from the farther end with Sir _Credulous_ on it, and several others
playing on strange confused Instruments._
Sir _Cred._ This sure is extraordinary, or the Devil’s in’t, and I’ll
ne’er trust Serenade more.
[Come forward, and all play again.
--Hold, hold, now for the Song, which because I wou’d have most
deliciously and melodiously sung, I’ll sing my self; look
ye,--hum--hum.--
Sir _Credulous_ should have sung.
_Thou Grief of my Heart, and thou Pearl of my Eyes,
D’on thy Flannel Petticoat quickly, and rise;
And from thy resplendent Window discover
A Face that wou’d mortify any young Lover:
For I, like great _Jove_ transformed, do wooe,
And am amorous Owl, to wit to wooe, to wit to wooe.
A Lover, Ads Zoz, is a sort of a Tool
That of all Things you best may compare to an Owl:
For in some dark Shades he delights still to sit,
And all the Night long he crys wo to wit.
Then rise, my bright _Cloris_, and d’on on slip shoe:
And hear thy amorous Owl chant, wit to wooe, wit to wooe._
--Well, this won’t do, for I perceive no Window open, nor Lady bright
appear, to talk obligingly:--perhaps the Song does not please her: you
Ballad-singers, have you no good Songs of another fashion?
_1 Man._ Yes, Sir, Several, _Robin--Hark how the Waters fall, fall,
fall!_
Sir _Cred._ How, Man! Zoz, remove us farther off, for fear of wetting.
_1 Man._ No, no, Sir, I only gave my Fellow a hint of an excellent
Ballad that begins--_Ill-wedded Joys, how quickly do you fade!_
[Sings.
Sir _Cred._ Ay, ay, that, we’ll have that,--_Ill-wedded Joys, how
quickly do you fade_,-- [Sings.] That’s excellent! Oh, now the Windows
open, now, now shew your capering Tricks. [Vaulting.
[They all play again.
Enter _Roger_ and a Company of Fellows as out of Sir _Patient’s_
House, led on by _Abel_ a precise Clerk, all armed with odd
Weapons.
_Abel._ Verily, verily, here be these Babes of Perdition, these Children
of Iniquity.
_Rog._ A pox of your Babes and Children, they are Men, and Sons of
Whores, whom we must bang confoundedly, for not letting honest godly
People rest quietly in their Beds at Midnight.
Sir _Cred._ Who’s there?
_Rog._ There, with a Pox to you; cannot a Right-worshipful Knight, that
has been sick these Twenty Years with taking Physick, sleep quietly in
his own House for you; and must we be rais’d out of our Beds to quiet
your Hell-pipes, in the Devil’s name?
_Abel._ Down with _Gog_ and _Magog_, there; there’s the rotten Bell
weather that leads the rest astray, and defiles the whole Flock.
_Rog._ Hang your preaching, and let’s come to him, we’ll maul him.
[Beat Sir _Cred._
Sir _Cred._ Oh, Quarter, Quarter, Murder, Help, Murder, Murder!
Enter _Lodwick_.
_Lod._ Damn these Rascals, who e’er they were, that so unluckily
redeem’d a Rival from my Fury,--Hah, they are here,--Egad, I’ll have one
touch more with ‘em,--the Dogs are spoiling my design’d Serenade
too--have amongst ye.-- [Fights and beats ‘em off.] Sir _Credulous_, how
is’t?
Sir _Cred._ Who’s there? _Lodwick?_ Oh dear Lad, is’t thou that hast
redeem’d me from the inchanted Cudgels that demolish’d my triumphant
Pageant, and confounded my Serenade? Zoz, I’m half kill’d, Man,--I have
never a whole Bone about me sure.
_Lod._ Come in with me--a plague upon the Rascal that escap’d me.
[Exeunt.
ACT IV.
SCENE I. Lady _Knowell’s_ House.
Enter _Lucretia_, followed by Sir _Credulous_.
_Lucr._ Marry’d to morrow! and leave my Mother the possession of
_Leander_! I’ll die a thousand Deaths first.--How the Fool haunts me!
[Aside.
Sir _Cred._ Nay, delicious Lady, you may say your Pleasure; but I will
justify the Serenade to be as high a piece of Gallantry as was ever
practised in our Age, though not comparable to your Charms and celestial
Graces, which shou’d I praise as I ought, ‘twou’d require more time than
the Sun employs in his natural Motion between the Tropicks; that is to
say, a whole Year, (for by the way, I am no _Copernican_) for, Dear
Madam, you must know, my Rhetorick Master,--I say, my Rhetorick Master,
who was--
_Lucr._ As great a Coxcomb as your self;--pray leave me, I am
serious--I must go seek out _Lodwick_.
Sir _Cred._ Leave ye! I thank you for that, i’faith, before I have spoke
out my Speech; therefore I say, Divine Lady--because my Rhetorick Master
commanded the frequent use of _Hypallages_, _Allegories_, and the
richest Figures of that beauteous Art,--because my Rhetorick--
_Lucr._ I must leave the Fool, follow if you dare, for I have no leisure
to attend your Nonsense.
[Goes out.
Enter Lady _Knowell_.
L. _Kno._ What, alone, Sir _Credulous_? I left you with _Lucretia_.
Sir _Cred._ _Lucretia!_ I’m sure she makes a very _Tarquinius Sextus_ of
me, and all about this Serenade,--I protest and vow, incomparable Lady,
I had begun the sweetest Speech to her--though I say’t, such Flowers of
Rhetorick--’twou’d have been the very Nosegay of Eloquence, so it wou’d;
and like an ungrateful illiterate Woman as she is, she left me in the
very middle on’t, so snuffy I’ll warrant.
L. _Kno._ Be not discourag’d, Sir, I’ll adapt her to a reconciliation:
Lovers must sometimes expect these little _Belli fugaces_; the
_Grecians_ therefore truly named Love _Glucupicros Eros_.
Sir _Cred._ Nay, bright Lady, I am as little discourag’d as another, but
I’m sorry I gave so extraordinary a Serenade to so little purpose.
L. _Kno._ Name it no more, ‘twas only a Gallantry mistaken; but I’ll
accelerate your Felicity, and to morrow shall conclude the great
dispute, since there is such Volubility and Vicissitude in mundane
Affairs.
[Goes out.
Enter _Lodwick_, stays Sir _Credulous_ as he is going out the
other way.
_Lod._ Sir _Credulous_, whither away so fast?
Sir _Cred._ Zoz, what a Question’s there? dost not know I am to unty the
Virgin Zone to morrow, that is, barter Maiden-heads with thy Sister,
that is, to be married to her, Man, and I must to _Lincolns-Inn_ to my
Counsel about it?
_Lod._ My Sister just now told me of it; but, Sir, you must not stir.
Sir _Cred._ Why, what’s the matter?
_Lod._ Have you made your Will?
Sir _Cred._ My Will! no, why my Will, Man?
_Lod._ Then, for the good of your Friends and Posterity, stir not from
this place.
Sir _Cred._ Good Lord, _Lodwick_, thou art the strangest Man,--what do
you mean to fright a body thus?
_Lod._ You remember the Serenade last night?
Sir _Cred._ Remember it? Zoz, I think I do, here be the marks on’t
sure.--
[Pulls off his Peruke, and shews his Head broke.
_Lod._ Ads me, your Head’s broke.
Sir _Cred._ My Head broke! why, ‘twas a hundred to one but my Neck had
been broke.
_Lod._ Faith, not unlikely,--you know the next House is Sir _Patient
Fancy’s_; _Isabella_ too, you know, is his Daughter.
Sir _Cred._ Yes, yes, she was by when I made my dumb Oration.
_Lod._ The same,--this Lady has a Lover, a mad, furious, fighting,
killing Hector, (as you know there are enough about this Town) this
Monsieur supposing you to be a Rival, and that your Serenade was
address’d to her--
Sir _Cred._ Enough, I understand you, set those Rogues on to murder me.
_Lod._ Wou’d ‘twere no worse.
Sir _Cred._ Worse! Zoz, Man, what the Devil can be worse?
_Lod._ Why, he has vow’d to kill you himself wherever he meets you, and
now waits below to that purpose.
Sir _Cred._ Sha, sha, if that be all, I’ll to him immediately, and make
Affidavit I never had any such design. Madam _Isabella_! ha, ha, alas,
poor man, I have some body else to think on.
_Lod._ Affidavit! why, he’ll not believe you, should you swear your
Heart out: some body has possess’d him that you are a damn’d Fool, and a
most egregious Coward, a Fellow that to save your Life will swear any
thing.
Sir _Cred._ What cursed Luck’s this!--why, how came he to know I liv’d
here?
_Lod._ I believe he might have it from _Leander_, who is his Friend.
Sir _Cred._ _Leander!_ I must confess I never lik’d that _Leander_ since
yesterday.
_Lod._ He has deceiv’d us all, that’s the truth on’t; for I have lately
found out too, that he’s your Rival, and has a kind of a--
Sir _Cred._ Smattering to my Mistress, hah, and therefore wou’d not be
wanting to give me a lift out of this World; but I shall give her such a
go-by--my Lady _Knowell_ understands the difference between three
Thousand a Year, and--prithee what’s his Estate?
_Lod._ Shaw--not sufficient to pay Surgeons Bills.
Sir _Cred._ Alas, poor Rat, how does he live then?
_Lod._ Hang him, the Ladies keep him; ‘tis a good handsome Fellow, and
has a pretty Town-Wit.
Sir _Cred._ He a Wit! what, I’ll warrant he writes Lampoons, rails at
Plays, curses all Poetry but his own, and mimicks the Players--ha.
_Lod._ Some such common Notions he has that deceives the ignorant
Rabble, amongst whom he passes for a very smart Fellow,--’life, he’s
here.
Enter _Leander_.
Sir _Cred._ Why, what shall I do, he will not affront me before Company?
hah!
_Lod._ Not in our House, Sir,--bear up and take no notice on’t.
[_Lod._ whispers _Lean._
Sir _Cred._ No notice, quoth he? why, my very Fears will betray me.
_Lean._ Let me alone--_Lodwick_, I met just now with an _Italian_
Merchant, who has made me such a Present!
_Lod._ What is’t prithee?
_Lean._ A Sort of specifick Poison for all the Senses, especially for
that of smelling; so that had I a Rival, and I should see him at any
reasonable distance, I could direct a little of this Scent up to his
Brain so subtlely, that it shall not fail of Execution in a day or two.
Sir _Cred._ How--Poison!
[Shewing great Signs of Fear, and holding his Nose.
_Lean._ Nay, shou’d I see him in the midst of a thousand People, I can
so direct it, that it shall assault my Enemy’s Nostrils only, without
any effects on the rest of the Company.
Sir _Cred._ Oh,--I’m a dead Man!
_Lod._ Is’t possible?
_Lean._ Perhaps some little sneezing or so, no harm; but my Enemy’s a
dead Man, Sir, kill’d.
Sir _Cred._ Why, this is the most damn’d _Italian_ Trick I ever heard
of; why, this outdoes the famous Poisoner Madam _Brenvilliers_; well,
here’s no jesting, I perceive that, _Lodwick_.
_Lod._ Fear nothing, I’ll secure you. [Aside to him.
Enter _Wittmore_.
--_Wittmore!_ how is’t, Friend! thou lookest cloudy.
_Wit._ You’ll hardly blame me, Gentlemen, when you shall know what a
damn’d unfortunate Rascal I am.
_Lod._ Prithee what’s the matter?
_Wit._ Why, I am to be marry’d, Gentlemen, marry’d to day.
_Lod._ How, marry’d! nay, Gad, then thou’st reason; but to whom prithee?
_Wit._ There’s the Devil on’t again, to a fine young fair, brisk Woman,
that has all the Temptations Heaven can give her.
_Lod._ What pity ‘tis they shou’d be bestow’d to so wicked an end! Is
this your Intrigue, that has been so long conceal’d from your Friends?
_Lean._ We thought it had been some kind Amour, something of Love and
Honour.
_Lod._ Is she rich? if she be wondrous rich, we’ll excuse thee.
_Wit._ Her Fortune will be suitable to the Jointure I shall make her.
_Lod._ Nay then ‘tis like to prove a hopeful Match; what a Pox can
provoke thee to this, dost love her?
_Wit._ No, there’s another Plague, I am cursedly in love elsewhere; and
this was but a false Address, to hide that real one.
_Lod._ How, love another? in what quality and manner?
_Wit._ As a Man ought to love, with a good substantial Passion, without
any design but that of right-down honest Injoyment.
_Lod._ Ay, now we understand thee, this is something. Ah Friend, I had
such an Adventure last Night.--You may talk of your Intrigues and
substantial Pleasures, but if any of you can match mine,--Egad, I’ll
forswear Womankind.
_Lean._ An Adventure! prithee where?
Sir _Cred._ What, last Night, when you rescued me from the Bilbo-Blades!
indeed ye look’d a little furiously.
_Lod._ I had reason, I was just then come out of a Garden from fighting
with a Man whom I found with my Mistress; and I had at least known who’t
had been, but for the coming of those Rascals that set on you, who
parted us, whilst he made his escape in the Croud.
_Wit._ Death! that was I, who for fear of being known got away: was’t he
then that I fought with, and whom I learnt lov’d _Isabella_?
[Aside.
_Lod._ You must know, Gentlemen, I have a sort of a matrimonial Kindness
for a very pretty Woman, she whom I tell you I disturb’d in the Garden,
and last night she made me an Assignation in her Chamber: when I came to
the Garden-door by which I was to have admittance, I found a kind of
Necessary call’d a Baudy Waiting-Woman, whom I follow’d, and thought she
wou’d have conducted me to the right Woman; but I was luckily and in the
dark led into a Lady’s Chamber, who took me for a Lover she expected:
I found my happy mistake, and wou’d not undeceive her.
_Wit._ This could be none but _Lucia_. [Aside.
--Well, Sir, and what did you do there?
_Lod._ Do! why, what dost think? all that a Man inspir’d by Love cou’d
do, I followed all the dictates of Nature, Youth, and Vigor.
_Wit._ Oh, hold, my Heart--or I shall kill the Traitor. [Aside.
Sir _Cred._ Follow’d all the dictates of Nature, Youth and Vigor!
prithee what’s that?
_Lod._ I kiss’d a thousand times her balmy Lips, and greedily took in
the nimble Sighs she breath’d into my Soul.
_Wit._ Oh, I can scarce contain my self. [Aside.
Sir _Cred._ Pshaw, is that all, Man?
_Lod._ I clasp’d her lovely Body in my Arms,
And laid my Bosom to her panting Breast.
Trembling she seem’d all Love and soft Desire,
And I all Burnings in a youthful Fire.
Sir _Cred._ Bless us, the Man’s in a Rapture!
_Wit._ Damnation on them both.
Sir _Cred._ Well, to the point, Man: what didst do all this while?
_Lean._ Faith, I fancy he did not sleep, Sir _Credulous_.
_Lod._ No, Friend, she had too many Charms to keep me waking.
Sir _Cred._ Had she so? I shou’d have beg’d her Charms pardon, I tell
her that though.
_Wit._ Curse on my Sloth, Oh, how shall I dissemble? [Aside.
_Lean._ Thy Adventure was pretty lucky--but, _Wittmore_, thou dost not
relish it.
_Wit._ My Mind’s upon my Marriage, Sir; if I thought he lov’d
_Isabella_, I wou’d marry her to be reveng’d on him, at least I’ll vex
his Soul, as he has tortur’d mine.--Well, Gentlemen, you’ll dine with
me,--and give me your opinion of my Wife.
_Lod._ Where dost thou keep the Ceremony?
_Wit._ At Sir _Patient Fancy’s_, my Father-in-law.
_Lod._ How! Sir _Patient Fancy_ to be your Father-in-law?
_Lean._ My Uncle?
_Wit._ He’s fir’d,--’tis his Daughter, Sir, I am to marry.--
_Lod._ _Isabella!_ _Leander_, can it be? can she consent to this? and
can she love you?
_Wit._ Why, Sir, what do you see in me, shou’d render me unfit to be
belov’d?
[Angry.
_Lod._ Marry’d to day! by Heaven, it must not be, Sir.
[Draws him aside.
_Wit._ Why, Sir, I hope this is not the kind Lady who was so soft, so
sweet and charming last night.
_Lod._ Hold, Sir,--we yet are Friends.--
_Wit._ And might have still been so, hadst thou not basely rob’d me of
my Interest.
_Lod._ Death, do you speak my Language? [Ready to draw.
_Wit._ No, take a secret from my angry Heart, which all its Friendship
to thee cou’d not make me utter;--it was my Mistress you surpriz’d last
night.
_Lod._ Hah, my Lady _Fancy_ his Mistress? Curse on my prating Tongue.
[Aside.
Sir _Cred._ What a Devil’s all this, hard Words, Heart-burnings,
Resentments, and all that?
_Lean._ You are not quarrelling, I hope, my Friends?
_Lod._ All this, Sir, we suspected, and smok’d your borrowing Money last
night; and what I said was to gain the mighty secret that had been so
long kept from your Friends:--but thou hast done a baseness--
[Lays his Hand on his Sword.
_Lean._ Hold, what’s the matter?
_Wit._ Did you not rob me of the Victory then I’ve been so long a
toiling for?
_Lod._ If I had, ‘twould not have made her guilty, nor me a Criminal;
she taking me for one she lov’d, and I her for one that had no Interest
in my Friend: and who the Devil wou’d have refus’d so fine a Woman? Nor
had I but that I was prevented by her Husband.--But _Isabella_, Sir, you
must resign.
_Wit._ I will, provided that our Friendship’s safe; I am this day to
marry her, and if you can find a means to do’t in my room, I shall
resign my Interest to my Friend; for ‘tis the lovely Mother I adore.
_Lod._ And was it you I fought with in the Garden?
_Wit._ Yes, and thereby hangs a tale of a mistake almost equal to thine,
which I’ll at leisure tell you.
[Talks to _Lod._ and _Lean._
Sir _Cred._ I’m glad they’re Friends; Zoz, here was like to have been a
pretty Business; what damnable work this same Womankind makes in a
Nation of Fools that are Lovers?
_Wit._ Look ye, I am a damn’d dull Fellow at Invention, I’ll therefore
leave you to contrive matters by your selves, whilst I’ll go try how
kind Fortune will be to me this Morning, and see in what readiness my
Bride is. What you do must be thought on suddenly; I’ll wait on you
anon, and let you know how matters go.--I’m as impatient to know the
truth of this, as for an opportunity to enjoy _Lucia_.
[Goes out.
_Lod._ _Leander_, what shall I do?
_Lean._ You were best consult your Mother and Sister; Women are best at
Intrigues of this kind: But what becomes of me?
_Lod._ Let me alone to dispatch this Fool, I long to have him out of the
way, he begins to grow troublesome:--but now my Mother expects you.
_Lean._ Prithee be careful of me.-- [Exit _Lean._
Sir _Cred._ What was this long Whisper, something about me?
_Lod._ Why, yes, faith, I was persuading him to speak to his Friend
about this Business; but he swears there’s no hopes of a Reconciliation:
you are a dead Man, unless some cleanly conveyance of you be soon
thought on.
Sir _Cred._ Why, I’ll keep within doors, and defy Malice and foul
Weather.
_Lod._ Oh, he means to get a Warrant, and search for stolen Goods,
prohibited Commodities or Conventicles; there’s a thousand Civil
Pretences in this Town to commit Outrages--let me see.--
[They both pause a while.
Sir _Cred._ Well, I have thought,--and of such a Business, that the
Devil’s in’t if you don’t say I am a man of Intrigue.
_Lod._ What is’t?
Sir _Cred._ Ha, ha, ha, I must have leave to laugh to think how neatly I
shall defeat this Son of a Whore of a thunder thumping Hector.
_Lod._ Be serious, Sir, this is no laughing matter; if I might advise,
you should steal into the Country, for two or three days, till the
Business be blown over.
Sir _Cred._ Lord, thou art so hasty and conceited of thy own Invention,
thou wilt not give a Man leave to think in thy company: why, these were
my very thoughts; nay more, I have found a way to get off clever, though
he watch me as narrowly as an enraged Serjeant upon an Escape.
_Lod._ That indeed wou’d be a Master-piece.
Sir _Cred._ Why, look ye, do you see that great Basket there?
_Lod._ I do,--this you mean.-- [Pulls in a Basket.
Sir _Cred._ Very well, put me into this Basket, and cord me down, send
for a couple of Porters, hoist me away with a Direction, to an old Uncle
of mine, one Sir _Anthony Bubleton_ at _Bubleton-Hall_ in _Essex_; and
then whip slap-dash, as _Nokes_ says in the Play, I’m gone, and who’s
the wiser?
_Lod._ I like it well.
Sir _Cred._ Nay, lose no time in applauding, I’ll in, the Carrier goes
this Morning; farewel, _Lodwick_.--
[Goes Into the Basket.
I’ll be here again on _Thursday_. [_Lod._ writes a Direction.
Enter Boy.
_Lod._ By all means, Sir,--Who’s there,--call a couple of Porters.
[Exit Boy.
Sir _Cred._ One word more, the Carrier lies at the _Bell_ in
_Friday-street_, pray take care they set me not on my Head.--
[Pops in again.
Enter Boy and two Porters.
_Lod._ Come hither, cord up this Basket, and carry it where he shall
direct.--_Leander_ will never think he’s free from a Rival, till he have
him in his possession--To Mr. _Leander Fancy’s_ at the next door; say
’.is things for him out of the Country.--Write a Direction to him on the
Basket-lid. [Aside to the Boy.
[Porters going to carry off the Basket on a long Pole between ‘em.
Enter Lady _Knowell_.
L. _Kno._ What’s this? whither goes this Basket?
Sir _Cred._ Ah Lord! they are come with the Warrant.
[Peeps out of the Basket.
_Lod._ Only Books, Madam, offer’d me to buy, but they do not please me.
L. _Kno._ Books! nay then set down the Basket, Fellows, and let me
peruse ‘em; who are their Authors, and what their Language?
Sir _Cred._ A pox of all Learning, I say,--’tis my Mother-in-law.
[Porters going to set down the Basket.
_Lod._ Hold, hold, Madam, they are only _English_ and some Law-_French_.
L. _Kno._ Oh, faugh, how I hate that vile sort of Reading! up with ‘em
again, Fellows, and away.
[The Porters take up and go out.
_Lod._ God-a-mercy, Law-_French_. [Aside.
L. _Kno._ Law-_French_! out upon’t, I cou’d find in my heart to have the
Porters bring it back, and have it burnt for a Heresy to Learning.
_Lod._ Or thrown into the _Thames_, that it may float back to
_Normandy_, to have the Language new modell’d.
L. _Kno._ You say well; but what’s all this _ad Iphicli bonis_, where’s
Sir _Credulous_ all this while? his Affairs expect him.
_Lod._ So does _Leander_ your Ladyship within.
L. _Kno._ _Leander!_ _Hymen, Hymenæ_, I’ll wait on him, _Lodwick_; I am
resolv’d you shall marry _Isabella_ too; I have a design in my head that
cannot fail to give you the possession of her within this two or three
hours.
_Lod._ Such an Indulgence will make me the happiest of Men, and I have
something to say to your Ladyship that will oblige you to hasten the
design.
L. _Kno._ Come in, and let me know it.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II. _A Chamber in Sir _Patient Fancy’s_ House. A Table and
Chairs._
Enter Lady _Fancy_ in a Morning-dress, _Maundy_ with Pen, Ink and
Paper.
L. _Fan._ _Wittmore_ in the Garden, sayst thou, with _Isabella_! Oh
perjur’d Man! it was by his contrivance then I was betray’d last night.
_Maun._ I thought so too at first, Madam, till going to conduct Mr.
_Knowell_ through the Garden, he finding Mr. _Wittmore_ there with
_Isabella_ drew on him, and they both fought out of the Garden: what
mischief’s done I know not.--But, Madam, I hope Mr. _Knowell_ was not
uncivil to your Ladyship. I had no time to ask what pass’d between you.
L. _Fan._ Oh, name it not: I gave him all I had reserv’d for _Wittmore_.
I was so possess’d with the thoughts of that dear false one, I had no
sense free to perceive the cheat:--but I will be reveng’d.--Come let me
end my Letter, we are safe from interruption.
_Maun._ Yes, Madam, Sir _Patient_ is not yet up, the Doctors have been
with him, and tell him he is not so bad as we persuaded him.
L. _Fan._ And was he soft and kind?--By all that’s good, she loves him,
and they contriv’d this meeting.--My Pen and Ink--I am impatient to
unload my Soul of this great weight of Jealousy.--
[Sits down, and writes.
Enter Sir _Patient_, looking over her Shoulder a tip-toe.
_Maun._ Heaven! here’s Sir _Patient_, Madam.
L. _Fan._ Hah,--and ‘tis too late to hide the Paper; I was just going to
subscribe my Name.
Sir _Pat._ Good morrow, my Lady _Fancy_, your Ladyship is well employ’d,
I see.
L. _Fan._ Indeed I was, and pleasantly too: I am writing a Love-letter,
Sir.--But, my Dear, what makes you so soon up?
Sir _Pat._ A Love-letter!--let me see’t. [Goes to take it.
L. _Fan._ I’ll read it to you, Sir.
_Maun._ What mean you, Madam? [Aside.
Lady _Fancy_ reads.
It was but yesterday you swore you lov’d me, and I poor easy Fool
believ’d; but your last Night’s Infidelity has undeceiv’d my Heart,
and render’d you the falsest Man that ever Woman sigh’d for. Tell
me, how durst you, when I had prepared all things for our Enjoyment,
be so great a Devil to deceive my languishing Expectations? and in
your room send one that has undone
Your--
_Maun._ Sure she’s mad to read this to him.
Sir _Pat._ Hum,--I profess ingenuously--I think it is indeed a
Love-letter. My Lady _Fancy_, what means all this? as I take it, here
are Riddles and Mysteries in this Business.
L. _Fan._ Which thus, Sir, I’ll unfold.--
[Takes the Pen, and writes _Isabella_.
Sir _Pat._ How! undone--Your--_Isabella_, meaning my Daughter?
L. _Fan._ Yes, my Dear, going this morning into her Chamber, she not
being there, I took up a Letter that lay open on her Table, and out of
curiosity read it; as near as I can remember ‘twas to this purpose:
I writ it out now, because I had a mind thou shou’dst see’t; for I can
hide nothing from thee.
Sir _Pat._ A very good Lady, I profess! to whom is it directed?
L. _Fan._ Why,--Sir--What shall I say, I cannot lay it now on
_Lodwick_--
[Aside.
I believe she meant it to Mr. _Fainlove_, for whom else cou’d it be
design’d? she being so soon to marry him.
Sir _Pat._ Hah,--Mr. _Fainlove_! so soon so fond and amorous!
L. _Fan._ Alas, ‘tis the excusable fault of all young Women, thou knowst
I was just such another Fool to thee, so fond--and so in love.--
Sir _Pat._ Ha,--thou wert indeed, my Lady _Fancy_, indeed thou
wert.--But I will keep the Letter however, that this idle Baggage may
know I understand her Tricks and Intrigues.
[Puts up the Letter.
L. _Fan._ Nay then ‘twill out: No, I beseech you, Sir, give me the
Letter, I wou’d not for the World _Isabella_ shou’d know of my theft,
’.wou’d appear malicious in me:--Besides, Sir, it does not befit your
Gravity to be concern’d in the little Quarrels of Lovers.
Sir _Pat._ Lovers! Tell me not of Lovers, my Lady _Fancy_; with
Reverence to your good Ladyship, I value not whether there be Love
between ‘em or not. Pious Wedlock is my Business,--nay, I will let him
know his own too, that I will, with your Ladyship’s permission.
L. _Fan._ How unlucky I am!--Sir, as to his Chastisement, use your own
discretion, in which you do abound most plentifully. But pray let not
_Isabella_ hear of it; for as I wou’d preserve my Duty to thee, by
communicating all things to thee, so I wou’d conserve my good Opinion
with her.
Sir _Pat._ Ah, what a Blessing I possess in so excellent a Wife! and in
regard I am every day descending to my Grave.--ah--I will no longer hide
from thee the Provision I have made for thee, in case I die.--
L. _Fan._ This is the Musick that I long’d to hear.--Die!--Oh, that
fatal Word will kill me--
[Weeps.
Name it no more, if you’d preserve my Life.
Sir _Pat._ Hah--now cannot I refrain joining with her in affectionate
Tears.--No, but do not weep for me, my excellent Lady, for I have made a
pretty competent Estate for thee. Eight thousand Pounds, which I have
conceal’d in my Study behind the Wainscot on the left hand as you come
in.
L. _Fan._ Oh, tell me not of transitory Wealth, for I’m resolv’d not to
survive thee. Eight thousand Pound say you?--Oh, I cannot endure the
thoughts on’t.
[Weeps.
Sir _Pat._ Eight thousand Pounds just, my dearest Lady.
L. _Fan._ Oh, you’ll make me desperate in naming it,--is it in Gold or
Silver?
Sir _Pat._ In Gold, my dearest, the most part, the rest in Silver.
L. _Fan._ Good Heavens! why should you take such pleasure in afflicting
me? [Weeps.] --Behind the Wainscot say you?
Sir _Pat._ Behind the Wainscot, prithee be pacified,--thou makest me
lose my greatest Virtue, Moderation, to see thee thus: alas, we’re all
born to die.--
L. _Fan._ Again of dying! Uncharitable Man, why do you delight in
tormenting me?--On the left hand, say you as you go in?
Sir _Pat._ On the left hand, my Love: had ever Man such a Wife?
L. _Fan._ Oh, my Spirits fail me--lead me, or I shall faint,--lead me to
the Study, and shew me where ‘tis,--for I am able to hear no more of it.
Sir _Pat._ I will, if you will promise indeed and indeed, not to grieve
too much.
[Going to lead her out.
Enter _Wittmore_.
_Wit._ Heaven grant me some kind opportunity to speak with _Lucia_! hah,
she’s here,--and with her the fond Cuckold her Husband.--Death, he has
spy’d me, there’s no avoiding him.--
Sir _Pat._ Oh, are you there, Sir?--_Maundy_, look to my Lady,--I take
it, Sir, you have not dealt well with a Person of my Authority and
Gravity.
[Gropes for the Letter in his pocket.
_Wit._ So this can be nothing less than my being found out to be no
_Yorkshire_ Esq; a Pox of my _Geneva_ Breeding; it must be so, what the
Devil shall I say now?
Sir _Pat._ And this disingenuous dealing does ill become the Person you
have represented, I take it.
_Wit._ Represented! ay, there ‘tis, wou’d I were handsomely off o’ this
Business; neither _Lucia_ nor _Maundy_ have any intelligence in their
demure looks that can instruct a Man.--Why, faith, Sir,--I must
confess,--I am to blame--and that I have--a--
L. _Fan._ Oh, _Maundy_, he’ll discover all, what shall we do?
Sir _Pat._ Have what, Sir?
_Wit._ From my violent Passion for your Daughter--
L. _Fan._ Oh, I’m all Confusion.--
_Wit._ Egad, I am i’th wrong, I see by _Lucia’s_ Looks.
Sir _Pat._ That you have, Sir, you wou’d say, made a Sport and May-game
of the Ingagement of your Word; I take it, Mr. _Fainlove_, ‘tis not like
the Stock you come from.
_Wit._ Yes, I was like to have spoil’d all, ‘sheart, what fine work I
had made--but most certainly he has discover’d my Passion for his
Wife.--Well, Impudence assist me--I made, Sir, a trifle of my Word, Sir!
from whom have you this Intelligence?
Sir _Pat._ From whom shou’d I, Sir, but from my Daughter _Isabella_?
_Wit._ _Isabella!_ The malicious Baggage understood to whom my first
Courtship was address’d last Night, and has betray’d me.
Sir _Pat._ And, Sir, to let you see I utter nothing without Precaution,
pray read that Letter.
_Wit._ Hah--a Letter! what can this mean,--’tis _Lucia’s_ Hand, with
_Isabella’s_ Name to’t.--Oh, the dear cunning Creature, to make her
Husband the Messenger too.--How, I send one in my room!
[He reads.
L. _Fan._ Yes, Sir, you think we do not know of the Appointment you made
last Night; but having other Affairs in hand than to keep your Promise,
you sent Mr. _Knowell_ in your room,--false Man.
_Wit._ I send him, Madam! I wou’d have sooner died.
Sir _Pat._ Sir, as I take it, he cou’d not have known of your Designs
and Rendezvous without your Informations.--Were not you to have met my
Daughter here to night, Sir?
_Wit._ Yes, Sir, and I hope ‘tis no such great Crime, to desire a little
Conversation with the fair Person one loves, and is so soon to marry,
which I was hinder’d from doing by the greatest and most unlucky
Misfortune that ever arriv’d: but for my sending him, Madam, credit me,
nothing so much amazes me and afflicts me, as to know he was here.
Sir _Pat._ He speaks well, ingenuously, he does.--Well, Sir, for your
Father’s sake, whose Memory I reverence, I will for once forgive you.
But let’s have no more Night-works, no more Gambols, I beseech you, good
Mr. _Fainlove_.
_Wit._ I humbly thank ye, Sir, and do beseech you to tell the dear
Creature that writ this, that I love her more than Life or Fortune, and
that I wou’d sooner have kill’d the Man that usurp’d my place last
Night, than have assisted him.
L. _Fan._ Were you not false, then?--Now hang me if I do not credit him.
[Aside.
Sir _Pat._ Alas, good Lady! how she’s concern’d for my Interest, she’s
even jealous for my Daughter.
[Aside.
_Wit._ False! charge me not with unprofitable Sins; wou’d I refuse a
Blessing, or blaspheme a Power that might undo me? wou’d I die in my
full vigorous Health, or live in constant Pain? All this I cou’d, sooner
than be untrue.
Sir _Pat._ Ingenuously, my Lady _Fancy_, he speaks discreetly, and to
purpose.
L. _Fan._ Indeed, my Dear, he does, and like an honest Gentleman: and I
shou’d think my self very unreasonable not to believe him.--And, Sir,
I’ll undertake your Peace shall be made with your Mistress.
Sir _Pat._ Well, I am the most fortunate Man in a Wife, that ever had
the blessing of a good one.
_Wit._ Madam, let me fall at your Feet, and thank you for this
Bounty.--Make it your own case, and then consider what returns ought to
be made to the most passionate and faithful of Lovers.
[Kneels.
Sir _Pat._ I profess a wonderful good natur’d Youth, this; rise, Sir, my
Lady _Fancy_ shall do you all the kind Offices she can, o’ my word, she
shall.
L. _Fan._ I’m all Obedience, Sir, and doubtless shall obey you.
Sir _Pat._ You must, indeed you must; and, Sir, I’ll defer your
Happiness no longer, this Day you shall be marry’d.
_Wit._ This Day, Sir!--why, the Writings are not made.
Sir _Pat._ No matter, Mr. _Fainlove_; her Portion shall be equivalent to
the Jointure you shall make her, I take it, that’s sufficient.
_Wit._ A Jointure, quoth he! it must be in new _Eutopian_ Land
then.--And must I depart thus, without a kind Word, a Look, or a Billet,
to signify what I am to expect.
[Looking on her slily.
Sir _Pat._ Come, my Lady _Fancy_, shall I wait on you down to Prayer!
Sir, you will get your self in order for your Marriage, the great Affair
of human Life; I must to my Morning’s Devotion: Come, Madam.
[She endeavours to make Signs to _Wittmore_.
L. _Fan._ Alas, Sir, the sad Discourse you lately made me, has so
disorder’d me, and given me such a Pain in my Head, I am not able to
endure the Psalm-singing.
Sir _Pat._ This comes of your Weeping; but we’ll omit that part of th’
Exercise, and have no Psalm sung.
L. _Fan._ Oh, by no means, Sir, ‘twill scandalize the Brethren; for you
know a Psalm is not sung so much out of Devotion, as ‘tis to give notice
of our Zeal and pious Intentions: ‘tis a kind of Proclamation to the
Neighbourhood, and cannot be omitted.--Oh, how my Head aches!
_Wit._ He were a damn’d dull Lover, that cou’d not guess what she meant
by this.
[Aside.
Sir _Pat._ Well, my Lady _Fancy_, your Ladyship shall be obey’d,--come,
Sir, we’ll leave her to her Women. [Exit Sir _Pat._
[As _Wittmore_ goes out, he bows and looks on her; she gives him
a Sign.
_Wit._ That kind Look is a sufficient Invitation. [Exit.
L. _Fan._ _Maundy_, follow ‘em down, and bring _Wittmore_ back again.--
[Exit _Maun._] There’s now a necessity of our contriving to avoid this
Marriage handsomly,--and we shall at least make two Hours our own;
I never wish’d well to long Prayers till this Minute.
Enter _Wittmore_.
_Wit._ Oh my dear _Lucia_!
L. _Fan._ Oh _Wittmore_! I long to tell thee what a fatal Mistake had
like to have happened last Night.
_Wit._ My Friend has told me all, and how he was prevented by the coming
of your Husband from robbing me of those sacred Delights I languish for.
Oh, let us not lose inestimable Time in dull talking; but haste to give
each other the only Confirmation we can give, how little we are our own.
L. _Fan._ I see _Lodwick’s_ a Man of Honour, and deserves a Heart if I
had one to give him.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III. A Hall.
Enter Sir _Patient_ and _Roger_.
Sir _Pat._ _Roger_, is Prayer ready, _Roger_?
_Rog._ Truly nay, Sir, for Mr. _Gogle_ has taken too much of the
Creature this Morning, and is not in case, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ How mean you, Sirrah, that Mr. _Gogle_ is overtaken with
Drink?
_Rog._ Nay, Sir, he hath over-eaten himself at Breakfast only.
Sir _Pat._ Alas, and that’s soon done, for he hath a sickly Stomach as
well as I, poor Man. Where is _Bartholomew_ the Clerk? he must hold
forth then to day.
_Rog._ Verily he is also disabled: for going forth last Night by your
Commandment to smite the Wicked, he received a blow over the
_Pericranium_.--
Sir _Pat._ Why, how now, Sirrah, Latin! the Language of the Beast!
hah--and what then, Sir?
_Rog._ Which Blow, I doubt, Sir, hath spoil’d both his Praying and his
Eating.
Sir _Pat._ Hah! What a Family’s here? no Prayer to day!
Enter _Nurse_ and _Fanny_.
_Nurs._ Nay verily it shall all out, I will be no more the dark Lanthorn
to the deeds of Darkness.
Sir _Pat._ What’s the matter here? [Exit _Roger_.
_Nurs._ Sir, this young Sinner has long been privy to all the daily and
nightly meetings between Mr. _Lodwick_ and _Isabella_; and just now I
took her tying a Letter to a String in the Garden, which he drew up to
his Window: and I have born it till my Conscience will bear it no
longer.
Sir _Pat._ Hah, so young a Baud!--Tell me, Minion--private meeting! tell
me truth, I charge ye, when? where? how? and how often? Oh, she’s
debauch’d!--her Reputation ruin’d, and she’ll need a double Portion.
Come, tell me truth, for this little Finger here has told me all.
_Fan._ Oh Geminy, Sir, then that little Finger’s the hougesest great
Lyer as ever was.
Sir _Pat._ Huzzy, huzzy--I will have thee whip’d most unmercifully:
Nurse, fetch me the Rod.
_Fan._ Oh, pardon me, Sir, this one time, and I’ll tell all.
[Kneels.
--Sir--I have seen him in the Garden, but not very often.
Sir _Pat._ Often! Oh, my Family’s dishonoured. Tell me truly what he
us’d to do there, or I will have thee whipt without cessation. Oh, I’m
in a cold Sweat; there’s my fine Maid, was he with her long?
_Fan._ Long enough.
Sir _Pat._ Long enough!--oh, ‘tis so, long enough,--for what, hah? my
dainty Miss, tell me, and didst thou leave ‘em?
_Fan._ They us’d to send me to gather Flowers to make Nosegays, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ Ah, Demonstration; ‘tis evident if they were left alone that
they were naught, I know’t.--And where were they the while? in the close
Arbour?--Ay, ay--I will have it cut down, it is the Pent-house of
Iniquity, the very Coverlid of Sin.
_Fan._ No, Sir, they sat on the Primrose Bank.
Sir _Pat._ What, did they sit all the while, or stand--or--lie--or--oh,
how was’t?
_Fan._ They only sat indeed, Sir Father.
Sir _Pat._ And thou didst not hear a Word they said all the while?
_Fan._ Yes, I did, Sir, and the Man talk’d a great deal of this, and of
that, and of t’other, and all the while threw Jessamine in her Bosom.
Sir _Pat._ Well said, and did he nothing else?
_Fan._ No, indeed, Sir Father, nothing.
Sir _Pat._ But what did she say to the Man again?
_Fan._ She said, let me see.--Ay, she said, Lord, you’ll forget your
self, and stay till somebody catch us.
Sir _Pat._ Ah, very fine,--then what said he?
_Fan._ Then he said, Well if I must be gone, let me leave thee with this
hearty Curse, A Pox take thee all over for making me love thee so
confoundedly.
Sir _Pat._ Oh horrible!
_Fan._ --Oh, I cou’d live here for ever,--that was when he kist her--her
Hand only. Are you not a damn’d Woman for making so fond a Puppy of me?
Sir _Pat._ Oh unheard-of Wickedness!
_Fan._ Wou’d the Devil had thee, and all thy Family, e’er I had seen thy
cursed Face.
Sir _Pat._ Oh, I’ll hear no more, I’ll hear no more!--why, what a
blasphemous Wretch is this?
_Fan._ Pray, Sir Father, do not tell my Sister of this, she’ll be
horribly angry with me.
Sir _Pat._ No, no, get you gone.--Oh, I am Heart-sick--I’ll up and
consult with my Lady what’s fit to be done in this Affair. Oh, never was
the like heard of.--
[Goes out, _Fanny_ and _Nurse_ go the other way.
SCENE IV. _The Lady _Fancy’s_ Bed-Chamber; she’s discover’d with
_Wittmore_ in disorder. A Table, Sword, and Hat._
_Maun._ [Entering.] O Madam, Sir _Patient’s_ coming up.
L. _Fan._ Coming up, say you!
_Maun._ He’s almost on the top of the Stairs, Madam.
_Wit._ What shall I do?
L. _Fan._ Oh, damn him, I know not; if he see thee here after my
pretended Illness, he must needs discover why I feign’d.--I have no
excuse ready,--this Chamber’s unlucky, there’s no avoiding him;
here--step behind the Bed; perhaps he has only forgot his Psalm-Book and
will not stay long.
[_Wittmore_ runs behind the Bed.
Enter Sir _Patient_.
Sir _Pat._ Oh, oh, pardon this Interruption, my Lady _Fancy_--Oh, I am
half killed, my Daughter, my Honour--my Daughter, my Reputation.
L. _Fan._ Good Heavens, Sir, is she dead?
Sir _Pat._ I wou’d she were, her Portion and her Honour would then be
sav’d. But oh, I’m sick at Heart, _Maundy_, fetch me the Bottle of
_Mirabilis_ in the Closet,--she’s wanton, unchaste.
Enter _Maundy_ with the Bottle.
Oh, I cannot speak it; oh, the Bottle-- [Drinks.] she has lost her Fame,
her Shame, her Name.--Oh, [Drinks.] that is not the right Bottle, that
with the red Cork [Drinks.]
[Exit _Maundy_.
and is grown a very t’other-end-of-the-Town Creature, a very Apple of
_Sodom_, fair without and filthy within, what shall we do with her?
she’s lost, undone; hah!
Enter _Maundy_.
let me see, [Drinks.] this is [Drinks.] not as I take it-- [Drinks.]
--no, ‘tis not the right,--she’s naught, she’s leud, [Drinks.] --oh, how
you vex me-- [Drinks.] This is not the right Bottle yet,-- [Drinks.] No,
no, here.
[Gives her the Bottle.
_Maun._ You said that with the red Cork, Sir. [Goes out.
Sir _Pat._ I meant the blue;--I know not what I say.-- In fine, my Lady,
let’s marry her out of hand, for she is fall’n, fall’n to Perdition; she
understands more Wickedness than had she been bred in a profane Nunnery,
a Court,
Enter _Maundy_.
or a Play-house, [Drinks.] --therefore let’s marry her instantly, out of
hand [Drinks.] Misfortune on Misfortune. [Drinks.] --But Patience is a
wonderful Virtue, [Drinks.] --Ha--this is very comfortable,--very
consoling--I profess if it were not for these Creatures, ravishing
Comforts, sometimes, a Man were a very odd sort of an Animal [Drinks.]
But ah--see how all things were ordain’d for the use and comfort of Man.
[Drinks.]
L. _Fan._ I like this well: Ah, Sir, ‘tis very true, therefore receive
it plentifully and thankfully.
Sir _Pat._ [Drinks.] Ingenuously--it hath made me marvellous lightsome;
I profess it hath a very notable Faculty,--very knavish--and as it were,
waggish,--but hah, what have we there on the Table? a Sword and Hat?
[Sees _Wittmore’s_ Sword and Hat on the Table, which he had
forgot.
L. _Fan._ Curse on my Dulness.--Oh, these, Sir, they are Mr.
_Fainlove’s_--he being so soon to be marry’d and being straitned for
time, sent these to _Maundy_ to be new trim’d with Ribbon, Sir--that’s
all. Take ‘em away, you naughty Baggage, must I have Mens things seen in
my Chamber?
Sir _Pat._ Nay, nay, be not angry, my little Rogue; I like the young
Man’s Frugality well. Go, go your ways, get you gone, and finefy your
Knacks and Tranghams, and do your Business--go.
[Smiling on _Maundy_, gently beating her with his Hand: she goes
out, he bolts the Door after her, and sits down on the Bed’s feet.
L. _Fan._ Heavens, what means he!
Sir _Pat._ Come hither to me, my little Ape’s Face,--Come, come I
say--what, must I come fetch you?--Catch her, catch her--catch her,
catch her, catch her.
[Running after her.
L. _Fan._ Oh, Sir, I am so ill I can hardly stir.
Sir _Pat._ I’ll make ye well, come hither, ye Monky-face, did it, did
it, did it? alas for it, a poor silly Fool’s Face, dive it a blow, and
I’ll beat it.
L. _Fan._ You neglect your Devotion, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ No, no, no Prayer to day, my little Rascal,--no Prayer to
day--poor _Gogle’s_ sick.--Come hither, why, you refractory Baggage you,
come or I shall touze you, ingenuously I shall; tom, tom, or I’ll whip
it.
L. _Fan._ Have you forgot your Daughter, Sir, and your Disgrace?
Sir _Pat._ A fiddle on my Daughter, she’s a Chick of the old Cock I
profess; I was just such another Wag when young.--But she shall be
marry’d to morrow, a good Cloke for her Knavery; therefore come your
ways, ye Wag, we’ll take a nap together: good faith, my little Harlot,
I mean thee no harm.
L. _Fan._ No, o’ my Conscience.
Sir _Pat._ Why then, why then, you little Mungrel?
L. _Fan._ His precise Worship is as it were disguis’d, the outward Man
is over-taken--pray, Sir, lie down, and I’ll come to you presently.
Sir _Pat._ Away, you Wag, will you? will you?--Catch her there, catch
her.
L. _Fan._ I will indeed,--Death, there’s no getting from him,--pray lie
down--and I’ll cover thee close enough I’ll warrant thee.-- [Aside.
[He lies down, she covers him.
Had ever Lovers such spiteful luck! hah--surely he sleeps, bless the
mistaken Bottle.--Ay, he sleeps,--whilst, _Wittmore_--
[He coming out falls; pulls the Chair down, Sir _Patient_ flings
open the Curtain.
_Wit._ Plague of my over-care, what shall I do?
Sir _Pat._ What’s that, what Noise is that? let me see, we are not safe;
lock up the Doors, what’s the matter? What Thunder-Clap was that?
[_Wittmore_ runs under the Bed; she runs to Sir _Patient_, and
holds him in his Bed.
L. _Fan._ Pray, Sir, lie still, ‘twas I was only going to sit down, and
a sudden Giddiness took me in my Head, which made me fall, and with me
the Chair; there is no danger near ye, Sir--I was just coming to sleep
by you.
Sir _Pat._ Go, you’re a flattering Huswife; go, catch her, catch her,
catch her.
[Lies down, she covers him.
L. _Fan._ Oh, how I tremble at the dismal apprehension of being
discover’d! Had I secur’d my self of the eight thousand Pound, I wou’d
not value _Wittmore’s_ being seen. But now to be found out, wou’d call
my Wit in question, for ‘tis the Fortunate alone are wise.--
[_Wittmore_ peeps from under the Bed; she goes softly to the Door
to open it.
_Wit._ Was ever Man so plagu’d?--hah--what’s this?--confound my
tell-tale Watch, the Larum goes, and there’s no getting to’t to silence
it.--Damn’d Misfortune!
[Sir _Patient_ rises, and flings open the Curtains.
Sir _Pat._ Hah, what’s that?
L. _Fan._ Heavens! what’s the matter? we are destin’d to discovery.
[She runs to Sir _Patient_, and leaves the Door still fast.
Sir _Pat._ What’s that I say, what’s that? let me see, let me see, what
ringing’s that, Oh, let me see what ‘tis.
[Strives to get up, she holds him down.
L. _Fan._ Oh, now I see my Fate’s inevitable! Alas, that ever I was born
to see’t.
[Weeps.
_Wit._ Death, she’ll tell him I am here: Nay, he must know’t, a Pox of
all Invention and Mechanicks, and he were damn’d that first contriv’d a
Watch.
Sir _Pat._ Hah, dost weep?--why dost weep? I say, what Noise is that?
what ringing? hah.--
L. _Fan._ ‘Tis that, ‘tis that, my Dear, that makes me weep. Alas,
I never hear this fatal Noise, but some dear Friend dies.
Sir _Pat._ Hah, dies! Oh, that must be I, ay, ay, Oh.
L. _Fan._ I’ve heard it, Sir, this two Days, but wou’d not tell you of
it.
Sir _Pat._ Hah! heard it these two Days! Oh, what is’t a
Death-watch?--hah.--
L. _Fan._ Ay, Sir, a Death-watch, a certain Larum Death-watch, a thing
that has warn’d our Family this hundred Years, oh,--I’m the most undone
Woman!
_Wit._ A Blessing on her for a dear dissembling Jilt--Death and the
Devil, will it never cease?
Sir _Pat._ A Death-watch! ah, ‘tis so, I’ve often heard of these
things--methinks it sounds as if ‘twere under the Bed.--
[Offers to look, she holds him.
L. _Fan._ You think so, Sir, but that ‘tis about the Bed is my Grief; it
therefore threatens you: Oh wretched Woman!
Sir _Pat._ Ay, ay, I’m too happy in a Wife to live long: Well, I will
settle my House at _Hogsdowne_, with the Land about it, which is 500_l._
a Year upon thee, live or die,--do not grieve.--
[Lays himself down.
L. _Fan._ Oh, I never had more Cause; come try to sleep, your Fate may
be diverted--whilst I’ll to Prayers for your dear Health.-- [Covers him,
draws the Curtains.] I have almost run out all my stock of Hypocrisy,
and that hated Art now fails me.--Oh all ye Powers that favour distrest
Lovers, assist us now, and I’ll provide against your future Malice.
[She makes Signs to _Wittmore_, he peeps.
_Wit._ I’m impatient of Freedom, yet so much Happiness as I but now
injoy’d without this part of Suffering had made me too blest.--Death and
Damnation! what curst luck have I?
[Makes Signs to her to open the Door: whilst he creeps softly from
under the Bed to the Table, by which going to raise himself, he
pulls down all the Dressing-things: at the same instant Sir
_Patient_ leaps from the Bed, and she returns from the Door, and
sits on _Wittmore’s_ Back as he lies on his Hands and Knees, and
makes as if she swooned.
Sir _Pat._ What’s the matter? what’s the matter? has Satan broke his
everlasting Chain, and got loose abroad to plague poor Mortals?
hah--what’s the matter?
[Runs to his Lady.
L. _Fan._ Oh, help, I die--I faint--run down, and call for help.
Sir _Pat._ My Lady dying? oh, she’s gone, she faints,--what ho, who
waits?
[Cries and bauls.
L. _Fan._ Oh, go down and bring me help, the Door is lock’d,--they
cannot hear ye,--oh--I go--I die.--
[He opens the Door, and calls help, help.
_Wit._ Damn him! there’s no escaping without I kill the Dog.
[From under her, peeping.
L. _Fan._ Lie still, or we are undone.--
Sir _Patient_ returns with _Maundy_.
_Maun._ Hah, discover’d!
Sir _Pat._ Help, help, my Lady dies.
_Maun._ Oh, I perceive how’tis.--Alas, she’s dead, quite gone; oh, rub
her Temples, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ Oh, I’m undone then,-- [Weeps.] Oh my Dear, my virtuous Lady!
L. _Fan._ Oh, where’s my Husband, my dearest Husband--Oh, bring him near
me.
Sir _Pat._ I’m here, my excellent Lady.--
[She takes him about the Neck, and raises her self up, gives
_Wittmore_ a little kick behind.
_Wit._ Oh the dear lovely Hypocrite, was ever Man so near discovery?--
[Goes out.
Sir _Pat._ Oh, how hard she presses my Head to her Bosom!
_Maun._ Ah, that grasping hard, Sir, is a very bad Sign.
Sir _Pat._ How does my good, my dearest Lady _Fancy_?
L. _Fan._ Something better now, give me more Air,--that dismal Larum
Death-watch had almost kill’d me.
Sir _Pat._ Ah precious Creature, how she afflicts her self for
me.--Come, let’s walk into the Dining-room, ‘tis more airy, from thence
into my Study, and make thy self Mistress of that Fortune I have
design’d thee, thou best of Women.
[Exeunt, leading her.
ACT V.
SCENE I. _A Room in Sir _Patient Fancy’s_ House. A Table, and six
Chairs._
Enter _Isabella_ reading a Letter, _Betty_ tricking her.
_Isab._ How came you by this Letter?
_Bet._ Miss _Fanny_ receiv’d it by a String from his Window, by which he
took up that you writ to him this Morning.
_Isab._ What means this nicety? forbear I say.--
[Puts _Betty_ from her.
_Bet._ You cannot be too fine upon your Wedding-day.
_Isab._ Thou art mistaken, leave me,--whatever he says here to satisfy
my Jealousy, I am confirm’d that he was false: yet this assurance to
free me from this intended Marriage, makes me resolve to pardon him,
however guilty.--
Enter _Wittmore_.
How now! what means this Insolence? How dare you, having so lately made
your guilty approaches, venture again into my presence?
_Wit._ Why? Is there any danger, but what’s so visible in those fair
Eyes?
_Isab._ And there may lie enough, Sir, when they’re angry. By what
Authority do you make this saucy Visit?
_Wit._ That of a Husband, Madam; I come to congratulate the mighty Joy
this Day will bring you.
_Isab._ Thou darst not marry me, there will be danger in’t.
_Wit._ Why, sure you do not carry Death in your Embraces, I find no
Terror in that lovely Shape, no Daggers in that pretty scornful Look;
that Breath that utters so much Anger now, last night was sweet as
new-blown Roses are,--and spoke such Words, so tender and so kind.
_Isab._ And canst thou think they were address’d to thee?
_Wit._ No, nor cou’d the Shade of Night hide the Confusion which
disorder’d you, at the discovery that I was not he, the blessed he you
look’d for.
_Isab._ Leave me, thou hated Object of my Soul.
_Wit._ This will not serve your turn, for I must marry you.
_Isab._ Then thou art a Fool, and drawest thy Ruin on; why, I will hate
thee,--hate thee most extremely.
_Wit._ That will not anger me.
_Isab._ Why, I will never let thee touch me, nor kiss my Hand, nor come
into my sight.
_Wit._ Are there no other Women kind, fair, and to be purchas’d? he
cannot starve for Beauty in this Age, that has a stock to buy.
_Isab._ Why, I will cuckold thee, look to’t, I will most damnably.
_Wit._ So wou’d you, had you lov’d me, in a year or two; therefore like
a kind civil Husband, I’ve made provision for you, a Friend, and one I
dare trust my Honour with,--’tis Mr. _Knowell_, Madam.
_Isab._ _Lodwick!_ What Devil brought that Name to his knowledge?--Canst
thou know him, and yet dare hope to marry me?
_Wit._ We have agreed it, and on these conditions.
_Isab._ Thou basely injurest him, he cannot do a Deed he ought to blush
for: _Lodwick_ do this! Oh, do not credit it,--prithee be just and kind
for thy own Honour’s sake; be quickly so, the hasty minutes fly, and
will anon make up the fatal Hour that will undo me.
_Wit._ ‘Tis true, within an hour you must submit to _Hymen_, there’s no
avoiding it.
_Isab._ Nay, then be gone, my poor submissive Prayers, and all that dull
Obedience Custom has made us Slaves to.--Do sacrifice me, lead me to the
Altar, and see if all the holy mystick Words can conjure from me the
consenting Syllable: No, I will not add one word to make the Charm
complete, but stand as silent in the inchanting Circle, as if the
Priests were raising Devils there.
Enter _Lodwick_.
_Lod._ Enough, enough, my charming _Isabella_, I am confirm’d.
_Isab._ _Lodwick!_ what good Angel conducted thee hither?
_Lod._ E’en honest _Charles Wittmore_ here, thy Friend and mine, no
Bug-bear Lover he.
_Isab._ _Wittmore!_ that Friend I’ve often heard thee name? Now some
kind mischief on him, he has so frighted me, I scarce can bring my Sense
to so much order, to thank him that he loves me not.
_Lod._ Thou shalt defer that payment to more leisure; we’re Men of
business now. My Mother, knowing of a Consultation of Physicians which
your Father has this day appointed to meet at his House, has bribed
Monsieur _Turboone_ his _French_ Doctor in Pension, to admit of a Doctor
or two of her recommending, who shall amuse him with discourse till we
get ourselves married; and to make it the more ridiculous, I will
release Sir _Credulous_ from the Basket, I saw it in the Hall as I came
through, we shall have need of the Fool.
[Exit _Wittmore_.
Enter _Wittmore_, pulling in the Basket.
_Wit._ ‘Twill do well.
_Lod._ Sir _Credulous_, how is’t, Man? [Opens the Basket.
Sir _Cred._ What, am I not at the Carrier’s yet?--Oh _Lodwick_, thy
Hand, I’m almost poison’d--This Basket wants airing extremely, it smells
like an old Lady’s Wedding Gown of my acquaintance.--But what’s the
danger past, Man?
_Lod._ No, but there’s a necessity of your being for some time disguis’d
to act a Physician.
Sir _Cred._ How! a Physician! that I can easily do, for I understand
Simples.
_Lod._ That’s not material, so you can but banter well, be very grave,
and put on a starch’d Countenance.
Sir _Cred._ Banter! what’s that, Man?
_Lod._ Why, Sir, talking very much, and meaning just nothing; be full of
Words without any connection, sense or conclusion. Come in with me, and
I’ll instruct you farther.
Sir _Cred._ Pshaw, is that all? say no more on’t, I’ll do’t, let me
alone for Bantering--But this same damn’d Rival--
_Lod._ He’s now watching for you without and means to souse upon you;
but trust to me for your security; come away, I have your Habit ready.
[Goes out.] --This day shall make thee mine, dear _Isabella_.--
[Exit _Lodwick_ and _Wittmore_.
Enter Sir _Patient_, _Leander_, and _Roger_.
Sir _Pat._ Marry _Lucretia_! is there no Woman in the City fit for you,
but the Daughter of the most notorious fantastical Lady within the
Walls?
_Lean._ Yet that fantastical Lady you thought fit for a Wife for me,
Sir.
Sir _Pat._ Yes, Sir, Foppery with Money had been something; but a poor
Fop, hang’t, ‘tis abominable.
_Lean._ Pray hear me, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ Sirrah, Sirrah, you’re a Jackanapes, ingenuously you are,
Sir: marry _Lucretia_, quoth he?
_Lean._ If it were so, Sir, where’s her fault?
Sir _Pat._ Why, Mr. Coxcomb, all over. Did I with so much care endeavour
to marry thee to the Mother, only to give thee opportunity with
_Lucretia_?
Enter Lady _Knowell_.
_Lean._ This Anger shews your great Concern for me.
Sir _Pat._ For my Name I am, but ‘twere no matter if thou wert hang’d,
and thou deservest it for thy leud cavaliering Opinion.--They say thou
art a Papist too, or at least a Church-of-_England_ Man, and I profess
there’s not a Pin to chuse.--Marry _Lucretia_!
L. _Kno._ Were I querimonious, I shou’d resent the Affront this
_Balatroon_ has offer’d me.
_Isab._ Dear Madam, for my sake do not anger him now. [Aside to her.
L. _Kno._ Upon my Honour, you are very free with my Daughter, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ How! she here! now for a Peal from her eternal Clapper; I had
rather be confin’d to an Iron-mill.
L. _Kno._ Sure _Lucretia_ merits a Husband of as much worth as your
Nephew, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ A better, Madam, for he’s the leudest Hector in the Town; he
has all the Vices of Youth, Whoring, Swearing, Drinking, Damning,
Fighting,--and a thousand more, numberless and nameless.
L. _Kno._ Time, Sir, may make him more abstemious.
Sir _Pat._ Oh, never, Madam! ‘tis in’s Nature, he was born with it, he’s
given over to Reprobation, ‘tis bred i’th’ bone,--he’s lost.
_Lean._ This is the first good Office that ever he did me.
L. _Kno._ What think you, Sir, if in defiance of your Inurbanity, I take
him with all these Faults my self?
Sir _Pat._ How, Madam!
L. _Kno._ Without more Ambages, Sir, I have consider’d your former
Desires, and have consented to marry him, notwithstanding your
Exprobrations.
Sir _Pat._ May I believe this, Madam? and has your Ladyship that
Goodness?--and hast thou, my Boy, so much Wit? Why, this is something
now.--Well, he was ever the best and sweetest-natur’d Youth.--Why, what
a notable Wag’s this? and is it true, my Boy, hah?
_Lean._ Yes, Sir, I had told you so before, had you permitted me to
speak.
Sir _Pat._ Well, Madam, he is only fit for your excellent Ladyship, he
is the prettiest civillest Lad.--Well, go thy ways; I shall never see
the like of thee; no--Ingenuously, the Boy’s made for ever; two thousand
Pounds a Year, besides Money, Plate and Jewels; made for ever.--Well,
Madam, the satisfaction I take in this Alliance, has made me resolve to
give him immediately my Writings of all my Land in _Berkshire_, five
hundred Pounds a year, Madam: and I wou’d have you married this Morning
with my Daughter, so one Dinner and one Rejoicing will serve both.
L. _Kno._ That, Sir, we have already agreed upon.
Sir _Pat._ Well, I’ll fetch the Writings. Come, _Isabella_, I’ll not
trust you out of my sight to day.
[Ex. Sir _Pat._ and _Isab._
_Lean._ Well then, Madam, you are resolv’d upon this business of
Matrimony.
L. _Kno._ Was it not concluded between us, Sir, this Morning? and at the
near approach do you begin to fear?
_Lean._ Nothing, Madam, since I’m convinc’d of your Goodness.
L. _Kno._ You flatter, Sir, this is mere Adulation.
_Lean._ No, I am that wild Extravagant my Uncle render’d me, and cannot
live confin’d.
L. _Kno._ To one Woman you mean? I shall not stand with you for a
Mistress or two; I hate a dull morose unfashionable Blockhead to my
Husband; nor shall I be the first example of a suffering Wife, Sir.
Women were created poor obedient things.
_Lean._ And can you be content to spare me five or six nights in a week?
L. _Kno._ Oh, you’re too reasonable.
_Lean._ And for the rest, if I get drunk, perhaps I’ll give to you: yet
in my drink I’m damn’d ill-natur’d too, and may neglect my Duty; perhaps
shall be so wicked, to call you cunning, deceitful, jilting, base, and
swear you have undone me, swear you have ravish’d from my faithful Heart
all that cou’d make it bless’d or happy.
Enter _Lucretia_ weeping.
L. _Kno._ How now, _Lucretia_!
_Lucr._ Oh Madam, give me leave to kneel before, and tell you, if you
pursue the Cruelty I hear you’re going to commit, I am the most lost,
most wretched Maid that breathes; we two have plighted Faiths, and
shou’d you marry him, ‘twere so to sin as Heaven would never pardon.
L. _Kno._ Rise, Fool.
_Lucr._ Never till you have given me back _Leander_, or leave to live no
more.--Pray kill me, Madam; and the same Flowers that deck your nuptial
Bed,
Shall serve to strow my Herse, when I shall lie
A dead cold Witness of your Tyranny.
L. _Kno._ Rise; I still design’d him yours.--I saw with pleasure, Sir,
your reclination from my Addresses.--I have proved both your Passions,
and ‘twere unkind not to crown ‘em with the due Præmium of each others
Merits.
[Gives her to _Lean._
_Lean._ Can Heaven and you agree to be so bountiful?
L. _Kno._ Be not amaz’d at this turn, _Rotat omne fatum_.--But no
more,--keep still that mask of Love we first put on, till you have
gain’d the Writings: for I have no Joy beyond cheating that filthy Uncle
of thine.--_Lucretia_, wipe your Eyes, and prepare for _Hymen_, the Hour
draws near. _Thalessio_, _Thalessio_, as the _Romans_ cry’d.
_Lucr._ May you still be admir’d as you deserve!
Enter Sir _Patient_ with Writings, and _Isabella_.
Sir _Pat._ How, Madam _Lucretia_, and in Tears?
L. _Kno._ A little disgusted, Sir, with her Father-in-law, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ Oh, is that all? hold up thy Head, Sweet-heart, thy turn’s
next.--Here, Madam, I surrender my Title, with these Writings, and with
’.m my Joy, my Life, my Darling, my _Leander_.--Now let’s away, where’s
Mr. _Fainlove_?
_Isab._ He’s but stept into _Cheapside_, to fit the Ring, Sir, and will
be here immediately.
Sir _Pat._ I have Business anon about eleven of the Clock,
a Consultation of Physicians, to confer about this Carcase of mine.
_Lean._ Physicians, Sir, what to do?
Sir _Pat._ To do! why, to take their advice, Sir, and to follow it.
_Lean._ For what, I beseech you, Sir?
Sir _Pat._ Why, Sir, for my Health.
_Lean._ I believe you are not sick, Sir, unless they make you so.
Sir _Pat._ They make me so!--Do you hear him, Madam--Am not I sick, Sir?
not I, Sir _Patient Fancy_, sick?
L. _Kno._ He’ll destroy my Design.--How, Mr. _Fancy_, not Sir _Patient_
sick? or must he be incinerated before you’ll credit it?
Sir _Pat._ Ay, Madam, I want but dying to undeceive him, and yet I am
not sick!
_Lean._ Sir, I love your Life, and wou’d not have you die with Fancy and
Conceit.--
Sir _Pat._ Fancy and Conceit! do but observe him, Madam,--what do you
mean, Sir, by Fancy and Conceit?
L. _Kno._ He’ll ruin all;--why, Sir,--he means--
Sir _Pat._ Nay, let him alone, let him alone, (with your Ladyship’s
pardon)--Come, Sir,--Fancy and Conceit, I take it, was the Question in
debate.--
_Lean._ I cannot prove this to you, Sir, by force of Argument, but by
Demonstration I will, if you will banish all your cozening Quacks, and
take my wholesome Advice.
Sir _Pat._ Do but hear him, Madam: not prove it!
L. _Kno._ Sir, he means nothing.--Not sick! alas, Sir, you’re very sick.
Sir _Pat._ Ay, ay, your Ladyship is a Lady of profound Knowledge.--Why,
have I not had the advice of all the Doctors in _England_, and have I
not been in continual Physick this twenty Years:--and yet I am not sick!
Ask my dear Lady, Sir, how sick I am, she can inform you.
[L. _Kno._ goes and talks to _Isab._
_Lean._ She does her endeavour, Sir, to keep up the Humour.
Sir _Pat._ How, Sir?
_Lean._ She wishes you dead, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ What said the Rascal? wishes me dead!
_Lean._ Sir, she hates you.
Sir _Pat._ How! hate me! what, my Lady hate me?
_Lean._ She abuses your Love, plays tricks with ye, and cheats ye, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ Was ever so profane a Wretch! What, you will not prove this
neither?
_Lean._ Yes, by demonstration too.
Sir _Pat._ Why, thou saucy Varlet, Sirrah, Sirrah, thank my Lady here I
do not cudgel thee.--Well, I will settle the rest of my Estate upon her
to morrow, I will, Sir; and thank God you have what you have, Sir, make
much on’t.
_Lean._ Pardon me, Sir, ‘tis not my single Opinion, but the whole City
takes notice on’t: that I tell it you, Sir, is the Effect of my Duty,
not Interest. Pray give me leave to prove this to you, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ What, you are at your Demonstration again?--come--let’s hear.
_Lean._ Why, Sir, give her frequent opportunities,--and then surprize
her;--or, by pretending to settle all upon her,--give her your Power,
and see if she do not turn you out of Doors;--or--by feigning you are
sick to death--or indeed by dying.
Sir _Pat._ I thank you, Sir,--this indeed is Demonstration, I take it.
[Pulls off his Hat.
_Lean._ I mean but feigning, Sir; and be a witness your self of her
Sorrow, or Contempt.
Sir _Pat._ [Pauses.] Hah--hum,--why, ingenuously, this may be a very
pretty Project.--Well, Sir, suppose I follow your advice?--nay,
I profess I will do so, not to try her Faith, but to have the pleasure
to hear her conjugal Lamentations, feel her Tears bedew my Face, and her
sweet Mouth kissing my Cheeks a thousand times; verily a wonderful
Comfort.--And then, Sir, what becomes of your Demonstration?--
Enter _Wittmore_ with the Ring.
Oh--Mr. _Fainlove_, come, come, you’re tardy, let’s away to Church.
Enter _Roger_.
_Rog._ Sir, here is Doctor _Turboon_, and those other Doctors your
Worship expected.
Enter Lady _Fancy_ and _Bartholomew_.
Sir _Pat._ The Doctors already!--well, bring ‘em up; come, Madam, we
have waited for your Ladyship,--bring up the Doctors, _Roger_.
[Exit _Roger_.
L. _Fan._ _Wittmore_, I have now brought that design to a happy
Conclusion, for which I married this formal Ass; I’ll tell thee more
anon,--we are observ’d.
L. _Kno._ Oh, _Lodwick’s_ come!
Enter _Lodwick_, Monsieur _Turboon_, Fat Doctor, _Amsterdam_,
_Leyden_, Sir _Credulous_.
Sir _Pat._ Doctor _Turboon_, your Servant, I expected you not this two
hours.
_Turb._ Nor had ee com, Sir, bot for dese wordy Gentlemen, whos Affairs
wode not permit dem to come at your hoar.
Sir _Pat._ Are they English pray?
_Turb._ Dis is, Sir,-- [Pointing to _Lod._] an admirable Physician, and
a rare Astrologer.--Dis speaks good _English_, bot a _Collender_ born.
[Points to Sir _Cred._
Sir _Cred._ What a pox, does the Fellow call me a Cullender?
_Lod._ He means a _High-Dutch-man_ of the Town of _Collen_, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ Sir, I have heard of your Fame.--Doctor, pray entertain these
Gentlemen till my return, I’ll be with you presently.
_Lod._ Sir, I hope you go not forth to day. [Gazing on his Face.
Sir _Pat._ Not far, Sir.
_Lod._ There is a certain Star has rul’d this two days, Sir, of a very
malignant Influence to Persons of your Complection and
Constitution.--Let me see--within this two hours and six minutes, its
Malice will be spent, till then it will be fatal.
Sir _Pat._ Hum, reign’d this two Days?--I profess and things have gone
very cross with me this two Days,--a notable Man this.
L. _Kno._ Oh, a very profound Astrologer, Sir, upon my Honour, I know
him.
Sir _Pat._ But this is an Affair of that Importance, Sir,--
_Lod._ If it be more than Health or Life, I beg your pardon, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ Nay, no Offence, Sir, I beseech you, I’ll stay, Sir.
L. _Kno._ How! Sir _Patient_ not see us married?
Sir _Pat._ You shall excuse me, Madam.
L. _Fan._ This was lucky; Oh Madam, wou’d you have my Dear venture out,
when a malignant Star reigns! not for the World.
Sir _Pat._ No, I’ll not stir; had it been any Star but a malignant Star,
I had waited on your Ladyship: but these malignant Stars are very
pernicious Stars. Nephew, take my Lady _Knowell_, Mr. _Fainlove_ my
Daughter; and _Bartholomew_ do you conduct my Lady, the Parson stays for
you, and the Coaches are at the Door.
[Exeunt L. _Kno._ _Lean._ _Wit._ and _Isab._ L. _Fancy_ and
_Bartholomew_.
Enter _Boy_.
_Boy._ Sir, my Lady has sent for you. [Exit.
_Lod._ Sir, I’ll be with you presently; Sir _Credulous_, be sure you lug
him by the Ears with any sort of Stuff till my return. I’ll send you a
Friend to keep you in countenance.
Sir _Pat._ Please you to sit, Gentlemen? [Exit _Lod._
_Amst._ Please you, Sir. [To Sir _Cred._ who bows and runs back.
Sir _Cred._ Oh Lord, sweet Sir, I hope you do not take me--Nay,
I beseech you, Noble Sir--Reverend Sir.
[Turning from one to t’other.
_Leyd._ By no means, Sir, a Stranger.
Sir _Cred._ I beseech you--_Scavantissimi Doctores_,--incomparable
Sir,--and you--or you.
_Fat_ D. In troth, Sir, these Compliments are needless, I am something
corpulent, and love my ease.
[Sits.
Sir _Cred._ Generous Sir, you say well; therefore _Conlicentia_, as the
_Grecians_ have it.
[Sits.
_Amst._ --Brother.--
_Leyd._ Nay, good Brother,--Sir _Patient_--
Sir _Pat._ Ingenuously, not before you, Mr. Doctor.
_Leyd._ Excuse me, Sir, an Alderman, and a Knight.--
Sir _Pat._ Both below the least of the learned Society.
_Leyd._ Since you will have it so.
[All sit and cry hum,--and look gravely.
Sir _Cred._ Hum--hum, most Worthy, and most Renowned--_Medicinæ
Professores, qui hic assemblati estis, & vos altri Messiores_; I am now
going to make a Motion for the publick Good of us all, but will do
nothing without your Doctorships Approbation.
Sir _Pat._ Judiciously concluded.
Sir _Cred._ The question then is, _Reverentissimi Doctores_,
whether--for mark me, I come to the matter in hand, hating long
Circumstances of Words; there being no necessity, as our learned Brother
_Rabelais_ observes in that most notorious Treatise of his call’d
_Garagantua_; there is, says he, no necessity of going over the Hedge
when the Path lies fair before ye: therefore, as I said before, I now
say again, coming to my Question; for as that admirable _Welch_ Divine
says, in that so famous Sermon of his, upon her Creat Cranfather _Hadam_
and her Creat Cranmother _Heeve_ concerning the Happell,--and her will,
warrant her, her will keep her to her Text still,--so I stick close to
my question, which is, _Illustrissimi Doctores_, whether it be not
necessary to the Affair in hand--to take--a Bottle; and if your
Doctorships are of my opinion--hold up your Thumbs.
[All hold up their Thumbs.
--Look, Sir, you observe the Votes of the learned _Cabalists_.
Sir _Pat._ Which shall be put in Act forthwith--I like this Man well, he
does nothing without mature Deliberation.
Enter _Brunswick_.
_Brun._ By your leaves, Gentlemen--Sir _Credulous_-- [Whispers.
Sir _Cred._ Oh--’tis _Lodwick’s_ Friend, the Rascal’s dress’d like
_Vanderbergen_ in the _Strand_:--Sir _Patient_, pray know this glorious
Doctor, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ A Doctor, Sir?
Sir _Cred._ A Doctor, Sir! yes, and as eloquent a Doctor, Sir, as ever
set Bill to Post: why, ‘tis--the incomparable--_Brunswick_, _High-Dutch_
Doctor.
Sir _Pat._ You’re welcome, Sir,--Pray sit; ah.--Well, Sir, you are come
to visit a very crazy sickly Person, Sir.
_Brun._ Pray let me feel your Pulse, Sir;--what think you, Gentlemen, is
he not very far gone?--
[Feels his Pulse, they all feel.
Sir _Cred._ Ah, far, far.--Pray, Sir, have you not a certain wambling
Pain in your Stomach, Sir, as it were, Sir, a--a pain, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ Oh, very great, Sir, especially in a Morning fasting.
Sir _Cred._ I knew it by your stinking Breath, Sir--and are you not
troubled with a Pain in your Head, Sir?
Sir _Pat._ In my Head, Sir?
Sir _Cred._ I mean a--kind of a--Pain,--a kind of a _Vertigo_, as the
_Latins_ call it; and a _Whirligigoustiphon_, as the _Greeks_ have it,
which signifies in _English_, Sir, a Dizzie-swimming kind--of a do ye
see--a thing--that--a--you understand me.
Sir _Pat._ Oh, intolerable, intolerable!--why, this is a rare Man!
_Fat_ D. Your Reason, Sir, for that? [To Sir _Cred._
Sir _Cred._ My Reason, Sir? why, my Reason, Sir, is this, _Haly_ the
_Moore_, and _Rabbi Isaac_, and some thousands more of learned
_Dutchmen_, observe your dull Wall Eye and your
Whir--_Whirligigoustiphon_, to be inseparable.
_Brun._ A most learned Reason!
_Fat_ D. Oh, Sir, inseparable.
Sir _Cred._ And have you not a kind of a--something--do ye mark me, when
you make Water, a kind of a stopping--and--a--do ye conceive me, I have
forgot the _English_ Term, Sir, but in Latin ‘tis a _Stronggullionibus_.
Sir _Pat._ Oh, Sir, most extremely, ‘tis that which makes me desperate,
Sir.
Sir _Cred._ Your ugly Face is an infallible Sign; your _Dysurie_, as the
_Arabicks_ call it, and your ill-favour’d Countenance, are constant
Relatives.
_All._ Constant, constant.
Sir _Cred._ Pray how do you eat, Sir?
Sir _Pat._ Ah, Sir, there’s my distraction. Alas, Sir, I have the
weakest Stomach--I do not make above four Meals a-day, and then indeed I
eat heartily--but alas, what’s that to eating to live?--nothing, Sir,
nothing.--
Sir _Cred._ Poor Heart, I pity him.
Sir _Pat._ And between Meals, good Wine, Sweet-meats, Caudles,--Cordials
and Mirabilises, to keep up my fainting Spirits.
Sir _Cred._ A Pox of his Aldermanship: an the whole Bench were such
notable Swingers, ‘twould famish the City sooner than a Siege.
_Amst._ Brothers, what do you think of this Man?
_Leyd._ Think, Sir? I think his Case is desperate.
Sir _Cred._ Shaw, Sir, we shall soon rectify the quiblets and quillities
of his Blood, if he observes our Directions and Diet, which is to eat
but once in four or five days.
Sir _Pat._ How, Sir, eat but once in four or five days? such a Diet,
Sir, would kill me; alas, Sir, kill me.
Sir _Cred._ Oh no, Sir, no; for look ye, Sir, the Case is thus, do you
mind me--so that the Business lying so obvious, do ye see, there is a
certain Method, do ye mark me--in a--Now, Sir, when a Man goes about to
alter the course of Nature,--the case is very plain, you may as well
arrest the Chariot of the Sun, or alter the Eclipses of the Moon; for,
Sir, this being of another Nature, the Nature of it is to be unnatural,
you conceive me, Sir?--therefore we must crave your absence, Sir, for a
few Minutes, till we have debated this great Affair.
Sir _Pat._ With all my heart, Sir, since my Case is so desperate, a few
hours were not too much.
[Ex. Sir _Pat._
Sir _Cred._ Now, Sir, my service to you. [Drinks.
Enter _Fanny_.
_Fan._ Oh living heart! what do all these Men do in our House? sure they
are a sort of new-fashion’d Conventiclers:--I’ll hear ‘em preach.
[They drink round the while.
_Amst._ Sir, my service to you, and to your good Lady, Sir.
_Leyd._ Again to you, Sir, not forgetting your Daughters: they are fine
Women, Sir, let Scandal do its worst.
[Drinks.
_Turb._ To our better trading, Sir.
_Brun._ Faith, it goes but badly on, I had the weekly Bill, and ‘twas a
very thin Mortality; some of the better sort die indeed, that have good
round Fees to give.
_Turb._ Verily, I have not kill’d above my five or six this Week.
_Brun._ How, Sir, kill’d?
_Turb._ Kill’d, Sir! ever whilst you live, especially those who have the
grand _Verole_; for ‘tis not for a Man’s Credit to let the Patient want
an Eye or a Nose, or some other thing. I have kill’d ye my five or six
dozen a Week--but times are hard.
_Brun._ I grant ye, Sir, your Poor for Experiment and Improvement of
Knowledge: and to say truth, there ought to be such Scavengers as we to
sweep away the Rubbish of the Nation.
[Sir _Cred._ and _Fat_ seeming in Discourse.
Sir _Cred._ Nay, an you talk of a Beast, my service to you, Sir--
[Drinks.] Ay, I lost the finest Beast of a Mare in all _Devonshire_.
_Fat_ D. And I the finest Spaniel, Sir.
[Here they all talk together till you come to--_purpose, Sir_.
_Turb._ Pray, what News is there stirring?
_Brun._ Faith, Sir, I am one of those Fools that never regard whether
_Lewis_ or _Philip_ have the better or the worst.
_Turb._ Peace is a great Blessing, Sir, a very great Blessing.
_Brun._ You are i’th right, Sir, and so my service to you, Sir.
_Leyd._ Well, Sir, _Stetin_ held out nobly, though the Gazettes are
various.
_Amst._ There’s a world of Men kill’d they say; why, what a shame ‘tis
so many thousands should die without the help of a Physician.
_Leyd._ Hang ‘em, they were poor Rogues, and not worth our killing; my
service to you, Sir, they’ll serve to fill up Trenches.
Sir _Cred._ Spaniel, Sir! no Man breathing understands Dogs and Horses
better than my self.
_Fat_ D. Your pardon for that, Sir.
Sir _Cred._ For look ye, Sir, I’ll tell you the Nature of Dogs and
Horses.
_Fat_ D. So can my Groom and Dog-keeper; but what’s this to th’ purpose,
Sir?
[Here they leave off.
Sir _Cred._ To th’ purpose, Sir! good Mr. _Hedleburgh_, do you
understand what’s to th’ purpose? you’re a _Dutch_ Butter-ferkin,
a Kilderkin, a Double Jug.
_Fat_ D. You’re an ignorant Blockhead, Sir.
Sir _Cred._ You lye, Sir, and there I was with you again.
_Amst._ What, quarrelling, Men of your Gravity and Profession.
Sir _Cred._ That is to say, Fools and Knaves: pray, how long is’t since
you left Toping and Napping, for Quacking, good Brother Cater-tray?--but
let that pass, for I’ll have my Humour, and therefore will quarrel with
no Man, and so I drink.--
[Goes to fill again.
_Brun._ --But, what’s all this to the Patient, Gentlemen?
Sir _Cred._ Ay,--the Wine’s all out,--and Quarrels apart, Gentlemen, as
you say, what do you think of our Patient? for something I conceive
necessary to be said for our Fees.
_Fat_ D. I think that unless he follows our Prescriptions he’s a dead
Man.
Sir _Cred._ Ay, Sir, a dead Man.
_Fat_ D. Please you to write, Sir, you seem the youngest Doctor.
[To _Amst._
_Amst._ Your Pardon, Sir, I conceive there maybe younger Doctors than I
at the Board.
Sir _Cred._ A fine Punctilio this, when a Man lies a dying [Aside.]
--Sir, you shall excuse me, I have been a Doctor this 7 Years.
[They shove the Pen and Paper from one to the other.
_Amst._ I commenc’d at _Paris_ twenty years ago.
_Leyd._ And I at _Leyden_, almost as long since.
_Fat_ D. And I at _Barcelona_ thirty.
Sir _Cred._ And I at _Padua_, Sir.
_Fat_ D. You at _Padua?_
Sir _Cred._ Yes, Sir, I at _Padua_; why, what a pox, do ye think I never
was beyond Sea?
_Brun._ However, Sir, you are the youngest Doctor, and must write.
Sir _Cred._ I will not lose an inch of my Dignity.
_Fat_ D. Nor I.
_Amst._ Nor I.
_Leyd._ Nor I. [Put the Paper from each other.
_Brun._ Death, what Rascals are these?
Sir _Cred._ Give me the Pen--here’s ado about your _Paduas_ and
Punctilioes.
[Sets himself to write.
_Amst._ Every morning a Dose of my Pills _Merda queorusticon_, or the
Amicable Pill.
Sir _Cred._ Fasting?
_Leyd._ Every Hour sixscore drops of _Adminicula Vitæ_.
Sir _Cred._ Fasting too? [Sir _Cred._ writes still.
_Fat_ D. At Night twelve Cordial Pills, _Gallimofriticus_.
_Turb._ Let Blood once a Week, a Glister once a day.
_Brun._ Cry Mercy, Sir, you’re a _French_ Man.--After his first Sleep,
threescore restorative Pills, call’d _Cheatus Redivivus_.
Sir _Cred._ And lastly, fifteen Spoonfuls of my _Aqua Tetrachymagogon_,
as often as ‘tis necessary; little or no Breakfast, less Dinner, and go
supperless to Bed.
_Fat_ D. Hum, your _Aqua Tetrachymagogon_?
Sir _Cred._ Yes, Sir, my _Tetrachymagogon_; for look ye, do you see,
Sir, I cur’d the Arch-Duke of _Strumbulo_ of a _Gondileero_, of which he
dy’d, with this very _Aqua Tetrachymagogon_.
Enter Sir _Patient_.
Sir _Pat._ Well, Gentlemen, am I not an intruder?
_Fat_ D. Sir, we have duly consider’d the state of your Body; and are
now about the Order and Method you are to observe.
_Brun._ Ay, this Distemper will be the occasion of his Death.
Sir _Cred._ Hold, Brothers, I do not say the occasion of his Death; but
the occasional Cause of his Death.
[Sir _Pat._ reads the Bill.
Sir _Pat._ Why, here’s no time allow’d for eating, Gentlemen.
_Amst._ Sir, we’ll justify this Prescription to the whole College.
_Leyd._ If he will not follow it, let him die.
_All._ Ay, let him die.
Enter _Lodwick_ and _Leander_.
_Lod._ What, have you consulted without me, Gentlemen?
[_Lod._ reads the Bill.
Sir _Pat._ Yes, Sir, and find it absolutely necessary for my Health,
Sir, I shou’d be starv’d: and yet you say I am not sick, Sir.
[To _Lean._
_Lod._ Very well, very well.
Sir _Pat._ No Breakfast, no Dinner, no Supper?
Sir _Cred._ Little or none, but none’s best.
Sir _Pat._ But, Gentlemen, consider, no small thing?
_All._ Nothing, nothing.
Sir _Cred._ Sir, you must write for your Fee. [To _Lod._
_Lod._ Now I think on’t, Sir, you may eat [Writes.
a roasted Pippin cold upon a Vine-leaf, at night.
_Lean._ Do you see, Sir, what damn’d canting Rascals these Doctors are?
Sir _Pat._ Ay, ay, if all Doctors were such, ingenuously, I shou’d soon
be weary of Physick.
_Lean._ Give ‘em their Fees, Sir, and send ‘em to the Devil for a
Company of Cheats.
Sir _Pat._ Truth is, there is no faith in ‘em,--well, I thank you for
your Care and Pains.
[Gives ‘em Fees.
Sir _Cred._ Sir, if you have any occasion for me, I live at the
red-colour’d Lanthorn, with eleven Candles in’t, in the _Strand_; where
you may come in privately, and need not be ashamed, I having no Creature
in my House but my self, and my whole Family.--
_Ick quam Van Neder Landt te spreken
End helpen Van Pocken end ander gebreken._
That’s a top of my Bill, sweet Sir.
[Exeunt Doctors.
_Fan._ Lord, Sir Father, why do you give ‘em Money?
_Lean._ For talking Nonsense this Hour or two upon his Distemper.
_Fan._ Oh lemini, Sir, they did not talk one word of you, but of Dogs
and Horses, and of killing Folks, and of their Wives and Daughters; and
when the Wine was all out, they said they wou’d say something for their
Fees.
Sir _Pat._ Say you so!--Knaves, Rogues, Cheats, Murderers! I’ll be
reveng’d on ‘em all,--I’ll ne’er be sick again,--or if I be, I’ll die
honestly of my self without the assistance of such Rascals,--go, get you
gone.--
[To _Fan._ who goes out.
_Lean._ A happy resolution! wou’d you wou’d be so kind to your self as
to make a trial of your Lady too; and if she prove true, ‘twill make
some kind of amends for your so long being cozen’d this way.
Sir _Pat._ I’ll about it, this very minute about it,--give me a Chair.--
[He sits.
_Lean._ So, settle your self well, disorder your Hair,--throw away your
Cane, Hat and Gloves,--stare, and rowl your Eyes, squeeze your Face into
Convulsions,--clutch your Hands, make your Stomach heave, so, very
well,--now let me alone for the rest--Oh, help, help, my Lady, my Aunt,
for Heavens sake, help,--come all and see him die.
[Weeps.
Enter _Wittmore_, Lady _Fancy_, _Isabella_, _Lucretia_, Lady
_Knowell_, _Roger_, and _Nurse_.
_Wit._ _Leander_, what’s the matter?
_Lean._ See, Madam, see my Uncle in the Agonies of Death.
L. _Fan._ My dearest Husband dying, Oh! [Weeps.
_Lean._ How hard he struggles with departing Life!
_Isab._ Father, dear Father, must I in one day receive a Blessing with
so great a Curse? Oh,--he’s just going, Madam.--
[Weeps.
L. _Fan._ Let me o’ertake him in the Shades below, why do you hold me,
can I live without him? do I dissemble well?--
[Aside to _Wit._
Sir _Pat._ Not live without me!--do you hear that, Sirrah?
[Aside to _Lean._
_Lean._ Pray mark the end on’t, Sir,--feign,--feign.--
L. _Kno._ We left him well, how came he thus o’th’ sudden?
_Lean._ I fear ‘tis an Apoplexy, Madam.
L. _Fan._ Run, run for his Physician; but do not stir a foot.
[Aside to _Roger_.
Look up, and speak but one kind word to me.
Sir _Pat._ What crys are these that stop me on my way?
L. _Fan._ They’re mine,--your Lady’s--oh, surely he’ll recover.
[Aside.
Your most obedient Wife’s.
Sir _Pat._ My Wife’s, my Heir, my sole Executrix.
L. _Fan._ Hah, is he in’s Senses? [Aside to _Wit._
Oh my dear Love, my Life, my Joy, my All, [Crys.
Oh, let me go; I will not live without him.
[Seems to faint in _Wittmore’s_ Arms. All run about her.
Sir _Pat._ Do ye hear that, Sirrah?
_Lean._ Have yet a little Patience, die away,--very well--Oh, he’s
gone,--quite gone.
[L. _Fan._ swoons.
L. _Kno._ Look to my Lady there, [Swoons again.
--Sure she can but counterfeit. [Aside. [They all go about her.
Sir _Pat._ Hah, my Lady dying!
_Lean._ Sir, I beseech you wait the event. Death! the cunning Devil will
dissemble too long and spoil all,--here--carry the dead Corps of my
dearest Uncle to his Chamber. Nurse, to your Care I commit him now.
[Exeunt with Sir _Pat._ in a Chair.
[All follow but _Wittmore_; who going the other way, meets Sir
_Credulous_ and _Lodwick_, as before.
_Wit._ _Lodwick!_ the strangest unexpected News, Sir _Patient’s_ dead!
Sir _Cred._ How, dead! we have play’d the Physicians to good purpose,
i’faith, and kill’d the Man before we administer’d our Physick.
_Wit._ Egad, I fear so indeed.
_Lod._ Dead!
_Wit._ As a Herring, and ‘twill be dangerous to keep these habits
longer.
Sir _Cred._ Dangerous! Zoz, Man, we shall all be hang’d, why, our very
Bill dispatch’d him, and our Hands are to’t,--Oh, I’ll confess all.--
[Offers to go.
_Lod._ Death, Sir, I’ll cut your Throat if you stir.
Sir _Cred._ Wou’d you have me hang’d for Company, Gentlemen? Oh, where
shall I hide my self, or how come at my Clothes?
_Lod._ We have no time for that; go get you into your Basket again, and
lie snug, till I have convey’d you safe away,--or I’ll abandon you.--
[Aside to him.
‘Tis not necessary he shou’d be seen yet, he may spoil _Leander’s_
Plot.
[Aside.
Sir _Cred._ Oh, thank ye, dear _Lodwick_,--let me escape this bout, and
if ever the Fool turn Physician again, may he be choak’d with his own
_Tetrachymagogon_.
_Wit._ Go, haste and undress you, whilst I’ll to _Lucia_.
[Exeunt _Lod._ and Sir _Cred._
As _Wittmore_ is going out at one Door, enter Sir _Patient_ and
_Leander_ at the other Door.
_Lean._ Hah, _Wittmore_ there! he must not see my Uncle yet.
[Puts Sir _Pat._ back.
[Exit _Wit._
Sir _Pat._ Nay, Sir, never detain me, I’ll to my Lady, is this your
Demonstration?--Was ever so virtuous a Lady--Well, I’ll to her, and
console her poor Heart; ah, the Joy ‘twill bring her to see my
Resurrection!--I long to surprize her.
[Going off cross the Stage.
_Lean._ Hold, Sir, I think she’s coming,--blest sight, and with her
_Wittmore_!
[Puts Sir _Pat._ back to the Door.
Enter Lady _Fancy_ and _Wittmore_.
Sir _Pat._ Hah, what’s this?
L. _Fan._ Now, my dear _Wittmore_, claim thy Rites of Love without
controul, without the contradiction of wretched Poverty or Jealousy: Now
undisguised thou mayst approach my Bed, and reign o’er all my Pleasures
and my Fortunes, of which this Minute I create thee Lord, And thus begin
my Homage.--
[Kisses him.
Sir _Pat._ Sure ‘tis some Fiend! this cannot be my Lady.
_Lean._ ‘Tis something uncivil before your face, Sir, to do this.
_Wit._ Thou wondrous kind, and wondrous beautiful; that Power that made
thee with so many Charms, gave me a Soul fit only to adore ‘em; nor wert
thou destin’d to another’s Arms, but to be render’d still more fit for
mine.
Sir _Pat._ Hah, is not that _Fainlove_, _Isabella’s_ Husband? Oh
Villain! Villain! I will renounce my Sense and my Religion.
[Aside.
L. _Fan._ Another’s Arms! Oh, call not those hated
Thoughts to my remembrance,
Lest it destroy that kindly Heat within me,
Which thou canst only raise and still maintain.
Sir _Pat._ Oh Woman! Woman! damn’d dissembling Woman. [Aside.
L. _Fan._ Come, let me lead thee to that Mass of Gold he gave me to be
despis’d;
And which I render thee, my lovely Conqueror,
As the first Tribute of my glorious Servitude.
Draw in the Basket which I told you of, and is amongst the Rubbish in
the Hall. [Exit _Wittmore_.] That which the Slave so many Years was
toiling for, I in one moment barter for a Kiss, as Earnest of our future
Joys.
Sir _Pat._ Was ever so prodigal a Harlot? was this the Saint? was this
the most tender Consort that ever Man had?
_Lean._ No, in good faith, Sir.
Enter _Wittmore_ pulling in the Basket.
L. _Fan._ This is it, with a direction on’t to thee, whither I design’d
to send it.
_Wit._ Good morrow to the Day, and next the Gold;
Open the Shrine, that I may see my Saint--
Hail the World’s Soul,-- [Opens the Basket, Sir _Cred._ starts up.
L. _Fan._ O Heavens! what thing art thou?
Sir _Cred._ O, Pardon, Pardon, sweet Lady, I confess I had a hand in’t.
L. _Fan._ In what, thou Slave?--
Sir _Cred._ Killing the good believing Alderman;--but ‘twas against my
Will.
L. _Fan._ Then I’m not so much oblig’d to thee,--but where’s the Money,
the 8000_l._ the Plate and Jewels, Sirrah?
_Wit._ Death, the Dog has eat it.
Sir _Cred._ Eat it! Oh Lord, eat 8000_l._ Wou’d I might never come out
of this Basket alive, if ever I made such a Meal in my Life.
_Wit._ Ye Dog, you have eat it; and I’ll make ye swallow all the Doses
you writ in your Bill, but I’ll have it upward or downward.
[Aside.
Sir _Pat._ Hah, one of the Rogues my Doctors.
Sir _Cred._ Oh, dear Sir, hang me out of the way rather.
Enter _Maundy_.
_Maun._ Madam, I have sent away the Basket to Mr. _Wittmore’s_ Lodgings.
L. _Fan._ You might have sav’d your self that Labour, I now having no
more to do, but to bury the stinking Corps of my quandom Cuckold,
dismiss his Daughters, and give thee quiet possession of all.
[To _Wit._
Sir _Pat._ Fair Lady, you’ll take me along with you?
[Snaps, pulls off his Hat, and comes up to her.
L. _Fan._ My Husband!--I’m betray’d--
Sir _Pat._ Husband! I do defy thee, Satan, thou greater Whore than she
of _Babylon_; thou Shame, thou Abomination to thy Sex.
L. _Fan._ Rail on, whilst I dispose my self to laugh at thee.
Sir _Pat._ _Leander_, call all the House in to be a Witness of our
Divorce.
[Exit _Lean._
L. _Fan._ Do, and all the World, and let ‘em know the Reason.
Sir _Pat._ Methinks I find an Inclination to swear,--to curse my self
and thee, that I cou’d no better discern thee; nay, I’m so chang’d from
what I was, that I think I cou’d even approve of Monarchy and
Church-Discipline, I’m so truly convinc’d I have been a Beast and an Ass
all my Life.
Enter Lady _Knowell_, _Isabella_, _Lucretia_, _Leander_,
_Lodwick_, _Fanny_, &c.
L. _Kno._ Hah, Sir _Patient_ not dead?
Sir _Pat._ Ladies and Gentlemen, take notice that I am a Cuckold,
a crop-ear’d snivelling Cuckold.
Sir _Cred._ A Cuckold! sweet Sir, shaw, that’s a small matter in a Man
of your Quality.
Sir _Pat._ And I beg your pardon, Madam, for being angry that you call’d
me so. [To L. _Kno._] And yours, dear _Isabella_, for desiring you to
marry my good Friend there [Points to _Wit._] whose name I perceive I
was mistaken in:--and yours, _Leander_, that I wou’d not take your
Advice long since: and yours, fair Lady, for believing you
honest,--’twas done like a credulous Coxcomb:--and yours, Sir, for
taking any of your Tribe for wise, learned or honest.
[To Sir _Credulous_.
_Wit._ Faith, Sir, I deceiv’d ye only to serve my Friend; and, Sir, your
Daughter is married to Mr _Knowell_: your Wife had all my stock of Love
before, Sir.
[_Lod._ and _Isab._ kneel.
Sir _Pat._ Why, God-a-mercy--some comfort that,--God bless ye.--I shall
love Disobedience while I live for’t.
_Lod._ I am glad on’t, Sir, for then I hope you will forgive _Leander_,
who has married my Sister, and not my Mother.
Sir _Pat._ How! has he served me so?--I’ll make him my Heir for’t, thou
hast made a Man of me, my Boy, and, faith, we will be merry,--Fair Lady,
you may depart in peace, fair Lady, restoring my Money, my Plate, my
Jewels and my Writings, fair Lady.--
L. _Fan._ You gave me no Money, Sir, prove it if you can; and for your
Land, ‘twas not settled with this Proviso, if she be honest?
Sir _Pat._ ‘Tis well thou dost confess I am a Cuckold, for I wou’d have
it known, fair Lady.
L. _Fan._ ‘Twas to that end I married you, good Alderman.
Sir _Pat._ I’faith, I think thou didst, Sweet-heart, i’faith, I think
thou didst.
_Wit._ Right, Sir, we have long been Lovers, but want of Fortune made us
contrive how to marry her to your good Worship. Many a wealthy Citizen,
Sir, has contributed to the maintenance of a younger Brother’s Mistress;
and you are not the first Man in Office that has been a Cuckold, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ Some comfort that too, the Brethren of the Chain cannot laugh
at me.
Sir _Cred._ A very pleasant old Fellow this: faith, I cou’d be very
merry with him now, but that I am damnable sad.--Madam, I shall desire
to lay the Saddle on the right Horse.
[To L. _Kno._
L. _Kno._ What mean you, Sir?
Sir _Cred._ Only, Madam, if I were as some Men are, I should not be as I
am.
L. _Kno._ It may be so, Sir.
Sir _Cred._ I say no more, but matters are not carried so swimmingly,
but I can dive into the meaning on’t.
[Sir _Patient_ talks this while to _Lodwick_.
L. _Kno._ I hate this hypothetical way of arguing, answer me
categorically.
Sir _Cred._ Hypothetical and Categorical! what does she mean now?
[Aside.] --Madam, in plain _English_, I am made a _John-a-Nokes_ of,
_Jack-hold-my-staff_, a _Merry Andrew_ Doctor, to give _Leander_ time to
marry your Daughter; and ‘twas therefore I was hoisted up in the
Basket;--but as the play says, ‘tis well ‘tis no worse: I’d rather lose
my Mistress than my Life.
Sir _Pat._ But how came this Rascal _Turboon_ to admit you?
_Lod._ For the Lucre of our Fees, Sir, which was his recompence.
Sir _Pat._ I forgive it you, and will turn Spark, they live the merriest
Lives--keep some City Mistress, go to Court, and hate all Conventicles.
_You see what a fine City-Wife can do
Of the true-breed; instruct her Husband too:
I wish all civil Cuckolds in the Nation
Would take example by my Reformation._
EPILOGUE,
Spoken by Mrs. _Gwin_.
I here and there o’erheard a Coxcomb cry, [Looking about.
Ah, Rot it--’tis a Woman’s Comedy,
One, who because she lately chanc’d to please us,
With her damn’d Stuff, will never cease to teeze us.
What has poor Woman done, that she must be
Debar’d from Sense, and sacred Poetry?
Why in this Age has Heaven allow’d you more,
And Women less of Wit than heretofore?
We once were fam’d in story, and could write
Equal to Men; cou’d govern, nay, cou’d fight.
We still have passive Valour, and can show, }
Wou’d Custom give us leave, the active too, }
Since we no Provocations want from you. }
For who but we cou’d your dull Fopperies bear,
Your saucy Love, and your brisk Nonsense hear;
Indure your worse than womanish Affectation,
Which renders you the Nusance of the Nation;
Scorn’d even by all the Misses of the Town,
A Jest to Vizard Mask, the _Pit-Buffoon_;
A Glass by which the admiring Country Fool
May learn to dress himself _en Ridicule:_
Both striving who shall most ingenious grow
In Leudness, Foppery, Nonsense, Noise and Show.
And yet to these fine things we must submit
Our Reason, Arms, our Laurels, and our Wit.
Because we do not laugh at you, when leud,
And scorn and cudgel ye when you are rude.
That we have nobler Souls than you, we prove,
By how much more we’re sensible of Love;
Quickest in finding all the subtlest ways
To make your Joys, why not to make you Plays?
We best can find your Foibles, know our own, }
And Jilts and Cuckolds now best please the Town; }
Your way of Writing’s out of fashion grown. }
Method, and Rule--you only understand;
Pursue that way of Fooling, and be damn’d.
Your learned Cant of Action, Time and Place,
Must all give way to the unlabour’d Farce.
To all the Men of Wit we will subscribe:
But for your half Wits, you unthinking Tribe,
We’ll let you see, whate’er besides we do,
How artfully we copy some of you:
And if you’re drawn to th’ Life, pray tell me then,
Why Women should not write as well as Men.
* * * * *
* * * *
NOTES: Sir Patient Fancy
NOTES ON THE TEXT.
+To the Reader+
p. 7, l. 1 _To the Reader._ Only in 4to 1678.
+Dramatis Personæ+
p. 10 _Dramatis Personæ._ I have added ‘_Abel_ (_Bartholmew_), Clerk
to _Sir Patient Fancy_; _Brunswick_, a friend to _Lodwick Knowell_;
_Antic_, Waiting-woman to _Lucretia_; Nurse; Guests.’ In former
editions the physicians are grouped together as ‘Five Doctors’, and
The Lady _Knowell_ is mistakenly termed ‘Mother to _Lodwick_ and
_Isabella_’, which I have corrected to ‘and _Lucretia_’. I have noted
the confusion of ‘Abel’ and ‘Bartholmew’ in the introduction, pp. 5-6.
+ACT I: Scene i+
p. 11, l. 2 I have added ‘in Lady Knowell’s House.’
p. 13, l. 14 _Foibles._ 4to 1678 ‘feables’.
p. 14, l. 17 _apamibominous ... podas._ 4to 1678 ‘apamibominus ...
Podis’.
p. 15, l. 3 _Mudd._ 1724 ‘mad’.
+ACT I: Scene ia+
p. 16, l. 12 _now, Curry, from._ 1724 omits ‘Curry’.
p. 16, l. 25 _Branford._ 1724 here and _infra_ ‘Brentford’.
p. 16, l. 30 _Cuffet’s._ 1724 ‘Cusset’s’.
p. 22, l. 22 _not._ Erroneously omitted by 4to 1678.
p. 23, l. 2 _a Dog._ 4to 1678 ‘the Dog.’
p. 23, l. 16 _with Page._ I have added the Page’s exit.
p. 25, l. 20 _Ex. severally._ 4to 1678 adds ‘The End of the First
Act.’
+ACT II: Scene i+
p. 25, l. 22 _to Sir Patient Fancy’s House._ I have added these words.
p. 33, l. 27 _Exit with L. Fan._ I have added the necessary ‘with
L. Fan.’ 4to 1678 reads ‘Goes out.’
p. 35, l. 2 _Roger attending._ I have added this entrance of Roger
here.
p. 36, l. 21 _Enter Sir Patient._ 4to 1678 gives this entrance after
‘mercy’, l. 22.
p. 40, l. 25 _Exit Roger._ I have added this exit here, and at p. 43,
l. 2.
+ACT II: Scene ii+
p. 44, l. 6 _Exeunt severally._ 4to 1678 adds ‘The End of the Second
Act.’
+ACT III: Scene i+
p. 44, l. 9 _to a room in Sir Patient Fancy’s house._ I have supplied
this locale.
p. 45, l. 11 _and Maundy._ I have supplied Maundy’s entrance here.
+ACT III: Scene ii+
p. 47, l. 1 _a thousand Faults._ 1724 mistakenly reads ‘a thousand
hidden Faults’.
p. 48, l. 34 _in spite to._ 1724 ‘in spite of’ which makes nonsense
of the passage.
+ACT III: Scene iii+
p. 49, l. 8 _Scene III._ I have numbered this and all the succeeding
scenes of Act III.
+ACT III: Scene vii+
p. 53, l. 32 _Within._ Not in any previous edition.
p. 54, l. 10 _Within._ All previous editions print this stage
direction as part of Sir Patient’s speech.
p. 54, l. 19 _Discovery._ All previous editions here have ‘Enter Sir
Patient’, which is a very patent error. I have supplied ‘Within’ as
stage direction.
+ACT III: Scene viii+
p. 59, l. 6 _Isabella, Fanny._ I have supplied ‘Fanny’ to this stage
direction.
+ACT III: Scene ix+
p. 59, l. 19 _D’on._ 4to 1678 misprints ‘D’on on Flannel’.
p. 60, l. 13 _Enter Roger._ I have supplied the names ‘Roger’ and
‘Abel’ to this stage direction.
p. 61, l. 13 _Exeunt._ 4to 1678 adds ‘The End of the Third Act.’
+ACT IV: Scene i+
p. 71, l. 27 _are._ 4to 1678, not so well, ‘were’.
+ACT IV: Scene ii+
p. 72, l. 19 _A Chamber in Sir Patient Fancy’s House._ I have
supplied this locale.
p. 77, l. 2 _come._ 4to 1678 ‘came’.
p. 77, l. 33 _but for my sending him, Madam, credit me._ 1724 omits
this sentence.
p. 79, l. 13 _sad._ 1724 ‘said’.
p. 79, l. 31 _Exit._ I have supplied this stage direction.
+ACT IV: Scene iii+
p. 81, l. 1 _Exit Roger._ I have supplied this.
p. 81, l. 11 _little._ 1724 misprints ‘letter’.
p. 82, l. 30 _Fanny and Nurse go._ All previous editions have ‘Fanny
goes’.
+ACT IV: Scene iv+
p. 82, l. 31 _Scene IV._ I have numbered this scene.
p. 82, l. 33 _Entering._ I have supplied this necessary stage
direction.
p. 87, l. 15 _Hogsdowne._ 1724 ‘Hogsdon’.
+ACT V: Scene i+
p. 89, l. 3 _leading her._ Omitted in 1724. 4to 1678 here has ‘The End
of the Fourth Act.’
p. 89, l. 5 _Scene I. A Room._ All previous editions have ‘Scene I.
A Table and Six Chairs.’
p. 89, l. 28 _come._ 4to 1678 ‘came’.
p. 95, l. 20 _fatum._ 4to 1678 ‘facum.’
p. 96, l. 2 _and will._ 1724, very erroneously, ‘and I will’.
p. 98, l. 13 _and Bartholomew._ I have added this entrance, unmarked
in former editions, as later in the scene (p. 99, l. 30) he is
addressed.
p. 98, l. 16 _Exit Roger._ I have supplied this.
p. 99, l. 35 _Exit._ I have added this stage direction.
p. 100, l. 4 _Exit Lod._ This is unmarked in previous editions.
p. 100, l. 25 _Medicinæ Professores._ 1724 ‘Medicina Presessores, qui
hic assemblati esti, & vos altra Mesioris’.
p. 101, l. 12 _Deliberation._ 4to 1678 here has ‘[Goes out.’ which
must obviously be a mistake.
p. 102, l. 2 _Whirligigoustiphon._ 1724 ‘Whirligigousticon’.
p. 107, l. 36 _Exeunt Doctors._ All previous editions faultily have
‘Exeunt.’ after ‘whole Family.--’ I have added ‘Doctors.’
p. 108, l. 27 _and Nurse._ I have added these words as she is
addressed later in the scene (p. 109, l. 31.)
p. 110, l. 24 _and Sir Cred._ I have added these words.
p. 111, l. 34 _Consort._ 1724 ‘Comfort’.
NOTES: CRITICAL AND EXPLANATORY.
+To the Reader+
p. 7 _to show their breeding (as Bays sayes)._ cf. _The Rehearsal_,
II, ii:--
_1 King._ You must begin, _Mon foy_.
_2 King._ Sweet, Sir, _Pardonnes moy_.
_Bayes._ Mark that: I makes ‘em both speak _French_ to shew their
breeding.
+ACT I: Scene i+
p. 14 _Armida._ cf. Tasso’s _La Gerusalemme Liberata_, canto xiv, &c.
Armida is called Corcereis owing to the beauty and wonder of her
enchanted garden. Corcyra was the abode of King Alcinous, of whose
court, parks and orchards a famous description is to be found in the
seventh _Odyssey_. Martial (xiii, 37), speaks of ‘Corcyraei horti’,
a proverbial phrase.
+ACT I: Scene ia+
p. 20 _Mum budget._ ‘Mum budget’, meaning ‘hush’, was originally the
name of a children’s game which required silence, cf. _Merry Wives
of Windsor_, V, iv: ‘I ... cried _mum_ and she cried _budget_.’ cf.
also the term ‘Whist’.
p. 22 _Beginning at Eight._ The idea of this little speech is, of
course, from Bonnecorse’s _La Montre_, Mrs. Behn’s translation of
which will be found with an introduction in Vol. VI, p. 1.
p. 22 _the Bergere._ cf. _The Feign’d Curtezans_ (Vol. II, p. 346):
‘The hour of the Berjere’. and the note on that passage (p. 441).
+ACT II: Scene i+
p. 32 _Ay and No Man._ cf. Prologue to _The False Count_ (Vol. III,
p. 100): ‘By Yea and Nay’. and note on that passage (p. 480).
+ACT III: Scene i+
p. 44 _Within a Mile of an Oak._ A proverbial saw. cf. D’Urfey’s _Don
Quixote_ (1696), III, Act V, i, where Teresa cries: ‘The Ass was lost
yesterday, and Master _Carasco_ tells us your Worship can tell within
a mile of an Oak where he is.’
p. 44 _Rustick Antick._ A quaint country dance.
+ACT IV: Scene i+
p. 62 _Hypallages._ A figure of speech by which attributes are
transferred from their proper subjects to others.
p. 62 _Belli fugaces._ Ovid, _Amorum_, I, 9, has ‘Militat omnis amans
et habet sua castra Cupido’, and the idea is common. I have made no
attempt to correct the tags of Latinity in this play. Mrs. Behn
openly confessed she knew no Latin, and she was ill supplied here.
I do not conceive that the words are intentionally faulty and
grotesque. Lady Knowell is a pedant, but not ignorant.
p. 65 _Madame Brenvilliers._ Marie-Marguerite d’.ubray, Marquise de
Brinvilliers, was executed at Paris 16 July, 1676.
p. 66 _Bilbo-Blades!_ Or oftener ‘bilbo-lords’, = swash-bucklers,
cf. _The Pilgrim_ (folio, 1647), V, vi, where Juletta calls the old
angry Alphonso ‘My Bilbo Master’.
p. 70 _whip slap-dash._ These nonsensical bywords, which were very
popular, are continually in the mouth of Sir Samuel Harty, a silly
coxcomb in Shadwell’s _The Virtuoso_ (1676). Nokes, who was acting
Sir Credulous, had created Sir Samuel Harty.
p. 71 _The Bell in Friday-street._ The Bell was an inn of note in
Friday Street, Cheapside. cf. _Cal. State Papers_ (1603-10, p. 455):
‘Sir Thomas Estcourt ... to Thomas Wilson. Is about to leave London
and proffers his services. If he has occasion to write to him he may
have weekly messengers ... at the Bell, Friday Street.’
+ACT IV: Scene ii+
p. 79 _th’ Exercise._ The puritanical term for private worship, cf.
1663 _Flagellum; or, O. Cromwell_ (1672), 21. ‘The Family was called
together to prayers; at which Exercise ... they continued long.’ cf.
_The Roundheads_ (Vol. I), Act II, i: ‘his Prayers; from which
long-winded Exercise I have of late withdrawn my self.’
+ACT IV: Scene iv+
p. 83 _Mirabilis._ Aqua mirabilis, a well-known invigorating cordial,
cf. Dryden’s _Marriage à la Mode_ (1672), III, i: ‘The country
gentlewoman ... who ... opens her dear bottle of Mirabilis beside, for
a gill glass of it at parting.’
p. 84 _Tranghams._ Nick-nacks, toys, trinkets, cf. Arbuthnot, _History
of John Ball_ (1712-3), Pt. II, c. vi: ‘What’s the meaning of all
these trangrams and gimcracks?’
+ACT V: Scene i+
p. 92 _to souse._ cf. _Florio_ (ed. 1611): ‘to leape or seaze greedily
upon, to souze downe as a hauke.’
p. 93 _this Balatroon._ A rogue. The word is very rare. cf. Cockeram
(1623): ‘_Ballatron_, a rascally base knave.’
p. 95 _Rotat omne fatum._ This would be an exceptionally rare use of
rotare = rotari, intransitive. But Mrs. Behn, as Dryden tells us in
his preface to the translation of Ovid’s _Heroides_ (1680) ‘by many
hands’, insisted upon the fact that she knew no Latin.
p. 100 _Medicinæ Professores._ This is from the _Troisième Intermède_
of _Le Malade Imaginaire_ which commences:--
Savantissimi doctores,
Medicinæ professores,
Qui hic assemblati estis;
Et vos, altri messiores,
Sententiarum facultatis.
p. 101 _Vanderbergen._ A well-known empiric of the day.
p. 102 _Haly the Moore, and Rabbi Isaac._ Ali Bey (Bobrowski),
a Polish scholar, died at Constantinople 1675. He wrote, amongst
other treatises, _De Circumcisione_; _De Aegrotorum Visitatione_.
These were published at Oxford in 1691. Isaac Levita or Jean Isaac
Levi was a celebrated rabbi of the sixteenth century. A professor at
Cologne, he practised medicine and astrology.
p. 104 _Stetin._ Stettin, the capital of Pomerania, was one of the
chief towns of the Hanseatic league. Occupied by Sweden 1637-1713,
it was the centre of continual military operations.
p. 105 _A Dutch Butter-ferkin, a Kilderkin._ These terms are common
abuse as applied to a corpulent person. A firkin (Mid. Dut.,
vierdekijn) = a small cask for holding liquids or butter; originally
half-a-kilderkin. _Dictionary of the Canting Crew_ (1700) has ‘Firkin
of foul Stuff; a ... Coarse, Corpulent Woman’. cf. Dryden’s _Mac
Flecknoe_ (1682):--
A Tun of Man in thy large Bulk is writ,
But sure thou’rt but a Kilderkin of wit.
Shadwell was extremely gross in habit and of an unwieldy size.
p. 105 _Toping and Napping._ ‘To top’ and ‘to nap’ are slang terms
signifying to cheat, especially with dice. cf. R. Head, _Canting
Academy_ (1673), ‘What chance of the dye is soonest thrown in topping,
shoring, palming, napping.’ Both words occur very frequently, and are
amply explained in the Slang Dictionaries.
p. 105 _Cater-Tray._ Quatre-trois; a cast at dice.
p. 112 _Good morrow._ Wittmore quotes the opening lines of _Volpone_,
Act I, i:
Good morning to the day; and next my gold!
Open the shrine that I may see my saint.
Hail the world’s soul and mine!
p. 115 _John-a-Nokes._ The fictitious name for the one party in a
legal action. The term came to have the same meaning as
‘Jack-hold-my-staff’ = any fool or nincompoop.
+Epilogue+
p. 116 _Vizard Mask._ The commonest Restoration synonym for a ‘bona
roba’, especially as plying the theatre.
* * * * *
* * * *
Cross-References from Critical Notes: _Sir Patient Fancy_
p. 22 _the Bergere._ cf. _The Feign’d Curtezans_ (Vol. II, p. 346):
’.he hour of the Berjere’. and the note on that passage (p. 441).
_Feign’d Curtezans_ note:
_The hour of the Berjere._ L’heure du berger ou l’amant trouve
celle qu’il aime favorable à ses voeux. cf. La Fontaine, _Contes. La
Coupe Enchantée_. ‘Il y fait bon, l’heure du berger sonne.’ It is a
favourite expression of Mrs. Behn. cf. _Sir Patient Fancy_, Act I, i.
‘From Ten to Twelve are the happy hours of the Bergere, those of
intire enjoyment.’ Also the charming conclusion of _The Lover’s
Watch_:--
Damon, my watch is just and new:
And all a Lover ought to do,
My Cupid faithfully will show.
And ev’ry hour he renders there
Except _l’heure du Bergère_.
p. 32 _Ay and No Man._ cf. Prologue to _The False Count_ (Vol. III,
p. 100): ‘By Yea and Nay’. and note on that passage (p. 480).
_False Count_ note:
_By Yea and Nay._ ‘Yea and Nay’ was often derisively applied to
the Puritans, and hence to their lineal descendants the Whigs, in
allusion to the Scriptural injunction, _S. Matthew_ v, 33-7, which
they feigned exactly to follow. Timothy Thin-beard, a rascally
Puritan, in Heywood’s _If you Know Not Me, You Know Nobody_, Part II
(4to, 1606), is continually asseverating ‘By yea and nay’, cf.
Fletcher’s _Monsieur Thomas_, Act II, iii, where Thomas says:--
Do not ye see me alter’d? ‘Yea and Nay,’ gentlemen;
A much-converted man.
* * * * *
* * * *
Errors and Irregularities: Sir Patient Fancy
In the Notes, alternation between .’ and ‘. at paragraph-end is as
printed. The abbreviation “cf.” is always lower-case.
Editor’s Introduction
but yet everything she touched [eveything]
Sir Patient Fancy
And a Tyrannick Commonwealth prefer [Tryannick]
Ton d’ apamibominous prosiphe podas ochus Achilleus
[_in standard transliteration:_
Ton d’ apameibomenos prosephê podas ôkus Achilleus
_Each element (“Ton ... prosephê” and “podas ôkus Achilleus”)
is used several dozen times in the _Iliad_; the complete line
occurs at least ten times._]
a _Lancashire_ Bag-pipe [_anomalous hyphen in original_]
_Wit._ Nor to Chuch? [_spelling unchanged_]
& _Reparteeé bien_ [_spelling unchanged_]
and d’on on slip shoe:
[_text unchanged: compare Note on III.ix_]
_Wit._ At Sir _Patient Fancy’s_, my Father-in-law. [? for .]
for the use and comfort of Man [. missing]
Sir _Pat._ How does my good, my dearest Lady _Fancy_?
[_speaker name not italicized_]
[Puts Sir _Pat._ back. / [Exit _Wit._
[_bracket before “Exit” added for consistency in e-text_]
Enter Lady _Fancy_ and _Wittmore_.
[_“and” non-Italic (emphatic)_]
_Wit._ Go, haste and ... [Exeunt _Lod._ and Sir _Cred._
[Exeuut]
Notes on Text
p. 10 _Dramatis Personæ._ ... in the introduction [in the the]
p. 13, l. 14 [p. 13 l. 14]
p. 98, l. 16 [p. 98, l. 16.]
Critical Notes
p. 65 _Madame Brenvilliers._ [_body text has “Madam”_]
* * * * *
* * * *
* * * * *
THE AMOROUS PRINCE.
[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.
Frederick, ‘the Amorous Prince,’ a mercurial young gallant, son to the
Duke of Florence, under a solemn promise of marriage debauches Cloris,
sister to his friend and confidant, Curtius. The girl has always led a
secluded country life, and this relationship is unknown to the Prince,
who upon hearing the praises of Laura, beloved by Curtius, straightway
resolves to win this lady also. Laura’s brother Lorenzo, a wanton madcap
favourite of Frederick’s, gladly effects the required introduction, and
when Curtius interrupts and forbids, Salvator, father to Laura and
Lorenzo, promptly turns the quondam lover out of the house. Lorenzo
himself is idly pursuing Clarina, wife to a certain Antonio, an abortive
intrigue carried on to his own impoverishment, but the enrichment of
Isabella, Clarina’s woman, a wench who fleeces him unmercifully. Antonio
being of a quaint and jealous humour would have his friend Alberto make
fervent love to Clarina, in order that by her refusals and chill denials
her spotless conjugal fidelity may be proved. However, Ismena, Clarina’s
sister, appears in a change of clothes as the wife, and manifold
complications ensue, but eventually all is cleared and Ismena accepts
Alberto, whom she has long loved; not before Isabella, having by a trick
compelled Lorenzo to declare himself her husband, enforces the bargain.
Cloris, meanwhile, disguised as a boy under the name of Philibert,
attaches herself to Frederick, first succouring him when he is wounded
in a duel by Curtius. Curtius to avenge his wrongs disguises himself,
and as a pandar entices Frederick into a snare by promises of supplying
the amorous Prince with lovely cyprians. Bravos, however, are in
waiting, but these prove to be in the service of Antonio, who appears
with Alberto and their friends, completely frustrating the plot, whilst
Clarina, Ismena, and other ladies have acted the courtezans to deceive
Curtius, and at the same time read the Prince a salutary lesson. He
profits so much by this experience that he takes Cloris, whose sex is
discovered, to be his bride, whilst Laura bestows her hand on the
repentant and forgiven Curtius.
SOURCE.
Mrs. Behn has taken her episode of Antonio’s persuading Alberto to woo
Clarina from Robert Davenport’s fine play, _The City Night-Cap_ (4to
1661, but licensed 24 October, 1624) where Lorenzo induces Philippo to
test Abstemia in the same way. Astrea, however, has considerably altered
the conduct of the intrigue. Bullen (_The Works of Robert Davenport_,
1890) conclusively and exhaustively demonstrates that Davenport made use
of Greene’s popular _Philomela; the Lady Fitzwater’s Nightingale_ (1592,
1615, and 1631), wherein Count Philippo employs Giovanni Lutesio to
’.ake experience of his wife’s [Philomela’s] honesty’, rather than was
under any obligation to Cervantes’ _Curioso Impertinente, Don Quixote_,
Book IV, ch. vi-viii. Read, Dunlop, and Hazlitt all had express’d the
same opinion. The Spanish tale turns upon the fact of Anselmo, the
Curious Impertinent, enforcing his friend Lothario to tempt his wife
Camilla. Such a theme, however, is common, and with variations is to be
found in Italian novelle. Recent authorities are inclined to suggest
that the plot of Beaumont and Fletcher’s _The Coxcomb_ (1610), much of
which runs on similar lines, is not founded on Cervantes. Southerne, in
his comedy, _The Disappointment; or, The Mother in Fashion_ (1684) and
’.tarch Johnny Crowne’ in _The Married Beau_ (1694), both comedies of no
little wit and merit, are patently indebted to _The Curious
Impertinent_. Cervantes had also been used three quarters of a century
before by Nat Field in his _Amends for Ladies_ (4to, 1618), where Sir
John Loveall tries his wife in an exactly similar manner to Lorenzo,
Count Philippo and Anselmo.
The amours of the Florentine court are Mrs. Behn’s own invention; but
the device by which Curtius ensnares Frederick is not unlike Vendice and
Hippolito’s trapping of the lecherous old Duke in _The Revenger’s
Tragedy_ (4to, 1607), albeit the saturnine Tourneur gives the whole
scene a far more terrible and tragic catastrophe.
In January, 1537, Lorenzino de Medici having enticed Duke Alessandro of
Florence to his house under pretext of an assignation with a certain
Caterina Ginori, after a terrible struggle assassinated him with the aid
of a notorious bravo. Several plays have been founded upon this history.
Notable amongst them are Shirley’s admirable tragedy, _The Traitor_
(licensed May, 1631, 4to 1635) and in later days de Musset’s
_Lorenzaccio_ (1834).
The Mask in Act V of _The Amorous Prince_ is in its purport most
palpably akin to the Elizabethans.
THEATRICAL HISTORY.
_The Amorous Prince_ was produced by the Duke’s Company in the spring of
1671 at their Lincoln’s Inn Fields theatre, whence they migrated in
November of the same year to the magnificent new house in Dorset Garden.
No performers’ names are given to the comedy, which met with a very good
reception. It seems to have kept the boards awhile, but there is no
record of any particular revival.
THE AMOROUS PRINCE.
PROLOGUE.
Well! you expect a _Prologue_ to the Play,
And you expect it too Petition-way;
With _Chapeau bas_ beseeching you t’ excuse
A damn’d Intrigue of an unpractis’d Muse;
Tell you it’s Fortune waits upon your Smiles,
And when you frown, Lord, how you kill the whiles!
Or else to rally up the Sins of th’ Age,
And bring each Fop in Town upon the Stage;
And in one Prologue run more Vices o’er,
Than either Court or City knew before:
Ah! that’s a Wonder which will please you too,
But my Commission’s not to please you now.
First then for you grave _Dons_, who love no Play
But what is regular, Great _Johnson’s_ way;
Who hate the _Monsieur_ with the Farce and Droll,
But are for things well said with Spirit and Soul;
‘Tis you I mean, whose Judgments will admit
No Interludes of fooling with your Wit;
You’re here defeated, and anon will cry,
‘Sdeath! wou’d ‘twere Treason to write Comedy.
So! there’s a Party lost; now for the rest,
Who swear they’d rather hear a smutty Jest
Spoken by _Nokes_ or _Angel_, than a Scene
Of the admir’d and well penn’d _Cataline_;
Who love the comick Hat, the Jig and Dance,
Things that are fitted to their Ignorance:
You too are quite undone, for here’s no Farce
Damn me! you’ll cry, this Play will be mine A----
Not serious, nor yet comick, what is’t then?
Th’ imperfect issue of a lukewarm Brain:
‘Twas born before its time, and such a Whelp;
As all the after-lickings could not help.
Bait it then as ye please, we’ll not defend it,
But he that dis-approves it, let him mend it._
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
MEN.
_Frederick_, Son to the Duke.
_Curtius_, his Friend.
_Lorenzo_, a rich extravagant Lord,
a kind of Favourite to _Frederick_.
_Salvator_, Father to _Lorenzo_ and _Laura_.
_Antonio_, a Nobleman of _Florence_.
_Alberto_, his dear Friend, a Nobleman also.
_Pietro_, Man to _Curtius_.
_Galliard_, Servant to the Prince.
_Guilliam_, Man to _Cloris_, a Country-fellow.
Valet to _Antonio_.
WOMEN.
_Clarina_, Wife to _Antonio_.
_Ismena_, Sister to _Antonio_, in love with _Alberto_.
_Laura_, Sister to _Lorenzo_, in love with _Curtius_.
_Cloris_, Sister to _Curtius_, disguis’d like a Country Maid,
in love with _Frederick_.
_Isabella_, Woman to _Clarina_.
_Lucia_, Maid to _Cloris_.
Pages and Musick.
SCENE, The Court of _Florence_.
ACT I.
SCENE I. The Chamber of _Cloris_.
Enter _Cloris_ drest in her Night Attire, with _Frederick_
dressing himself.
_Clo._ And will you leave me now to Fears,
Which Love it self can hardly satisfy?
But those, and that together sure will kill me,
If you stay long away.
_Fred._ My Dear, ‘tis almost day, and we must part;
Should those rude Eyes ‘mongst whom thou dwell’st perceive us,
‘Twould prove unhappy both to thee and me.
_Clo._ And will you, Sir, be constant to your Vows?
_Fred._ Ah Cloris! do not question what I’ve sworn;
If thou would’st have it once again repeated,
I’ll do’t. By all that’s good, I’ll marry thee;
By that most Holy Altar, before which we kneel’d,
When first I saw the brightest Saint that e’er ador’d it;
I’ll marry none but thee, my dearest _Cloris_.
_Clo._ Sir, you have said enough to gain a credit
With any Maid, though she had been deceiv’d
By some such Flatteries as these before.
I never knew the pains of Fear till now; [Sighs.
And you must needs forgive the Faults you make,
For had I still remain’d in Innocence,
I should have still believ’d you.
_Fred._ Why, dost thou not, my Love?
_Clo._ Some doubts I have, but when I look on you,
Though I must blush to do so, they all vanish;
But I provide against your absence, Sir.
_Fred._ Make no provision, _Cloris_, but of Hope,
Prepare thy self against a Wedding day,
When thou shalt be a little Deity on Earth.
_Clo._ I know not what it is to dwell in Courts,
But sure it must be fine, since you are there;
Yet I could wish you were an humble Shepherd,
And knew no other Palace than this Cottage;
Where I would weave you Crowns, of Pinks and Daisies,
And you should be a Monarch every _May_.
_Fred._ And, _Cloris_, I could be content to sit
With thee, upon some shady River’s Bank,
To hear thee sing, and tell a Tale of Love.
For these, alas! I could do any thing;
A Sheep-hook I could prize above a Sword;
An Army I would quit to lead a Flock,
And more esteem that Chaplet wreath’d by thee,
Than the victorious Bays:
All this I could, but, Dear, I have a Father,
Whom for thy sake, to make thee great and glorious,
I would not lose my Int’rest with.
But, _Cloris_, see, the unkind day approaches,
And we must kiss and part.
_Clo._ Unkind it is indeed, may it prove so
To all that wish its presence,
And pass as soon away,
That welcome Night may re-assume its place,
And bring you quickly back.
_Fred._ With great impatience I’ll expect that Hour,
That shall conduct me in its Shades to thee;
Farewel.
_Clo._ Farewel, Sir, if you must be gone. [Sighs.
_Fred._ One Kiss, and then indeed I will be gone. [Kisses her.
A new blown Rose kist by the Morning Dew,
Has not more natural Sweetness.
Ah _Cloris_! can you doubt that Heart,
To whom such Blessings you impart?
Unjustly you suspect that Prize,
Won by such Touches and such Eyes.
My Fairest, turn that Face away,
Unless I could for ever stay;
Turn but a little while I go.
_Clo._ Sir, I must see the last of you.
_Fred._ I dare not disobey; adieu till Evening. [Exit.
Enter _Lucia_.
_Clo._ How now, _Lucia_; is my Father up?
_Luc._ No, not a Mouse stirs yet; I have kept a true
Watch all this Night, for I was cruelly afraid
Lest we should have been surpriz’d--
Is the Prince gone? but why do I ask,
That may read it in your sad Looks?
_Clo._ Yes, he is gone, and with him too has taken-- [Sighs.
_Luc._ What has he taken? I’ll swear you frighten me.
_Clo._ My heart, _Lucia_.
_Luc._ Your Heart, I am glad ‘tis no worse.
_Clo._ Why, what dost think he should have taken?
_Luc._ A thing more hard to have been
Recovered again.
_Clo._ What thing, prithee?
_Luc._ Your Maiden-head.
_Clo._ What’s that?
_Luc._ A thing young Gallants long extremely for,
And when they have it too, they say
They care not a Daisy for the Giver.
_Clo._ How comest thou so wise, _Lucia_?
_Luc._ Oh, the fine Gentleman that comes a-nights
With the Prince, told me so much, and bid me
Be sure never to part with it for fine Words;
For Men would lye as often as they swore;
And so bid me tell you too.
_Clo._ Oh _Lucia_!
_Luc._ Why do you sigh?
_Clo._ To think if Princes were like common Men,
How I should be undone,
Since I have given him all I had to give;
And who that looks on him can blame my Faith?