
a Case! But Nature has made me nice, for my own Defence: I'm nice,
strangely nice, _Madamoiselle_; I believe were the Merit of whole
Mankind bestow'd upon one single Person, I shou'd still think the
Fellow wanted something to make it worth my while to take notice of
him; and yet I could love; nay, fondly love, were it possible to have
a thing made on purpose for me: For I'm not cruel, _Madamoiselle_; I'm
only nice.
_Madam._ Ah Matam, I wish I was fine Gentleman for your sake. I do
all de ting in de World to get leetel way into your Heart. I make
Song, I make Verse, I give you de Serenade, I give great many Present
to _Madamoiselle_; I no eat, I no sleep, I be lean, I be mad, I hang
myself, I drown myself. _Ah ma chere Dame, que je vous aimerois!_
[_Embracing her._
_Lady Fan._ Well, the _French_ have strange obliging ways with 'em; you
may take those two pair of Gloves, _Madamoiselle_.
_Madam._ Me humbly tanke my sweet Lady.
_Enter ~Cornet~._
_Cor._ Madam, here's a Letter for your Ladyship by the Penny Post.
_Lady Fan._ Some new Conquest, I'll warrant you. For without Vanity,
I look'd extremely clear last Night when I went to the Park.--O
agreeable! Here's a new Song made of me: And ready set too. O thou
welcome thing! [_Kissing it._] Call _Pipe_ hither, she shall sing it
instantly.
_Enter ~Pipe~._
Here, sing me this new Song, _Pipe_.
SONG.
I.
_Fly, fly, you happy Shepherds, fly;
Avoid ~Philira~'s Charms;
The Rigour of her Heart denies
The Heaven that's in her Arms.
Ne'er hope to gaze, and then retire,
Nor yielding, to be blest;
Nature, who form'd her Eyes of Fire,
Of Ice compos'd her Breast._
II.
_Yet, lovely Maid, this once believe
A Slave whose Zeal you move;
The Gods, alas! your Youth deceive,
Their Heav'n consists in Love.
In spite of all the Thanks you owe,
You may reproach 'em this;
That where they did their Form bestow,
They have deny'd their Bliss._
_Lady Fan._ Well, there may be Faults, _Madamoiselle_, but the Design
is so very obliging, 'twou'd be a matchless Ingratitude in me to
discover 'em.
Madam. _Ma foy, Madame_, I tink de Gentleman's Song tell you de Trute.
If you never love, you never be happy--Ah--_que l'aime l'amour moy_!
_Enter Servant with another Letter._
_Ser._ Madam, here's another Letter for your Ladyship.
_Lady Fan._ 'Tis this way I am importun'd every Morning,
_Madamoiselle_. Pray how do the _French_ Ladies when they are thus
_accablées_?
_Madam._ Matam, dey never complain. _Au contraire_, when one _Frense_
Laty have got hundred Lover--den she do all she can--to get a hundred
more.
_Lady Fan._ Well, strike me dead, I think they have _le Gout bon_. For
'tis an unutterable Pleasure to be ador'd by all the Men, and envy'd
by all the Women----Yet I'll swear I'm concern'd at the Torture I give
'em. Lard, why was I form'd to make the whole Creation uneasy! But let
me read my Letter. [_Reads._]
"If you have a mind to hear of your Faults, instead of being
prais'd for your Virtues, take the pains to walk in the Green-walk
in St. _James_'s with your Woman an Hour hence. You'll there
meet one, who hates you for some things, as he cou'd love
you for others, and therefore is willing to endeavour your
Reformation.----If you come to the Place I mention, you'll know who
I am: If you don't, you never shall: so take your Choice."
This is strangely familiar, _Madamoiselle_; now have I a provoking
Fancy to know who this impudent Fellow is.
_Madam._ Den take your Scarf and your Mask, and go to de Rendezvous. De
_Frense_ Laty do _justement comme ça_.
_Lady Fan._ Rendezvous! What, rendezvous with a Man, _Madamoiselle_!
Madam. _Eh, pourquoy non?_
_Lady Fan._ What, and a Man perhaps I never saw in my Life?
Madam. _Tant mieux: c'est donc quelque chose de nouveau._
_Lady Fan._ Why, how do I know what Designs he may have? He may intend
to ravish me, for aught I know.
_Madam._ Ravish!--_Bagatelle_. I would fain see one impudent Rogue
ravish _Madamoiselle: Ouy, je le voudrois_.
_Lady Fan._.O, but my Reputation, _Madamoiselle!_ my Reputation! _Ah ma
chere Reputation!_
Madam. _Madame--Quand on la une fois perdue--On n'en est plus
embarassée._
_Lady Fan._ Fe, _Madamoiselle_, Fe! Reputation is a Jewel.
Madam. _Qui coute bien chere, Madame._
_Lady Fan._ Why sure you would not sacrifice your Honour to your
Pleasure?
Madam. _Je suis Philosophe._
_Lady Fan._ Bless me, how you talk! Why, what if Honour be a Burden,
_Madamoiselle_, must it not be borne?
Madam. _Chaqu'un a sa façon--Quand quelque chose m'incommode moy--je
m'en defais vite._
_Lady Fan._ Get you gone, you little naughty _French-woman_, you; I vow
and swear I must turn you out of doors, if you talk thus.
_Madam._ Turn me out of doors!----Turn yourself out of doors, and go
see what de Gentleman have to say to you--_Tenez_. _Voila_ [Giving
her her things hastily.] _vostre Esharpe_, _voila vostre Quoife_,
_voila vostre Masque_, _voila tout_. _Hey_, _Mercure_, _Coquin_: Call
one Chair for Matam, and one oder [_Calling within._] for me: _Va
t'en vite_. [Turning to her Lady, and helping her on hastily with
her things.] _Allons, Madame, depechez vous donc. Mon Dieu, quelles
Scrupules!_
_Lady Fan._ Well, for once, _Madamoiselle_, I'll follow your Advice,
out of the intemperate Desire I have to know who this ill-bred Fellow
is. But I have too much _Delicatesse_, to make a Practice on't.
Madam. _Belle chose vrayment que la Delicatesse, lors qu'il s'agit de
se devertir--à ça--Vous voila equipés, partons.--He bien!--qu'avez vous
donc?_
Lady Fan. _J'ay peur._
Madam. _Je n'en ay point moy._
_Lady Fan._ I dare not go.
Madam. _Demeurez donc._
Lady Fan. _Je suis poltrone._
Madam. _Tant pis pour vous._
_Lady Fan._ Curiosity's a wicked Devil.
Madam. _C'est une charmante Sainte._
_Lady Fan._ It ruined our first Parents.
Madam. _Elle a bien diverti leurs Enfans._
Lady Fan. _L'Honneur est contre._
Madam. _La Plaisir est pour._
_Lady Fan._ Must I then go?
_Madam._ Must you go?--Must you eat, must you drink, must you sleep,
must you live? De Nature bid you do one, de Nature bid you do toder.
_Vous me ferez enrager._
_Lady Fan._ But when Reason corrects Nature, _Madamoiselle_----
Madam. _Elle est donc bien insolente, c'est sa Sœur aisnée._
_Lady Fan._ Do you then prefer your Nature to your Reason,
_Madamoiselle_?
Madam. _Ouy da._
Lady Fan. _Pourquoy?_
_Madam._ Because my Nature make me merry, my Reason make me mad.
Lady Fan. _Ah la mechante Françoise!_
Madam. _Ah la belle Angloise!_
[_Forcing her Lady off._
[Illustration]
+ACT+ II.
+SCENE+, _St. ~James~'s Park_.
_Enter Lady ~Fancyfull and Madamoiselle~._
_Lady Fan._ Well, I vow, _Madamoiselle_, I'm strangely impatient to
know who this confident Fellow is.
_Enter ~Heartfree~._
Look, there's _Heartfree_. But sure it can't be him; he's a profess'd
Woman-hater. Yet who knows what my wicked Eyes may have done?
Madam. _Il nous approche, Madame._
_Lady Fan._ Yes, 'tis he: now will he be most intolerably cavalier,
tho' he should be in love with me.
_Heart._ Madam, I'm your humble Servant; I perceive you have more
Humility and Good-Nature than I thought you had.
_Lady Fan._ What you attribute to Humility and Good-Nature, Sir, may
perhaps be only due to Curiosity. I had a mind to know who 'twas had
ill manners enough to write that Letter.
[_Throwing him his Letter._
_Heart._ Well, and now I hope you are satisfy'd.
_Lady Fan._ I am so, Sir: Good by t'ye.
_Heart._ Nay, hold there; tho' you have done your Business, I han't
done mine: By your Ladyship's leave, we must have one Moment's Prattle
together. Have you a mind to be the prettiest Woman about Town, or not?
How she stares upon me! What! this passes for an impertinent Question
with you now, because you think you are so already?
_Lady Fan._ Pray, Sir, let me ask you a Question in my Turn: By what
Right do you pretend to examine me?
_Heart._ By the same Right that the strong govern the weak, because I
have you in my power; for you cannot get so quickly to your Coach, but
I shall have time enough to make you hear every thing I have to say to
you.
_Lady Fan._ These are strange Liberties you take, Mr. _Heartfree_.
_Heart._ They are so, Madam, but there's no help for it; for know that
I have a Design upon you.
_Lady Fan._ Upon me, Sir!
_Heart._ Yes; and one that will turn to your Glory, and my Comfort, if
you will but be a little wiser than you use to be.
_Lady Fan._ Very well, Sir.