SCENE the First.

RUN, you Rogue, run, raise the Street, you Son of a careless Whore: Cry, Stop Thief, stop Thief!

Which way, Sir?

A Pox of ways: Sirrah, cry, Stop Thief, I say.

So we may stop honest men, Sir.

There's no such thing within the Walls of London, ye Rogue; there's nothing but Knaves, Cheats, Cuckolds and Traytors, Thieves and Pickpockets, tho I be one of the Livery. A Pox of Honesty, my Plate's gone, the Reckoning unpaid, I'm cheated and undone! therefore run, ye Dog, run.

Good sweet Husband, have patience.

Patience! yes, so you advis'd when I found the Alderman and your Ladyship in a civil posture on the red Couch in the Swan. Patience quotha! Pox of your Remedies. Get ye in, here's Company.

Whe! how now, Mr. Dashit, what inrag'd in Rancor, and the Beauty of the London-bars, your Lady too, in Tears! What's amiss? unfold thy dismal story.

Onely cheated, robb'd, abus'd, and undone, Sir: that's all, that's all.

As how, man! Come, advance thy comely Countenance, and do not let thy sorrowful Snout bedew thy reverend Jerkin. The reason, my hardly honest Dashit.

Oh Si [...], Mr. Trickwell that Knave is this night run [Page 2] away with our great Gallon-Tankard, six silver Boats, a great Salt, besides Spoons and Forks.

Oh, for some wise man that wou'd but finde 'em out presently!

Yes, if a wise man cou'd be found out presently.

Friend. How was this Plate lost? how escap'd he unseen with it?

Why, an't like ye, Sir, thus: As I understand, that man, man, quoth I? no, rather Monster, that t'other-end-of-the-Town-Villain, nay, I believe that Jesuit in disguise, sent from beyond Sea to ruine honest Citizens; I say, this Heathen Trickwell comes me into my house th [...] evening with a great two-handed Gentlewo­man, or some Priest in Petticoats; they call for a Room, pretend to send a Porter for some Ladies of delight, bespeak a Supper, but no Ladies came.

My Cockie forgets to tell your Worships, that our house being full, we had no Room emptie but the great Parlor below stairs.

Hold your peace, hold your peace, I say. Am I a Common-Council-man like to be of the Citie of London, and cannot tell my Tale my self? Get ye in, I say, and look to what's left.

Well, Sir, on with your Relation.

Well, Sir, a noble Supper they had of the best in season; I came in, cri'd, Your servant, Gentlemen; ask'd 'em how they lik'd their Wine, and departed civilly: Then enter'd a blinde Harper, crie [...], Do ye lack any Musick, Sir? He cries, Play: The Harper uncases, the Drawer is nodded out, who obeys, believing he wou'd be private with the Gentlewoman; and 'tis Sam's part, you know, Sir, to wink at things.

Right and civil.

Aye, aye, but he shall answer for that winking at the last day, I'll warrant him.

Well Sir, having eat the Supper, and Trickwell per­ceiving none in the room but the blinde Harper, whose Eyes Heaven had shut up from beholding wickedness, opens the Case­ment to the street, very patiently packs and pockets up my Plate, unnaturally thrusts the woman out of the window, and himself most preposterously with his heels forwards follows. The Har­per [Page 3] plays on, bids the empty Dishes much good may do 'em, and plays on still. The Drawer returns, cries, What d'ye lack, Gen­tlemen? but out, alas, the Birds were flown, Sir, flown. Laments are rais'd.

Which did not pierce the Heavens.

Sam cries out; my Wife in the Bar hears the noise, and she bawl'd out; I heard her, and thunder'd; the Boys flew like Lightning, and all was in confusion.

Well, this must be for some great sins committed; the sins of the Bar and Sellar, unmerciful Bills, and suffisticated Wine, my honest damn'd Vintner:—Repent, oh repent and mend, and be sound.

Well, I will hang that Rogue Trickwell, and there's an end on't: I'll do't; and so Good night to you, Gallants.

Well, dear Jack, Good night: I have a Visit to make before I sleep, and will take my leave o' thee. A found Wench, soft Sleep, and pleasant Dreams, bless thee, my dear Friendly.

Not so, I'll see thee safe at home; I dare not leave ye to your self so late; you are warm with Youth and Wine, which may direct you to the undoing of that body of yours which shortly must be blest with chast embraces. These common wo­men will ruine thee, Frank; Faith leave 'em in good time: come, you shall not to a Bawdy-house, I hate 'em.

I pray for their continuance and increase ere since I thought of Marriage.

Prithee why?

A married man ought to love a Bawdy-house, as Eng­lish-men love Flanders; wish war shou'd be maintain'd there, lest it shou'd be brought home to their own doors.

Thou art a worthy Lad, and brave; but this damn'd Lust has been thy constant daily vice, the onely one thou'rt given to.

Prithee call it a nightly one: But not to trifle with thee, Faith I am going the way of all flesh.

To a Whore?

One thou callest so, a very Publican and sinner.

And canst thou, having such an Object before thy eyes as the fair, the chast Mirinda, whom thou'rt to marry, give thy self up to the loose, the common arms of one who loves thee not but for her interest? Damn her, thou shalt not go. I hate, I [Page 4] nauseate a common Prostitute, who trades with all for gain; one that sells humane flesh, a Mangonist.

Poor Devils, what wou'd you have 'em do? wou'dst thou have 'em get their living by the Curse of man, the Sweat of their Brows? Egad they dearly earn what we give 'em. Is Cha­ritie grown a sin, or relieving the Poor and Impotent, an offence? And Faith, Franck, where can we bestow our Money better? In Land the Title may be crackt, in Houses they may be burnt, in fine Cloaths they'll wear out, in Wine, alas, our Throats are but short, and our heads weak; but woman, oh dear lovely woman's the lasting true pleasure! Lay it out upon woman, I say, and a thou­sand to one, some one of them will bestow that on you that shall stick by you as long as you live: They are no ungrateful persons, they'll give Love for Love; do you protest, they'll swear; do you vow, they'll lye; do you sigh, they'll weep; do you give them English Coin, they'll repay you with the French—And they onely sell their Bodies: Do not some of our Sex sell their Souls? nay, since all things have been sold, Honour, Justice, Faith, even Religion, pray where's the dishonour of selling the Pleasures of a womans Bed? Who is't wou'd live and toil, but for a woman? who fights, lies cold and hard in open field, but to gain Wreaths to lay at a womans feet?

And 'tis a truth can be denied of no man:

All things were made for man, and man for woman.

—Give me my Fee.

Well, Sir, I see you are resolv'd, and I can onely boast I love Diana better than you do her Sister Marinda.

Come, wilt thou go with me?

Whither?

To this house of Salvation.

Salvation!

Yes, 'twill make thee repent. Prithee go to the Family of Love, I'll shew thee my Creature, my Natural, my Mistriss, my pretty blue-ey'd Wanton, my honest fond self-hearted Flatte­rer, my fair-fac'd, sweet lip'd Rogue, that has Beauty enough for her Vertue, Vertue enough for a Woman, and Woman enough for any reasonable man, in my knowledge.

What to a Bawdy-house, to visit an impudent Prosti­tute? Pox on't, 'twill make me hate the Sex. The worst Object the world can shew me, is an immodest vulgar woman.

No matter, thou shalt go; go as thou lovest me.

Well, Sir, I'll go to bring you safely back.

SCENE draws to a House.

Nay, Moll, unreasonable Mary! whe, the whole Prize was not above fortie pound; and hast thou the conscience to snack ten onely for a good word speaking, a little holding the door, and bawding? The device was my own too, the hazard mine, and the hanging may be mine, whilst thou securely filchest under my conduct. Come, the nest of Cups is fair, you Bitch, be contented; you were drunk too into the bargain, Moll. Come, bear a Conscience, Moll, and Heaven will bless our en­deavours: besides, Moll, thou hast an honest Calling of Bawding, which brings thee in a pretty Livelihood, Moll; when God knows I trust to nothing but my own indurious slight of hand. Come, give me back the Salt.

By Yea and by Nay, Trickwell, I am afraid thou wilt play the Knave, and restore 'em.

No, by the Lord, Aunt, Restitution is Catholick; and you know Oracles are ceas'd. Tempus praeteritum.—Dost hear, my necessary Evil?—Thou ungodly Fire that burnt Diana's Temple, dost hear? make Corina civil, or by the Lord, Bawd—

Fire! Gad you are the foulest mouth'd son of a Whore, the profanest railing Raskal, call a woman the most ungodly names! I must confess we all eat of the forbidden Fruit; and for my own part, though I am, as they say, a Bawd that covers a multitude of sins, yet I trust I am none of the wicked that go to Steeple-houses with profane Organs in 'em, ye scurvy sawcie Jack.

Who, I rail at thee, my industrious Moll, my subtle Pro­curer? I rail at thee, my necessarie Damnation? I'll make an O­ration in praise of thy Modestie, thou flower of thy Function.

And I think I have deserv'd it at your hands, Mr. Trick­well; for I have assisted you early and late, up-rising, and down­lying.

Thou hast; therefore listen: A Bawd for her Profession is the most honourable of all the 12 Companies; for as that Trade [Page 6] is most worshipful that sells the best Commodities, what must the Bawd be then, my little Moll? For where others sell silk Cloaths, Gold and Silver, Pearls and Diamonds, thou sellest divine Vertue, Virginitie, Modestie, Maiden-heads, Youth and Beautie: And who are her Customers? not Cits, Grooms, Mechanicks, and dis­banded Souldiers; but Gentlemen of the best Rank, Knights, Lords, Dukes, and Squires. Thus she lives, keeps the best Com­pany, eats and drinks of the best, and domineers when she's drunk, reigns Queen, Moll, over her adoring Subjects. But hold, here's Wellman and Friendly! what a Pox does his Gravitie in a Bawdie-house?

Come along, yonders the Preface to my Mistriss, her Ma­tron, or Bawd, or what you please. Mrs. Dunwell, your servant.

Your servant, sweet Sir: Ah, you're a prettie man, to ne­glect a Creature that loves you thus; introth you are—But well, I'll fetch her to you, Sir.—

Do so, sweet Mrs. Dunwell.—What, Mr. Trickwell, does your Knaveship dare walk the street? Look to't, Mr. Dashit lies in wait for you.

The more fool he; I can lie for my self: A Pox of the rich Raskal, 'tis no deceit in me to cheat him; he has cozen'd me of an Estate of some two hundred a year, with his damn'd Reckonings, and then who but honourable Mr. Trickwell, the no­ble Squire, and soforth, till he had got all my Land in Mortgage; then took the forfeiture, and turn'd me [...] of doors. I'll plague him for't. But I interrupt your diversion, and will kiss your hands, my noble Patrons.

See, Sir, this the ugly thing you so despise!

This!

This very thing: 'tis but a Dowdie—but she serves.—

A Whore this! Vertue defend me, what a lovely woman 'tis!

Salute her, man, salute her.

Salute her! yes, and leave my heart upon her lips.

Go, salute my friend; this is my friend Corina.

I care not for you nor your friends; I'm sure you use me scurvily, because you know I love you: but I shall learn those [Page 7] Arts you men are practis'd in; and scorn, and hate, and hide it, when it serves my turn, as you can do.—I shall—but yet I'm true, true as my Vertue when you first seduc'd it, false as you are,—and yet I love you strangely.—

Salute my friend, I say—go, you fond fool, clasp his neck round, and press his cheeks to yours; kiss him as you do me, as soft and meltingly: go, you coy tit, I say you shall.

She'as fir'd me with that touch:—there's Witchcraft in't.

Come, kiss her again; by Heaven thou shalt, I'll not be jealous on't: kiss her more ardently—So, thou wilt learn in time. Go fetch your Lute, and let him hear ye sing to't.

I'm all obedience, Sir, when you command; but I have something heavie at my heart that makes me wish you wou'd ex­cuse me now.

Go too, I say—what can sit heavie there? I love thee, love thee infinitly, in faith I do, Corina. Here, here's Gold for thee; the Summer's coming on, and thou perhaps wants Toys, as Gowns and Points, and Petticoats. I'll have thee show, Corina, with the best, splendid and gay, my Girl, as is thy Beauty.

I'll take this Gold, but 'tis not that I want: methinks of late there is a strange decay of Passion in you; you're not so dear­ly fond as you were wont, supplying still your want of Love with Gold; your Mirth is forc'd, your Visits cold and short, as Winter­days; and when you speak of Love, you do't with caution. There's some reserve hid in that generous breast, which I wou'd be acquainted with, yet tremble lest you shou'd betray't too soon.

Corina, you mistake my heart, 'tis thine, intirely thine; but when a Lover's sure, as I am of thy heart, those little assidu­ities are neglected which onely hoping Lovers use to pay. I am happie now, and have no need of Vows but those of Constancie. Go to your Lute.

And have ye none you do designe to marry?

Fie, you're a fool to think I be so weak; Marry! I scorn that slaverie, whilst I possess all the delights of it with thee, with­out its plagues and care.—Go to your Lute.

Well, Frank, and how dost thou like my Mistriss? is she not charming? do you blame me now? Introth I lov'd her dearly once, till my Soul shew'd me the imperfections of my bodie, and plac'd my [Page 8] love on a more worthy object, my fair Marinda; which if this Baggage knew, there were no being for me, she wou'd so rave: But faith I think I'm not so criminal as you imagin'd, hah?

Yet she's a Whore!

A Whore! Oh call her a Miss, a Ladie of the Town, a Beautie of delight, or any thing. Whore! 'tis a nauseous name, and out of fashion now to call things by their right names. Is a Citizen a Cuckold? no, he's one of the Liverie: Is a great man a Fool? no, he's weak, or led away: Is a Person of Qualitie pockie? no, but is not well, has got a Surfeit, or so. Come, she is a Mistriss,—but heark, she sings!

She's all a perfect Heaven! Oh I adore her!

To obey your commands, I sung, my Love, but I had ra­ther you had pardon'd me.

You are a simple Chit; go, get you gone, and let me go; 'tis late, and I am sleepie.

This Language was not wont to come from thee; take heed, and do not cheat my easie Faith: for if you do, perhaps 'twill make me mad; and in my wildness some strange things may do, may ruine both our lives. Take heed; for now I love ye much above 'em both. Come, you shall stay with me to night.

By no means, my Dear; this Gentleman has vow'd to see me chastly laid.

And so ye shall: the Play of Infants shall not be more chast. I have no wish to make him break his Vow, and he shall have a Bed.

Peace! that offer will offend him; he's a modest man, one of a profest abstinence. Good night.

And must you go?

I must.

And will you come to morrow? But oh I did not use to ask such Questions. Will you be sure?

I will: when did I fail? Good night. Boy, your Flam­beau. Good night, Corina.

Why stay you, Sir? you see your friend is gone.

Madam, if he knows not how to prize Heaven, I do; and cannot leave the pleasure so soon, at least if you wou'd give me leave to gaze, I dare not say possess, that were a blessing fit [Page 9] onely for the Gods; nor knows man how to calm it.—That you shou'd throw away such wonderous beautie on the remiss, cold, and insensible!

Who is it, Sir, that's so insensible?

Death, whither does my passion hurry me? I shall betray friendship of many years, for a flame which a new lust has kindled in a moment.

Heavens! are you silent, Sir? what made ye talk of one remiss and cold? who mean ye? Wellman? Oh, if you did—

I meant mankinde; for none can merit you.—Is she unchast? can such an one be damn'd? Oh Love and Beautie, you two eldest seeds of the vast Chaos, what strong right ye have even in things divine, our very Souls!

Why do you stifle what was so well begun? Unfold; I know you have some meaning, Sir, in what you have to say: Concerns it Wellman?

No. Answer me one thing, Madam.

I will: for you have something to relate, which I must hear. Demand; I listen.

The Question is but rude.

I care not.—What means he?

Are you—You pardon me?

I do. There's something in his heart that I must flatter thence. Be confident.

And are you then—a—Whore? You said you wou'd forgive.

I did: and though that question, yet 'cause I know thou hast some reason for't, I'll answer thee directly, That I am.

Are Prostitutes such things, so delicate? Can custom spoil what Nature made so good? I never saw a sweet face vi­tious: it might be proud, inconstant, wanton, vain.

Oh leave, Sir, to philosophize on Beautie, and tell me why you do so.

Heavens! why cou'dst not thou be constant?

Constant! to what? to whom?

To Wellman: he has all the Charms of Nature; and to be false to him, was such a sin—

Oh Heavens! what base flatterer has traduc'd me? tell me; who dares report I am not true, not true to Wellman? I have been false to Vertue, false to Honour, false to my Name and [Page 10] Friends; but was to Wellman what Heaven is to the Just and Penitent, all soft, all mercie, all complying sweetness.

By Heaven, I do believe it; and nere heard a breath that cou'd prophanely say thou wert not: But oh, I thought with reason, if 'twere so, I cou'd not slightly part with such a Jewel, or, Indian-like, barter this real Gold for shining gingling Bawbles. Marinda! Heaven, thou'rt an Angel to her!

Enough: I know my doom; that word's enough; and I'm betray'd to ruine!

I will: My heart, thou shalt dis­semble this—Go, base false man, that with the name of Friend has play'd the Traytor to the best of men. I know thou injur'st Wellman; or if true, 'twas not thy part to tell it: hadst thou license for such a cruel Tale, thou shou'dst have spar'd it to her that lov'd thy friend. Be gone, I hate thee, and whatsoere thou meants by such a Lye, I scorn thee for't, and think thee much unfit for any gallant friendship: I know 'tis truth, and with the fatal knowledge instruct my heart to break.

Tho I do not care for this woman now, yet some dregs of the old haunt of Jealousie remain about me still; and I must see what use my friend and quondam Mistriss makes of this kinde opportunitie.—Hah! alone, and musing!

'Twas not well done, indeed, to tell her; but Love was raging in me, and I believ'd I shou'd insinuate with that secret.

By Heaven, he's caught! Eternal Laughter seize me.

'Twas Love! the very first effects of Love were trea­cherous and ill: Heaven guard me from the rest. Yet I must on:

Let Winter'd Age dully pretend to prove

That Love is Lust; I know no life but Love.

Is it so, Sweet-heart? how is't? what, is the worst sight the world can produce, a common woman now?

Hah! will you go home, Sir? 'tis high bed-time.

With all my heart, Sir; onely do not chide me. I must confess.—

A wanton Lover you have been.

When Love was raging in me.

Oh leave your rallying; will you be gone?

Let Winter'd Age dully pretend to prove That Love is Lust; I know no life but Love. [Page 11] Go thy ways for an Apostate; I believe my last Garment must be let out in the seams for you: Is't not so? But come, I must go serinade Marinda; but take this certain rule along with thee:

Of all the Fools that Ignorance ere nurst,

He that 'gainst Nature wou'd be wise, is worst.

SCENE the Second.

WEll, Gentlemen, here's the Window of my dear Marinda: 'tis here, my friends, resides that lovely Maid, whose beautie chaces away those lesser fires that did infest my heart. Come, gently touch your strings, and call her forth to bless me ere I go to rest: I'm not half sanctifi'd without a sight.

Who's there, my dear lov'd Wellman? This was kinde.

My generous Marinda! when did I ere approach thee but with kindness, the fondest tenderest part of kindness too? and when I cease to do so, Heaven neglect me.

And me, when I but fear the contrary. Wou'd I cou'd let thee in; but oh I dare not: my Father nicely careful, tho thou'rt mine, mine by a solemn Contract, yet forbids me to enter­tain thee with that freedom yet.

But, my Marinda, 'tis a heavenly night, such as was made for Lovers, still and calm; and I have such soft things to whisper to thee, as pains me to conceal. I long to touch thy hand, to catch thy sighs, and lean my head upon thy rising bosome. A freedom now methinks you might allow me: 'tis very hard.

'Tis so; but yet a little suffering, and we may meet with lawful freedom: till when, continue to be true and kinde.

By Heaven, by all the Stars that shine above, and by thy brighter Eyes, I will be ever true.

I must give faith to what you say; and prithee since, [Page 12] easie Maid, I do believe so soon, in pitie do not cheat me. Here, wear this little Ring; a dying Brother gave it, and bad me never part with it but to him that Love had made my Husband: Wear it thou; for thou'rt my Souls best choice.

Which when I part from, Hope, the best comfort of my life, forsake me.

Heavens! what a long tedious Tale of Faith and Troth's here! Cou'd I once see the man I lik'd, I'd have done a thousand fine and more material things by this time.

Madam, here is a Man, whom if you cou'd but pity—

What, my grave Lover Mr. Friendly, who hates a Wen­cher! no by my Troth, I'm for no such dull Ingredience in a Lo­ver: I love a man that knows the way to a womans bed without instructions. Besides, what shou'd we two do together, get Fools? no, I hate 'em.

You may be mistaken in your man.

I wish I were: Let him but bring it under the hand of any woman who has been kinde to him, and I'll believe him fit to be belov'd by me; till then, I am obdurate.

Well, Madam, I'll endeavour to obey you.

Let it be quickly then, I hate delays, you know I'm stor'd with Lovers, Sir John Empty will be before-hand with you else; you know he's a spruce Spark, and cannot long lay siege before a heart, but he will force an entrance: he's of my hu­mour too, gay, loves Fiddles, Wine and Women; a fool and rich, oh heavenly Quality! Be wise, Sir, and consider 'em, and learn to whore betimes; you know not what you may come to. Fare­wel, the day begins to break, and the old man will wake. Good morrow, modest Mr. Friendly.

Good morrow, mad-cap: Come, shall's go to bed?

No, I cannot sleep; I'll walk a little.

And meditate? Farewel, Sir, I'm for rest.

This woman yesterday was charming to me, and now all that she said, seem'd dull and tedious. What a strange change is here! The light comes on; heark how the free-born Birds chant forth their untaught Passions, and in those pretty Notes express their love. They have no Bawds, no mercenary Beds, no poli­tick Restraints, no artful Heats, no faint Dissemblings; Custom makes them not blush, nor Sham afflicts their name. Oh happy [Page 13] Birds, in whom an inborn heat is held no sin! how vastly you transcend poor wretched man, whom national custom, tyrannous respect of slavish order fetters, calling that sin in us, which in all else is Nature's highest Vertue. But a Whore! now shame forsake me, whither am I fallen, one that my friend has had, to live to be a shameful talk to men!

I have a mind to know whether Friendly goes to Corina; when I am absent, 'tis with some regret I think he shou'd; but present, it so pleases me to see his modesty in love, I'm ready to resigne her.—He's here still! Good morrow, Friend, I cannot leave thee thus dissatisfi'd; what art thou studying on?

Love; but it likes me not.

Why?

She is not honest.

What then? shou'd we hate all that are so, some men wou'd hate their Mothers and their Sisters; a sin against kind.

Is it a wise man's part to be in love?

Let wise men alone; 'twill beseem thee and me well enough.

And shall I not commit a sin against friendship?

What to love where I do? By Heaven, I resigne her freely to thee: the creature and I must grow strangers; and by this time she has heard of my designe to marry, and swears and rails, and cries, and curses me. Come, faith I will resigne her, and you see Diana will like thee nere the worse for't.

I'll but embrace her, hear her speak, and at the most but kiss her.

Oh heark, he that cou'd live upon the scent of Meat, wou'd live cheaply.

I shall never become heartily a man o'th' Town, a kind of flat ungracious Debauchee; an unsufficient dulness reigns about me.

This Italian breeding has spoil'd thee, and stiffen'd thy behaviour. Come, come, thou shalt to her, and she shall like thee.

But if she shou'd not, Friend!

Fear her not, 'tis her Trade, and what she'as practis'd long with many Lovers.

Was she not true to thee?

I do believe she was, whilst she was mine.

Was she a sinner ere you saw her then?

Oh a very Strumpet! Pardon me truth. Come, have a good heart, and thou shalt possess her, since thou'rt so in love.

Death, man, 'tis Destiny, I cannot help it.

Nay, I hope so. Come, come, she sells but flesh; so that even in the enjoying thou't regain again thy freedom. Go thy ways.

How now, Raskal! what make you up so early?

He that will thrive, must be early stirring, Sir: I am going to get the Peny, Sir; Aye, Heaven has endow'd me with industry, I thank it.

And what good Acquaintance have you, Sirrah? no handsome women?

Faith, Sir, yes, some do start up now and then; but a Pox on't, when they have run through all the Trades and De­grees of the Citie, they pass at the other side of the Town for new Faces, and are caught up by your Courtiers for innocent and honest, though the Citie-Surgeon have had good Customers of 'um; and by my Troth, Sir, I hate to cheat a Gentleman with false Ware. But last night—

What last night?

I was horrid drunk at Supper with one Sir John Empty, a brave young fool for my purpose; I brought him a Wench, one Betty Cogit; a Pox on her, a pretty drunken Whore 'tis, and handsome: if she can serve you, I can bed my Knight with any other.

Away, you're a Rogue; I'll talk about it another time. Farewel: Have a care of Mr. Dashit, Sirrah.

Let Mr. Dashit have a care of me; I'll take care he shall be cozen'd most plentifully. Now for some new device! what shall it be?

Pray, Sir, which is the way to Cheapside, to the Sun-Ta­vern?

Sun-Tavern, Childe! what wou'dst thou do there?

Whe, Sir, I am sent for to trim Mr. Dashit; and tho he be my God-father, I know not the way to his house.

Why, art thou a Barber?

A Barber-Surgeon, Sir.

To what Bawdy-house does your Master belong? and what's your name?

John Scowre, an't like your Worship.

John Scowre! Good Mr. John Scowre, I desire your farther acquaintance. Nay, be cover'd, my dainty boy. Is thy Master at home?

My Father, forsooth, you mean; but he's dead.

And laid in's Grave, good boy?

Yes, Sir, and my Mother keeps shop.

A good witty boy; thon't live to read a Chapter to the Family, and write Sermons, John, in time, wo't thou▪ not?

In grace a God, Sir.

And whither art thou going now, John?

Marry, forsooth, to trim Mr. Dashit the Vintner, He's my Godfather, I told you, forsooth.

Good boy, hold up thy head. Prithee do one thing for me; my name's Hazard.

He! good Mr. Hazard!

Lend me thy Barbers Implements.

Oh Lord, Sir!

Well spoken, a fine boy! What are they worth, childe?

Oh Lord, Sir, worth! I know not.

A witty childe! Here's a shilling for thee. Where dost live, John?

At the three Washballs, forsooth, in Mincing-lane.

Aye, I know't; a delicate boy! I have an odde Jest in my head, childe, to trim Mr. Dashit: 'Tis for a wager, boy, a hu­mour; I'll return thy things presently. Hold, let's see—

What mean ye, Mr. Hazard?

Nothing, child, but a Jest. Go drink a flaggon, and I'll return presently.

Pray, Sir, do not stay.

As I'm an honest man—The three Washbals, John?

Aye, Sir.

Good: And if I do not shave Mr. Dashit, my ingenaity wants an edge. Let me see, a Barber! My villanous tongue will betray me; I must step in and disguise a little. For my speech, what if it be broken French, or a Northern or a Welch Barber? Good, the Widow Scowres man: good, newly hir'd a Journey­man; very well: I have my Cue, and will proceed, happy be luck—

SCENE changes to Corina's house.

Nay, dear sweet childe, do not torment thy self thus violently: say Wellman be to be marri'd, are there no more young Gentlemen, no more both handsome and rich? Come, come, you cou'd not expect to build Tabernacles with him.

Damn your sententious Nonsence, let me go loose as the winds when mad, when raging mad. 'Twas you, Heaven curse ye for't, that first seduc'd me, swore that he lov'd me, wou'd eter­nally; and when my Vertue had resolv'd me good, damn'd Witch, whose trade is Lying and Confusion, you hard besieg'd it round with tales of Wellman, repeated all his Charms so often o're, my Heart began to yield, and Vertue fade like flowers with too much heat; which when you saw; a Curse upon your Tongue, you told him where the part was feeblest here—told him my strength, and how he best might conquer: and he, oh lovely Tyrant, found it true, and never ceas'd till he had vanquisht all. Leave me, thou Witch, that hast reduc'd this soul, this body too, to nothing but a Grave.

To nothing! Marry and that's not my fault; I have made as many proffers of your Virginity since he ruin'd it, as if you had been my own Daughter a thousand times, so I have; but you were so peevish, you ever stood in your own light; no­thing wou'd down with you but Wellman.

Hell take thy tongue, or blast it.

Aye, for God forgive me, it has been a thousand times forsworn for you, and yet I've brought you to nothing. Have I not brought you English and French Merchants of the best Rank, Jews of the richest Tribes, Irish Lords, Scottish Earls, and lastly, the Dutch Agent, who offer'd ye a Tun of money? and is all this nothing? Come, come, had you had grace, you had made something of all these; but nothing but Wellman was regarded.

Oh that hated Name, like some black Charm it curdles up my bloud.

And yet, a'my conscience the Gentleman's an honest Gen­tleman, and one you have got fairly by; I hope him to you, and have I this for my labour? Well, Mary Dunwell,

go thy ways; Mary Dunwell, thy kinde heart will bring thee to the Hospital.

I'll be reveng'd; nothing but dire Revenge shall satiate my Rage. Methinks I am inspir'd with manly strength, a bloudy courage swells my rising heart, and I shall act some wonderous dismal mischief. And yet to see him bleed, he that has sworn so many tender things, and breath'd 'em all in kisses on my bosome; but now all those, and thousands new invented, he pays another Mistriss more beloved. I die, I die, and cannot bear that thought, by which I finde I'm feeble woman still. Why didst thou? tell me, for I'll here begin, why didst thou praise this Monster?—To my soul.

Heavens, Madam, hold and hear me: I did praise him, I confess; I said he was a fool, a lavish fool, one that lov'd wo­men more than his Religion, that he kept high, and lov'd most ardently: but what of this? the wind you see is turn'd.

Turn all then to confusion; turn, thou Witch, 'tis I will play the Devil. Heart, resolve, and set down this decree, never to rest till thou hast made him equal to me, wretched.

Madam, Mr. Wellman and Mr. Friendly are below, and desire leave to kiss your hand.

Oh he's grown ceremonious in his Visits. No more, I will be calm, as if my fortune knew no change; I will dissemble, smile;

I'll shew my self all woman in my Art,

But be a very Devil in my heart.

How now Corina, what disorder's this?

Oh my dear life! this woman has displeas'd me; but one kinde look from thee chases all other thoughts out of my soul.

But what's the matter? do not dissemble with me.

With thee! far be such art from thy Corina's tongue; you've taught her truth with love. What else shou'd such a Ma­ster teach a Mistriss? Come, I forgive her now: Alas, she'as lost the little Dog you gave me. Wou'd it not grieve one to loose ought of thine?

Fie, fie, cry for a Dog! what wou'dst thou do for me that pay'st such tributes to a poor worthless Animal?

For thee, weep tears of bloud; but 'tis impossible I cou'd be robb'd of thee by ought but death. I know thy noble heart—to be a Traytor.

Thou art so fond, thou mind'st nothing but me; sees thou not my friend?

Yes, and love him too, next to thy self, by Heaven; for he's as great a Villain, being he's man. Come, Sir, you must not be so sad; I'll sing and dance, do any thing to make you gay and smile: for trust me, Sir, I hate sad Company. Heavens, what ails you, Sir? have you the Tooth-ach, Sir? I've many re­medies for that.

No, my pain is at my heart; have you a Cure for that?

A thousand. Kinde Eyes, soft Sighs and Kisses well ap­pli'd.

'Twill but increase the pain: 'twas so I caught it.

Alas, I'll sing then; I have a thousand Songs, so pretty and so loving.—

Still that but hurts me more.

Then I've no Remedies.

Hah, what Ring is that? I like it, and must have it.

No you must not, Love.

Fie, you call me Love, and cry I must not! I say I will. How now, who is't commands where I am?

You intirely; but this Ring I cannot part with.

'Tis my Rivals: Rot with his finger, how it fires my bloud, and the red flame kindles about my face, and will betray my heart! Come, 'tis a trifle.

I care not for the value.

Has it a worth besides its own intrinsick one?

Nay, you're of late so peevish and so jealous, that you grow troublesome.

Jealous! by this dear mouth not I.

Come, give me the Ring; by all that's kinde, you shall: By all our Loves, and by all those soft Embraces when in my Arms you swore eternal Love, eternal Faith, I do conjure ye give it me: I never us'd to beg such Toys in vain.

Thou art uncivilly importunate. Go, fool, thou sha't not ha't; I care not for thee nor thy Jealousie.

He speaks his soul in that, which from his mouth destroys all my dissembling. I know that Ring, thou falser than the De­vil; I know it is Marinda's, your new Mistriss: tak [...] her, but take her far from me be sure; keep her as thou wou'dst secrets that wou'd damn thee; for if she take but Air, she is no more; it [Page 19] will be all infected with my Sighs and Curses, and 'twill be cat­ching, Sir: look to't, it will.

Thou'rt grown a hectoring Whore!

Leave me, or such another word from thee will put thee into danger. Dar'st thou upbraid the faults thou hast created? Furies possess me, that I may incounter the like Fate or killing Blasts! Oh I cou'd rave to think I want that power that might de­stroy thee!

Do not turn Witch before thy time, Corina.

I wou'd I were, that I might be an age in damning thee: But words are Air that blow above thy head, and cannot wound nor blast.

Nay, if you rave, I'll leave ye; fare ye well.—You will not go.

And is it true, hast thou abandon'd me? Canst thou for­get our numerous Blisses past, the hours we've wasted out in Tales of Love, and curst all interruption but of Kisses, which 'twixt thy charming words I ever gave thee; when the whole live-long day we thought too short, yet blest the coming night? Hast thou forgot, false are thy Vows, all perjur'd, and thy Faith broken as my poor lost forsaken heart? and wou'dst thou wish me live to see this Change! Cou'dst thou believe, if thou hadst hid it from the talking world, my heart cou'd not have found it out by sympathie! A foolish unconsidering faithless man!

This is as troublesome as Rage to me.

Some comfort that thou dost confess thou'rt base; and this last blaze of my departing Love, has but a minutes light, and now 'tis gone.

It went in fume, and leaves a scent behinde it which does offend my sense: Farewel.

Farewel. And dost thou think I'll part with thee thus tamely! Faithless unthinking fool, by Heaven, no other woman shall possess thee; the perjur'd heart you gave, thus I demand:

Oh damn this treacherous instrument, false as the heart 'twas aim'd at: But since, like Coward States, I wanted courage to attack the Foe, I'll turn my Fury into civil Broyls, and hurl all to con­fusion here within.

Pray leave her, Sir, your presence but inflames her.

I will: look to her, prithee. I was too rash, and mist from too much violence and rage—I might have more securely done the business.

Pray leave me, Sir, I cannot go, a fire in my blood confines me here: 'Tis not a vertuous flame!

No, raging Lust my wilful fate does move;

The Gods themselves cannot be wise and love.

This man whom I abhor because his Friend, through all my rage, I see has passion for me, raise it, ye Powers, till it be­come so high to be employ'd to any use, I'll put it to a fatal instru­ment of my Revenge.

Loveliest of all your injur'd Sex.—

You're charitable to the forsaken, Sir, but 'tis alas all thrown away on me; for I can never more believe there can be honesty in man, since Wellman is all Vice.

What Devil, envious of his glorious Choice, contriv'd to make him faithless to such Beauty! Had I that Blessing, which I dare not name, hardly dare wish, 'tis so above my merit, I shou'd dispise, as useless and unnecessary, all the vast Joys besides Heaven has in store, and at thy feet lay all my Fortunes down, and set up my eternal rest with thee.

Just so he spoke, and I fond fool believ'd, and tir'd him out with love; but you're all false, inconstant, faithless Tyrants, and betrayers even in that very minute that you gain us; we forfeit all our hopes in you for ever. I can believe no more.

Silence and Modestie were wont to be my two accu­stom'd Vertues; but my Love grows high and rages in me like a storm: Wou'd you'd believe my Vows; but you have been de­ceiv'd that way alreadie: therefore, thou dear, thou lovely in­jur'd fair one, credit my plain Sinceritie. I love, and to be short, wou'd have thee pay my flame, I will be grateful in what way you please. Take me to your Embraces, to your Bed. I am not us'd to ask such Questions, Madam, and want terms fit to dress 'em in.

And do you take me then for such a Creature, that have no sense but Appetite, the Brutal part of Love? Forbear to name it to me, you offend me.

Forgive me; I wou'd have you love me too: and if I have too hastily run o're what ought to have been said of my vast Passion, and came too rudely on the wisht-for part, 'tis the effects [Page 21] of youthful ignorance, of hot desire, and eager to be happy.

How shall I fain to yield!

There's such a seeming honest plainness, Sir, in what you say, in spight of all my grief, I listen to your Language. Cou'd you be true, cou'd you convince me throughly that you lov'd!

What Art will do't? what Vows, what Protestations, what Proofs, what Gifts, besides a faithful Heart?

Shall I, or can I trust again? Oh fool, how natural 'tis for women to believe! But when you've gain'd the utmost that you ask, will you not then grow cold?

As soon the Sun shall lose its native heat, denying warmth to Flowers.

I must have more than this: Can you believe this heart that has been us'd so ill already, can you trust on feeble Vows? Can you be bravely kinde, resolve a Deed wou'd shake a Soul that is not fixt in Love?

Is it a Deed that I may do with honour?

I did not studie that; but if there be any thing that stands in competition with your Love, it is not worth my owning.

Be it what it will, 'tis for so rich a Prize, without de­manding what, I'll vow it done.

I hate this Wellman: You may guess the rest. Good day to you.

Leaving me! by Heaven we must not part: Love and Desire are madly raving in me; my impatient Heat admits of no resistance: I cannot-live, without you grant me instantly that which I dare not ask.

As long as Wellman lives, I've made a Vow never to love again; yet am I understood.

Will you be mine when Wellman is no more?

By all my hopes, by my last best of wishes.

Be mine, and onely mine, for ever mine?

Inviolably yours.

Then hear me, on my knees I make this Vow: Well­man shall die before to morrows light. Now may I hope my Bliss?

Yes, when the Deed is done. And for a Token that you have dispatcht him, bring me that Diamond that he wears, and which he did refuse me.—Do you pawse—

Onely the manner, Sweet—

Oh you may pick a sudden Quarrel with him, word it to blows, and then take all advantages.

And will my Vows to kill him, merit nothing?

No, I have vow'd, and if you love, you'l yield to't.

Enough: Farewel.

Delays in Love's the Lovers onely Hell.

Hah! whither wou'd my hastie steps misguide me! was I not rushing on to kill a Friend? to kill a Friend, oh 'tis to kill my self! Passion, how hellish art thou? oh how vile, to kill a Friend to gain a sinful woman for Appetite, for sensual end, and momen­tarie pleasure;

And Vices like to swelling Rivers flow,

The further that they run they bigger grow.

Heaven! how neer was I to being undone! I'll flie, lest the tem­ptation overtake me.

SCENE changes to Dashit's house.

Dashit with a bag of money, Mr. Dashit following.

Well, is the money right?

Just fiftie pound, Honey, in good hard Half-crowns.

Well, Mr. Trickwell, 'tis your confounded Worship puts me to this Charge; but an I catch thee, an I do not charge thee with as many Irons, mayst thou cozen me again, Knave, mayst thou cozen me again. Well, Wife, is the Barber come? I'll be trim'd, and then to my Neighbour Glistens the Goldsmith to new furnish my self with Plate.

Truely Husband, surely-Heaven is not pleas'd with our Vocation; we wink at the sins of our Customers, our Wines are meerly Protestant, and I now speak it with grief of heart, we frie Fish with salt Butter, to the burthen of my Con­science, calling our Wines by fortie heathenish names to disguise truth.

Hold your prating; a Pox of your Conscience, go minde your business in the Bar, score double, and mend the mat­ter with a vengeance.

How now, Friend, what are you?

A Barber, Sir, the Widow Scowres man, an't like your Worship; my name's Timothy Hazard, Sir.

Very well, very well; and how does my Godson, Timothy?

Very well, an't like your Worship; he's gone to trim Parson Cuffett.

And how long have you been a Barber, Timothy?

A Year, an't like your Worship, come Christmas.

What, what, and a good Workman, Timothy? And may I trust my self in thy hands, Timothy?

Oh doubt me not, Sir, I'll shave your Worship as cle­verly, as your Worship shall confess, by that time I've done.—Hah, 'tis Cash!

Well, Timothy, and what's the News, Timothy? You Barbers are notable News-mongers, good Commonwealths­men: You—

Marrie, Sir, I know none but of the Speaking Childe and the Monster.

How, the Monsters! what Monsters, good Timothy?

Has not your Worship heard of the Monster, the Grave­send-Monster?

By my Troth not I.

Why, Sir, there came ashore last night four and twentie huge horrible monsterous devouring—

Bless us! what?

Whales, Sir; which no sooner came ashore, but they turn'd into fearful Elephants that roar'd, then into Cockatrices that crow'd and frighted all the Judges out of Westminster-hall.

Good Lord!

And in a moment these Cockatrices were turn'd into so many huge Giants in Scarlet, with Triple Crowns on their heads, and forked Tongues that hiss so loud, the noise is heard to the Royal Exchange; which has put the Citizens into such a Conster­nation, that 'tis thought the world's at an end.

Good Lord! And what may this portend, Timothy?

Portend, Sir, Poperie, Sir, Poperie; and these Monsters are call'd the four and twentie Whores of Babylon.

Oh monsterous! Four and twentie Whores! the Nation will be over-run with Poperie indeed, Timothy: Bless us, what monsterous things are these Popish Monsters! Well, in grace of God my Wife and I will go see these four and twentie Whores. [Page 24] Nay, nay, God bless little England; this must portend right­down Poperie, that's certain. Well, and hast thou no merrie News, Timothy?

Faith, Sir, they say that there's five and twentie couple of Bears are to dance a Dance in Paris-Garden before the King; and four and twentie couple of French Apes play to 'em upon Flute doux.

Oh Pox, Timothy, this must be a lye, Timothy; and this be not a lye, I am an Ass efaith: Four and twentie Bears dance to Flutes douxes! Ha, ha, ha.

'Tis credible reported, Sir.—Shut your Eyes close, Sir, closer yet, Sir, this Ball will make 'em smart.

Aye, aye, Timothy, I do wink.

Hold, Sir, your head will take cold;

I'll put on your good Worships Night-cap. So, now I'll shave you, Sir. This must [...]ong with me, this Beaver too, and now adieu, worshipful Mr. Dashit.

Ha, ha, ha! Four and twentie couple of English Bears dance to the Musick of French Apes! Ha, ha, ha! in faith, good Timothy, thou makest my Worship smile,—But heark ye, Timo­thy, dost know one Trickwell? a villanous Rogue, Timothy, chea­ted me last night of Fiftie pound in Plate; but I'll Plate him, with a Pox, an I catch him. Come, haste, good Timothy. Art thou free, Timothy? I am one of the Common Council, Timothy, and may do thee good shortly. Why Timothy! Timothy! dost leave me in the Suds? Why Timothy! I shall be blinde with winking.

Timothy! Hah, you—Wife, my money, Wife!

What's the noise here? you are always bawling.

'Owns, ye Whore, where's Timothy?

What Timothy?

Why the Barber, Jade, the Barber.

The Barber! I saw him go half a quarter of an hour since. Why, are you not trim'd?

Trim'd, a Pox trim ye; where's the money, the mo­ney, the money, ye Jade? I am trim'd with a vengeance!

What's the money gone! the whole Fiftie pound in the bag!

I have wink'd fair, in the Devils name.

Pray, Godfather, give me your Blessing.

A Pox of Blessing, I am Cursing, Rogue: where's Timothy, thy Mothers man Timothy?

My Mother has no such, forsooth.

My money! my fiftie pound! A Plague of all Ti­mothies; who was't trim'd me?

I know not, Godfather; onely one met me and bor­row'd my Furniture, for a Jest, he said.

What kind of Fellow was't? Oh—

A little slender nimble well-spoken fellow, Sir.

Oh 'tis Trickwell, that Rogue Trickwell! a black Hair and Eye-brows, and grey Eyes?

Yes, Godfather.

Aye, aye, 'tis he. Raise the street upon him; I'll hang him if there be Law for money. Oh I shall faint! Wife, wife, fetch me the Rosa solus.

Good Husband, take comfort in the Lord, I'll play the Devil but I'll recover it; have a good heart, 'tis but a weeks false scoring in the Parliament-time.

So, some comfort: Wife, whe Wife, I say, is there any Musick in the house?

Yes, Sweet-heart, Mr. Squeeks Noyse.

Bid 'em play then: And John come kiss me now, now, now, and John come kiss me now.

Bid 'em play; laugh thou and be merrie, for I'll go dance, cast up my Accounts, and hang my self presently. I will not curse, but a Pox on Trick­well, he has shav'd me, he has trim'd me! I will go hang my self; but first let's have a Dance.

SCENE the First.

COme, prithee Ample, sing the Song Wellman made upon the Kiss I gave him.

No, prithee don't, my stomack turns against kissing ex­treamly.

Why, Diana?

By the faith I have in this Beautie, 'tis the most unsa­vorie Ceremonie, the most sawcie Custom to Ladies; every Fel­low now-a-daies with greasie sweatie Faces, stinking Breath, and nastie Teeth, must take a bodie over the Lips with such familiaritie; nay they think 'tis grateful to us too. Lord, there was an old Judge laid me over the face last night, and did so squeeze his grizly Brissles through my Lips, I'd as live a kist a row of Pins with the points to me; and yet I was forc'd to take it, take it with a Curtsie too: for my part I had as lieve they should belch in my face.

Fie, what a Comparison's there!

Sutable to the beastly Complement; and yet I love kissing too, if I may chuse my man and place.

Fie, if any one shou'd hear ye!

Let a thousand, I'd not be asham'd; 'tis not those that talk roguishly, that are to be suspected: you shall have a hypocritical holy Sister mince that publickly, that she'll receive with open arms privately: For my own part, I consider Nature without Apparel, without disguising; I give thoughts, words, and truth, a modest boldness; I love no prohibited things, and I wou'd have nothing prohibited but by Vertue.

But we must consider the world, who thinks severe mo­destie a womans Vertue.

Fie, fie, Vertue is freedom, handsome, cheerful mirth; I hate a severe, froward, ignorant, ill-bred behaviour in a woman; 'tis uncivil, hang't, I'll have none on't. Ample, what think you?

Faith, Madam, I can onely stand up for Kissing; I never ventur'd farther, tho I wou'd fain.

Thou art not of my minde; for I'll nere marrie.

Marrie God forbid! what will you do then?

Ene strive against the flesh: Marrie! no, faith, Hus­bands are like Lots in a book, one may prick a hundred times and finde all blanks. A Husband! a Hangman: a careless dominee­ring insolent thing, that grows like Corral, whilst under water, soft and tender; but married, and above the waves, hard, stubborn, not to be bow'd nor manag'd: whilst your humble servant, Oh how assiduous, troublesomely officious and busie; but wed, the worst­bred Tyrant and Sloven in nature. No, no, I'll live my own wo­man, I—and let the worst come to the worst, I had rather be call'd Wanton than a Fool.

Oh but a vertuous Marriage!

Vertuous Marriage! there's no more affinitie between Vertue and Marriage, than a man and his Horse: Wedlock may manage Vertue in the right way, but 'tis oftner loose and un­bridled. I hate restraint upon my Vertue, or to owe it to the honour of a Husband; yet I like thy match well enough, a hand­some man, good humour, wittie, and wilde; but my Sir John is such a tool, fit to make nothing but a Cuckold of. See if they be not here.

My sweet Marinda!

Good morrow, my little Sooterkin; how is't, my prettie Life?—Nay, I call all my Mistrisses so.

Indeed! How many Mistrisses have you had?

Some Nine, or thereabouts.

Then you have had nine lives, like a Cat.

Mew—you wou'd be kist for that.

Yes, if I lik'd the mouth that offer'd it.

By my troth, that must not be mine; I do not love to endanger my back with stooping so low: if you wou'd wear Chipeeners, much might be done.—Nay, let me alone to finde a Rowland for your Oliver.

Your pestilent wit will never make me asham'd of my shortness: the faults I can mend my self, I blush at; but those which Nature made, let her bear the shame for me, I have no­thing to do with it; but you never forget to be wittie on my Beautie, Sir Knight, I shall be even with you.

Nor remember, by my troth, but as I do Religion, for Controversie sake onely, no hurt.

But, Brother, for I'll now call you so, since my Father this night resolves to contract you—Shall we not have Fiddles and dance? Sir John I'm sure will make one, and my Citie Lover the Aldermans son, Mr. Shatter, he's a most spruce Dancer of the first bench in the School, I'll promise ye.

Fore Gad, and well remember'd, he borrow'd a Di­amond-Ring of me last night to make a Visit in to a Ladie; and was't you? The Devil take me, an I had thought that, he shou'd nere a had it. Adsbud he's here!

Good day to my fair Mistriss.

Good morrow, sweet Mr. Shatter.

Sweet Mr. Shatter! Pox on him, is he a Rival now?

You're fine to day, rich in Jems, Mr. Shatter.

A Toy, Madam, I bought to please my finger.

I am more pretious to you than your finger; why not to oblige me? Come, I'm no profess'd beggar, you know.

Faith and troth, Madam, as I hope to be sav'd—Oh Lord, as the saying is—I protest upon my honour.

Do not pawn it for such a trifle.

As I'm a Gentleman, as God shall sa' me, I'll give a—

Is this yours to give?

Oh Lord, Madam, that's such a thing now, why shou'd your Ladyship—you're the strangest Joker, I protest.—

Hum! now I remember, I think I have seen this on a persons hand, an humble servant of mine, one Sir John Empty.

Pox of her memorie! a such another Madam. Whe, what a Devil's he to her now?

Nay, I'm sure this is it.

Troth, 'tis, Madam: the poor fellow wanted a little mo­ney to treat some women last night, and so he pawn'd it to me. 'Tis a Pawn, good faith, or else you shou'd have it.

Heark ye, thou base lying son of a cheating Cit, how dares thy impudence hope to prosper? Were it not for the re­spect I bear this noble Companie, I wou'd so bang thee!—

How now, what's the matter here?

Nothing, Madam, nothing. He was a little uncivil with me last night; for which, because I shou'd not call him to an ac­count, he desir'd to make me any satisfaction. The Coward trembles at my very presence; but I have him on the hip, I'll take the forfeit of his Ring.

Heark ye, Sir, what's that you whisper to her?

Nothing, Sir, but to satisfie her that the Ring was yours, not pawn'd to me, but lent to grace my finger; and so I told her I begg'd your pardon for being a little too familiar with your Re­putation.

Yes indeed, he did; and said you wou'd make him any satisfaction for a rudeness you did him last night, but he wou'd take the forfeit of the Ring for't.

How now, ye base Scoundrel!

Hold, hold, my Mistriss does but rally, faith.

Thy Mistriss! I disown thee; thou'rt a childe, I'll give thee to my woman. Come, Sister, let's make us ready for the Ball anon. Come, you shall be friends.

He shall renounce you then, and restore my Ring; Adsbud he shall.

With all my heart, to do you service, Sir.

And here I make an offer of it.

Well, I'll take it, Sir, to make me thine to night. Fare­wel, Brother, till anon.

To be huft thus by a Coward, a beaten Coward, what madness has possest thee?

Aye, but how the Devil did I know he was a Coward? cou'd not you have whisper'd me that?

Well, Sir, I'll try to make your peace with Diana. Leave me, I've business now.

How now, my friend! what news from Love? is the Ladie of sin kinde? prithee say how; in faith I'll not be angrie.

Oh, Wellman! no Age did ere produce so damn'd a Creature so fair, and yet so false: had I been vicious, what a desperate wretched thing I'd been!

Prithee what's the matter?

Heaven! I have been tempted to thy death.

What is the Furie mad?

Most damnable!

Hearing I'm to be marri'd.

She rav'd at first like winds let loose to ruine, But fixt on this resolve, she calm'd again, And listen'd to my love, my eager love; which when it urg'd her to create me happie, she prest me to this Murder, as the way, the onely means to gain her heart for ever. Mad with my flame, I cou'd deny her nothing, and then my lawless lust, not I, protested, confirm'd it with a thousand Oaths to kill ye, and bring this Ring to witness you were dead; and then her lovely bodie was my hire.

Horrid! nothing's defam'd but by its proper self: Physi­cians abuse Remedies, Lawyers spoil Law, and woman onely is a shame to woman. You've vow'd to kill me?

Most solemnly; for, friend, I must enjoy her. Oh that a man of sense shou'd fancie pleasure in one whose soul's so black [Page 30] and infamous; but 'tis my fate, and I must bow before it.

Thou shalt; I will contrive the means to satisfie thee. Come, I give a Ball to night to my Marinda; thou shalt be there: and by the way, I'll tell thee what we will do to make a seeming Quarrel, that all the world, as well as this Corina, may think I'm kill'd indeed, whilst I, lodg'd in some place obscure, may give thee time to cool this feavourish blood. Shew her this Ring, protest me surely dead; and when thou'rt satiated, we'll laugh at follie. Come, let us go.

SCENE changes to the street, a shop-door.

Well, Neighbour Glisten, I am beholden to you for this credit till next week, and I am pleased in my choice of this piece of Plate; a Punch-bowl is a most fashonable thing, now French Wines are prohibited: I know 'twill please my Wife. Well, I am fortie pound indebted to you for't, honest Mr. Glisten.

Your word's sufficient, Sir, an 'twere for a thousand pound.

A Pox of the Rogue that robb'd me! Well, I shall catch him; and if I do, he shall half rot in Fetters in the Dungeon till he despair; then I'll hire a Parson on purpose that shall perswade him he is damn'd; then after see him with my own eyes hang'd without singing any Psalm: Lord, Lord, that he shou'd have but one neck!

Oh, Neighbour, you must use a Conscience in all things; but do your will. You'll command me no farther?

No, onely lend me your servant to carrie this Bowl home to my Peg; I am to step into Leaden-hall.

Willingly, Sir: Here, Jervice, carrie home this Plate.

To my Wives own hands deliver it, good Jervice.

I'll warrant you, Sir.

To her own hand, honest Jervice.

I have deliver'd better things than this to a womans own hand, Sir, before now.

Monsieur, please you to buy a very fine delicate Ball, a sweet Ball, a Camphere-ball.

Prithee away.

One a Ball to shave, one a Ball to scowre.

Name 'em not to me, talk not of shaving; a Pox of the Rogue, I have been shav'd, I have.

I'll shave ye smoother yet: That Bowl, that delicious Bowl, I must be drunk out of; I have a fancie for't, it is too good for cheating Vintners: I say it must be mine; therefore, my wor­shipful Dashit, look to't: What tho there be rounds in a Ladder, and knots in a Halter? hang the Devil, I'll do't; I must draw a Lot for the great Punch-bowl.

SCENE changes to Mr. Dashit's house.

Nay, Jervice, stay and drink, good Jervice; and how does Mrs. Glisten? I knew her well, she was a very good patient Creature, efaith; she has born, and born, and bore again, good woman, as well as I, with a bad Husband; yet I can finde no fault in Mr. Glisten: Here's to him, Jervice, he knew me before I was married; an honest man he is,

and a thriftie, I'll warrant him; and his Wife's a proper woman as any in Cheapside.

Yes, indeed forsooth, so she is.

She paints now, and yet she keeps her Husband's Customers still. Introth, Jervice, a handsome Wife in a fine carv'd seat, is the best Ware in a mans shop.

Yes, indeed forsooth, so 'tis.

But well, Jervice, remember me to your Master and Mistriss, and tell 'em I acknowledge the receipt of this, acknow­ledge the receipt.—This 'tis to have good Education, and to be brought up in a Tavern; and though my Husband be a Citizen, all London knows I keep as good Companie as any she within the Walls. Good day, honest Jervice.

Fair hour to you, Mistriss.

A prettie Complement! I'll write it down: A beau­tiful thought to you, Sir.

Your Husband and my Master Mr. Glisten has sent you a Jole of fresh Salmon, and they intend to come both to Dinner presently to season your new Bowl, forsooth, which your Hus­band intreats you wou'd send back by me, that his Arms may be engraven on it, which he forgot before.

Are you sent by no Token? Nay, I have a wit.

Yes forsooth, by the same Token he was dry shav'd this morning.

A sad Token, but true: here, pray commend me to your Master and Mistriss, and tell 'em I expect 'em impatiently.

Impatient was well again! Sam! why Sam, I say!

Anon, anon, forsooth.

Come quickly, spread the Table, lay Napkins, and do ye hear? perfume the Room a little; it does so smell of this prophane Tobacco! I could never endure this ungodly Tobacco, since our Doctor told me 'twas a bane to Propagation.—So spread handsomly: Lord, these Boys do things so arsie-versie! You shew your breeding. Well, I am a Gentlewoman by my Sisters side, I can tell you: so—methodically. Hum! I wonder where I got that word! Oh 'twas Sir John Empty bid me kiss him methodi­cally; 'tis a sweet man!

Well, Tony Dashit, be not discourag'd, be not dis­heartned, thou wilt recover all.

Oh are you come, Husband? where are they?

How now! how now! how now! what, a Feast to­wards! and in my private Parlour! Who treats, who treats, Peg?

Prithee leave fooling; are they come?

Come! who come?

Lord, How strange you make it!

Strange! what's strange? is the woman mad!

Aye strange: You know of none that sent me a Jole of Salmon, you—and said they wou'd come dine with me!

Hah, fresh Salmon! peace, not I; peace, the Messenger has mistaken the house: let's eat it up quickly, before it be in­quir'd for. Come, come, Vineger quickly, Sam.—Some good luck yet, efaith; I never tasted Salmon that relisht better in my life. Well, 'tis a rare thing to feed at other mens cost.

Other mens cost! prithee did not you send this Salmon?

No, I say, no.

By Mr. Glisten's man?

I say no.

Who sent word that he and his Wife wou'd come to dinner with me?

No, no.

And hancel my new Bowl.

Hah, Bowl!

And withal, commanded me to send the Bowl back.

Hah, back!

That your Arms might be put on't.

Oh!

By the same token that you were dry shaven this morning.

Oh!

And thereupon I sent back the Bowl: nay, and I bear not a brain—

And is the Bowl gone? is it deliver'd departed? de­funct? hah!

Delivered? yes sure, 'tis delivered.

I will never more say my Prayers; and is the Bowl gone?

Gone: God is my witness I deliver'd it with no more designe to be cozen'd on't, than the childe unborn.

Look to my house, I am haunted with Evil Spirits: hear me, thou Plague to man, thou Wife thou, if I have not my Bowl again, I will go to the Devil; I'll to a Conjurer: look to my house, I'll raise all the Wise men in London.

Bless me, what fearful words are these! I trust in God he is but drunk sure.

I must have my Salmon, I cannot afford the old Rogue so good a bit; I must have it to season my Punch. Now for a Master-piece: Fair Mistriss—

Oh have I caught ye! Sam, shut up the doors, Sam.

Peace, good Mistriss, I'll tell you all: A Jest, a meer Jest; your Husband did it onely to fright ye: the Bowl's at my Masters, and thither your Husband's gone, and has sent me in all haste, lest you shou'd be over-frighted, to invite you to come to dinner to him.

Praise Heaven 'tis no worse!

And bad me desire you to send the Salmon before, and your self to follow: My Mistriss will be very glad to see you.

I pray take it. Well, I was never so out of my wits in my life: Pray thank your Mistriss.

How my heart beats still, beshrew him! Sam, my Hood, Sam, and Gloves, and Scarf, quickly.

How now, whither are you janting, hah?

Come, play the fool no longer, will you go?

Whither, in the name of Madness, whither?

Whither! why to Mr. Glisten's to eat the Salmon. How strange you make it!

Your meaning, Jade, your meaning.

Lord bless me, did not you send for me and for the Salmon, by the self-same fellow that came for the Bowl?

'Tis well, 'tis wonderous well! and are you in your right wits, Jade, are you?

An you make an Ass of me, I'll make an Ox of you, I tell ye that.

Nay, Jade, be patient; for look ye, I may be mad, or drunk, or so; tho you can bear more than I, I do well: I will not curse; but Heaven knows my minde. Come, let's go hear some Musick. I will never pray again, that's certain: Let's go hear some doleful Musick. Nay; if Heaven forget to prosper Knaves, the Citie's like to thrive: I'll go hang my self out of the way.

SCENE the First.

MOre Lights there, Boy, more Wine and Lights.—Come, come, son Wellman, for so I must call you now; introth you are not merrie, Sir, not heartily merrie: Come, we'll have tother Dance, efact we will, Mr. Wellman. Diana, whe Girl, I say! Adsme you're all out of sorts; I thought thy Tongue and heels cou'd never have been idle: Come, come, hands, hands, for shame.

Come, Mrs. Diana, I'm your man at this sport; I never stand out at these businesses: Your hand, fair Mistriss.

You lie, Sir.

Do I, Sir? I vow to God, I ask your pardon, Sir; I durst to have sworn I'd been in the right.

What, quarrelling about the Spoil before the Victorie!

Nay, Madam, as for that matter, I'm a man of Rea­son, and Frank Friendly's an honest fellow, and my friend.

You lie again, Sir.

Well, well, Sir, you are dispos'd to be merrie, or so, but there be more Ladies—Whe, what the Devil ails he, tro?

Pox on't, how rarely he huffs now! Well, it's a most ad­mirable thing this same Courage, if a man had but the knack on't!

Come, Zouks, you're tardie, villanous: Young Men and Maids, to't, to't, I say, and do not idle time. Come, Min­strels, play away, efaith my dancing-days are not done yet.

Friendly, you're out.

Death, you lie!

The Quarrel, Gentlemen, the Quarrel! efaith, here's fine doings!

Oh, Sir, you have the advantage of the place.

I do believe I have; and you're not safe here: I'll meet you, Sir, anon.

Do so. Farewel.

For Heavens sake, Sir, come back—what wou'd you do? if there be ought that you take ill from Well man, declare it here, and let us end the Quarrel. I know 'tis some mistake; I know he loves you: let not a trifle set such friends at odds. Speak to him, Sister.

Why how now, Sir, is this the proof you give me of your Love! Oh you have shew'd your self a gallant Spark! I thought it Jealousie, and took it kindly your rudeness to our Knight here; but to a friend, at least the man you call so, gives me some cause to fear you're angrie at his Contract with my Sister. Be friends, or I'll believe so.

Do so, I care not.

Hah! do you not love me? Do not make me serious, I shall be out of humour if you do; and Heaven knows what a strange thing I may prove then; I never tri'd it yet.

I care not; pray unhand me.

I will, in spight of all that wou'd detain thee. I never found my self thus much concern'd.

What sudden flaw is this?

By Heaven, I know not, Sir, unless some hidden flame for thee—

It cannot be, I never saw a glance, a look, or smile, cou'd be suspected Love: 'tis some old Grudge. Dear, do not follow him, my heart presages something that is fatal.

Good Sir perswade him.

Away, ye fool, perswade him not to fight! away, a Coward! hang't, he were not worth thy love then.

Honour, my Deer, obliges me to go. Wou'dst have the man that has thy heart in keeping, be pointed out for Cowardize? Away, thou needst not fear, we shall at most onely exchange a Wound. Thy sacred Image guards my heart entire, and keeps it safe from danger. Go to the Banquet, entertain the Ladies, and be merrie.

By Cocks bones shall she, and be very merrie, to think she's like to have so brisk a Spark to her Bed-fellow. Go thy ways, William, and God's blessing go with thee, Boy: if thou wants a second, I can push yet, I'm not so old efaith.

I humbly thank ye, Sir; we shall think better on't per­haps before we fight.

Or shall Sir John go? he's a man of mettle, I assure you, Brother.

What the Devil do ye mean! I have mind to take this opportunitie to be with thee, thou little wanton—

Fear not, Sir, I'll excuse ye.

You little amiable mischievous Ape you, what a seurvie malicious Jest did you break upon me, to make the Pro­verb good, You had rather lose your Friend than your Jest?

A Jest! it was a parlous true one then: I said you were all Mettle; A brazen face, a leaden brain, and a copper nose and beard.

Wit, Lightning, and Quick-silver, thou little more than Dwarf, and something less than woman.

A Wasp, a Wasp! Your Wit stings, Sir.

Thou'rt plaguie sharp; pray God thou be'st not too far gone in Love; if thou shou'dst, I must be forc'd in honour to marrie thee, tho introth't wou'd be hardly brought about.

No matter, Sir; things got by strugling, bring the grea­ter pleasure, when dull Consent but palls the Appetite. Then thou'rt a fool too, the most admirable necessary for a Husband in [Page 37] the whole Creation, and the best Block to carve a Cuckold in.

Whe, what a tart Monkey's this! By my troth if thou hadst not so much wit, I cou'd finde in my heart to take thee for better for worse; for I finde thou cou'dst bear me with all my faults.

Bear with thee! I wonder how thy Mother bore thee nine whole months about her, when I'll be sworn I can scarce en­dure thee in my sight an hour.

Alas for you, sweet Soul, good lack! A pox of your Wit: By the Lord Harry, you are the proudest, scoffing, scurvie, idle, fantastical, whimsical—Ads nigs, because you have read St. George for England, Amades de Gall, and the Legend of Lyes, you are licens'd, forsooth, to abuse all the world: Egad, Sir Ly­onell, your Father shall know't.

He must not tho—Nay, do not go in Rancor, good dear Knight; for I must confess a secret to you; which if you knew my heart, you wou'd believe there were nothing so cruel there as you imagine. I speak very kinde things of you between my Maid and I anight as I am going to bed, and next my Prayers too, Heaven forgive me! I spoke things of you that I wou'd not wish you shou'd know.

Nay, look ye, for my part, if I have not most reli­giously vow'd my heart yours, been drunk twice a day to your health, swallow'd Fire and inches of your Cuff-strings, eat Can­dles, pledg'd your health in Chamber-lie, run Pins into my Arms, and done all manner of gallant and heroick actions, I'm the ve­riest son of a Whore breathing; and yet to tell me after all this, I have a brazen face, a leaden brain, and a copper nose,

'tis most intolerable, insupportable, and prodigious, I'll be sworn.

And de ye love me so indeed?

Love you! 'Sbud, whosoever says I do not, and honour you too, Egad; nay, and if you wou'd, wou'd marrie you, is a son of a Whore, and a Scoundrel, by the Lord.

And let me tell you in return, that—Heaven forgive me! And my Sister knows I have took drink and slept upon't, that if ever I marrie, it shall be you; and I will marrie, and yet I hope I do not say it shall be you neither. Come, let's to the Banquet.

Oh, dear Creature, I do not say you do: Lord, how was I mistaken in thy heart! But will you hereafter cast a kinde [Page 38] look at me, to put me in countenance before Companie? That I wou'd be at now.

Much may be done. Come, let's to the Banquet.

And will you, my prettie little Darling of mine eyes, marrie me? As I hope to breath, my Purse, Bodie, Soul and all, shall be thine.

Most affectionately spoken! Well, get my Fathers con­sent, and as for mine—the Devil take me if ever thou gets it.

A Kiss, and 'tis a Match. Thus Hymen shou'd begin; A falling out, sometimes proves falling in.

Well, my dear friend, tell me with open heart, hath not my Reasoning reclaim'd thy Folly, preserv'd thy falling Vertue, and secur'd it?

There is no Vertue in Blood, no Reasoning in Desire: But shall I not in this fond act of Love, do that which will to thee render my name abhorr'd, and make thee hate me?

By Heaven, no.

And shall I then? may I enjoy Corina?

Thou shalt, by all our Friendships. Here, take this Ring, shew it to that fair Devil, it will confirm me dead; which rumour, with my absence, will make good—Possess thy Love, grow wea­rie in her Arms, then be thy self again.

But if Report grows strong, and I am seiz'd, where shall I finde thee?

At Glistens my Goldsmith in Cheapside, to whom I'll tell our business and designe.

Thither I'll come and tell thee how I thrive. Till when, farewel.

When woman's in [...] heart, the soul's all hell. Now Re­pentance, the after-clap of [...]ools, light on thee; I have an Art left that may reclaim thee yet. I'll make thee fall into the vilest dangers, even worse than womans Lust. No Goldsmith will I see, or tell my storie to, but in some sit disguise I'll hide my self impos­sible to be discover'd, and leave thee to two friends, a Whore and Law, that will be plague sufficient for one man; but is this friendship in me?

No matter:

No man is purely vertuous, no Vertue purely kind;

The end being good, the way is well design'd.

SCENE changes to Corina's house.

Oh, impudence, am I then fallen so low to be sollicited by Pimps and Panders! Hell take the trade, if this be the effects on't.

Madam, whatever you may think of me, my Present has the shew of Qualitie; here's Plate, a Present that a Lord might make ye; and I was once a Gentleman, tho I am fallen so low by faithless Vice, yet tho undone, poor and depriv'd of all, I have a heart and will, that still remains, and fain wou'd venture on when Beautie calls. And if I have a stock, which Heaven and my own industrie has lent, I must employ it still to that dear use. Take first this little Tribute of my conquer'd heart; I may in time in­crease it: were it Crowns, here they shou'd all be offer'd.

And thus I'd spurn away: Base servile Villain, who livest by Noise and Riot, spunging upon the drops that fall from Gen­tlemen, canst thou believe that after Wellman's love, I cou'd re­ceive a Raskal to my Arms?

If I were there, you'd finde but little difference; and possibly the next they entertain may fail to pay this price I offer ye. This Raskal and that beautious haughtie thing, bating the Sex, dif­fer but very little. I live by Brauls, by rapine, and by Spoils, in Fears, Vexations, Dangers, so do you; I eat when I can get a fool to treat me, and you can do no more: Pox of your pride, methinks we two might understand each other; you've no Gallant to take your Quarrels up; you raign'd when time was, and I'll do so now, for you have known my love, shall finde my power, tho yet I nere durst tell you so.

Nor shall not yet; for tho that Lover's gone, who but to look on wou'd have made thee tremble, I've Beautie still that may command another Beautie whose very glance shou'd make thee bow: Gods! and has it lost its awe?

It has, and I'm resolv'd upon a Conquest.

Death, Sirra! stand off, and view my fatal hand, it carries death to the bold Ravisher, that dares approach unreverendly. A Whore! what tho to her that bears it 'tis a shame, an infamie that cannot be supported? to all the world besides it bears a mightie sound, petition'd, su'd to, worshipp'd as a God, presented, [Page 40] flatter'd, follow'd, sacrific'd to, Monarch of Monarchs, Tyrant of the world, what does that charming word not signifie! And darest thou raise thy hated eyes so high to gaze on such a Con­stellation! No, be gone, with all thy base-got worthless Trisles, quickly pack up, and hence, or I will kill thee.

So, Sir, you had better have lookt no higher than Mrs. Mary Dunwell, who can down with you when money's low; but when once a little in Pocket, you are for high feeding, forsooth. Go get you gone, I may chance take pitie on you when her pas­sion's over, and do you some service.

No, by Heaven, I'll try my chance this very minute, throw my last Cast, for the great Stake is set, and will enjoy her now.

Hah! here's somebodie I hope will interrupt you.

What wou'd you, Sir? wou'd you have ought with me? A pro­per handsome fellow, but ill drest.

Madam, I am a Gentleman grown poor, decay'd by for­tune, and wou'd gladly serve: I can obey, cou'd you direct me where.

This fellow wou'd serve my turn most admirably! but if I cou'd—you wou'd grow proud with feeding well and clean Linnen.

I am not bred so ill, but I can tell how to be grateful to you.

Introth he apprehends most discreetly—but you're too big to wear a Liverie.

Not at all; 'tis the fashion now for Ladies to keep tall men in Liveries: your Page is out of fashion, and your stripling Footman.

Help! help! undone! Oh help!

Hah, what noise is that!

Heavens! the Rogue sure was ravishing her.

Damn'd sawcie Villain, what was thy pretence?

What's that to thee, bold interrupting Slave, sent by the Devil to hinder my delight?

Dog—

Hold, do not kill the Raskal; 'tis enough you've sav'd me from his mischiefs: pray let him go.

'Tis pitie, but I will obey. Take that, and that, that, ye Mungrel Cur; Dogs shou'd be us'd so.

Death! what a very wretched thing's a Whore, that every Raskal dares approach with Love!

Who are ye, pray, to whom I'm so oblig'd?

One that wou'd gladly serve in any qualitie.

I'll do thee good; take that.

I will prefer thee to some man of Qualitie: Mean time make this your home.

I wonder whether Friendly has been here!

Madam, one knocks; shall any have admittance?

Onely false Wellman's Friend. You may retire, and wait my farther pleasure.

I'll over-hear ye too.

Now, my dear Mistriss, Soul of my desires, I come with all the Spoils of conquering Love, to lay 'em at thy feet. My Stop is dead, the Stop of all my ravishing Happiness; and here's the witness of my Victorie.

Dead! Wellman dead! Oh thou inhumane friend, that bo­rest that title onely to betray him! Dead! and by thee! Heaven, can you let him live! Support me, or I fall to earth with this sad killing news.

Heavens, Madam, what d'ye mean? or shall I vow to you he is not dead?

Hah! not dead!

What wou'd you have me do? When I confirm him dead, you grow inrag'd; and when I say he lives, you kill with frowns.

Traytor, and hast thou then deceiv'd my hopes? and is not Wellman dead? Hell, what is man! how didst thou swear, how didst thou prostrate lie, and beg'd to give me any proof of thy false Passion? I ask'd thee this; and is it thus you give it! Oh for a quick revenging Power to kill thee!

Calm that dear angrie face, and tell my Love which way it best shall please.

Is't in thy choice, perjur'd, forsworn, and false, to tell me either? Damn thy double Tongue, and all this Beautie that [Page 42] mis-led thy truth, if thou hadst ever any in thy soul.

Then since it is my destinie to offend, which way so­ere I take I'll follow truth, and tell you, Madam, all your strict Commands I did obey, and Wellman is no more.

No more! why what hadst thou to do with my Com­mands? Oh thou hast kill'd all that my soul cou'd love! Tho I commanded, yet he was thy friend, and that in generositie shou'd have sav'd him. Go from my eyes, far from my thoughts remain.

Is this then the reward of all my Love? What have I done, but been obedient? Had I priz'd my Friendship above that Love, wou'd you have took it well? Yes, I will be gone, and to the judging world

Prove who's the greater Criminal you or I:

I kill'd a Friend, you make a Lover die.

I must not let him go, till I'm reveng'd. Stay, I relent; Oh stay, and give my heart a little time to take leave of its old acquaintance, ere it'go to make a new and unknown choice agen. Alas, I lov'd this Wellman, lov'd him dearly, more than my life.

Why did you kill him then?

Why, in my own defence; he gave the first, I fear the mortal wound.

Then think it just, and think of him no more, but of the dear reward you are to give for all my service. Come, will you not?

I will; but you'll receive it decently, and not with hands distain'd i'th'blood of him that lately was so dear to me?

Still on that subject? do not put me off; I've left the business of my life undone, and had not power to go about my Pardon, so hastie for the dear reward I was; and is it thus you treat me?

You'll finde me all you wish, give me an hours time to compose my self; and all this upon my brow is but a modest decencie; one hour of joy will chase it all away.

Do not you dally with me?

No by Heaven, when you return I'll give ye your re­ward, and what you most deserve—a Halter 'tis,

false and perfidious wretch.

Here, keep this Ring, and think each minutes absence is a long year in love. Farewel.

Farewel, vain credulous treacherous fool, farewel. Mis­chief inspire me now with all your Arts; methinks the sight of this instructs my Soul in a most noble piece of Villanie: I will to fair Marinda with this Ring, and frame a storie of so cunning mis­chief, shall stab her through the ear into the heart. By Heaven, 'tis greatly brave, and I'll begin it: Then when this false believer does return, I'll be prepar'd for him—What, Hoe, who waits?

Now what a Devil is this woman grown!

My Hoods and Fan, and call a Coach immediately:

and you, Sir, I must beg to wait on me.

Where ever you command.—This was happie!

SCENE changes to Sir Lyonell's house.

Nay, good Sir, be not angrie that I sent; I was afraid some harm wou'd come of it, and so I fear there is.

And did no one hear of him?

None; pray Heaven he be well; my heart misgives me.

Well, if he be lost, there's a brave fellow gone, and in a time the King had need of Souldiers; there's idle Husbands enough for you, Baggages.

I have a little kind of a scurvie pain too, which I do not use to feel about my heart, for Friendly—but none shall see it in my troubled looks: not that I care who knew the loving se­cret, but I'll not be laught at.

Leave your whimpering, do: Wou'd thou hadst a heart like thy Sister here. When wou'd she cry for a man thus?

Faith, Sir, when I have as much need of a man as she, that is, when I want one, I cannot dissemble.

Look ye, Sir, she has need enough, and thanks to fortune she's provided for, with your good liking, noble Sir Lyo­nell.

Come, Sir, let's have one Marriage well over, before we think of another. Wou'd we cou'd hear of these Sparks too; 'tis almost midnight: they might have staid till day-light, and have kill'd one another like Christians decently, not by dark, as Cats and Dogs worrie each other. I know not what to think on't.

Here's a Ladie in a Coach below desires to speak with you.

A Ladie at this hour! she shall be welcome; old as I am, I'll not deny a Ladie.

I hope your business is with me, fair Ladie.

'Twou'd be but ill dispatch'd then.

I know not, Sir; first let me crave your name, or are you Father to the fair Marinda?

I am, fair Mistriss, for want of a better. By the Mass she's very handsome!

This is the Maid you name.

My time's but short, and what I have to say I must dis­patch. Madam, you had a Lover once, Young Wellman!

Had! (good Heavens!) I hope and have.

No, Friendly has basely kill'd him.

Oh wretched lost Marinda!

Look to my Daughter!

Madam, look up; this great concern he merits not: 'twas pitie brought me here to undeceive ye; his Vows and Soul were mine, intirely mine.

Why didst thou call me back to life again, or say in pitie that you undeceiv'd me? If you knew Wellman false, why did you stay me? You shou'd have let me di'd, 't had been more charitable; but if, as you affirm, he lov'd you best, which I believe from that fair form of yours, whilst I remain I needs must love you too.

This must be malice sure!

Madam, do ye know this Ring? he gave it me, and told me such things of your tiresome Passion, as gave us cause of laugh­ter all the evening.

I cannot blame him that he lov'd me not, when so much Beautie as appears in you, gave him permission to adore it: but methinks 'twas ungentile to make a sport of me; he shou'd have pitied follies he created: he lov'd me first; alas, I sought him not.

Help me, Diana, for I feeble grow! To morrow shou'd have been my Wedding-day, now I invite you to my Funeral; bring Flowers and strow the way to my cold Grave, and lay me down in peace.

Lead her in, and be careful of her; but, Madam—

I cannot hold, I must reveal my self;

Yet stay, Heavens, shall I suffer her to die▪ so good, so gentle, and so sweet a Mistriss? Were there but three such women in the world, two might be sav'd.—Yes, I'll have patience yet to see the ut­most that this Devil aims at.

Confest it, said ye, Madam? and to you? on what Ac­quaintance, pray?

He was in love with me; and seeing no hope of gaining me whilst Wellman was alive, he pick'd a Quarrel with him, and dis­patch'd him, and vaunted of the Villanie to me. Please you to go where I'll direct you, Sir, he shall confess the Murder.

Madam, I'll go; and you, Sir John must bear me com­panie.

With all my heart, Sir.

Madam, your hand. Roger, go you to Mr. Constable, bid him be readie if I have occasion, and careful who passes the streets to night.

SCENE the Street.

Sayst thou, Sam, at one Mrs. Dunwell's house? whe, she's a Bawd.

Yes, Sir, or my intelligence is false. There lies a Ladie, Sir, with whom he's desperately in love; and having no purchase­money, 'tis thought, hires the Bawd at the price of's own bodie, to get the young Ladie, Sir: They call her Corina.

Lord, Lord, what will this wicked world come to! And there thou sayest I may be sure to finde this villanous Trickwell.

He never lies from thence all day, Sir, as I am inform'd; 'tis now about his hour of departure, and this way he must come.

Get ye home, Sam; I'll ene take Mr. Constable and a Watchman or two, and fall to searching. Get ye home, Sam, thou shalt have a new Sute for this, honest Sam.

Well, if I catch the Rogue, he shall be hang'd in lousie linnen: I'll hire a Priest to make a Papist of him before Execution; and when he's dead, I'll piss on's Grave.—

But stay, who comes here? this may be he.

Damn this Corina, this proud scornful Beautie, whom I must humble and enjoy. I know I am a Rogue not worthie of her love, a Raskal that have no one Good about me, but that I love: And this damn'd Bawd, to keep me to her self, disgraces me to Corina.

Aye, aye, this must be he—Ware shaving, Sir: What ho, the Watch! the Watch! Takes hold of Trickwell's Cloak.

Death! 'tis Dashit's voice!

Thieves! Thieves! stop Thieves!

Who goes there? come before the Constable.

Death, you are a prettie fellow of a Constable, to re­present the King's Person indeed! here's a Watch for the Devil! honest men are robb'd under your Noses. A Raskal in the habit of a Vintner set upon me, cri'd stand and deliver, in the Kings Highway; he wou'd have had my Purse, but that my heels sav'd it: Yet he got my Cloak of rich Camlet, I'll be sworn, new and fair this morning. If you light on him, seize him, and keep him in the Stocks till the Cloak will hang him.

Doubt not our diligence, Master, these dangerous times.

Something to drink, Master, we that take pains for the good of the Nation.

Honest men, watch and sleep not. Good night.

Well, Master, we must watch better indeed. Is't not strange that Knaves, Rogues, and Thieves, shou'd be abroad, and yet we of the Watch, Scrivenors, Exchange-men, and Taylors, never stir a foot!

Who goes there?

An honest man and a Citizen.

The Knave's drunk, and speaks Riddles.

Come afore the Constable; what art thou?

A Vintner.

Bring him neer: Hah, what's here, the Cloak?

Oh, Mr. Vintner! is't you? Hold, a rich Camlet-Cloak; 'tis the same.

Oh thou Varlet, does not thou know the Wicked can­not scape the eyes of the Constable?

What means all this? as I'm an honest man and a Citi­zen, I took the Cloak—

As you're a Knave, you took the Cloak; we are your witnesses for that.

But, Neighbours, hear me, hear who I am.

A Thief you are, we know.

My name is Dashit.

I, I, we'll dash ye: in with him to the Stocks there, and lock him fast till morning, that Justice Lackbrain may examine him.

Whe, but heark ye—

Away with him.

Mr. Constable—

In, I say.

Am I not stark mad yet, not quite an Ass?

You may be in good time, in grace a God, Sir. Well, what wou'd this Citie do, if 'twere not for-such necessarie Tyrants as our selves to ride the free-born Jades, and humble 'em?

Prithee hold thy prating, minde our-duties, and let's go sleep in the fear of the Lord.

Who's there? So ho! so ho!

I shall be mad, lose my wits, and then be hang'd. Who goes there I say? thou mayst approach without fear, I'm fast by the heels.

Good morrow, my Masters all, good morrow.

A Pox of Eyes and Thighs! Whe, Bell-man.

Good lack, good lack, Mr. Dashit! whe, what does your Worship in the Stocks? pray come out, Sir.

Out, Sir! whe, I tell thee I am lockt.

Lockt! Oh Men, Oh Manners! Oh Times, Oh Night! that canst not discern gravitie and wisdom, in one of the Com­mon-Council too! Whe, what's your Worship in for?

For? a Plague on't, suspition of Felonie.

Nay, an't be such a trifle, Lord, I cou'd weep to see your good Worship in this taking: Your Worship has been a good friend to me; and tho you have forgot me, I have found your Worship's doors open, and I have knockt, and God knows what I have sav'd; and do I live to see your Worship stockt?

Hah! alas, honest man, thou knows me then: Prithee call the Watch, and let the Constable know who I am, prithee do; and here, I have some money about me.

'Tis more than I deserve, Sir; let me alone for your de­liverie.

Do so, honest Bell-man, and then let me alone with that Knave Trickwell.

Maids in your Night-rails, &c.

Mr. Constable, who's in the Stocks?

One Dashit, for a Robberie. Dashit he calls himself: dost know him?

Know him!—Well, Mr. Constable, what good have you done the Citie! Know him! a most notorious Thief; his house has been suspected for a Bawdie-house many a year; a harbourer of Cut-purses and Night-walkers; he has been a long time in the black blook, and is he taken now?

How? Burladie, Neighbour, we'll not trust the Stocks with him; we'll to Newgate with him to rights.

Well mov'd, Simon. Come, Sir, come, Sir, out with him.

Oh, does your Raskalships know me now? I thought you wou'd know me in the end.

Yes, the end of your worship we know.

Aye, here's an honest fellow can inform ye.

Yes, we thank him, he has inform'd us you are a Pimp and a Thief. Binde him fast, and to Newgate with him.

To Newgate! why Bell-man, Rogue, Raskal? To Newgate, amongst the prophane Jesuits too? oh, oh!

So, thou art like to thrive in thy Knaverie: Roguerie prospers with thee. To morrow is the Sessions at the Old-baily; I'll make him shrink with fear, ere I have done. Cou'd I but be reveng'd on this Corina,

I shou'd be prosperous indeed;

Some little Devil help me at a pinch at need.

SCENE the First. Corina's House.

THis is my Lodging, Gentlemen; where, if you'l please to wait a little, you shall both see and hear the truth of what I've told you.

But, Madam, Did he tell you he had kill'd his Friend? tell you himself, 'tis strange!

Sir, If you find I wrong him, let me dye. He came all breathless, panting to my Chamber, his Sword all bloody, pray'd me to conceal him, for he had murder'd Wellman.

Under favour, Madam, what quarrel had they, said he, 'tis a most rare Creature, I'm half in Love already.

Innocently was the unhappy cause; they lov'd me, both were Rivals in my Favour, nor knew I which my heart inclin'd to most; Wellman had Wit, Youth, Gaity and good Humour, lovely, well made, fit to engage a heart; and Friendly too was handsom, very discreet, very Amorous, soft in his Language, mo­dest in his Actions; and tho' their Charms were different, yet 'twas hard to say who was the greater Conquerour; so I by fa­vouring both, made either jealous.

S'bud, wou'd I had shar'd of that without the dan­ger?

But Wellman was to have married my Daughter Ma­rinda; to morrow was the day.

To please his Father, Sir, he made you think so, he has oft with sighs to me confess'd he could not love Marinda, I hope she will believe, and dye in rage, and then I shou'd lye content­ed in my Grave.

I pity thee, in troth now; but he was such a Villain, that but for his Fathers sake I'd let him dye unreveng'd—but Sir Jeffery Wellman's my Friend, and therefore I'l be dispos'd by you.

Madam, here's the Villainous man come—as gay as a young Bridegroom.

Pray Sir retire with these Gentlemen into my Closet, and you shall hear he will confess the murder, and having witness, you may apprehend him, and do you the while prepare the Watch, and let 'em wait below.

With what a Fury is a Whore inrag'd?

So now my Revenge grows high, cou'd I but hang this Friendly, which I wou'd because 'twas Wellman's Friend, and make Marinda mad,

Oh! with what Joy I'd follow—for 'tis I

Must end the last Act of the Tragedy.

But stay—

Oh! do not kill me with that fatal stay.

You have not told me yet how you kill'd Wellman.

Oh! name him not, some fit of Love or Rage will seize thy Soul at naming him, and ruin me. My dear Corina, Mistris of my Life, name him no more.

Now, on thy Life, by all I hold most dear, now Wellman is no more, the repetition will be wondrous grateful. Prethee, how fell the perjur'd faithless man? tell it me o're agen, and I'll resign my self for ever to thy Arms.

Tell thee and take thee! Were each word Blasphemy, wou'd every Syllable betray my Life, I'de hast to utter it for that Reward: though I can tell no more than what I've done al­ready—that we met at a Ball, prepar'd for the contracting of Wellman to Marinda; where I being out in a Dance, or I at least pretending so, I struck him, we drew, but being parted there, I challeng'd him out, and it being late, we fought i'th street, where I had th' Advantage of him and kill'd him.

What did you with the Body?

Drag'd it into Fleet Ditch, with the next Tide to flote where Fortune pleas'd, and slew my dear Corina—

You shall dye for't, fond easie Fool—

Seize the Murderer, Oh wicked Villain, base and treacherous!

Base and perfidious Woman! hold off your hands, and let me ask this Devil, why she does thus.

Ah fool! that cou'dst believe my Love so slight to let thee live, that murder'd him I liv'd for.

Well ye Gods! you have reclaim'd my Wildness, and brought me back to man,—and now I see the Strong Deformi­ty of sinful Passion.

Come, Come, Sir, we came not here to talk, 'tis Morn­ing already, carry him directly to the Old Baily, the Sessions is now, and let him be hang'd out of the way.

You've Reason Sir, and deserve this Usage, but yet un­hand me—thus I'de been serv'd had I indeed kill'd Wellman! but Sir he lives, lives at his Goldsmiths, one Glister in Cheap­side.

Heavens! Lives! Lives to be married! Oh—

We are not to believe that Sir, to Prison with him till▪ he can prove this true.

No rudeness Sir, I'll go unguarded—Death! what a vile, poor, degenerate thing, a Mercenary Woman is—

How, a Mercenary Woman? Where the Devil have I liv'd, and how past my time, I knew her not before—this is her Man—I must get acquainted with him,—Friend—a Word I pray.

How Sir, this Woman set you on! nay then Mr. Con­stable, pray lay hold of her, and see her forth coming.

With Joy, since Wellman lives, and lives to be perjur'd, no matter what becomes of poor lost me.

No Sir, let me instruct you, take my Word I am a Gen­tleman, and known to you, she shall be forth coming if there be an Occasion, tho' she be false she is a Woman still, a beauteous lovely Woman—come Sir I'll follow you.

I've yet a little Pity on my Heart, and that forsaken Beauty I have ruin'd.

But Sir you do not mind me.

Said you Sir?

I ask'd you Sir, who this Lady was, to whom I per­ceive you belong; whether a man may be welcome for his Mo­ney—you conceive me.

Sir?

Nay Sir, I ask your Pardon Sir, no Offence I hope; I'am a Knight by Birth Sir, and have Sir, some sixteen hundred a year Sir, no contemptable Fortune for a Gallant.

A Gallant Sir?

Whe yes Sir, a Gallant Sir, whe what a Devil, I speak no Treason I hope in the Lord.

But Sir you do as bad, this Lady is of Quality, and has a Fortune too, or if she had not, she has Beauty sufficient to in­title her to be a wife.

Say you so Friend, I must confess I am very much ta­ken with her Beauty, but that I have a sort of an Ingagement upon my Person, to Mrs. Diana now, but I like this better by much Sir; and if she can but clear her self of the Business of this Murder, and has but any reasonable Fortune—and I get my self off this Diana—

Who is she Sir?

Sir Lyonel Worthy's Daughter Sir, a little learing Titt as any's in England.

Sir to serve you, cou'd you help me to the Speech of her, I wou'd do much, and have some artful Cunning.

Help thee, whe I'll carry thee immediately man, but do't so, as she may be very willing to part with me—or [Page 53] else, poor thing, twill grieve me to disappoint her.

I'll warrant you for doing that; and clearing this Lady, and securing you a Portion.

E Gad, and I'm a Man made then—come along thou shalt have a handsom Reward for thy Pains too.

SCENE Sir Lyonel's House

'Tis true, when I consider he was false, methinks I should not dye.

Nay, as for that I think you are mistaken, I believe him true enough, and that was some insensed Mistris, some of his Fa­mily of Love, that envyed your Happiness only, and came to put you in Despair, and I believe Wellman is not dead, nor can [Page 54] I think Friendly cou'd be so base upon any account to kill him; he's virtuous, has some Religion in him, and much honesty, prethee be pacified; come sit, you have not slept to night, sit and lets sing to you, and I dare hold you my Diamond Pendants to fifty Guinneys Wellman is alive. Come Ample, sing a Song.

Look ye, Sir, I have brought you in, now lay your lyes as close together as you please, do you my bus'ness, and no matter how: I must to the Sessions house this morning to give my Evidence against Friendly.

Away! I'll hear no more! I cannot sleep! Alas, there is no Musick like my sighs and grones; leave me, and let me go—to rest, and Wellman!

Ample, she swoons, help, help—

By your leave, sweet Creatures.

Uncivil Sir, what are you?

One that brings comfort: hah! the Lady dying! stand off, I have a Cordial in my Voice—oh! she's gone, curs'd be my Trial! See, 'tis Wellman calls.

Wellman! ha, ha, ha! Sister, look up, he's here.

She stirs, give her more Air.

How have I slip'd off Life! where am I, hah! in Hea­ven sure, and this is Wellman kneeling: Art thou an Angel there?

I would not wish it yet, no; we have an Age to come in love e're we arrive to that.

You live then!

I shall dy with Joy else.

Call back the Blood into thy paled Cheeks, thou Mira­cle of Women! I made this tryal only to secure my Faith, and I believe you love, and I am happy; by all that's good, I never was unjust; that Woman, that beauteous Sinner whom you saw, I've been to blame with, but you must forgive the Errours of my Youth.

I do! and her! and must love whom you've lov'd.

I thank thy goodness, but it shall not need, hereafter I'll tell thee all my Life, but now my time is short, and I must yet remain in this Disguise 'till Friendly's Tryal's past; for he shall suffer to the last degree, for leaving thee, Diana, for another.

And has he been so wicked?

Yes, but is now reclaim'd, but 'twas but in obedience to your Commands, you'd have him try to lose his Maidenhead, and he forsooth fell desperately in love, but I'll return the Peni­tent into your Arms again.

Faith Brother, I do love the Fugitive, that's flat: and if my Father please, will marry him; but he's for Sir John Empty.

But Sir John Empty is not for you, his heart's ingag'd to this Corina, my quondam Mistris, she strikes all dead that look on her, and I'm to get your consent he may leave you.

Alas! pray tell him tho' 'twill break my very heart; yet what must be, must be, Marriages are made in Heaven, and so forth.

Let me alone: but see where he comes breathless.

News, news, news, news!

Mackerel, Mackerel, Mackerel, fresh come ashore.

Whe, how now, Mrs. Marinda! whe, you look blith and brisk upon't.

Whe ay, is not that better than louring, and pouting, and puling, which is troublesom to the living and vain to the Dead? for my own part, let my Husband laugh at me when I'm dead, so he smile upon me whilst I live: I love a chearful coun­tenance in all conditions.

Ay, but to see a Woman whine, and yet the Devil a tear falls; mourn, and yet keep her cheeks full.

Ay, there's the Devil.

And yet I was heartily afraid y faith that I shou'd a seen a Garland on that Beauty's Herse; but Time, Truth, Experience and variety, have great power over Woman-kind.

Well Sir, but to the business, the News you were so big with?

Why, 'tis this: the Publick Sessions this day holden at the Old Baily has condemn'd poor Frank Friendly.

Hah! Whe Sir, he offered to produce Mr. Wellman at one Mr. Glisters a Goldsmiths.

That's all one, when it came to the test Glister de­ny'd he ever saw or heard of him, and his own Confession hangs him without more witness, and with him Dashit the Vintner is condemn'd for Robbery, and several others.

How? Dashit for Robbery? and was it prov'd against him?

Only shrewd suspicions, 'tis thought he'l have a Par­don: a Cloak was stolen, that Cloak he had. The Justice was in Drink that committed him, the Judges severe and in haste, the Jury hungry, and so the Knave was cast; but hang him, he has cheated me with many an unmerciful Bill: but, Lord, to hear his mone, his wishes, his curses, his prayers, and his ill-tim'd Zeal, by my troth, they wou'd have made a Comedy. But, Sir, the Lady, the poor Lady you serve, and who betrayed Friendly, is sent to Newgate; Well, I'll take my Oath 'tis a lovely Gentle­woman, 'tis a thousand pities; they say she must be try'd the next Sessions.

Let me alone for a neat and seasonable lye;

—how Sir, a Lady, pray, who mean ye?

She that was here, Madam, and gave an account how Wellman was kill'd.

Heav'ns, his Sister! Mean you Wellman's Sister Sir?

How, Wellman's Sister?

Wellman's Sister, Madam?

Can you do less for an abandon'd Mistris than tell a handsom lye to get her a good Husband? Say 'tis so, or I'll make mischief.

The Gentleman knows 'tis so: I told him she was of Quality.

A very virtuous Maid; Heav'ns! that I had but a Bro­ther that wou'd marry her, and take her part in defiance of the World! Nay Sister, we must in Honour visit her: poor Inno­cence!

Hah! Wellman's Sister? Whe, look ye Madam, tho' you have not a Brother, I wou'd have you to know you have a Lover, that will do as much to serve you as any Lover in Christendom, and as for marrying her, for your sake, Madam, and to do the Lady good, I'de venture as far as Hercules, de ye see, or Alexander the Great, that I wou'd.

Most Heroically spoken, the Contents do almost break my heart, yet, Sir, to let you see I scorn to be out-done in Bra­very, I'le—give you leave—to marry her; and I think that's a bold word.

Egad and so 'tis.

Nay if you are so resolv'd, and keep that Resolution, 'twill not be hard to bring the Lady off, so many Friends joyning to her party.

For my part I'll dye to serve her.

And so will I in blood, now I'm set on't,

Come then, without Delay let's visit her,

Where? At New-gate Sister?

At New-gate: Oh let not that Word fright you, because so many have gone to the Gallows from thence! martyr'd Inno­cence does often dye where Thieves and Robbers do; a Gallows may be sanctify'd, why not a Prison? Come Sir John your hand.

And Sir I must beg yours.

Pray remember the poor Prisoners, the poor Prisoners, pray remember the poor Prisoners. ho, ho, ho!

Dam ye for a Son of a Whore, how sneakingly do you beg—Remember the Poor—ye meeching Bitch, is that a Voice to dive to the Bottom of a Usurers Pocket, and fetch out Money in despight of his harden'd heart?—Remember the Poor? Pox of your snivelling, stand by ye Dog, and let me come to the Grate.

Alas, Mr. Shamock, me thinks we should have little Sto­mach to beg, I hear our Reprieves are out of Doors, and they talk of a Warrant for Execution, so that we may be hang'd to Morrow.

Why you whining Cur, be hang'd to Morrow? whe then we have the more need to beg hard to day, that we may drink at parting; Sirrah beg me heartily and with a good impudent Grace, I'll beat out your Brains with your own Fetters.

Oh! hold, hold, spare my Life good Mr. Shamock.

So, I see thou bear'st a Conscience, and wo't not cheat the Gallows of it's due.

Oh no Sir, I have too much Repentance to wish to dye so wickedly, as I have liv'd; I wou'd go out of the World like a good Christian however.

Was there ever such a chicken-hearted Son of a Whore? thou wert ever a lazy Rascal, and I remember when we were getting a painful Living on the Kings High-way, wou'dst sleep the while, yet wake to share the snack, and to be drunk for Joy of the Prize: Stand away and observe me now, with what a laudable Voice I'll move Compassion:

Christians pitty the poor Prisoners of this loathsome and dismal Dungeon, and 'twill be restored unto you in tenfold; drop your Bounty into this little Box, the only Support, Relief, and Comfort of twenty wretched Souls.

Noble Sir, Remember the poor Prisoners:

The Lord reward your noble Charity, and restore it to you for­ty and forty fold.

'tis an old Oliverian two-pence, a damn'd Commonwealths pair of Breeches, confound the mark and your good Worships Bounty, was this all the large Lethern Purse and your more large Consci­ence cou'd produce, wou'd I were worthy to have a Dive or two at your reverend Pockets, I wou'd ease 'em for you with a Pox.

Hah! Ladies alighted—

Most beautiful Ladies, dispense your noble Charity amongst twenty miserable Wretches, opprest with Hunger and Cold: Mer­ciful and fair—pity the Miseries of unfortunate young men; whose few short hours of Life they've left, shall be imploy'd in Prayers for you our noble Benefactors: Oh remember the Poor!

Sweet Lady, Heaven reward your Beauty with eternal Bloom and numberless Adorers.

Hah Gold! 'tis Gold by Jove.

Nay, now a short Life and a merry, we'l have it all in drink Boys, and when the Hour comes, dye like Hero's, sing the Psalm merrily, and then—be hang'd till we're sober.

Ah! Mr. Shamock 'tis a long Nap we shall take e're we wake again.

No matter, then we shall not be dry next Morning.

Oh this is sad jesting—Oh, Oh, Oh!

Here's a cowardly Rogue, now Plague on him, he's a shame to the noble Function of Padding: Sirrah, you shall have no Drink, 'tis thrown away upon the Rascal.

Drink? rot him, let him lap salt Water from his Eyes, like a mangy Dog as he is.

Come, come, lets in and drink.

Mr. Shamock, you must come down to your Devotion, here's a Parson come; Mr. Ordinary's sick; come away.

Pox o' your Ceremonies, a man cannot be hang'd in Peace for your Parson, and your paultry praying—but come, hang't since we must obey silly Customs, let's down, and then—to drink, my hearts—go, get ye down.

SCENE the inside of the Prison.

No Sir, I do not blush, nor are my cheeks grown, pale, tho' I'm condemn'd to dye a shameful death.

No kind of Death is shameful but the Cause.

Which I well know is none, Heaven is my witness, none.

Ah! you are happy Sir!—happy to quit the World in Innocence, for Innocence—is a most heavenly thing—for Sir, Innocence is all in all; Innocence is—

Very impertinent in your mouth, Sir,—you ought to have the manners to believe a dying man has other bus'ness—than to give ear to what you say; go preach to the Rabble, Sir, I'm not at leisure.

Ah!—what is sinful man—speak to him, Sir, to think upon his Soul, his precious Soul; ah, his too precious Soul—

Perhaps I'm not of your perswasion, Sir.

Hah! Heaven forbid—I hope you'r not a Papist Sir.

If I am, Sir, what then?

What then? whe then Sir, guilty or not guilty, you deserve to dye, and I'll prove it, and stand to't.

Prethee leave us, we are serious.

Leave yee, yes faith, 'tis-time: you are not worth a Groat.

But is there Sir no hopes of a Reprieve?

I'll warrant you Sir, I've Interest enough for that.

Upon my Honour, Sir, Wellman is but mislodg'd, and l've already satisfied yee how I came to say what I did of his Death to that fair false one,—sure some Lethargy has seiz'd him, that he appears not, or else he's mad, it cannot be unkind­ness, and it wou'd grieve you, Sir, to see me dye, and after find me innocent.

By th' Mass, and so it wou'd, Sir; therefore I'll to Court about your Reprieve immediately; nor need you doubt my Diligence or Success;—but why, thou beauteous Hypocrite, didst thou betray him thus?

I will not answer thee: I own my guilt, and am asham'd and angry at my Destiny: Were Wellman dead, I could endure the rest, but would not live to see him live an­other's.

Well Sir, fare ye well till anon.

Nay, do not hide your Face, or turn away—I'm won­drous glad to know where a Maid may find ye when she has need of you; and tho' these Chains are something easier than those of Matrimony, yet, like a malicious Woman, I am for proposing a change; faith, what d'ye think on't? dare ye venture? me­thinks [Page 61] 'twere no ungrateful Leap from the Gallows into a fair young Ladies Arms?—wou'd you not rather cry, Drive away Carman?

Oh! do not mock my miseries, Diana!

By this hand, not I; You may remember, I swore never to marry, till the man I lik'd cou'd give me proofs he was a man; you bow'd, and blush'd, and talk'd of Maidenheads, and modest­ly protested your Virginity; oh, filthy in a man! a man of sense too!—but you'r improv'd, I hear, grown wise of late, and given me proofs you are no Block-head; and I, to keep my word, am come to challenge you;—and to put you out of all these hanging apprehensions, know Wellman's alive.

How! Wellman alive?

My dear, unkind, have you dealt well with me?

I was resolv'd I wou'd be quits with you for getting my Mistress from me; which by the way I beg you wou'd forgive. I've a Design to marry her to Empty.

The sooner for that reason, with my Father's leave, I have a good hank upon you when you're insolent, to upbraid ye with the place from whence I had ye.

He cannot but commend your Passion for him.

I am asham'd to be so much oblig'd.

Nay, leave the shame to her.

Shame, I laugh at it, and wou'd have believ'd none to have marry'd Friendly under the Gallows—therefore take my hand, and bind the bargain.

Thou art a Noble Creature, and I am thine forever.

By Heaven, Corina, it was not want of Love, my For­tune did depend upon my Marriage, but when I saw the Woman destin'd for me, I must confess I felt new flames possess me, with­out extinguishing the old, and I resolv'd to love her virtuously, and hold an honest Friendship still with thee—to raise thee up above the Worlds contempt, the fickle favours of unconstant man, and love thee as my Siste.

What pow'rful Charms dwell in thy tender language! thou melt'st my rage with every softening look, and lead'st me [Page 62] a tame Captive to thy will;—I am still all thine, dispose me as thou pleasest.

This Knight, Corina, then resolve to marry, I'll make thy Fortune equal to his Quality, the man is honest, young, and Ma­ster of himself. He thinks thou art my Sister—nor will I ever undeceive him.

Well—since I must lose you, and am by your Commands obliged to Life, no matter how forlorn and wretched 'tis—

By my troth, Sir, you have left her like a man of Ho­nour.

Sir Iohn, you are my Friend, and this my onely Sister, for whom I know you have a Passion; and since Mrs. Diana is dis­pos'd of, I am resolv'd you shall not be disappointed of a Lady. Take her, and trust my Friendship for her Fortune, 'twill not be inconsiderable.

Fortune Sir! I scorn she shou'd owe her Ladiship to any Fortune but what my single Honour can give.

—therefore Madam, I am your Knight, your Champion, your most humble Husband and obedient Servant, Iohn Empty, Ba­ronet: but good Brother, let us make haste out of this scan­dalous place, it puts me so damnably in mind of mortality, it will spoil my Wedding-night.

Ay Sir, as soon as Friendly's discharg'd.

You must give me leave to call

your Sister too, for I must love and serve all that love Wellman.

Madam, the Generous Pattern that you have set me, I shall be proud to fol­low.

Hah, Sure that Wench I know,—'tis she—whe how how now, Nan, what brought thee hither?

'Fore Gad e'en my kind heart, Mr. Wellman, Love, villa­nous Love!

Hah, Love! whe, what a pox, is that become a hanging matter in our Age?

If 'twere, your Neck's in no great danger.

Good Lord, what I warrant you think I was never in love then? yes faith have I, and have felt your Flames and Fires, and Inclinations, and Wamblings, as often as any He that wears a head.

Then you are the first Fool I ever knew inspir'd.

spare him Nan, he's my Brother, but prethee say how came Love to bring thee to this fatal end?

Fatal! 'tis my Glory—and egad my Statue and History ought to be added to the Gallery of Heroick Women—why you have hear'd I suppose, that my Husband was condemn'd last Sessions, Mr Shamock.

What the famous Padder? is he thy Husband?

Yes Faith, he had a Reprieve, but now the Warrant's sign'd for Execution, and he is to be hang'd to morrow.

Well what's that to thee?

Whe faith, we have liv'd lovingly hitherto together, and we'll e'ne dye as lovingly, for I am resolv'd to be hang'd honestly with him.

Honestly hang'd—how so?

Whe I'll tell you Sir, when the Tidings came to me of poor Iack's being apprehended, I soon knew which way the World wou'd go with him; I ne're snivel'd and nouted like a feeble Woman for the matter, but e'ne resolv'd bravely to take a Turn at Tyburn with him.

Lord have Mercy upon us.

In order thereunto, what does me I, but hearing of a Fellow that had lost a parcel of Goods of value, but goes my ways to him, accuses my self for the Thief, was sent to Newgate, and to my great Joy and Satisfaction, was condemn'd with honest Iack efaith: On my Soul, Mr. Wellman, I trembled for Fear I thou'd have been acquitted, but the honest Jury took Pity on me, and brought me in Guilty. When the Devil wou'd any of your Wives of Quality have show'd this conjugal Constancy?

Lord deliver me, what a wicked World is this, that People shou'd have the face to confess their Villainies! she con­fesses all now, and some are hang'd and confess nothing.

And wo't thou be so good natur'd to take a Turn with him at the Gallows?

With as much Joy as e're I kiss'd him.

Whe this is the most admirable Proof of Love, I ever heard off.

Proof of Love, proof of the Devil, Man, what to be slain at Tyburn for Love? whe 'tis most damnable and as nonsensi­cal as to be hang'd for Religion.

I find by your Principles that you'l keep out of Harms way.

Nay o'my Conscience, I shall ne're increase the Num­ber of the noble Army of the Martyrs.

Nan, where are you, here's the Fellow has brought home our Coffin.

Let him bring't in my dear, you shall see Mr. Wellman, what a Device I have found out, never to part with dear Jack: I have bespoke a Coffin to hold us both.

How a Coffin? Lord have Mercy upon's, how great the Devil is with this Woman! but what care have you taken of your Soul all this while?

That's the Business of Mr. Ordinary, he has so much a year allow'd him for managing that Affair, and has undertaken mine: Come bring in the Coffin.

Whe, what a Coffin's here? Is this a Coffin fit for Chri­stians?—D'ye see, and all pitch't within too, ye Dog, we shall stick to't, a pox on ye for a nasty Son of a Whore.

Bless me, sure these Reprobates never think of going to Heaven.

Ay! I gave him two broad pieces in hand too, and two more I have in my Pocket to give him—

Which I must be acquainted with.

But he shall be damn'd e're he be so well paid.

Besides, Sirrah, you might have had the Manners to have lin'd it with a little Bays this cold Weather, but you have neither Conscience nor fore-cast.

Lord! Brother Wellman, I believe some Priests have been tampering with 'em, they are so wicked.

Ha, Ha, Ha! a notable Observation.

I'de forgot too, I'll lay my Head to a Halter, this Coffin will not hold us both.

Hark ye Friend, don't lay with him, for he's oth' su­rer side.

Yes my Dear, as for that I believe we may make Shift, 'tis but my laying my Arm under thy Head, and thou thine over my Breast, and we shall lye as snug these cold nights—

Whe the Devil's in these People.

But I have a cursed Misfortune befallen me.

What's that, my dear Betty?

The Whore the Laundress, who had all the Linnen I was to be buryed in, like an ungrateful Baggage, knowing I was to be hang'd, and she to have no more of my Custom, has pawn'd all, my lac'd Linnen too; so that, dear Jack, I shall come to thy Arms but scurvily equipt to morrow.

Lets arrest her. Lord, Lord, that People shou'd have no Con­science nor Honesty in 'em: what will this wicked World come to.

Ay! and to rob the Gallows too, unmerciful Tyrant.

Young Woman, young Woman, this is no time to think of Trifles, and gew gaws; the best dress is that of Repentance, let your Conscience be clean and neat within, and no matter for Lace and Tawdrums; dress up your Soul I say.

Whe what a Pox have we here?

One who has preacht better Doctrine to your Ladyship e're now, [and] one who am appointed to put you in mind of your long home.

Whe ye Fool you, have I been taking such pains to pre­pare my self for this Journey, and need your Advice in the Devils name? get ye gone ye canting Rascal, here's honest Jack can teach me how to dye worth a Legion of you formal Gown-men.

Gad thou'rt a noble Lass.

In Troth and so she is, 'tis Pity she shou'd be damn'd.

Well Sirrah, here is your two pieces more, because I scorn to be worse than my word—

hah! my money's gone—what's the meaning of this? I had 'em and the two pieces for Jack Catch too in my Pocket when I came down.

Whe what a Pox have we Thieves amongst our selves? this is fine doings efaith.

Hang't let it go, they are some poor Devils that wanted it: go out and wait till I go up, and I'll pay you.

Or let him call again to Morrow in the Evening—

Well Husband, this is a very comfortable man.

He is so. But, good Mr. Parson, leave my Soul a little while to it self, I pray, and let us have a little of your counsel concerning my Body. I owe Mr. Glister the Goldsmith 40 l. and suppose, Mr. Parson, when I am going to Execution he shou'd be so unneighbourly as to set a Ser jeant upon my back—'twas for a Bowl—

Ah! trouble not thy self, my Christian Brother with transitory matters, but have an Eye—an Eye I say to the main chance—

I'll warrant your shoulders; but as for your neck—Plinius Se­cundus, or Marcus Tullius Cicero, or some body says; that a three­fold Cord is hardly broken.

A very Learned man this—well, I am not the first honest man that has been hang'd, and I hope shall not be the last.

True Sir, therefore have a righteous Stomach: for you perhaps may sup in Heaven to morrow.

Alas, Sin! I have no stomach to it at all Sir,—please you to take my Trencher, I never eat at night.

Ah, Husband, I little thought you shou'd have had need to have thought of Heaven so soon: oh!—had you been hang'd deservedly 'twou'd ne're have troubled me: for there's many an innocent man has been hang'd deserv'dly,—but to be cast away for nothing—oh,—oh.—

Comfort your self, good Mistris, moderate Grief is de­cent, you'l shortly be a Widow, and I'm a Batchelor; I'll come and visit ye, and give you Christian consolation.

Ah, Sir! you shall be heartily welcome, and pray make haste.—oh—oh—

Well,—I do here make my Confession before all good Christian People, and do declare—that if I owe any man any thing, I do heartily forgive him.

In truth, Religiously spoken. Whe, this is something.

But—but, if any manowes me any thing, let him pay my Wife.

A good reason too y faith.

There—are—the Writings of that Rogue's Estate who has brought me to this untimely End—dear Writings to me, God knows.

Where had you these?

I took 'em out yesterday, thinking to have carry'd 'em to my Lawyers, in order to taking the forfeiture of 'em: now thou may'st do't.

Ay, ay, Husband, I'll warrant'ye, I shall be diligent.

And now, good Yoke-fellow, take leave of thy honest and true Dashet.

No, Husband, an't please the Lord I'll not leave you now,—I'll see you hang'd first—

Hah, my writings! now for a trick of dexterity to re­trieve those, and I'm a man again—

but Brother, you must remember your sins too, and iniquities; you must consider you have been a Broacher of prophane Vessels, you have made us drunk with the juice of the Whore of Babylon: for whereas good Ale, Perry, Syder, and Metheglin, were the true Ancient British and Trojan Drinks, you have brought in Popery, meer Popery—French and Spanish Wines, to the subversion, staggering, and overthrowing of many a good Protestant Christian;—oh! re­member the Sins of the Cellar, beloved, the Mid-night sins that have been unsavoury to the tasts of your Customers, when you put the change upon 'em: remember your double scorings and long Bills, ah, remember your long Bills.

This is that Rogue Trickwell.

Ah! I confess, I confess, and forgive.

—has any heard of one Trickwell?

Trickwell; yes, I know him well: a very honest Religious man, and an unright Dealer with his Neighbours, and their Wives speak well of him.

I'll take it upon my Death he's the cause of my hanging, but I heartily forgive him; and if he wou'd but yet come forth and save me, I wou'd set him free from the Law, and discharge him for injuring me.

And wou'd you from the bottom of your Soul forgive him all his cheats and Rogueries?

I wou'd, and be bound in a thousand pound Bond to save him from the Law: ah! but 'tis impossible—

Why look ye, Sir,—behold, your worshipful Friend and humble Servant Thomas Trickwell.

Hah! discovered by Mr. Wellman.

Trickwell!

Now bawling Mr. Dashet.

Who wou'd have look't for a Wolf in Sheeps cloathing? or a Knave in a Parson's Gown?

No railing Dashet, if you do, I'l swear against you yet.

Ay do, and damn your Soul.

What with a little Perjury? the Lord have Mercy on our Age then: No, no Sir, I'll retrieve you from the Gallows, but as for your Goods and Moneys it must go towards the use of my two hundred pound a year, which you have kept me from this two years, and of which now, thanks to my Dexterity, I stand again possest.

How my Writings gone?

Thank God you're so rid of them, for I had been an eternal Rent charge upon you else, if I had not hang'd you: you know you had 'em for a little damn'd ballderdash Wine—

Well, I'de better loose my Writings than my Life.

Hold Trickwell;—yonder Woman I have been oblig'd to, and you have had Relief from—no Writings nor Pardon under marrying Mrs. May here—

Lord, Sir, what a Bawd?

The better Sirrah, she has a good Calling then, when all fails.

Gods Blessing of your heart, Sir.

No grumbling, do't or I'le deliver:—remember Sirrah how you used my Mistress last night, and had the Impudence to rival me—

Well Sir of two Evils I'll chuse this—give me thy hand Moll, thou'st been a loving Soul I must confess.

So there's some Revenge, I cou'd even cry for Joy now,

And so cou'd I too, if I knew for what.

Here, where's Mr. Friendly—here's your Reprieve Sir, Hah! Marin­da and Diana!

Yet with their Husbands Sir.

How, How?—hah! Mr. Wellman alive? and with Mr. Friendly—God bless ye, God bless ye all, I'm glad on't.

Ay Sir, and I am maryed to this Lady.

I'm glad of that too.

Here Mrs. Betty, where are you? Here's a Reprieve come for you:

Hah a Reprieve! What Devil ow'd me this malicious Spight, a Re­prieve—dam thee, thou ill, thou ominous looking Dog, ever the Messenger of Hellish Tidings: Oh! I cou'd tear thy hated Tongue out—Rogue—

Nay, dear, better be patient, and if we must part.—

By 'th Mass a hearty Wench I'll warrant her, but come let's away: good Boys let's home and Dance, but first give Money to these poor Wretches.

From this dire place many to Death have gone,

But to be marry'd, very rarely one.