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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.