ACT. II. SCENE I.

MY Fathers' antient, and may repose himself, if he pleases, after the Ceremony of his Entrance; but we, who are younger, should think it a sin, to spend any part of day-light in a Chamber. What are your wayes of living here?

Why Sir, we pass our time, either in conversation alone, or in Love alone, or in Love and Conversation together.

Come, explain, explain, my Counsel learned in the Laws of Living.

For conversation alone; that's either in going to Court, with a Face of Business, and there discoursing of the affairs of Europe, of which, Rome, you know, is the publick Mart; or, at best, meeting the Vertuosi, and there, wearying one another with rehearsing our own works, in Prose and Poetry.

Away with that dry method, I will have none on't. To the next.

Love alone, is either plain wenching, where every Curti­zan is your Mistriss, and every Man your Rival; or else, what's worse, plain whining after one Woman: that is, walking before her door by day, and haunting her street by night, with Guittars, dark Lan­thorns, and Rondaches.

Which, I take it, is, or will be our case, Camillo.

Neither of these will fit my humour: if your third prove not more pleasant, I shall stick to the old Almaine recreation; the Divine bottel, and the bounteous glass, that tun'd up old Horace to his Odes.

You shall need to have no recourse to that; for Love, and Conversation will do your business: that is, Sir, a most delicious Curtizan, I do not mean down-right Punk, but Punk of more than ordinary sence in Conversation: Punk in Ragou, Punk who playes on the Lute, and Sings; and, to sum up all, Punk who Cooks and Dresses up her self, with Poynant Sawce, to become a new Dish eve­ry time she is serv'd up to you.

This I believe, Aurelian, is your method of living, you talk of it so savorily.

There is yet another more insipid sort of Love and Con­versation: as for example, look you there, Sir; the

Courtship of our Nuns. They talk prettily; but, a Pox on'em, they raise our appetites, and then starve us. They are as dangerous as cold Fruits without Wine, and are never to be us'd but where there are abundance of Wenches in readiness, to qualifie 'em.

But yet they are ever at hand, and easie to come by; [Page 10] and if you'l believe an experienc'd sinner, easiness in Love is more than half the pleasure of it.

This way of chatting pleases me; for debauchery, I hate it; and, to Love, is not in my nature, except it be my Friends. Pray, What do you call that Nunnery.

'Tis a House of Benedictines, call'd the Torre di Specchi, where only Ladies of the best Quality are Profess'd.

Look you yonder, Sir, are two of the pretty Magpies, in white and black: if you will lull your self into a Platonick Dream you may: but, consider your sport will be but dull, when you play without Stakes.

No matter, I'll fool away an hour of Courtship; for I never yet was engag'd in a serious love, nor I believe can be. Fare­well, Gentlemen; at this time I shall dispence with your attendance: nay, without Ceremony, because I would be incognito.

Come then, Aurelian, to our own affairs.

For what Crime, fair Creature, were you condemn'd to this perpetual Prison?

For Chastity and Devotion, and two or three such melan­cholly vertues: they first brought me hither, and now must keep me company.

I should rather have guess'd it had been Murder, and that you are veil'd, for fear of doing more mischief wirh those Eyes: for, indeed, they are too sharp to be trusted out of the Scabbard.

Cease, I beseech you, to accuse my Eyes, till they have done some execution on your heart.

But I am out of reach, perhaps.

Trust not to that; they may shoot at a distance, though they cannot strike you near at hand.

But, if they should kill, you are ne'r the better: there's a Grate betwixt us, and you cannot fetch in the dead Quarry.

Provided we destroy the Enemy, we do not value their dead bodies: but you, perhaps, are in your first error, and think we are ra­ther Captives than Warriours; that we come like Prisoners to the Grate, to beg the Charity of Passengers for their love.

Inquire as dexterously as you can, what is the Name and Quality of this Charming Creature.

Be sure, if the Page approaches you, to get out of him his Masters Name.

By that short whisper which I observ'd you took with your Master, I imagine, Mr. Page, you come to ask a certain question of me.

By this thy question, and by that whisper with thy Lady, (O thou Nymph of Devotion!) I find I am to impart a secret, and not to ask one: therefore, either confess thou art yet a meer Woman un­der that Veil, and by consequence most horribly inquisitive, or thou shalt lose thy longing, and know nothing of my Master.

By my Virginity, you shall tell first.

You'll break your Oath, on purpose to make the forfeit.

Your Master is call'd—

You Lady is Yclip'd—

For decency, in all matters of Love, the Man should offer first, you know.

That needs not, when the Damsel is so willing.

But I have sworn not to discover first, that her Name is Ma­dam Lucretia; fair, as you see, to a Miracle, and of a most charm­ing conversation; of Royal blood, and Neece to his Holiness; and, if she were not espous'd to Heaven, a Mistriss for a Soveraign Prince.

After these Encomiums, 'twere vain for me to praise my Master: he is only poor Prince Frederick, otherwise call'd the Prince of Mantoua; liberal, and valiant, discreet and handsome, and, in my simple judgment, a fitter Servant for your Lady, than his old Fa­ther, who is a Soveraign.

Dare you make all this good you have said of your Ma­ster?

Yes, and as much more of my self to you.

I defy you upon't, as my Lady's Second.

As my Masters, I accept it. The time?

Six this evening.

The place?

At this Grate.

The Weapons?

Hands, and it may be Lips.

'Tis enough: expect to hear from me.

Madam, I am glad I know my enemy; for since it is impossible to see, and not admire you, the name of Lucretia is the best excuse for my defeat.

Persons, like Prince Frederick, ought not to assault Religi­ous Houses; or to pursue Chastity and Virtue to their last re­treat.

A Monastery is no retreat for Chastity; 'tis only a hiding place for bad faces, where they are thrust in Crowds together, like heaps of rubbish out of the way, that the world may not be peo­pled with deform'd persons, and that such who are out of Play them­selves, may pray for a blessing on their endeavours, who are getting handsome Children: and carrying on the work for publick be­nefit.

Then you would put off Heaven with your leavings, and use it like them who play at Cards alone, take the Courts for your selves, and give the refuse to the Gentleman.

You mistake me, Madam; I would so contrive it, that Heaven and we might be serv'd at once: we have occasion for Wit and Beauty; now Piety and Ugliness will do as well for Heaven; that playes at one Game, and we at another, and therefore heaven may make its hand with the same Cards that we put out.

I could easily convince you if the argument concern'd me; but I am one of those, whom, for want of wit and beauty, you have condemn'd to Religion: and therefore am your humble Servant to Pray for your handsome Wife and Children.

Heaven forbid, Madam, that I should condemn you, or indeed any handsome woman, to be Religious. No, Madam; the occasions of the World are great and urgent for such as you: and, for my part, I am of opinion, that it is as great a Sin for a Beauty to enter into a Nunnery, as for an ugly woman to stay out of it.

The Cares of the World are not yet upon you; but as soon as ever you come to be afflicted with Sickness, or visited with a Wife, you'll be content I should pray for you.

Any where, rather than in a Cloyster; for, truly, I suppose, all your Prayers there will be how to get out of it; and, upon that supposition, Madam, I am come to offer you my service for your re­demption. Come, faith, be perswaded, the Church shall lose no­thing by it: I'll take you out, and put in two or three Crooked Apostles in your place.

Hark, the Bell rings, I must leave you: 'tis a summons to our Devotion.

Will you leave me for your Prayets, Madam? You may have enough of them at any time, but remember you cannot have a Man so easily.

Well, I'll say my Beads for you, and that's but Charity, for I believe I leave you in a most deplorable condition.

Not deplorable neither, but a little altred: if I could be in Love, as I am sure I cannot, it should be with her, for I like her con­versation strangely.

Then, as young as I am, Sir, I am before-hand with you; for I am in Love already. I would fain make the first proof of my Man­hood upon a Nun: I find I have a mighty grudging to Holy Flesh.

I'll ply Lucretia again, as soon as ever her Devotion's over. Methinks these Nuns divide their time most admirably: from Love to Prayers; from Prayers to Love: that is, just so much Sin, just so much Godliness.

SCENE II.

I'll proceed no farther, if Benito goes: I know his folly will produce some mischief.

But Violetta desir'd me, in her Note, to bring him, on pur­pose to pass the time with her Woman Beatrix.

That objection is easily remov'd: I'll supply Benito's place; the darkness will prevent discovery, and, for my discourse, I'll imitate [Page 14] the half Wit, and patch'd breeding of a Valet de Cham­bre.

But how shall we get rid of him?

Let me alone for that.

Come, Are we ready, Gallants? the Clock's upon the stroke of Eight.

But we have alter'd our resolution: we go another way to night.

I hope you have not broke my Assignation.

Why do you hope so?

Because my reputation is engag'd in't: I'ave stipulated upon my honour that you shall come.

I shall beat you if you follow me. Go, Sirrah, and adjourn to the great looking-glass, and let me hear no more from you till to morrow morning.

Sir, my fidelity, and, if I may be so vain, my discretion may stand you in some stead.

Well, come along then, they are brave Fellows who have challeng'd us, you shall have fighting enough, Sir.

How, Sir, Fighting?

You may scape with the loss of a Leg, or an arm, or some such transitory limb.

No, Sir; I have that absolute obedience to your com­mands, that I will bridle my courage, and stay at home.

You took the only way to be rid of him. There's the wall: behind yond pane of it we'll set up the Ladder.

SCENE III.

Remember your waiting-womans part, Laura.

I warrant you, I'll wait on you by night as well as I go­vern'd you by day.

Hark, I hear foot-steps; and now, methinks, I see something approaching us.

They are certainly the Men whom we expect.

I hear Womens voices.

We are right, I warrant you.

Violetta, my Love!

My dear Camillo!

O speak those words again: my own name never sounded so sweetly to me, as when you spoke it, and made me happy by ad­ding Dear to it.

Speak softly then. I have stoln these few minutes from my watchful Uncle and my Sister, and they are as full of danger as they are of love. Something within me checks me too, and sayes, I was too forward in ventring thus to meet you.

You are too fearful rather, and fear's the greatest enemy to Love.

But night will hide my blushes, when I tell you I love you much, or I had never trusted my virtue and my person in your hands.

The one is sacred, and the other safe; but this auspicious minute is our first of near converse. May I not hope that favour, which strangers, in civility, my claim even from the most reserv'd?

I fear you'll censure me.

Yes, as the blest above tax heaven for making them so happy.

Damsel of darkness, advance, and meet my flames.

Right trusty Valet, heard, but yet unseen, I have advanced one step on reputation.

Now, by laudable custome, I am to love thee vehe­mently.

We should do well to see each other first: You know 'tis ill taking Money without light.

O, but the coyn of Love is known by the weight only, and [Page 16] you may feel it in the dark: Besides, you know 'tis Prince-like to Love without seeing.

But then you may be serv'd as Princes are sometimes.

Let us make haste however, and dispatch a little Love out of the way: we may do it now with ease, and save our selves a great deal of trouble, if we take it in time, before it grows too fast upon our hands.

Fie, no; let us Love discreetly, we must manage our passi­on, and not love all our love out at one meeting, but leave some for another time.

I am for applying the Plaister whilst the wound is green, 'twill heal the better.

Let go my hand: What crime has the poor wretch com­mitted that you press it thus? I remember no mischief it has done you.

O 'tis a hainous malefactour, and is press'd by Law, because it will confess nothing. Come, withdraw a little farther, we have urgent business with one another.

'Twere a shame to quit my ground upon the first charge; yer if you please to take truce a little, I will consent to go behind the Lovers, and listen with you.

I wonder you defer'd the Proposition so long. I were nei­ther true Valet, nor you true Woman if we could not Eves-drop.

Give me another yet, and then—

And then will you be satisfy'd?

And then I'll ask a thousand more, and ne'r be satisfy'd. Kisses are but thin nourishment, they are too soon digested, and hun­gry Love craves more.

You feed a Wolf within you.

Then feast my Love with a more solid dyet. He makes us now a Misers Feast, and we forbear to take our fill. The silent night, and all these downy hours were made for Lovers: Gently they tread, and softly measure time, that no rude noise may fright the tender Maid, from giving all her soul to melting joyes.

There's your destiny, Lover mine: I am to be honest by in­fection; my Lady will none you see.

Truth is, they are a lost couple, unless they learn grace by our ex­ample. Come, shall we begin first, and shame them both

You'll never be warn'd of this hand, Benito.

Oh, 'tis so soft, as it were made on purpose to take hearts, and handle them without hurting. These Taper fingers too, and even joynts, so supple, that methinks I mould 'em as they pass through mine: nay, in my conscience, th' it be nonsence to say it, your hand feels white too.

Methinks yours is not very hard, for a Serving-mans: but where, in the name of wonder, have you learn'd to talk so courtly? you are a strange Valet de Chambre.

And you are as strange a Waiting-woman: you have so stab'd me with your Repartees to night, that I should be glad to change the weapon to be reveng'd on you.

These, I suppose, are fragments which you learn'd from your wild Master Aurelian: many a poor woman has pass'd through his hands, with these very words. You treat me just like a Serving­man, with the cold Meat which comes from your Masters Table.

You could never have suspected me for using my Masters wit, if you had not been guilty of purloining from your Lady. I am [Page 18] told, that Laura, your Mistresses Sister, has wit enough to confound a hundred Aurelians.

I shall do your commendations to Laura for your comple­ment.

And I shall not fail to revenge my self by informing Aurelian of yours.

The poor souls shall not lose by the bargain, though my foo­lish gadding Masters have disappointed them. That Ladder of ropes was doubtless left there by the young Lady in hope of them.

Hark, I hear a noise in the Garden.

I fear we are betray'd.

Fear nothing, Madam, but stand close.

Now, Benito, is the time to hold forth thy tallent, and to set up for thy self. Yes, Ladies, you shall be Serenaded, and when I have display'd my gifts, I'll retire in Triumph over the Wall, and hug my self for the adventure.

Let us make haste, Sister, and get into Covert, this Musick will raise the House upon us immediately.

Alass, we cannot, the damn'd Musician stands just in the door where we should pass.

Camillo, this is my incorrigible rogue; and I dare not call him Benito, for fear of discovering my self not to be Benito.

The alarm's already given through the house. Ladies, you must be quick: secure your selves, and leave us to shift.

This way, this way.

I hear'em coming; and, as ill luck will have it, just by that quarter where our Ladder is plac'd.

Let us hide in the dark walk till they are past.

But then Benito will be caught, and being known to be my man, will betray us.

I hear some in the Garden: Sure they are the Ladies, that are taken with my melody. To't again Benito; this time I will ab­solutely inchant 'em.

He's at it again. Why Benito, Are you mad?

Ah, Madam! Are you there? this is such a favour to your poor unworthy Servant.

Come away, you unsufferable rascal, the House is up, and will be upon us immediately.

Leave your scraping and croaking, and step with us into this Arbor.

Scraping and Croaking! 'Sfoot, Sir, either grant I sing and play to a Miracle, or I'll justifie my Musick, though I am caught, and hang'd for't.

Where is this Serenading Rascall? If I find him, I'll make him an example to all midnight Caterwaulers, of which this Fidler is the lewdest.

O that I durst but Play my Tune out to convince him! Soul of harmony! Is this lewd?

Peace, dear Benito: We must flatter him.

Mettez la tete: the Notes which follow are so sweet, Sir, I must sing 'em, though it be my ruin—Parler d' amour.

Yes, we are safe, Sister; but they are yet in danger.

They are just upon 'em:

We must do something: Help, help; Thieves, thieves; we shall be murder'd.

Where? Where are they?

Here, Sir, at our Chamber door, and we are run into the Balcone for shelter: Dear Uncle, come and help us.

Back again quickly: I durst have sworn they had been in the Garden. 'Tis an Ignis fatuus I think that leads us from one place to another.

They are gone. My dear Camillo, make haste, and pre­serve your self.

May our next Meeting prove more propitious.

Come, Sirrah, I shall make you sing another note when you are at home.

Such another word, and I'le sing again.

Set the Ladder, and mount first, you Rogue.

ACT. III. SCENE I.

As a man of honour ought, Sister, when he is challeng'd: and now, according to the Laws of Duel, the next thing is to strip, and, in stead of se­conds, to search one another.

We'll strip our hands, if you please, Brother; for they are the only weapons we must use.

That were to invite me to my loss, Sister; I could have made a full meal in the World, and you would have me take up with hungry commons in the Cloyster. Pray mend my fare, or I am gone.

O, Brother, a hand in a Cloyster, is fare like flesh in Spain, 'tis delicate, because 'tis scarce. You may be satisfy'd with a hand, as well as I am pleas'd with the Courtship of a Boy.

You may begin with me Sister, as Milo did, by carrying a Calfe first, you may learn to carry an Oxe hereafter: In the mean time produce your hand, I understand Nuns-flesh better than you imagine: give it me, you shall see how I will worry it.

Now Could not we thrust out our lips, and contrive a Kiss too?

Yes, we may; but I have had the experience of it: it will be but half flesh, half Iron.

Let's try however.

Hold, Lucretia is here.

Nay, if you come with odds upon me, 'tis time to call Seconds.

Sir, though your Song was pleasant, yet there was one thing amiss in it, that was your Rallying of Religion.

Do you speak well of my Friend Love, and I'll try to speak well of your friend Devotion.

I can never speak well of Love: 'twas to avoid it that I en­tred here.

Then, Madam, you have met your Man: for, to confess the truth to you, I have but counterfeited Love to try you; for I ne­ver yet could love any Woman: and, since I have seen you, and do not, I am certain now I shall scape for ever.

You are the best man in the World, if you continue this resolution▪ Pray, then, let us vow solemnly these two things: the first, to esteem each other better than we do all the world besides; the next, never to change our amity to love.

Agreed Madam: shall I kiss your hand on't?

That's too like a Lover: or, if it were not, the narrow­ness of the Grate will excuse the ceremony.

No, but it will not, to my knowledge: I have try'd every bar many a fair time over, and, at last, have found out one where a hand may get through, and be gallanted.

There, Sir; 'tis a true one.

This, then, is a Seal to our perpetual friendship; and a defyance to all Love.

That seducer of virtue.

That disturber of quiet.

That madness of youth.

That dotage of old age.

That enemy to good humour.

And, to conclude all, that reason of all unreasonable acti­ons

This Doctrine is abominable, do not believe it Sister.

No, if I do, Brother, may I never have comfort from sweet youth at my extremity.

But remember one article of our friendship, that though we banish Love, we do not Mirth, nor Gallantry; for I declare, I am for all extravagancies, but just loving.

Just my own humour; for I hate gravity and melancholy next to love.

Now it comes into my head, the Duke of Mantoua makes an entertainment to night in Masquerade: if you love extravagan­cy so well, Madam, I'll put you into the head of one; lay by your Nun-ship for an hour or two, and come amongst us in dis­guise.

O my dear Sister, never refuse it: I keep the Keyes you know, I'll warrant you well' return before we are miss'd. I do so long to have one fling into the sweet World again before I die. Hang't, at worst, 'tis but one sin more, and then we'll repent for all toge­ther.

But if I catch you in the World, Sister, I'll make [Page 23] you have a better opinion of the Flesh and the Devil for ever af­ter.

If it were known, I were lost for ever.

How should it be known? you have her on your side, there, that keeps the Keyes: and, put the worst, that you are taken in the World; the World's a good World to stay in; and there are cer­tain occasions of waking in a morning, that may be more pleasant to you than your Matins.

Fie, Friend, these extravagancies are a breach of Arti­cles in our Friendship: but well, for once, I'll venture to go out; Dancing and Singing are but petty transgressions.

My Lord, here's company approaching: we shall be dis­cover'd.

Adieu then, jusqu'a revoir; Ascanio shall be with you immediately, to conduct you.

How, Will you disguise, Sister? Will you be a Man, or a Woman?

A Woman, Brother Page, for life: I should have the strang­est thoughts if I once wore Breeches.

A Woman, say you? Here's my hand, if I meet you in place convenient, I'll do my best to make you one.

But, Why thus melancholy, with Hat pull'd down, and the hand on the Region of the Heart, just the reverse of my Friend Aure­lian, of happy memory?

Faith, Camillo, I am asham'd on't, but cannot help it.

But to be in Love with a Waiting-woman! with an eater of Fragments, a Simperer at lower end of a Table, with mighty Golls, rough-grain'd, and red with Starching, those discouragers and abet­tors of elevated love!

I could Love Deformity it self, with that good humour. She who is arm'd with Gayety and Wit, needs no other Weapon to conquer me.

We Lovers are the great Creators of wit in our Mistrisses. For Beatrix, she a meer utterer of Yes and No, and has no more [Page 24] Sence than what will just dignifie her to be an arrant waiting-wo­man: that is, to lye for her Lady, and take your Money.

It may be then I found her in the exaltation of her wit; for, certainly, women have their good and ill dayes of talking, as they have of looking.

But, however, she has done you the courtisy to drive out Laura: and so one Poyson has expell'd the other.

Troth, not absolutely neither; for I dote on Laura's beau­ty, and on Beatrix's wit: I am wounded with a forked Arrow, which will not easily be got out.

Not to lose time in fruitless complaints, let us pursue our new contrivance, that you may see your two Mistresses, and I my one.

That will not now be difficult: this plot's so laid, that I de­fy the Devil to make it miss. The Woman of the house, by which they are to pass to Church, is brib'd; the Ladies are, by her, ac­quainted with the design; and we need only to be there before them, and expect the prey, which will undoubtedly fall into the net.

Your Man is made safe, I hope, from doing us any mis­chief.

He has dispos'd of himself, I thank him, for an hour or two: the Fop would make me believe that an unknown Lady is in love with him, and has made him an Assignation.

If he should succeed now, I should have the worse opinion of the Sex for his sake.

Never doubt but he'll succeed: your brisk Fool that can make a Leg, is ever a fine Gentleman among the Ladies, because he's just of their tallent, and they understand him better than a Wit.

Peace, the Ladies are coming this way to the Chappel, and their Jaylor with 'em: let 'em go by without saluting, to avoid suspicion; and let us go off to prepare our Engine.

I must have a look before we go. Ah, you little Divine rogue! I'le be with you immediately.

Look you, Sister, there are our Friends, but take no no­tice.

I saw them. Was not that Aurelian with Camillo?

Yes.

I like him strangely. If his person were joyn'd with Beni­to's Wit, I know not what would become of my poor heart.

Stay, Neeces, I'll but speak a word with Fabio, and go with you immediately.

I see, Sister, you are infinitely taken with Benito's wit; but I have heard he is a very conceited Coxcomb.

They who told you so, were horribly mistaken: you shall be judge your self, Violetta; for, to confess frankly to you, I have made him a kind of an appointment.

How! Have you made an Assignation to Benito? A Serving-man! a Trencher-carrying Rascal!

Good words, Violetta! I only sent to him from an un­known Lady near this Chappel, that I might view him in passing by, and see if his person were answerable to his conversation.

But how will you get rid of my Uncle?

You see my project; his man Fabio is brib'd by me, to hold him in discourse.

In my conscience this is he. Lord, what a Monster of a Man is there! With such a VVorkiday-rough-hewn face too! for, faith, Heaven has not bestow'd the finishing upon't.

'Tis impossible this should be Benito; yet he stalks this way: from such a piece of animated Timber, sweet Heaven deli­ver me.

This must of necessity be the Lady who is in Love with me. See, how she surveyes my Person! Certainly one VVit knows another by instinct. By that old Gentleman, it should be the Lady Laura too. Hum! Benito, thou art made for ever.

He has the most unpromising Face, for a VVit, I ever saw; and yet he had need have a very good one, to make amends for his face. I am half cur'd of him already.

VVhat means all this Surveying, Madam? you bristle up to me, and wheel about me, like a Turkey-cock that is making Love: Faith, How do you like my Person, ha?

I dare not praise it, for fear of the old Complement, that you should tell me, 'Tis at my service. But, pray, Is your Name Benito?

Signior Benito, at your service, Madam.

And have you no Brother, or any other of your Name, one that is a VVit, attending on Signior Aurelian?

No, I can assure your Ladiship: I my self am the only wit who does him the honour, not to attend him, but to bear him com­pany.

But sure it was another you, that waited on Camillo in the Garden, last night.

It was no other Me, but me Signior Benito.

'Tis impossible.

'Tis most certain.

Then I would advise you to go thither again, and look for the wit which you have left there, for you have brought very little along with you: your voice, methinks, too, is much alter'd.

Only a little over-strain'd, or so, with Singing.

How slept you, after your adventure?

Faith, Lady, I could not sleep one wink, for Dreaming of you.

Not sleep for Dreaming! VVhen the place falls, you shall be Bull-master-General at Court.

Et tu Brute! Do you mistake me for a Fool too? then, I find there's one more of that opinion besides my Master.

Sister, look to your self, my Uncle's returning.

I am glad on't; he has done my business: he has absolute­ly cur'd me. Lord, that I could be so mistaken!

I told you what he was.

He was quite another thing last night: never was Man so alter'd in four and twenty hours. A pure Clown, meer Elementary earth, without the least spark of Soul in him!

But, tell me truly, Are not you in Love with me? Con­fess the truth: I love plain-dealing: you shall not find me refracto­ry.

Away, thou Animal; I have found thee out for a high and mighty fool, and so I leave thee.

Come, now I am ready for you; as little Devotion, and as much good Huswifery as you please: take example by me; I assure you no body debauches me to Church, except it be in your Compa­ny.

I am undone for ever: What shall I do with my self? I'll run into some Desart, and there I'll hide my opprobrious head. No, hang't, I won't neither; all Wits have their failings sometimes, and have the fortune to be thought fools once in their lives. Sure this is but a copy of her countenance; for my heart's true to me, and whispers to me, she loves me still: well, I'll trust in my own me­rits, and be confident.

Oh Sir, I am wet quite through my Cloaths, I am not able to endure it.

Was there ever such an insolence?

Send in to see who lives there: I'll make an example of'em.

Here's the Woman of the House her self, Sir.

Sir, I submit, most willingly, to any punishment you shall inflict upon me; for, though I intended nothing of an affront to these sweet Ladies, yet I can never forgive my self the misfortune of which I was the innocent occasion.

O I am ready to faint away.

Alass, poor sweet Lady, she's young and tender, Sir: I beseech you, give me leave to repair my offence, with offering my self, and poor House, for her accommodation.

I know that Woman: there's some villanous Plot in this, I'll lay my life on't. Now, Benito, cast about for thy credit, and recover all again.

Go into the Coach, Neeces, and bid the Coach-man drive apace. As for you, Mistriss, your smooth Tongue shall not excuse you.

By your favour, Sir, I'll accept of the Gentlewoman's civili­ty; I cannot stir a step farther.

Come in, sweet Buds of Beauty, you shall have a Fire in an inner Chamber, and if you please to repose your self a while, Sir, in another Room, they shall come out, and wait on you imme­diately.

Well, if it must be so.

Your Friends are ready in the Gar­den, and will be with you as soon as we have shaken off your Uncle.

A Cheat, a cheat, a rank one; I smell it, old Sir, I smell it.

What's the matter with the Fellow? Is he distract­ed?

No, 'tis you are more likely to be distracted; but that there goes some wit to the being mad, and you have not the least grain of wit to be gull'd thus grosly.

What does the fellow mean?

The Fellow means to detect your villany, and to recover his lost reputation of a Wit.

Why, Friend, What villany? I hope my house is a civil house.

Yes, a very civil one; for my master lay in of his last Clap there, and was treated very civilly to my knowledge.

How's this, How's this?

Come, you are a dirty Fellow, and I am known to be a person that—

Yes, you are known to be a person that—

Speak your worst of me, What person am I known to be?

Why, if you will have it, you are a little better than a pro­curess: you carry messages betwixt party and party, and, in one word Sir, she's as arrant a Fruit-woman as any is about Rome.

Nay, if she be a Fruit-woman, my Neeces shall not enter into her doors.

You had best let them enter, you do not know how they may fructify in her house, for I heard her with these Eares whisper to'm, that their Friends were within call.

This is palpable, this is manifest; I shall remember you, Lady Fruiterer, I shall have your baskets search'd when you bring Oranges again. Come away, Neeces; and thanks honest Fellow for thy discovery.

Hah couragio: Il Diavolo e morto. Now I think I have tickled it; this discovery has re-instated me into the Empire of my wit again. Now, in the pomp of this atchievement, will I present my self before Madam Laura, with a Behold, Madam, the happy re­stauration of Benito.

Oh, now, that I had the Mirrour, to behold my self in the fulness of my glory! and, oh, that the domineering Fop my Master were in pre­sence, that I might triumph over him! that I might even contemn the wretched wight, the mortal of a groveling Soul, and of a deba­sed understanding.

How the Devil came these three together? nothing vexes me but that I must stand bare to him, after such an enterprize as this is.

Nay, put on, put on again, sweet Sir; VVhy should you be uncover'd before the Fop your Master? the wretched wight, the mortal of a groveling Soul.

Ay, Sir, you may make bold with your self at your own pleasure: But for all that, a little bidding would make me take your Counsel and be cover'd, as Affairs go now.

If it be lawful for a man of a debased understanding to confer with such an exalted wit, pray what was that glorious at­chievement which rapt you into such an extasy?

'Tis a sign you know well how matters go, by your asking me so impertinent a question.

Sir, I beg of you, as your most humble Master, to be satisfy'd.

Your Servant, Sir; at present I am not at leisure for con­ference. But hark you, Sir, by the way of friendly advice, one word, henceforward tell me no more of the adventure of the Garden, nor of the great Looking-glass—

You mean the Mirror.

Yes, the Mirror; tell me no more of that, except you could behold in it a better, a more discreet, or a more able face for strata­gem, than I can, when I look there.

But, to the business; What is this famous enter­prise?

Be satisfy'd, without troubling me farther, the business is done, the Rogues are defeated, and your Mistriss is secur'd: if you would know more, demand it of that Criminal,

and ask her how she dares appear before you, after such a signal treachery, or before me, after such an overthrow?

I know nothing, but only that, by your Masters Order, I was to receive the two Ladies into my house, and you prevent­ed it.

By my Master's Order? I'll ne'r believe it. This is your stratagem, to free your self, and defraud me of my reward.

I'll witness what she sayes is true.

I am deaf to all asseverations that make against my ho­nour.

I'll swear it then. We two were the two Rogues, and you the discoverer of our Villany.

Then, woe, woe, to poor Benito! I find my abundance of wit has ruin'd me.

But come a little nearer: I would not receive a good office from a Servant, but I would reward him for his diligence.

Virtue, Sir, is its own reward: I expect none from you.

Since it is so, Sir, you shall lose no further time in my ser­vice: henceforward pray know me for your humble Servant; for your Master I am resolv'd to be no longer.

Nay, rather than so, Sir, I beseech you let a good honest sufficient beating attone the difference.

'Tis in vain.

I am loath to leave you without a guide.

He's at it again, do you hear, Camillo?

Prethy, Aurelian, be molify'd, and beat him.

Pray, Sir, hear reason, and lay't on, for my sake.

I am obdurate.

But, What will your Father say, if you part with him?

I care not.

Well, Sir, since you are so peremptory, remember I have of­fer'd you satisfaction, and so long my conscience is at ease: what a Devil, before I'lll offer my self twice to be beaten, by any Master in Christendome, I'll starve, and that's my resolution, and so your Ser­vant that was Sir.

I am glad I am rid of him; he was my Evil Genius, and was alwayes appearing to me, to blast my undertakings: Let me send him never so farr off, the Devil would be sure to put him in my way, when I had any thing to execute. Come, Camillo, now we have chang'd the Dice, it may be we shall have better fortune.

SCENE. II.

The Prince I know already, by your description of his Masking-habit; but, Which is the Duke his Father?

He whom you see talking with the Prince, and looking this way. I believe he has observ'd us.

If he has not, I am resolv'd we'll make our selves as remarka­ble as we can: I'll exercise my tallent of Dancing.

And I mine of Singing.

Do you know the Company which came in last?

I cannot possibly imagine who they are: at least I will not tell you—

There's something very uncommon in the Ayre of one of them.

Please you, Sir, I'll discourse with her, and see if I can sa­tisfie your Highness.

Stay, there's a Dance beginning, and she seems as if she wou'd make one.

My curiosity redoubles, I must needs hale that unknown Vessel, and enquire whither she's bound, and what fraight she carries.

She's not worth your trouble, Sir: she'll either prove some common Courtizan in disguise, or at best, some homely person of Ho­nour, that only dances well enough to invite a sight of her self, and would look ill enough to fright you.

That's maliciously said; all I see of her is charming, and I have reason to think her face is of the same piece, at least I'll try my fortune.

What an unlucky accident is this! If my father should dis­cover her, she's ruin'd: if he does not, yet I have lost her conver­sation to night.

'Tis the Duke himself who comes to court you.

Peace, I'll fit him; for I have been inform'd to the least tit­le of his actions since he came to Town.

Madam, the Duke of Mantoua, whom you must needs imagine to be in this company, has sent me to you, to know what kind of face there is belonging to that excellent shape, and to those charming motions which he observ'd so lately in your Dan­cing.

Tell his Highness, if you please, that there is a Face within the Masque, so very deform'd, that if it were discover'd, it would prove the worst Vizor of the two; and that, of all Men, he ought not to desire it should be expos'd, because then something would be found amiss in an entertainment which he has made so splendid and magnificent.

The Duke I am sure would be very proud of your comple­ment, but it would leave him more unsatisfy'd than before, for he will find in it so much of Gallantry, as, being added to your other graces, will move him to a strange temptation of knowing you.

I should still have the more reason to refuse him; for 'twere a madness, when I had charm'd him by my motion and converse, to hazard the loss of that conquest by my eyes.

Will you be satisfy'd if I tell you I am of the Colonne; you have seen Iulia of that House.

Then you are she.

Have I not her Stature most exactly?

As near as I remember.

But, by your favour, I have nothing of her shape; for, if I may be so vain to praise my self, she's a little thicker in the shoul­ders, and, besides, she moves ungracefully.

Then you are not she again.

No not she: but you have forgotten Emilia of the Ursini, whom the Duke saluted yesterday at her Balcone, when he enter'd. Her Ayre and Motion—

Are the very same with yours. Now I am sure I know you.

But there's too little of her to make a Beauty: my stature is much more advantagious.

You have cozen'd me again.

Well, I find at last I must confess my self. What think you of Eugenia Beata? the Duke seem'd to be infinitely pleas'd last night, when my Brother presented me to him at the Belve­dere.

Now I am certain you are she; for you have both her sta­ture, and her motion.

But, if you remember your self a little better, there's some small difference in our wit: for she has indeed the Ayre and Beauty of a Roman Lady, but all the dulness of a Dutch-woman.

I see, Madam, you are resolv'd to conceal your self, and I am as fully resolv'd to know you.

See which of our resolutions will take place.

I come from the Duke, and can assure you he is of an hu­mour to be obey'd.

And I am of an humour not to obey him. But, Why should he be so curious?

If you would have my opinion, I believe he is in love with you.

Without seeing me?

Without seeing all of you: Love is love, let it wound us from what part it please; and if he have enough from your shape and conversation, his business is done, the more compendiously, without the face.

But the Duke cannot be taken with my conversation, for he never heard me speak.

'Slife, I shall discover my self. Yes, Madam, he stood by, incognito, and heard me speak with you: but —

I wish he had trusted to his own courtship, and spoke himself; for it gives us a bad impression of a Princes wit, when we see fools in favour about his person.

What ever I am, I have it in Commission from him to tell you, He's in Love with you.

The good old Gentleman may dote, if he so pleases; but love, and fifty years old, are stark non-sense.

But some men, you know, are green at fifty.

Yes, in their understandings.

You speak with great contempt of a Prince, who has some reputation in the world.

No; 'tis you that speak with contempt of him, by saying he is in love at such an Age.

Then, Madam, 'tis necessary you should know him better for his reputation: and, that shall be, though he violate the Laws of Masquerade, and force you.

I suspected this, from his violent temper.

Sir, the Emperour's Ambassador is here, in Masquerade, and I be­lieve this to be his Lady: it were well if you inquir'd of him, before you forc'd her to discover.

Which is the Ambassador?

That farthermost.

Take your opportunity to escape, while his back is turn'd, or you are ruin'd. Ascanio, wait on her.

I am so frighted, I cannot stay to thank you.

'Tis a mistake, the Ambassador knows nothing of her: I'm resolv'd I'll know it of her self, ere she shall depart. Ha! Where is she? I left her here.

Out of your reach, Father mine, I hope.

She has either shifted places, or else slipt out of the Assem­bly.

I have look'd round: she must be gone, Sir.

She must not be gone, Sir. Search for her every where: I will have her.

Has she offended your Highness?

Peace, with your impertinent questions. Come hither, Va­lerio.

Sir?

O, Valerio, I am desperately in love: that Lady, with whom you saw me talking, has— But I lose time; she's gone; haste after her; find her; bring her back to me.

If it be possible.

It must be possible; the quiet of my life depends upon it.

Which way took she?

Go any way, every way; ask no questions: I know no more, but that she must must be had.

Sir, the assembly will observe, that—

Damn the assembly, 'tis a dull insignificant crowd, now she is not here: break it up, I'll stay no longer.

I hope she's safe, and then this fantastick love of my Fathers will make us sport too morrow.

SCENE III.

Now, that we are safe at the gate of our Covent, methinks the adventure was not unpleasant.

And now that I am out of danger, Brother, I may tell you what a Novice you are in love, to tempt a young Sister into the wide World, and not to show her the difference betwixt that and her Cloyster: I find I may venture safely with you another time.

O, Sister, you play the Brazen-head with me; you give me warning when Time's past; but that was no fit opportun [...]y: I hate to snatch a morsel of Love, and so away; I am for a set-meal, where I may enjoy my full gust; but when I once fall on, you shall find me a brave man upon occasion.

'Tis time we were in our Cells. Quick, Hippolita, where's the Key?

Here, in my pocket —No, 'tis in my other Pocket —Ha—'tis not there, neither. I am sure I put it in one of them.

What should we do, if it should be lost now?

I have search'd my self all over, and cannot find it.

A woman can never search her self all over; let me search you, Sister.

Is this a time for Raillery? Oh, sweet heaven! speak com­fort quickly; Have you found it?

Speak you comfort, Madam, and tell me you have it, for I am too sure that I have none on't.

O unfortunate that we are! day's breaking; the handy­crafts shops begin to open.

The Clock strikes two: within this half hour we shall be call'd up to our Devotions. Now, good Ascanio—Alass he's gone too! we are left miserable, and forlorn.

We have not so much as one place in the Town for a Re­treat.

O, for a Miracle in our time of need! that some kind good-natur'd Saint would take us up, and heave us over the Wall into our Cells.

Dear Sister, Pray; for I cannot: I have been so sinful, in leaving my Cloyster for the World, that I am asham'd to trouble my Friends above to help me.

Alass, Sister, with what face can I Pray, then! Yours were but little vanities; but I have sin'd swingingly, against my Vow; yes, indeed, Sister, I have been very wicked; for I wish'd the Ball might be kept perpetually in our Cloyster, and that half the hand­some Nuns in it might be turn'd to Men, for the sake of the other.

Well, if I were free from this disgrace, I would never more set foot beyond the Cloyster, for the sake of any Man.

And here I Vow, if I get safe within my Cell, I will not think of Man again these seven years.

Hold, Hippolita, and make no more rash Vows: if you do, as I live, you shall not have the Key.

The Key! why, Have it you, Brother?

He does but mock us: I know you have it not, Asca­nio.

Ecce signum; Here it is for you.

O, sweet Brother, let me kiss you.

Hands off, sweet Sister; you must not be forsworn: you vow'd you would not think of a man these seven years.

Ay, Brother, but I was not so hasty, but I had wit enough to cozen the Saint to whom I vow'd; for you are but a Boy, Brother, and will not be a Man these seven years.

But, Where did you find the Key, Ascanio?

To confess the truth, Madam, I stole it out of Hippolita's Pocket, to take the Print of it in Wax; for, I'll suppose, you'll give my Master leave to wait on you in the Nunnery-garden, after your Abbess has walk'd the Rounds.

Well, well, good morrow: when you have slept, come to the Grate for a Letter to your Lord. Now will I have the head­ach, or the Meagrim, or some excuse, for I am resolv'd I'll not rise to Prayers.

Pray, Brother, take care of our Masking-habits, that they may be forth-coming another time.

Sleep, sleep, and dream of me, Sister: I'll make it good, if you dream not too unreasonably.

ACT. IV. SCENE I.

I Never thought I should have lov'd her. Is't come to this, after all my boastings and declarati­ons against it? Sure I lov'd her before, and did not know it, till I fear'd to lose her: there's the reason. I had never desir'd her, if my Father had not. This is just the longing of a Woman: she never finds the ap­petite in her self, till she sees the Meat on anothers Plate. I'm glad however, you took the impression of the Key; but 'twas not well to fright them.

Sir, I could not help it; but here's the effect on't: the Workman sate up all night to make it.

This Key will admit me into the Seraglio of the Godly. The Monastery has begun the War, in Sallying out upon the World, and therefore 'tis but just that the World should make Reprizals on the Monastery.

Alass, Sir, you and Lucretia do but skirmish; 'tis I and Hippolita that make the War: 'tis true, opportunity has been want­ing for a Battel, but the forces have been stoutly drawn up on both sides. As for your concernment, I come just now from the Mona­stery, and have Orders from you Platonick Mistriss to tell you, she expects you this evening in the Garden of the Nunnery; withall, she deliver'd me this Letter for you.

Give it me,

O, Sir, the Duke your Father!

Now, Frederick! not abroad yet?

Your last nights entertainment left me so weary, Sir, that I over-slept my self this morning.

I rather envy you, than blame you: our sleep is certainly the most pleasant portion of our lives. For my own part, I spent the night waking, and restless.

Has any thing of moment happen'd to discompose your Highness?

I'll confess my follies to you: I am in love with a Lady I saw last night in Masquerade.

'Tis strange she should conceal her self.

She has, from my best search; yet I took exact notice of her Masking habit, and describ'd it to those whom I employ'd to find her.

'Sdeath, it lies there unremov'd; and, if he turns himself, full in his eye. Now, now 'twill be discover'd.

For 'twas extreamly remarkable. I remember very well 'twas a loose long Robe, streak'd black and white, girt with a large Silver Ribband, and the Vizor was a Moor's Face.

Sir, I beg pardon of your Highness for this Rudeness, I am— O, Oh—

What's the Matter?

I am taken so extreamly ill o'the sudden, that I am forc'd to sit before you.

Alass, What's your distemper?

A most violent griping, which pulls me together on a heap.

Some cold, I fear, you took last night.

Who waites there? Call Physitians to the Prince.

Ascanio, remove these quickly.

How do you find your self?

Much better. Sir: that which pain'd me is remov'd: as it came unexpectedly, so it went as suddenly.

The Ayre, perhaps, will do you good. If you have health, you may see those Troops drawn out, which I design for Mil­lan.

Shall I wait your Highness?

No, leave me here with Valerio; I have a little business, which dispatch'd, I'll follow you immediately. Well, What success, Valerio?

Our indeavours are in vain, Sir: there has been inquiry made about all the Pallaces in Rome, and neither of the Masking-habits can be discover'd.

Yet, it must be a Woman of Quality. What Paper's that at my foot?

'Tis Seal'd, Sir, and directed to the Prince.

'Tis a Womans hand. Has he got a Mi­striss in Town so soon? I am resolv'd to open it, though I do not approve my own curiosity.

Lucretia! now the Mistery is unfolded.

Do you know her?

When I was last at Rome, I saw her often; she is near Kins­woman to the present Pope; and, before he placed her in this Nun­nery of Benedictines, was the most celebrated Beauty of the Town.

I know I ought to hate this Woman, because she has affronted me thus grossly; but yet I cannot help it, I must love her.

But, Sir, you come on too much disadvantage to be your Son's Rival.

I am deaf to all considerations: pr'ythee do not think of giving a Mad-man Counsel: pity me, and cure me, if thou canst; but remember there's but one infallible Medicine, that's enjoy­ment.

I had forgot to tell you, Sir, that the Governour Don Ma­rio is without, to wait on you.

Desire him to come in.

I am come, Sir, to beg a favour from your Highness, and 'tis on the behalf of my Sister Sophronia, Abbess of the Torr' di Spec­chi.

Sir, she's Abbess of that very Monastery where your Mistriss is inclos'd.

I should be glad to serve any Relation of yours, Don Ma­rio.

Her request is, That you would be pleas'd to grace her Chappel this afternoon. There will be Musick, and some little Ceremony, in the Reception of my two Neeces, who are to be plac'd in Pension there.

Your Neeces, I hear, are fair, and great Fortunes.

Great vexations I'm sure they are; being daily haunted by a company of wild Fellows, who buz about my house like Flies.

Your design seems reasonable; Women in hot Countryes are like Oranges in cold: to preserve them, they must be perpetu­ally hous'd. I'll bear you company to the Monastery. Come, Va­lerio; this opportunity is happy beyond our expectation.

SCENE II.

He has smarted sufficiently for this offence: pr'ythee, dear Aurelian, forgive him; he waits without, and appears penitent; I'll be responsible for his future carriage.

For your sake, then, I receive him into grace.

Benito, you may appear, your peace is made.

But, it must be upon conditions.

Any conditions that are reasonable; for, as I am a Wit, Sir, I have not eaten—

You are in the path of perdition already; that's the princi­pal of our Conditions, you are to be a Wit no more.

Pray, Sir, if it be possible, let me be a little Wit still.

No, Sir: you can make a Leg, and Dance; those are no Tallents of a VVit: you are cut out for a brisk fool▪ and can be no other.

Pray, Sir, let me think [...] Wit, or my heart will break.

That you will naturally do, as you are a Fool.

Then, no farther medling with adventures, or contrivances of your own: they are all belonging to the Territories of wit, from whence you are banish'd.

But what if my imagination should really furnish me with some —

Not a Plot, I hope?

No, Sir, no Plot; but some expedient then, to molify the word, when your invention has fail'd you?

Think it a temptation of the Devil, and believe it not.

Then farewel all the happiness of my life.

You know your doom, Benito, and now you may take your choice, whether you will renounce wit, or eating.

VVell, Sir, I must continue my Body at what rate soever: and the rather, because now there's no farther need of me in your adven­tures; for I was assur'd, by Beatrix, this morning, that her two Mi­strisses are to be put in Pension in the Nunnery of Benedictines, this afternoon.

Then I am miserable.

And you have defer'd the telling it till it is past time to stu­dy for prevention.

Let us run thither immediately, and either perish in't, or free them. You'll assist me with your Sword?

Yes, if I cannot do't to more purpose, with my counsel. Let us first play the fairest of our Game, 'tis time enough to snatch when we have lost it.

SCENE III.

I needed not those markes to know her. She's one continu'd excellence; she's all over Miracle,

We know, Sir, we are not capable, by our En­tertainments, of adding any thing to your pleasures, and therefore we must attribute this favour of your presence, to your piety and devotion.

You have treated me with Harmony so excellent, that I be­liev'd my self among a quire of angels; especially, when I beheld so fair a Troop behind you.

Their Beauty, Sir, is wholly dedicated to Heaven, and is no way ambitious of a commendation, which from your mouth might raise a pride in any other of the Sex.

I am impatient, and can bear no longer. Let what will hap­pen—

Do you not see your ruine inevitable? Draw in a holy place! and in the presence of the Duke!

I do not like Camillo's being here: I must cut short the Ce­remony.

Come, fair Cousins, we hope to make the Cloy­steral life so pleasing, that it may be an inducement to you to quit the wicked world for ever.

Take that, and read it at your leasure.

A Ticket, as I live, Aurelian.

Steal off, and be thankful: If that be my Beatrix with [Page 46] Laura, she's most confoundedly ugly. If ever we had come to Love-work, and a Candle had been brought us, I had faln back from that face, like a Buck Rabbet in coupling.

Daughters, the time of our Devotion calls us. All hap­piness to your Highness.

Little thinks my venerable old Love there, that his Mistriss in Masquerade is so near him. Now do I e'en long to a­buse that Fop-gravity again.

Methinks he looks on us.

Farewell, poor love, I am she, I am, for all my demure looks, that treated thee so inhumanely last night.

Stay Lady; I would speak with you.

Ah! (screaking.)

How now, Daughter? What's the meaning of that unde­cent noise you make?

If I speak to him, he will discover my voice, and then I am ruin'd.

If your name be Lucretia, I have some business of con­cernment with you.

Dear Madam, for Heavens sake make haste into the Cloyster, the Duke pursues me on some ill design.

'Tis not permitted, Sir, for Maids once entred into Religion, to hold discourses here of worldly things.

He does not know me, sure; and yet I fear Religion is the least of his business with me.

Since when, Madam, have the World and you been upon these equal termes of hostility? time was you have been better friends.

No doubt I have been vain, and sinful; but, the remem­brance of those dayes cannot be pleasant to me now, and therefore, if you please, do not refresh their Memory.

Their memory! you speak as if they were Ages past.

You think me still what I was once, a vain, fond, giddy creature; I see, Sir, whether your discourses tend, and therefore take my leave.

Yes, Madam, I know you see whither my discourses tend, and therefore 'twill not be convenient that you should take your leave. Disguise your self no farther; you are known, as well as you knew me in Masquerade.

I am not us'd enough to the World, to interpret Riddles; therefore, once more, heaven keep you.

This will not do: your voice, your meen, your stature, be­tray you for the same I saw last night: you know the time and place.

You were not in this Chappel; and, I am bound by vow to stir no farther.

But you had too much wit to keep that vow.

To save that labour, see if you know that hand, and let that justifie you.

What do I see! my ruine is inevitable.

A double ruine rather, if I grant: For what can I expect from such a Father, when such a Son betrayes me! Could I think of all Mankind, that Frederick could be base. And, with the va­nity of vulgar Souls betray a Virgins fame: one who esteem'd him, and I much fear did more than barely so —But I dare not examine my self farther; for fear of confessing to my own thoughts, a tenderness of which he is unworthy.

I watch'd till your old Gallant was gone, to bring you news of your young one. A mischief on these old dry Lovers, they are good for nothing but tedious talking; Well, yonder's the Prince at the Grate; I hope I need say no more to you.

I know it, is faln into his Fathers hands by accident. He's as wretched as you too. Well, well, it shall be my part to bring you together; and then, if two young people that have opportunity, can be wretched and melancholy —I'll go before and meet Asca­nio.

I am half unwilling to go, because I must be accessary to her Assignation with Ascanio; but, for once, I'll meet the Prince in the Garden walk: I am glad however that he is less criminal than I thought him.

SCENE IV.

I hear some walking this way. Who goes there?

We are the two new Pensioners, Laura and Violetta.

Go in, to your devotion: these undue hours of walking sa­vour too much of worldly thoughts.

Let us retire to the Arbor, where, by this time, I believe our Friends are. Goodnight, Sister.

Good Angels guard you.

Now, Brother, the coast is clear, and we have the Garden to our selves, Do you remember how you threatened me? but that's all one. How good soever the opportunity may be, so long as we two resolve to be vertuous.

Speak for your self, Sister, for I am wickedly inclin'd. Yet, I confess, I have some remorse, when I consider you are in Religi­on.

We should do very well to consider that, both of us; for, indeed, What should young people do, but think of Goodness and Religion; especially when they love one another, and are alone too, Brother?

A curse on't, here comes my Lord, and Lucretia. We might have accomplish'd all, and been repenting by this time; yet who the Devil would have thought they should have come so soon? —Ah—

Who the Devil would have put it to the venture? This is alwayes the fault of you raw Pages: you that are too young, never use an opportunity; and we that are elder can seldome get one.— Ah!

I believe, indeed, it troubled you to lose that Letter.

So much, Madam, that I can never forgive my self that negligence.

Call it not so, 'twas but a casualty, though, I confess, the consequence is dangerous; and therefore have not both of us rea­son to defy Love, when we see a little Gallantry is able to produce so much mischief.

Now cannot I, for my heart, bring out one word against this Love.

Come, you are mute, upon a Subject that is both easie and pleasant. A man in Love is so ridiculous a creature—

Especially to those that are not.

True; for to those that are, he cannot be so: they are like the Citizens of Bethlehem, who never find out one anothers Mad­dess, because they are all tainted. But for such antient Fops, as (with reverence) your Father is, What reason can they have to be in Love?

Nay, your old Fop's unpardonable, that's certain— But—

But What? Come, laugh at him.

But, I consider, he is my Father, I can't laugh at him.

But, if it were another, we should see how you would insult over him.

Ay, if it were another— And yet I don't know nei­ther, 'tis no part of good nature to insult: a man may be overta­ken with a passion, or so, I know it by my self.

Since you are not in Love, you may the better counsel me: What shall I do with this same troublesome Father of yours?

Any thing, but love him.

But you know he has me at a Bay; my Letter is in his pos­session, and he may produce it to my ruine: therefore if I did allow him some little favour, to mollify him—

How, Madam? would you allow him Favours? I can ne­ver consent to it: not the least look or smile; they are all too pre­cious, though they were to save his life.

What, Not your Father? Oh that he wou'd confess he lov'd me first!

What have I done? I shall betray my self, and confess my love, to be laugh'd at, by this hard-hearted Woman.

'Tis true, Madam, I had forgot; he is, indeed, my Father, and therefore you may use him as kindly as you please.

He's insensible: now he inrages me.

What if he proposes to Marry me? I am not yet profess'd, and 'twould be much to my advantage.

Marry you! I had rather dye a thousand deaths, than suffer it.

No, I have chang'd my mind: I'll live, and not be con­cern'd at it.

Do you contradict your self so soon? Then know, Sir, I did [Page 52] intend to do it; and I am glad you have given me advice so agreea­ble to my inclinations.

Heaven! that you should not find it out! I deliver'd your Letter on purpose to my Father, and 'twas my business, now, to come and mediate for him.

Hey day! What will this come to? they have cozen'd one another into a quarrel; just like friends in Fencing, a chance thrust comes, and then they fall to't in earnest.

You and I, Brother, shall never meet upon even termes, if this be not piec'd. Faces about, Madam, turn quickly to your Man, or by all that's virtuous, I'll call the Abbess.

I must not be so bold with you, Sir; but, if you please, you may turn towards the Lady, and I suppose you would be glad I durst speak to you with more authority, to save the credit of your willingness.

Well, I'll shew her I dare stay, if it be but to confront her Malice.

I am sure I have done nothing to be asham'd of, that I should need to run away.

Pray give me leave, Sir, to ask you but one question; Why were you so unwilling that she should be Marry'd to your Fa­ther?

Because then, her Friendship must wholly cease.

But, you may have her Friendship, when she is Marry'd to him.

VVhat, when another had enjoy'd her?

Victoria, Victoria, he loves you, Madam; let him deny it if he can.

Fie, fie, love me, Ascanio! I hope he would not forswear himself, when he has rail'd so much against it.

I hope I may love your mind, Madam; I may Love Spiri­tually.

That's enough, that's enough: let him love the mind with­out the body if he can.

Ay, ay, when the love is once come so far, that Spiritual [Page 53] Mind will never leave pulling, and pulling, till it has drawn the beastly body after it.

VVell, Madam, since I must confess it, (though I expect to be laugh'd at, after my railing against Love) I do love you all over, both Soul and Body.

Lord, Sir, VVhat a Tygress have you provok'd! you may see she takes it to the death that you have made this declarati­on.

I thought where all her anger was: VVhy do you not raile, Madam? Why do you not banish him? the Prince expects it; he has dealt honestly, he has told you his Mind, and you make your worst on't.

Because he does expect it, I am resolv'd I'll neither satisfie him nor you; I will neither raile nor laugh: let him make his worst of that, now.

If I understand you right, Madam, I am happy beyond either my deserts or expectation.

You may give my words what interpretation you please, Sir, I shall not envy you their meaning in the kindest sence. But we are near the Jessamine-walk, there we may talk with greater freedom, because 'tis farther from the House.

I wait you, Madam.

SCENE. V.

So, we are safe got over into the Nunnery-Garden; for what's to come, trust Love and Fortune.

This must needs be the walk she mention'd; yet, to be sure, I'll hold the Lanthorn while you read the Ticket.

I prepar'd this Ticket, hoping to see you in the Chappel: come this evening over the Garden-wall, on the right hand, next the Tiber.

(We are right, I see.)

Bring only your discreet Benito with you, and I will meet you, attended by my faithful Beatrix.

Discreet Benito! Did you hear that, Sir?

Mortifie thy self for that vain thought; and, without en­quiring into the mystery of these words, which I assure thee were not meant to thee, plant thy self by that Ladder without motion, to se­cure our retreat; and be sure to make no noise.

But, Sir, in case that—

Honest Benito, no more questions: Basta is the word. Re­member, thou art only taken with us, because thou hast a certain evil Daemon who conducts thy actions, and would have been sure, by some damn'd accident or other, to have brought thee hither to disturb us.

I hear whispering not far from us, and I think 'tis Violet­ta's voice.

Retire to your Post; avoid, good Sathan.

Ours is the honour of the Field, Madam; we are here be­fore you.

Softly, dear friend, I think I hear some walking in the Gar­den.

Rather, let us take this opportunity for your escape from hence; all things are here in readiness.

This is the second time we e're have met; let us discourse, and know each other better first: that's the way to make sure of some love before-hand; for, as the world goes, we know not how little we may have when we are Marry'd.

Losses of opportunity are fatal, in war, you know, and Love's a kind of warfare.

I shall keep you yet a while from close fighting.

But, Do you know what an hour in Love is worth? 'Tis more precious than an Age of ordinary life; 'tis the very Quinte­sence and Extract of it.

I do not like your Chymical preparation of love; yours is all Spirit, and will fly too soon: I must see it fix'd, before I trust you. But we are near the Arbor; now our out guards are set, let us retire a little, if you please; there we may talk more freely.

My Ladies Woman, methinks you are very re­serv'd to night: pray advance into the Lists; though I have seen your countenance by day, I can endure to hear you talk by night. Be cunning, and set your wit to show which is your best commodi­ty: it will help the better to put off that drug, your Face.

The coursest ware will serve such customers as you are: let it suffice, Mr. Servingman, that I have seen you too. Your face is the original of the ugliest Vizors about Town; and for wit, I would advise you to speak reverently of it, as a thing you are ne­ver like to understand.

Sure, Beatrix, you came lately from looking in your Glass, and that has given you a bad opinion of all faces. But since when am I become so notorious a fool?

Since yesterday; for t'other night you talk'd like a man of sence: I think your wit comes to you, as the sight of Owles does, only in the dark.

Why, When did you discourse by day with me?

You have a short memory. This afternoon, in the great street. Do you not remember when you talk'd with Laura?

But what was that to Beatrix?

That cannot be, for I well remember you were not there, Benito: I saw none but Camillo, and his friend the handsome stranger.

Curse on't, I have betray'd my self.

I find you are an Impostor; you are not the same Benito: your language has nothing of the Serving-man.

And yours, methinks, has not much of the Waiting-wo­man.

Nay, Madam, if you are good at that, I'll match you there too.

O prodigy! Is Beatrix turn'd to Laura?

Now the question is, which of us two is the greatest cheat?

That's hardly to be try'd, at so short warning: Let's Mar­ry one another, and then, twenty to one, in a Twelve Moneth we shall know.

Marry! Are you at that so soon, Signior? Benito and Bea­trix, I confess, had some acquaintance; but Aurelian and Laura are meer strangers.

That ground I have gotten as Benito, I am resolv'd I'll keep as Aurelian. If you will take State upon you, I have treated you with Ceremony already; for I have woo'd you by Proxy.

But you would not be contented to bed me so; or give me leave to put the Sword betwixt us.

Yes, upon condition you'll remove it.

Pray let our Friends be judge of it; if you please, we'll find 'em in the Arbor.

Content; I am then sure of the Verdict, because the Jury is brib'd already.

SCENE VI.

Knowing my own merits, as I do, 'tis not impossible but some of these Harlotry Nuns may love me: Oh, here's my Master! now if I could but put this into civil termes, so as to ask his leave, and not displease him—

I hear one talking, Sir, just by us.

I am stoln from my post, Sir, but for one minute only, to de­mand permission of you, since it is not in our Articles, that if any of these Nuns should cast an eye or so—

'Slife, we are betray'd; but I'll make this Rascal sure.

Help, Murder, Murder.

That was Benito's voice: we are ruin'd.

Oh, here they are; we must make our way.

Never fear, Ladies. Come on, Sir; I am your Man.

This is the Prince's Page, I know his voice, Ascanio?

Signior Camillo!

If the Prince be here, 'tis Aurelian is engag'd with him. Let us run in quickly, and prevent the mischief.

I hope you are not wounded.

No, Sir; but infinitely griev'd that—

No more; 'twas a mistake: but which way can we escape, the Abbess is coming, I see the Lights.

You cannot go by the Gate then. Ah me, unfortu­nate!

But over the Wall you may: we have a Ladder ready. Adieu, Ladies. Curse on this ill luck, where we had just perswa­ded e'm to go with us!

Farewell, sweet Lucretia.

Goodnight, Aurelian.

I, it might have prov'd a good one: Faith, shall I stay, yet, and make it one, in spite of the Abbess, and all her Works?

ACT. V. SCENE I.

I blush to tell you, Madam. They were Masking Habits, in which we went abroad.

With Ascanio, there are two Gentlemen; Aurelian and Ca­millo [Page 60] I think they call themselves, who came to me, recommended from the Prince, and desir'd to speak with Laura and Violetta.

I think they are your Lovers, Neeces.

Madam, they are.

But, for fear of discovery from your Unckle Mario, whose House you know, joyns to the Monastery, are both in Masque­rade.

In all that virtue will permit you shall not fail to find it.

Madam, the foolish Fellow whom we took grows trouble­some; What shall we do with him?

You fit to be an Abbess? We that live out of the World, should at least have the common sence of those that live farr from Town; if a Pedler comes by 'em once a year, they will not let him go without providing themselves with what they want.

SCENE II.

This generosity of the Abbess is never to be forgot; and it is the more to be esteem'd because it was the less to be ex­pected.

At length, my Camillo, I see my self safe within your Armes; and yet, methinks, I can never be enough secure of you: for, now I have nothing else to fear, I am afraid of you; I fear your constancy: they say possession is so dangerous to Lovers, that more of them die of Surfeits than of Fasting.

You'll be rambling too, Aurelian, I do not doubt it, if I would let you; but I'll take care to be as little a Wife, and as much a Mistriss to you, as is possible: I'll be sure to be alwayes pleasant, and never suffer you to be cloy'd.

You are certainly in the right: pleasantness of humour makes a Wife last in the sweet meat, when it will no longer in the Fruit. But pray let's make haste to the next honest Priest, that can say Grace to us, and take our appetites while they are com­ing.

That way leads to the Austin-Fryers, there lives a Fa­ther of my acquaintance.

I have heard of him; he has a mighty stroke at Matri­monies, and mumbles 'em over as fast, as if he were teaching us to forget 'em all the while.

Cappari; that's the voice of Madam Laura. Now, Benito, is the time to repair the lost honour of thy wit, and to blot out the last adventure of the Nunnery.

That way I hear company; let's go about by this other street, and shun 'em.

That voice I know too; 'tis the younger Sister, Violetta's. Now have these two most treacherously convey'd themselves out of the Nunnery, for my Master and Camillo, and given up their persons to those lewd Rascals in Masquerade; but I'll prevent 'em. Help there, Thieves and Ravishers, villanous Maskers, stop Robbers, stop Ravishers.

We are pursu'd that way, let's take this street.

Save your selves, and leave us.

We'll rather dye than leave you.

So, now the way is shut up on both sides. We'll dye mer­rily however:—have at the fairest.

Are these insolencies usually committed in Rome by night? it has the fame of a well-govern'd City; and methinks, Don Ma­rio, it does somewhat reflect on you to suffer these Disorders.

They are not to be hinder'd in the Carnival: you see, Sir, they have assum'd the Priviledge of Maskers.

If my Unckle know us, we are ruin'd; therefore be sure you do not speak.

How then can we be satisfy'd this was not a device of Masking, rather than a design of Ravishing?

Their accuser is fled, I saw him run at the beginning of the scuffle; but I'll examine the Ladies.

Now we are lost.

'Tis the same, 'tis the same; I know Lucretia by her Habit: I'm sure I am not mistaken. Now, Sir, you may cease your examination, I know the Ladies.

How the Devil does he know 'em?

'Tis alike to us; they are lost both wayes.

Madam, you may confess your self to me. What­ever your design was in leaving the Nunnery, your reputation shall be safe. I'll not discover you, provided you grant me the happiness I last requested.

I know not, Sir, how you could possibly come to know me, or of my design in quitting the Nunnery; but this I know, that my Sister and my self are both unfortunate, except your Highness be pleas'd to protect us from our Unckle; at least, not to discover us.

His Holiness your Unckle, shall never be acquainted with your flight, on Condition you will wholly renounce my Son, and give your self to me.

Alass, Sir, For whom do you mistake me?

I mistake you not, Madam: I know you for Lucretia. You forget that your Disguise betrayes you.

Then, Sir, I perceive I must disabuse you: if you please to withdraw a little, that I may not be seen by others, I will pull off my Mask, and discover to you that Lucretia and I have no resem­blance, but only in our misfortunes.

'Tis in vain, Madam, this dissembling: I protest if you pull off your Mask, I will hide my Face, and not look upon you, to convince you that I know you.

So, now the fray is over, a man may appear again with safety. Oh, the Rogues are caught I see, and the Damsels deliver'd. This was the effect of my valour at the second hand.

Look, look, Camillo, it was my perpetual Fool that caus'd all this, and now he stands yonder, lau [...]hing at his mischief, as the Devil is pictur'd, grinning behind the Witch upon the Gallows.

I see, Sir, you have got your Women, and I am glad on't: I took 'em just flying from the Nunnery.

You see that Fellow knows you too.

Were these Women flying from a Nunnery?

These Women? Hey day! then, it seems, you do not know they are your Neeces.

His Neeces, say you? Take heed, Fellow, you shall be pu­nish'd severely if you mistake.

Speak to Benito in time, Aurelian.

The Devil's in him, he's running down-hill full speed, and there is no stopping him.

My Neeces?

Your Neeces? Why, Do you doubt it? I praise Heaven I never met but with two half-wits in my life, and my Master's one of'em; I will not name the other, at this time.

I say they are not they.

I am sure they are Laura and Violetta, and that those two Rogues were running away with 'em, and that I believe with their consent.

Sister, 'Tis in vain to deny our selves; you see our ill for­tune pursues us unavoidably.

Yes, Sir, we are Laura and Violetta, whom you have made unhappy by your Tyranny.

And these two Gentlemen are no Ravishers, but—

How, no Ravishers? yes, to my knowledge, they are—

no Ravishers, as Madam Laura was saying; but two as honest Gen­tlemen as e're broke bread: My own dear Master, and so forth!

Aurelian and Camillo! I'll see you in safe custody, and, [Page 65] for, these Fugitives, go, carry 'em to my Sister, and desire her to have a better care of her Kinswomen.

We shall live yet to make you refund our Portions. Fare­well Camillo; comfort your self; remember there's but a Wall be­twixt us.

And I'll cut through that Wall with Vineger, but I'll come to you, Aurelian.

I'll cut through the Grates with Aqua-sortis, but I'll meet you. Think of these things, and despair and dye, old Gentleman.

All things go cross to men of sence: would I had been born with the brains of a Shop-keeper, that I might have thriven with­out knowing why I did so. Now must I follow my Master to the Prison, and, like an ignorant Customer that comes to buy, must of­fer him my back-side, tell him I trust to his honesty, and desire him to please himself, and so be satisfy'd.

I am overjoy'd, I'll see her immediately: now my business with Don Mario is at an end, I need not desire his company to introduce me to the Abbess, this Assignation from Lucretia shows me a nearer way. Noble Don Mario, it was my business when this accident happen'd in the street to have made you a visit; but now I am prevented by an occasion which calls me another way.

I receive the intention of that honour as the greatest hap­piness that cou'd befall me: in the mean time, if my attendance —

By no means, Sir, I must of necessity go in private, and therefore, if you please, you shall omit the ceremony.

A happy even to your Highness. Now will I go to my Sister the Abbess, before I sleep, and desire her to take more care of her Flock, or, for all our Relation, I shall make complaint, and indea­vour to ease her of her charge.

So, now we are alone, What said Lucretia?

O, when women are once irresolute, betwixt the former love and the new one, they are sure to come over to the latter: the wind, their nearest likeness, seldome chops about to return into the old corner.

In conclusion, she consented to the interview, and for the rest, I urg'd it not, for I suppose she will hear reason sooner from your mouth than mine.

Her Letter is of the same tenor with her Discourse; full of doubts and doubles, like a hunted Hare when she's near tyr'd. The Garden, you say, is the place appointed?

It is, Sir; and the next half hour the time: but, Sir, I fear the Prince your Son will never bear the loss of her with patience.

'Tis no matter; let the young Gallant storm to night, to morrow he departs from Rome.

That, Sir, will be severe.

He has already receiv'd my commands to travel into Ger­many: I know it stung him to the quick; but he's too dangerous a Rival: the Souldiers love him too; when he's absent they will re­spect me more.

SCENE III.

I'm sure you need not, Sir: the Army is all yours; they wish a youthful Monarch, and will resent your inju­ries.

You must resolve, for the time presses. She told me, this hour, she had sent for your Father: what she means I know not, for she seem'd doubtful, and would not tell me her inten­tion.

If she be false; — yet, Why should I suspect her? yet, Why should I not? she's a Woman; that includes ambition, and inconstancy: then, she's tempted high: 'twere unreasonable to ex­pect she should be faithful: well, something I have resolv'd and will about it instantly: and if my Friends prove faithful I shall prevent the worst.

Aurelian and Camillo? How came you thus attended?

You may guess at the occasion, Sir; pursuing the adven­ture which brought us to meet you in the Garden, we were taken by Don Mario.

And, as the Devil would have it, when both we and our Mistresses were in expectation of a more pleasant lodging.

Faith, that's very hard, when a man has charg'd and prim'd, and taken aim, to be hinder'd of his shoot—Souldiers, release these Gentlemen; I'll answer it.

Sir, we dare not disobey our Orders.

I'll stand betwixt you and danger. In the mean time take this, as an acknowledgment of the kindness you do me.

Ay, marry, there's Rhetorique in Gold: Who can deny these arguments? Sir, you may dispose of our prisoners as you please; we'll use your name if we are call'd in question.

Do so. Good-night good Souldiers.

Now, Gentlemen, no thanks, you'll find occasion instantly to re­imburse me of my kindness.

Nothing but want of liberty could have hinder'd us from serving you.

Meet me, within this half hour, at our Monastery; and if, in the mean time, you can pick up a dozen of good Fellows, who dare venture their lives bravely, bring them with you.

I hope the Cause is bad too, otherwise we shall not deserve your thanks: may it be for demolishing that cursed Monastery.

Come, Ascanio, follow me.

SCENE IV.

Sir, the design was lay'd on purpose for you, and all the women plac'd to cry. Make haste away; avoid the shame for hea­vens sake.

O, I could fire this Monastery!

Pain of your lives, let none of you presume to enter but my self.

My Son! O, I could burst with spite, and dye with shame, to be thus apprehended! this is the baseness and cowardise of guilt: [Page 72] an Army now were not so dreadful to me as that Son, o're whom the right of Nature gives me power.

I know my doom then. You have taken a popular occa­sion; I am now a ravisher of chastity, fit to be made prisoner first, and then depos'd.

We shall obey you, Madam: But, that we may do it with less regret, we hope you will give these Ladies leave to accompa­ny us.

And it shall be my care, either by reason to bend your Unckle's will, or, by my Father's interest, to force your Dowry from his hands.

Pray, Sir, let us make haste over these Walls again, these Gardens are unlucky to me: I have lost my reputation of Mu­sick in the one of 'em, and of wit in the other.

Now, Laura, you may take your choice betwixt the two Benito's, and consider whether you had rather he should Se­renade you in the Garden, or I in Bed to night.

You may be sure I shall give Sentence for Benito; for, the effect of your Serenading would be to make me pay the Musick nine Moneths hence.

You see, Brother, here's a General Jayle-delivery: there has been a great deal of bustle and disturbance in the Cloyster to night; enough to distract a Soul which is given up, like me, to contemplation: and therefore, if you think fit, I could een be con­tent to retire, with you, into the World; and, by way of Penance, to Marry you; which, as Husbands and Wives go now, is a greater Mor­tification than a Nunnery.

No, Sister, if you love me, keep to your Monastery: I'll come now and then to the Grate and beg you a Recreation. But I know my self so well, that, if I had you one twelve Moneth in the world, I should run my self into a Cloyster, to be rid of you.