ACT. I. SCEN. I.

SLaves, you have her? you have your Throats shav'd with a short sword.

By what title is she yours? We fought for her.

And by our Laws you ought to stand to your Lot.

By what Laws? By the Roman Law, you Rascals? broad-sword-law; besides she looks as if she were sweet and sound, which are things you'l scarce bring a Presi­dent, to prove your interest by.

We will not quit our shares for words; We have swords.

And no money; Go ye Rascals: do you shew your teeth? Go, truss, be gone, to the next woods side, there speed with your Ploughs; do you threaten me with your cold Iron?

Your odds makes you presume, but if we meet you alone, o'th' Guard.

Then I'll cut thy Throat.

No, we'll spare you that labour, and have yours cut.

Yes, yes, I know thou art good at killing, by Attorney.

S'death, come away, follow, We shall a have time.

And that's all, but a wheel and a croud, that thy end can claim,—

How now? weeping? come, dry, dry; I'll be a Father to thee. Art honest?

Dare not you be honest too?

Honest? Faith, pretty one, he that dares fight is as ho­nest a Souldier as needs to be.

O! ye Gods.

They are the prettiest kind of commodities, these wo­men, that a man can deal in, there is nothing like 'em, but ready money.

Pray, Sir, leave talking, and fall to, that we may have

your leavings.

Not a bit, go home to your Doll, and fall to your cold meat, friends.

Hang her, she's old.

Speak reverently of her Age, the Jade brought great loads to our pleasure, in her youth, and must not be forgotten.

O but this, Sir, has such an excellent face.

Away, you Rogues, old chins, and naked chins, Boys of the first beard, and find distinction? must your weak stomacks have face-sauce, before you can fall to? the sex (you Varlets) was enough, when I was young; and I confess they have been sad days with me, since the Face and Peticoat came in esteem: look where she lies, (what? weeping, pretty one? now if I should dote in my latter days, and draw in at my eyes a punishment, they say the Gods are just, and may, through my doublet, punish the sins of my youth—Hum, I'll think no more on't;—Faith I must kiss thee.

O Sir, be not so barbarous as to bring those dangers you have beaten hence; why do you lay such rude hands on me? Think you, the innocence of Maid and Virgin have no power to

guard me?

A Maid! by my faith, its strange, I should ha'jugded you at the second age, when women fall; have you no witness of what you say? I have no faith your witness, or I kiss.

Away, unhand me, and force me not to call down a Plague to guard me, scorn not my words, if thou dost this wicked­ness, thou wilt find the curse of an injur'd Maid strike as sure, as lightning, and as fatal; nor can all thy skill and courage defend thee, but despairs will find thee, and inhabit in thee, till thou art dissolv'd in the horrors of thy fear. But if this calm, which seems to allay

thy troubled blood, be real, upon my knees, I'll fall, and to the Gods send my Prayers for thee, and they'l prove as great a guard, and thou shalt find this good act interpose between thee and thy greatest dangers.

By this light she talks unhappily, should I keep her com­pany, I must beg; no more of this discourse, pray.

Let me be safe in my Honour, and I'll be silent, and be­side the reward that heaven will pay you, my Ransom shall be what you'l name.

You have prevail'd, and shall be free from force; but take heed of talking of Heaven before these; to tempt them with such promises, is bidding them to their loss; for what can such fellows hope for there, but to become some odd Saints without Holy-daies?

Lieutenant, you are somewhat free in your Opinion of us.

Why, dost thou sweet heart, hope for better? look upon him has he not a promising face? Ile prophecy, Crabb, continue in thy calling, and thou art safe, for thou hast endeavoured long, and I fear not, but hast made good friends below, and mayst be of a good rank in hell.

Faith, Lieutenant, me thinks, you spurr'd fairly for­wards, and, upon my Conscience, will be richly damn'd.

Who I? Faith and troth I think I shall, and yet, while

this lasts, I have good hopes; for I am of Opinion, no Man is damn'd that has money in his purse; nor do I see how poor folks can be saved; What noise is that?

I hear our Captains voice.

Away, take her to my quarter, and, upon your lives, no Insolence; pray step off with them, till I see what occasions this noise.

Away, you are safe.

ACT. I. SCEN. II.

SIR, these are some poor Rogues.

Hang 'em then for being poor.

Cannot our praiers find thy Mercy?

A pox upon your prayers, they could not protect thee; hang 'em I say.

Hold Sir, mistake not these Men, for, if I guess right, they are no beggars.

Bring the Torture then.

I believe, I know a way to gain the Truth without a Rack: There is a Wench—

I, What became of her?

She's in my power, and talks not like a beggar; by this day, she threatned me, and frighted me from my pleasure, she prof­er'd a Ransome too, things that beggars never dream on.

Where is she? We will load her with chains, till they confess.

Patience a little, and Ile instruct you; do but threaten [Page 8] to kiss her, (you understand me) and, upon my life, she'l tell all.

To the Dungeon then with these, and fetch her; but dost thou hear, Lieutenant, is she likely? is it a handsome Wench? dost thou see ready money in her face?

O, 'tis a proper Wench, and bravely built, such Eyes, so black, so great, of a Beauty that is currant every where, Then her Cheeks, and such Lipps; ha! by this hand I could ha dwelt for ever there.

She came luckily for this Mart; what became o'th Boyes we took a swimming in Baio?

They are safe, and will be ready for the same fraight.

And all will scarce quit cost.

Faith Captain, we have no luck of late, our old Souldiers are immortal too, they will not die, there comes no profit that way of late; When the Moor was Captain, in his years there fell as many of those rotten plums, as were worth ten thousand Drachms.

And since my reign, I cannot count a thousand. The young Cicilian, the bold Cilius, is returned too, and now I have no hope to continue another year.

Which? he that was the Prisoner?

Yes, the same, his hopes stand fair for the next Election, nor shall I envy him if he gain it, for it's a gallant Fellow, and in­deed ought to command here.

Faith Captain, a competent ill nature (I thank the Gods) I have gain'd in the service, and to me 'tis indifferent who is Cap­tain, for I must be Lieutenant still, till my lot falls, and yet I have so much gratitude as to be angry with old Tullius.

Why dost thou blame a Man for desiring to live?

By my Faith, when a Man desires it so unreasonably, I do; he knows he cannot live, and yet he has not so much good nature as to die; what if he may linger out this moneth? he'l die the next, and then your reign expires.

Marry, and the Villain is rich, and 'twere not amiss to be his Heir.

If he die in time; but if he live he will not be worth one Drachma; for since they told him he could not escape, The slave that grudg'd himself Bread before eats Gold now, and consider­ing you are his Heir, it is your Gold he eats; would I had such Title to his Estate, by this light, I'de choak him, slave.

Thou art in the right, if he die this moneth, I am his Heir, by the Laws of our Band, if next, he that succeeds; and I am cer­tain, he made his Fortune under me.

Why I, there's the point, Faith Captain, if you please, Ile go speak with him, and try what good nature will do, it may be he'le hear reason, Ile urge how much he is bound to you.

Thou mayst go, but I'me afraid it will be lost labour.

A party of Romans taken, where? guide my hate, that with fatal wounds I may empty their proud veins.

How now Cilius, what Rage is this?

O Teresius, can you be content, because our persons lie hid, to let our shames continue visible, and thus sleep out the suffer­ings of our Country? I past or'e her bosom in my Journey, Oh! had you, with me, seen the general calamities she groans under, ruin'd even to a Chaos, and the wretched people, grown so dege­nerate in their sufferings, that they begin, with joy, to obey the in­sulting Conquerour.

It is wisdom now to obey.

Wisdom? Is Teresius grown so tame, to think so? let the Dogs, not Cilius, practise it.

Why thus impatient?

Our Countrey and our miseries call for our swords to pro­tect her, and to see you thus tame makes me so.

This rage serves her as little—And 'tis now in vain to attempt their ruine, whose Conquest has taken such firm root.

Those that bled in the last battle thought not so.

To what rash attempts would your rage guide you! is the sad issue of that day no example which our brave Prince Facer­tes was forced to survive, and adorn their Triumphs? But that being past, he had dy'd upon the Hook, nor could the Intercession of Virgilius letters have deferred the doom, though he bestrid him in the heat of battle, had not the far-fam'd Sophia, in his approaching Fate, call'd to mind that which he (though an Enemy) protected her Brother from, and in the instant kneel'd and embrac'd Caesars knees, divinely pleading, Pallas inspir'd her, and with her own Beauties cloath'd the Virgin, and with such power the Goddess moved in her, that when Caesar gaz'd upon her blew eyes he left to be Caesar, and rather obey'd then granted, and to be her Father could scarce secure him from being fettered with those white wrists which circled his imperial knees.

Was Virgilius then in the Power of Facertes, that day, and did he let him escape, did he fawn upon the Roman?

It was but to return the Piety Virgilius shewed his Foster-father, who (you know) protected him in that sad day our King was slain, and, by his power, he grew able to give that last blow for his Countries Freedom, which when the aged Nigro saw inclining to the Romans, covetous to have his Age set in some glo­rious Act, he charg'd the youthful Virgilius, but or'e loaded with Courage, his silver hairs sunk under the Roman, whose Piety be­strid him like his Father, vowing to sacrifice upon that breast, sooner then wound it.

'Twas done like the Son of the first Julius; These are de­generate, and succeed onely in the others Fortune, not his Merit, Yet—had I been by—

What could your single Arm have done?

Kill'd Virgilius, in Revenge of the Rape the Roman Ploughes has made upon my Mothers womb. For other Parent then my Country, I yet could never find. Oh! that I had been that day with the brave Facertes, who knows but I might have digg'd a glorious Monument in some lucky wound, given in the face of this admir'd Virgilius, and after such a Fortune, I could have smil'd, and, unshook, step'd into my graye. Or if slav'd, such bold truths I would have utter'd, they should not have de­stroy'd me for cold Example, but rather because Rome durst not let me live. And yet I beg if there be any Power favourable to Cilius, let it set within my swords reach this Virgilius, this King of Men, This Sicilian scourge, that makes us kneel and kiss our Afflictions; Then, then, Teresius, thou shalt see, how with this sword Ile hunt his pale Soul to her last home.

'Tis a Gallant Youth, how his Spirit boyles, to be in Action.

If I be chose Captain of our Band, by all our bondag'd Gods, in some disguise, Ile see that Rome, I will Teresius, and with a few wounds well dealt, gather a numerous Revenge; say, would not you obey, if I command, to joyn in such a Sacrifice, where, to fall, The Off'ring is as glorious, as to stand the Priest, and such at­tempts are becoming Sacrifice for Men, let Women incense burn, it is properer for us to expiate with wounds, then Prayer or Fast­ing, and had those we vainly dealt in Sacrifice been given upon our Enemies, our Heards had now been fair, and Rome Ashes.

May all thy thoughts prove Prophetick, and here I vow to obey what ere thou injoynest.—Though it be not safe to let thee know the Reason, nor the Interest thou hast in thy Countries sufferings.

Sir, will you come to the Examination, The Prisoners are at the Quarters.

What Prisoners?

The Romans.

Why are they not stak'd?

There's a Woman amongst'em.

You will not stake her, will you?

No, I make no war with Women.

If she must die, I beg the staking of her.

What is she?

More then young, and handsome, and one that talks un­happily; I know not—

Ile go see her; Captain, Ile meet you at the Oak.

Ile to my Quarter, and attend you.

ACT. I. SCEN. III.

O Let me stretch my self, and thus enlarg'd possess my Joyes; for know, my longing Soul made a Crown a Burthen, and with greater joy I have put off an Empire, then thou thy chaines; and now transported with my hopes, the Bird that from the Cage is flown, and broke that Prison, where she was wont to mourn, and sings all Tunes at once, That Bird, I say, cuts not the yielding Air with more joyful Freedom, then I, to find my self, and deliver'd from that imprisoning state.

Sir, Thus far I have obeyed your Commands, which en­joyned me to accompany you from Gallia hither: But what your design should be, that makes you thus, with Joy, quit your Com­mand there, and be pleased to find your self unknown and hid in a disguise at Naples, I cannot guess, nor shall I be so rude to ask; for sure if it were fit I knew it, you, that dare trust your sleeping self in my power, would not hide it from me.

Doe's not my Friend guess, whither I am bound?

Not the particular; but I am certain 'tis some great de­sign, to conquer which, you thus in ambush lay the great Virgil­lius.

The Body was made the Souls slave, and now but serves her to advance my ends; nor is my Mind less, or thoughts more subject to fear, then when an Army compass'd me.

Sir, That you are alone makes you not less in my esteem; for it is not your power I admire, (the loss of mine own tells me, that's mortal) but your Mind; which, when Virgilius is nothing but what my Memory gives life to, will make me wor­ship his Monument.

No more, Prince Facertes, my Friend, and to confirm him take a secret, by which Ile bind him to me for ever; for se­crets have stronger ties then Love, or Vowes; for whilst thou hast Honour that binds thee, the other may by mistake or Passion (which Friendship's self is subject to) fall even to hate.

Then, when I have honour, I shall know your design.

When thou hast! O Facertes, my friend, it was born with thee; and where it is not natural, swords cannot acquire it; Take therefore into thy heart all the secrets of mine, and in a word, all my hopes, and all my fears, Cicilia.

What of her, Sir?

She is all my hopes, all my wishes, and all my fears; and if she smile, I am fortunate: for know, my journey is to lay at her feet my self, and all that Conquest gave me. What thinks Facer­tes? will she accept it, and not destroy the destroyer? For no­thing can be conquest, where she suffer'd, but height of Murther.

What, do I hear my prayers forestall'd, and those joys Our Country ought to sacrifice for, offer'd to us? I hope Virgilius [Page 12] is not still pleased to triumph or'e our miseries, and throw a scorn upon that, which he thought worthy of his sword?

Have you not yet forgiven what was my fate? while these thoughts dwell in thee, I must not hope Facertes will joyn the power of a Brother to assist my wishes.

If you are real, you shall tread upon my neck, but if this be scorn, 'tis so unlike my friend, and so unbecoming the brave Vir­gilius, that I should not fear to call him enemy, nor despair his conquest.

Real, Facertes! why when have I jested with my friend? Real? yes, as thy vows to Sophia. Never start, nor put on amaze­ment, was I less worthy of a trust, because thou thought'st me wor­thy to have been thy enemy? call me friend, and hide thy love? Either thou hast not found the knowledge, or lost the value of thy friend: I tell Prince Facertes, she, whom he sacrificeth to, has great­er ties upon me as Friend then Sister.

That I do love the divine Sophia, witness my part of heaven, which is all thou hast left me to swear by; but if thou hast gain'd the knowledge of that secret, by jealous guesses, purchas'd treachery, or with thy power hast wrought upon her sex to betray her innocent affection, draw thy sword, for, by all our Gods, no

distance, as enemy, nor neerness of Friendship shall divide us, or secure thee from my vengeance.

I am innocent, and you are angry; here read that, it will tell you, you have injur'd me.

Can Virgilius pardon me, and still have patience to learn me how to conquer Nations first, and then my self, by his great Example?

Your friendship I shall never decline; and if Sophia be just, you have a warrant for you faith of mine. When I went for Gallia to take command of those Legions there, at parting, we fell into discourse of you, and the never-enough-admir'd Cicilia, whose beauties and vertues she always mention'd with admiration: I confessed to her, that her former descriptions had engaged my af­fections to your Sisters fame so much, that I was resolved, in some disguise, to see her. O're-joyed with this news, she recommended you to me for a guide, And though I ever admir'd the honour I found in Facertes, yet I confess, I made a little stop ere I resolved to put my self in the power of one, whom I had tempted with such a ruine, as obeying my Fathers injunctions, had made me lay upon your suffering Country; to remove which doubt she blushed out this secret; I ask'd her then, why she suffer'd thee to be led in triumph? she said, she pleaded against it, what she durst, and had she loved less, she could have said more, but seeing her own guilt, she fear'd it might have been trouble to all: Now if this truth can satisfie Facertes, that I have not wrong'd him, and now I beg, he'l give me leave to return his vows, to Cicilia; and now I conjure thee by that power which thou hast given her, in Sophia's name, here to bury all thy fears, all thy anger, all remembrance that I was a misfortune to thee, in return of which upon thy breast, the [Page 13] Altar of friendship, I'll lay mine a sacrifice, and vow my self to fair Cicilia, and her Country, a constant friend.

Oh! Sir, The joys you load your slave with, I wish you may find, when you sigh under such a pleasing burthen, as the en­joying all your wishes brings. And if my prayers be prosperous, Virgilius will prove our Physitian, and the wounds he gave, but Prescriptions, and we have bled for our health only.

From hence then, I'll count my conquest over Facertes, and think I have brought more strength to our Empire, by his friendship, then his Country.

If you intend a sudden journey, give me leave to furnish you with a Galley, I have some acquaintance in the Town; I'll dispatch, and meet you presently upon the Mould: will you not send, to see whether your Sister be arriv'd at Baio?

Yes, and we'll touch there, as we go.

When I kiss'd her hands, to go for Gallia, she said, she was immediately to retire to Baio.

We need not bid each other haste, since Love's our guide.

ACT. I. SCEN. IV.

HItherto, fair one, your beauty has preserved you; but let not your pride teach you, from success, to scorn a proffer'd love, that brings safety with it; for me, I confess I durst not enter where that beauty guarded; there was something in that Angel from that stroke me, and I boast a wound received from you, more then a conquest over another.

This Act shews you truly valiant, and this fear, you pay the Gods, is courage: Fools and Cowards only dare their power, and you shall find success and conquest still await you, when you strike not against them; and my prayers shall invert the kind of this offering, and make a sacrifice of that which is duty: and you shall receive a reward for paying, as if you had given Hecatombs.

Faith, pretty one, I am pleas'd with what you say, though I understand it not, Pray, what kind of place is yours, in heaven? By this hand, I think she keeps the sweet-meats, or else, is woman Butler there.

Alas, Sir, I am so mortal, I am subject to you: for heaven, I know it not, but by faith, and that tells me, when I am injur'd, my curses wound, and when served, my prayers heal.

Then you have nothing to shew, under the hands of those, what do ye call'um? those Gods?

Nothing, but the examples of their justice; which, with punishment, visit the wicked.

Now do I begin to find, I was a fool, and this wench a talker, By this hand I thought she had had some of the Gods in Li­veries, at her Elbow, and there's no such thing, all is but a dream;

[Page 14] but I'll be no longer fool'd by my fears. Faith, pretty one, let's try whether they be at leisure, or no; or if they be, they cannot have the face to punish us for those faults they were so subject to themselves.

They are in a sad condition, that instead of repentance, seek examples for their sins; and the second is worse then the first; as insolence, is worse then weakness: why do you lay such rude hands upon me, You will not destroy what you have built?

Wait without.

Are you there? Then I am prevented, a Pox upon my

tender nature, this it is to be ignorantly wicked, and subject to fits of conscience.

Lieutenant, is that the Prisoner, you spoke of?

Yes Sir.

Thou liest.

Sir.

I tell thee, its false, its here the Prisoner stands.

That's she, I spoke of.

Leave us then.

Ye Gods, new miseries.

Why so; there's but three steps to a womans bed, liking, alone, and consent. Two of them he has past already, if she con­sent, I would he might pay her: look how they gaze, This is Love, and I have bought wit, But if a long staff keep me from the next, let 'em geld me.

Fair one, what Country boasts these Beauties?

Sir, I can answer for my self, But for those Beauties, you speak of, let them find a friend, I have misfortunes enough to busie my time, and I find it business enough to make it appear fit to live: The thoughts of beauty, are fit for those that have fortunes like their faces, and if mine be like my fortune, (as a friend I counsel you) not to let your eyes dwell longer here, for its a dangerous habitation, Not safe to me, that am native there, and I should mourn more for your dangers, then mine own, for I know how to be just, but I could never find, how to be fortunate.

A Curse find him, and all pass'd Plagues be but stor'd for him, that would seek to deface that Temple, and what ere your modesty can urge.—Thus I'll pay my duty, for I know, such a

worship can be no new thing to the Deity, that's shrowded in their eyes.

If you kneel, I must kneel too, for the guilt is no less to take a worship where it is not due, then to pay it.

But if the guilt be equal, pray refuse not to receive an un­feigned one.

I dare not rise, while you kneel; for although the fault be equal, yet civility makes this fitter.

I'll not dispute; for know, should you command, through sin, I'de serve you; and therefore you may be confident, I'll obey you, when you command me shun it; and here, with shame, I con­fess, I came prepar'd with lust, hungry with sin, and look'd to [Page 15] have met a sacrifice to me.—But I have found the power, and now return as from the Altar, struck with holy despairs, and shall feed on what I have already fed my eyes and ears with.

Sir, I find there's honour in your brest, but I fear that safety dwells not every where; for the Souldier that you found with me, repents him of the good that saved me.

He dares as soon suck in a Pestilence, as breathe on that air, I frown in; he is my slave, and to my will his fate is tied, if he dares breathe ought but obedience, 'tis his own sentence; say, fairest, shall he live, By our Gods (but to serve you) he should not. What, ho! Lieutenant, Sirrah, what was it you said, to disturb this calm.

Faith little Sir, something that tended to the use of hand­some women.

Slave, didst thou look upon her, and not kneel? by her self, I swear (purer then which our Temples shew nothing) if any act or word of thine shall henceforth pay less reverence here, then at the Altar, thou art Earth; mark me; this shall wound the into Earth.

Sir it shall, and I'll call it justice, death has taken six I think, and is drunk with her beauty, a pox upon me: I must be praising her forsooth.

Sir, you need not threaten, the reward is not worth the hazard, and I am safe.

The reward! oh, that it were to be purchas'd at the rate of Kingdoms, then the sword might gather those Beauties! but they are neither within the compass of conquering, nor dying for, else I durst say, after all my wounds and triumphs, see your slave; but now I am lost in my despairs.

Sir, Truth has such affinity with truth, that I can scarce hide one from you, which I fear will be displeasing.

To serve you, is the first thoughts of my heart, and since I cannot, my self be happy, let me contribute my Power to make you so; dare you tell me who you are?

A vow forbids me.

Sir, the Captain expects you.

Me? I'll wait him presently: Lieutenant, see you cheerish your first act, and with honour treat this Lady, and you shall com­mand me; your pardon, fair one, our Captain commands me hence, but you shall be safe from all dangers, but what your sadness brings, and I shall be proud to be call'd yours, though despis'd.

Witness heaven, all that honour can spare me is yours; And therefore I beg you will not injure me, to say I despise you: When we have not, we cannot pay, and I shall mourn to think I must dye your Debtor.

Madam, But I can admire and sacrifice in thoughts, pray com­mand me to do something for you, oh! that these five tedious days were wasted, that, without a treachery, I might say, you are free, but if you can find a strength to resist these miseries, till then, By our Gods, you are as free as they, and as readily I'll obey you.

Sir, your first bounties make me happy; and since I have your protection for my Honour, all the rest, when they are blown over, bring but a pleasure in the relation.

I must go—There is a necessity that forces me to obey, I cannot else command your safety.—Lieutenant.

Sir.

Need I say again, Protect this Lady?

No Sir, By this hand, he hath gelt me with a look, Ma­dam, will it please you to walk?

Yes Sir, Ile follow you, and I hope I shall not be asham'd to follow my Facertes, whose Soul, I think, holds Intelligence with this Souldier; and were it not that I been accustomed to see such Virtue, this would start me.

ACT. II. SCEN. I.

FLy, oh fly, and save your self, Madam, This Piety will give wings to your Innocence; for it is just, ye Powers,

by Miracle, to save that Miracle.

No Father, The fears and nicities of our Sex I have long since banish'd hence; and so many have been my dayes of mourning, that I thought not to have shed a tear for any new mi­sery; But this is a loss I could not foresee, and by surprize this grief has got into my heart, look, if I have not tears left.—Oh! ye Heavens, Where is that Justice and Mercy we sacrifice to? Why were you absent when his sword strooke in your own cause? He faints. Wounds, and Age! There is a kind of Sacriledge in this Murther, and I could be wicked in my anger, to see his faith­ful youth preserv'd thus to a punishment, and, instead of a reward, see him pursu'd like the wicked, and his Age set in Blood.

O excellent Maid! let not my ruine beget faults in thee;

nor do thou thus repine at the last and greatest of my Honours; is it not better to sink thus, Then blushing say I surfeited, or go shaking out with an Ague, like a Coward School-Boy, to my Grave! Fairest, I have been bred a Souldier; and had it been as noble to yield as conquer, I could have died as easily, as kil'd.—Your Hand, Madam, for I find I faint, Why should I grieve to die, that have this to lay me in the Earth! O weep not, By this last smile I conjure you, weep not; But let your sadness die, and my Memory live; For witness that power, to whom I am now offring my self, as my last Sacrifice, I have all that dying Nigro could wish; am I not blest with my Countries cause to die in, while a Princess mourns at my Funeral, and an Angel Virgin is

sent to close mine Eyes.

He's dead.—

Hands off, This is my Prisoner.

She's finely built, I think she was furnished for the Mart.

Ile have her Cloathes, I spy'd them first.

Ile have her, and let whose will take the rest; I de­sire but to be lost in the wood with her, for a night, and let him take her that finds her in the morning.

He were a bold fellow, that would come after thee.

Come, leave this squabling, lest the Lieutenant come, and then you get not a bit.

Faith, and thou art in the right, and I confess I would be glad to find a way to be revenged for the last he took from us.

I could tell you how to do it, and profitably too, if you would all take my counsel.

Propose, propose.

Then quit your thoughts of this dainty bit, and lets away with her, and the rest, to Naples, and sell 'em, This fine

thing shall yield Money, that will buy Wine, and Wenches, that bring no fears along with 'em; This gay thing, should we touch her forbidden fruit, we were damn'd; and we are sure, our Lieute­nant will pursue us with fire and sword.

Agreed, Agreed.

Thus rigg'd then, lets away, But we had best leave one to tell our Captain we are put to Sea, in pursuit of a Galley that bore the Roman Eagle, that will take off suspition while we are absent; then we may return, and say, they out sail'd us.

Ile stay, but remember my share.

What, dost thou think we are Thieves amongst our selves? Come, help draw these dead Bodies into the Wood, we'l bury them when we return.

Bring her away too, and take care of her, lest she spoil her self, and undo our Market.

Come, pretty one.—Nay, you must part.

Fools, you pull on your Fates, and labour to steal that Vengeance that would find you were you hidden in the Earth; and my Prophetick Soul tells me, I go but to see you punished.

What saies she?

I know not what she saies, but I hope she lies; do you hear, what kind of Women are your Witches?

A pox, they are old, Come Mistress, Dangers and handsome Women dwell not together; if they do, let me fall into them.—

ACT. II. SCEN. I.

WHat were those Romans, that fell to my share?

They were taken when the pretty Wench was taken, that Cilius would have had.

Did you deliver 'em to the Lieutenant, and bid him come hither with his Accompt?

I left 'em there, and bid him come to your Worship, but I found him a little troubled, he had been at the Souldiers; but the fellow is wilfull.

But I have taken an order to bring him to Reason.

Whorson Clown, refuse to pledge me or die; Rascal, nei­ther drink, nor die. Umh.

How now, Lieutenant, what passion's this?

Rogue, refuse to dye, or drink my Captains health, at my suit, and yet confess a Beer-glass would kill him.

Oh! is that the cause?

I'll swear, he is very unreasonable.

And ought to be put to death, for refusing a health.

That was spoke like my Captain, and I'll kiss his foot, nay, nay, do not hold me, let me go, let me go, I say, that I may kneel, and wish thou maist live, till I refuse a Beer-glass.

What hast thou there?

A Julip.

What are the ingredients?

Simple Aqua-fortis, to warm his stomack. Dog, offer to live, when wine is a poyson to him?

You shall not poyson him.

No, I'll get his Doctor to prescribe it, and then 'tis Physick.

No, no poyson.

Then he'll live.

No I have prevented his living, for I was afraid thou wouldst not succeed. Thou hast no Oratory, thou canst not per­swade, Then, thou art so subject to choller; Did you mark the old woman you met at my Quarter? it was his wife. In six words, I made a price with her, to kill him, without any of the difficulties you found in perswading him.

Captain, you are weak, Captain; I not Eloquent? your Argument is weak; Death, do you think 'tis no more to perswade one to dye, then to hire another to kill him.

No.

Stand fair, and I'll confute you. Crabb.

Lieutenant.

What wilt thou give me to kill him.

Come, leave your fooling, and give me your Accompt.

Am I Eloquent then?

Yes, yes, give me your Accompt, and I'll believe you Elo­quent, what's this?

Your Accompt.

My Accompt?

Yes, and an Eloquent Accompt.

What's here? paid, lent, given, and rests due; faith it's an Eloquent accompt indeed: But Lieutenant, is this all?

All? why would you have more?

Kind Lieutenant, I would have an Accompt.

Why have you not an Accompt? All is but this over and over; but if you'l give it me again, you shall have a longer Bill.

But Lieutenant, Eloquent Lieutenant, is that all that's left of my four thousand Sestertia.

Why, what accompt should I make you? would you not pay what you owe? and lend a good fellow that drinks fair; or is your Charity dead to pretty sinners in their necessity, and militant in the world?

But grant these uses, what is the sum? what paid, what lent?

Why, what you will.

Very good. But what means this, Rests due, of whom must I enquire for that?

Of me Torrafuco, lodging at the sign of the Lieutenant.

Crabb, knock, and if the Party be within, tell him, I would speak with him, and require an Accompt of certain living crea­tures that were given to his trust, Women and Children.

They, Sir, are encreas'd, the Moore has a Calf running by her side, of his own getting, the other Barbary is with Fole to; and she that you sent to day had like to have been leap'd in his Collar.

The Alarm, Sir, is given, from the shore, and the Ly­on is in chase of a Galley that bears the Roman Eagle, and Cilius waits directions at your Quarter.

Tell him, we come, and, do you hear, get the Leopards Gang ready; what will my careful Steward do, visit the sick? Pray, let the Prisoners be bath'd first, and well fed, against the Mart.

Crabb.

Here, nobel Lieutenant, I am always ready to serve.—When he is in this humour I cleanse his Pockets, and that's my Revenue.

Crabb, talking is not good for me when this fit is upon me; for I find, I am subject to grow angry, weak and drowsie.

Therefore you must master your passion, at first, ere it grow upon you; but there is no speaking to you when you are in an Argument.

I find thee an able man, and therefore I'll lean upon thee: what's that, Crabb?

What's what, Sir?

I felt a live thing in my Pocket, Crabb.

It may be your worships breeches are torn.

I will reward thy faith with a Trust, Crabb, here, to let thee see, how dear thou art to me, keep my Tobacco-box.

Noble Lieutenant.

No thanks, but help to lay me down behind some tree, in the shade.

Your worships head is full.—I could have gelt him, the slave has drunk himself stiff.

Crabb, Crabb.

Here, here.

Prethee stick a bough for a mark, that thou maist find me again, lest I be lost in my thoughts.

I shall, I shall.

ACT. II. SCEN. II.

CAptain, a word with you, I have view'd your ware, but is there any special piece amongst 'em?

As you see; they are young, and sound.

Will you give a trial?

With the eye, and the tongue, question, or search them, nothing else.

Not a little freedom alone? you were not wont to be thus hard.

Faith, we have had no luck of late, Mistress, this is the first Mart we have made this moneth.

And you come to our house, it shall cost you nothing.

At what price do you hold that fine thing?

That? it is the cream of our Mart, she will cost two thousand Sestertia.

Is she a maid?

I'll warrant that, if I sell her.

Come, a thousand is fair, and take you the profit of the first night.

No, altogether, or nothing, view her, she is worth the money naked.

But, my friend, I hope you have try'd your self, ere now? are you fruitful?

Yes, Mistress, and if you agree upon the price, you shall find me a faithful servant; and for the sport, if I raise you not a Crop from the Common, geld me.

Geld thee? Marry God forbid man; I'll lame thee first, art sound too? else I may live to curse your doings.

Sound as a Bell, and as ever you hope to be satisfied, buy me.

Away, away, y'are a wag, is your breath sweet, let me smell, you are very forward, pray turn, and let's see your price,

here Souldier, take your money.

Thank you, may his back never fail you.

Faith, you are too dear.—Stay, here comes the Prince Bragadine, the Viceroys Son.

How now, Souldier, what famous Prize is that?

A Greek Sir, a Virgin.

What's her price?

Two thousand Sestertia.

It's dear, and yet its a proper Wench.

My Sister not arrived yet at Baio? its strange.

No Sir, not yet, but she has been expected these ten dayes.

What crowd is that?

The slave-mart is held to day.

What stranger is that?

Was that fellow drunk?

Either drunk or worse.

Is that excellent piece to be sold?

Yes Sir.

She is not, who can buy her? or who dares set a price upon that Beauty? Fairest, what Country is (at this time) cursed with your absence, for sure 'tis perpetual night when you are thence.

Greece, Sir, is my Country, more particulars I must not tell.

Fools that we are, to call our selves Conquerours of Greece, when one slave, one handfull of that Earth, has power to conquer me, and lead me bound, even in my own Country.

It is not becoming your youth, nor fortune (how great so ever) to make a scorn of those miseries which chance throwes upon the Innocent.

A strange curse find me when I scorn you; dare you not tell me what you were before this ruine?

I must not, Sir.

And are there no statues fix'd in the Temples, or History, that preserves your Story? must all but your Beauty sink with this ruine?

Sir, if you will buy her, take her upon her price; if not,

give others leave to bid.

Fool, thou canst not sell her, for thou know'st not how to value her, yet cozen thy self; what dost thou ask?

Two thousand Sestertia.

Is that all?

All! yes.

And is she free when that is paid?

Yes, if you please.

Madam, not to call you mine, but to have a power to appear yours, give me leave, with the loss of mine own, to find your Freedom. Go fetch two thousand Sestertia.—unbind her.

What mean you, Sir?

They are proper here; and I beg you will not refuse (when Honour consents) to release me.

I hope my miseries will not beget Ingratitude in me, for I confess, 'tis some Joy in the midst of these troubles, to find that Honour that shines throughout this act; and though my bonds be as new and strange to me as your self, yet let me say, if there be a faulty thought that bids you hope to find a slaves heart here, you are deceived; for I would sooner sell my self to slavery, or, by a wound seek a freedom.

By thy self, by thy Angel self, I approach thee with thoughts as pure and as constant as those our Vestals wait on the holy flame with; and but that I know you would scorn a Sacrifice that's offer'd by prophane hands, those Attributes are given to the Gods I'de kneel and pay to you.

Souldier, the Prince would speak with you.

Which is that fine thing you spoke of?

That that the stranger stands by.

That stranger, knowest thou that stranger?

No, not I.

Now by the sins of my youth, 'tis a God-like form!—Why do they pull the Woman so?

How now, unhand her Villain, is she not free?

You have not pay'd your money, and I must not lose my Market you talk'd, and another ha's gon through with the bargain.

Another, what other?

One that will find the way to her Sex, before you'le come to kissing her hand: take her away.

Slave, dost thou glory in thy Villanies?—There, now let

him that dares claim her follow me and take her.

What have you done, Sir?

Fairest, begun a Justice I hope the Gods will finish.

How, kill'd! whose act is this?

Mine, and I'le answer it; some one that knew him follow me, and take the money for this Lady.

That Woman I have paid for, and I will not quit my purchase; either yield her, or I shall force her.

I know what 'tis command, but never yet heard that voice (unless an Oracle) that I would have obeyed when the Speaker frowned, and thou lookst not like him whose voice is thunder.

Gallant Youth.

I cannot talk, Sir, but I shall take my own.

Touch her not, yet I have patience, let her alone.—Nay, if you will be insolent, I'le punish it if I can.

Kill the Dog.

Hold Sir, as you have any sense of Honour, hold for shame, betray not thy Fame so poorly as to let a slave share in thy Re­venge; this base odds calls thee Coward, though thou conquerest.

Who made you a Judge of mine Honour?

So, I fear you'le find your Treachery no guard.

This way, this way he is gone, seize her and secure her to the Princes house, whilst we follow him.

ACT. II. SCEN. III.

VIllains, whither tends your Rage?

To revenge: yield, or thou art dead.

Slaves, leave to pursue that stranger, or I'll send those shall shake your wretched souls out of their Cases.

What's she?

What ere you are that thus have lent your pity to a stranger, in distress, may you never know what 'tis to want a pity.

To buy a slave?

Upon him, alive or dead, we'll have him.

Ha! the Prince engag'd, draw.

ACT. II. SCEN. IV.

HEll upon you all, where were your Mercenary swords when they should assist? S'death, to let a single stranger, in mine own door, brave me, and none by, to kill the dog? who now is escaped, to brag that he snatched from Braga­dine a slave that he bought and paid for.

Sir, we could not Prophesie, your Highness would go out; and none call'd us; But for the slave, she is at home, and safe, The Sailers brought her, and are now in pursuit of the stranger.

If she be safe, let's lose no time, but follow them, lest he escape, with his glories, which which way went they?

This way, Sir.

ACT. III. SCEN. I.

HOw do you, Sir?

Not well.

What accident was this?

Oh! Facertes, I have seen my Fate, and I conjure thee by all our friendship, not to call me weak, nor dispute with my passion, but obey thy friend, and suddenly, or I am lost for ever; for her innocence, I fear, will be no guard against their power; and without impiety I may mistrust the Gods, for they already have slept, and let her fall into misery; oh, Facertes, I am a slave to a [Page 24] slave, and to hers my Fate is bound. And Temples, not chains are due to her; and when thou seest her thou wilt forgive me this change, for she has a Beauty against which thy honour must arm, else thy love will be no more a guard then was my re­solution.

All this for a slave!

Oh! do not revile her; for when thou meet'st her, thy wonder and repentance will make but one thought, and like me thou wilt be lost in a maze.

This is strange.

I confess it; yet when the world was innocent before the bloody sword taught her pride by conquest, and learn'd the thirsty wooll to drink the purple dye, till it grew enrich'd with the far­fetch'd stains, such innocence and beauty as waits on her might any where have claim'd a sacrifice.

Sir, though I grant all these beauties, yet to me they bring like miseries to those the swift lightning leaves the wretched hus­band-man; who instead of full joys, reaps from those wounding fires nought but weighty griefs; yet I'll obey you, though in this chance I foresee my own despairs, to the little hopes I had of hap­piness. Farewell.

Why do you conclude so? must you of necessity be mise­rable, if I be happy? are my friends joys the less, 'cause mine are full?

Pardon me, Sir, if you find me troubled to see all my hopes wither'd, and those wounds you gave my suffering Country now despairing of a cure.

O friend! friend! has that word no power?

Yes, and that makes me sleight my interest; for I am so accustomed to misfortune, 'tis almost natural to me: But when I think on whom you throw your fortune, youth and fame, I find a greater trouble as your friend, then as I am the lost Facertes; for you know not what she is; your love hunts thus in the dark, A slave, a thing set at sale for lust.

That, that, Facertes makes me rage; and again by all that's powerful I conjure thee fly with me to her rescue, before such a ruine find her.

Virgilius, Sir, Virgilius stay; I must obey him, or he's lost.

Draw thy sword then, and let me see thee plead with that against her enemies, as thou didst against me at Siracusa, and I'll conclude all hopes from that powerful Argument.

Sir, I never us'd my Arguments to spare my sword; nor was my tongue now drawn, because I meant that should sleep: See 'tis drawn, but in vain you hope a service from it, as your self; and therefore stay here, while I fit you with a disguise.

Be speedy then.

I shall, but pray retire a little, this place is too publick, I'll return immediately.

I'll stay at the corner.—

May I be bold?

With whom?

With you, Sir.

No.

Sir, your pardon.

For what? I forgive thee.

Sir, I would beg.

Here, I'll prevent thee, if thou wilt let me go.—

No, Sir, my business is no money; 'tis your self must sa­tisfie me.

Thou art mistaken sure, thy business was to my man.

No, Sir, I go upon no such Errands. Did you not fight for a slave even now?

Yes, what of her?

Are you he?

Yes, I tell thee.

Farewell then, till you are at leisure.

Prethee stay.

No, Sir, your man is busie.

Prethee excuse my trouble, which gave not ear to thee at first.

That's he, why stays she so long to deliver her Message? she is angry.

For once I excuse; you and look hereafter you entertain a woman with more: But to the business; the slave you wot of—(oh! that eye of yours) there lies a wag in't that will make a world of mischief,) you know not who it hath struck, pray heaven I get not a wound.

Nay, to your story, good Mother, and leave this wandring.

Mother? whose Mother, good-man boy? I am a Maid.

You mistake me, I meant, Mother of my joys, and so you will be if you can lay by this youthful fire that makes you thus subject to choler, and proceed with your story.

Yes, yes, do you jeer me?

I can endure no longer; Sir, what ere you are, take my faith for your safety, and make this house your sanctuary; something concerning that slave I would deliver to you.

Are you there, Hell and mischief find you.

Madam, who ere you are that offers this charity to a stranger; know, I dare enter though I saw my ruine in the door. For fear I never found his pale den yet, though I have oft trod those paths that led both to dangers and to death; and I should scorn my self, could I apprehend him now where beauty has the guard. Which way do your commands guide me?

That door.

Now a publique Pox go with thee, that thy face may serve thee in no stead; malicious Villain, to call up my dead fears that had wont to tell me I had lost my time; proud scurvey fel­low, to put me thus in despair; and if he had any good nature, he would have offer'd me a kindness, in courtesie to have com­forted [Page 26] me; I shall not eat to day; had he but call'd me Whore, yet it had been tolerable, for that carries youth with it. But old Mother? Rascal, none of thy Mother. But I'll be reveng'd.

ACT. III. SCEN. II.

CRabb, Crabb.

Oh!

Crabb, what's that groans?

Help, help for charity, more wounds, or remedy.

Ha! what's that? help, where am I? 'tis a man making his will, I'll be his heir, ha! what's here? a man wounded? this is that Rogue, Crabb; he has robb'd him, and laid him here to make me accessary.

Help, if you have charity.

With all my heart, and prethee, do me the favour to live till we come to my Quarter.

If I do, I shall discover something pleasing to you.

Marry, I'll carry thee, for thy testimony, there is nothing else in this case can save me.—You are no Rogue, Crabb! Who did this?

Not he.

That's good evidence for me.

Nor I, by this hand, you must quit me, while you can speak.

I acquit you both.

Witness, witness, Crabb.

Where did you find him?

Find him? by this hand, he found me and lay down by me, as I was asleep.

Why, faith he is going a long journey, and came to take you with him, Thou art good company; but to leave this dis­course, take my business: Our Captain would have you go visit the sick party, and see whether he will be perswaded yet or no to dye.

I hate to see the Rogue; I have such battels in my head, since morning, yet I'll go, while I am neer him, and take you charge of this old man in the mean time, and see him careful­ly drest.

So, lean upon me, what Rogues were these to use an old man thus?

ACT. III. SCEN. III.

WHo's there?

Where is this old fellow, is he alive still?

Yes, Sir.

Bring him out, to take a little fresh air.

Is he come again? why did you let him in? he'll be a last­ing a tedious affliction to me.

How now? how is't, how is't man?

Neither live nor die in peace?

Yes, dye in as much peace as you can.

When my time comes; but I hope a man may have leave to live out his days; my Physitian says, I may escape yet.

Your Physitian's an Ass, and you give him too great Fees.

He tells me I may escape this fit, if I can recover mine ene­mies; for he assures me, my greatest danger is my heir.

Doe's he say so? I cry him mercy then, he is a knowing man, I believe so too: and you may, perhaps, at a great charge, recover; but, in my opinion, you had better dye, and take our prayers with you; for to recover would but incense the Captain, and lose your friends.

Sure my Captain would be loath to lose me; he ever loved me.

Why I; and yet you refuse him to dye, and think much to hasten your journey a day or two, for his sake.

Alas, I would be glad to serve my Captain in any thing that lies in my power, I'll pray for him, and I hope he will excuse me for desiring to live, and serve him.

You may flatter your self, but I'll assure you, he takes it very ill at your hands, that you, of all his company, should refuse him such a kindness, nay, not to appear willing to do it, if it were in your power; But thus, with an unnecessary charge, endeavour to live, crossing the disease that would be friend him.

Alas, I do nothing to cross it, I do but suffer.

Will you promise me that, and let the disease alone, it will be some satisfaction to him, and to us that are your friends, to see that you endeavour to satisfie him.

That I'll promise you: and from henceforth I'll seek no remedy, but put my self into the hand of his friend, as you call'd it.

Then you shall see how carefully we'll provide for you; for I hope you do not think, that we or he desires this, because he is loth you should live two or three days; for what were that to him, but that he is to go out then; and the next Captain will be your heir.

Alas, Sir, how can I help it? 'tis against my will, if any bo­dy be my heir.

Well, look you keep Covenants, and endeavour to dye finely; banish your Physician and gelly-broth, I'll provide noises to keep you waking. Crabb, provide two Drums to beat here their watch a piece; and do you hear, beware of a good diet.

As you have charity, let me rest, those Drums are Daggers to me.

Nay, you'll be unreasonable again, I see it.

Oh misery of wealth!

ACT. III. SCEN. IV.

I Confess, my first thoughts were like my self, faulty: but now I have gained by losing a desire, and I shall serve you faithfully in your love.

All my fears are, that he will violate her.

He dares not do it, I have conjur'd him from it, and when it may serve you, I'll boast my power, though purchas'd with a fault; and though your virtue secur'd you from that power, yet where sin has interest, mine never wanted a Command; and I know he dares not stand those frowns which your goodness melted into tears.

No more, when we have sighed for our faults, they vanish with the same air; yet I fear him, though I believe your power great; for he that dares be a coward will stop at no wickedness within his reach.

I made him asham'd of that base act, and vow not to pursue you; yet I counsel you not to stay long in this Town after you have her.

What time did he appoint to bring her?

He parted hence just as you entred, with a promise imme­diately to return; and if he should find you here, I am afraid it would prejudice my power to serve you; else I should rejoyce to be seen where so much honour dwells.

Your civilities and mercies, Madam, shewed to me, a stranger, I shall with a grateful mention acknowledge through the world; pray, what time will your commands enjoyn my return?

It will not be safe, Sir, to come at all; But pray be pleas'd to send a friend after dinner, and you shall have notice of his first departure, what time that will be; yet I know not, for I am so miserable, I cannot now be good, but with a wicked pretence, There is another door leads into a street less frequented then that you entred at.

Which way must I take to find it?

I'll guide you, Sir.

ACT. III. SCEN. V.

IT is well, happy discovery; now I shall be reveng'd at full; was it not enough to have his pride throw a scorn upon me, but she must revile me too? Fool, in scorn thou called'st me Mother, and thou shalt find the Malice of an old Woman here, that in her years, not desires, is aged; one that has lost that Mercy-kind­ling fire which should plead for thee, and prevent that youthful Ma­lice, whose fruitful mischiefs shall make thee old in miseries; nor shall Religion, nor beauties of thy youth, protect thee from that dangerous hate thy scornes have bred, till thy despaires have taught thee how killing a Malice hot Lust in cold Limbs pursues.—The plot is here; Jealousie, 'tis thou must work my ends, with that I'le assault the Prince, and from the wounds it brings, reap my Re­venge; for Jealousie, though it leave no scars behind, yet with de­sperate wounds it assailes the Mind.

ACT. III. SCEN. VI.

THis, by the description of the house, should be the place that holds my miseries: from what a second height of happiness am I fallen? Virgilius is young, and I fear, the guilt of having so many wayes ruin'd me will make him hate me for being innocent; But I am resolv'd, and will rather fall by misfortunes then faults; and, for the excellent Sophia's sake, will serve him till he blush to command me. And when his passion is over, he shall confess, I can bear a loss better then he rule a victory. But what are

these? I must stand close. 'Tis he, and that (by her habit) the slave our Fortunes bow to: Gods! was it not enough we fell a sacrifice to the Julian Deity, and fill'd the Triumph of that Monar­chy, that thus your rage pursues us? must all our Fortunes be slav'd to a slave, and bound with chaines to chaines.—Ye Gods! What

do I see? Cicilia my Sister?

What said he?

It is she. Bless'd chance. Ye powers of Sicily, your hands are visible in this; forgive Facertes that confesses, Men may the metal bring, but the form of our happiness the Gods appoint us still.

ACT. IV. SCEN. I.

FAith, Sir, hanging of 'em will be but a hindrance to your self; 'tis true they are Rogues, and have no Conscience, yet, at the worst, they are so much horse.

I say, hang 'em.

I say so to, if hanging were a punishment, but to them 'tis freedom.

No more dispute, but hang 'em slaves, to rob me now when I am quitting my Command.

Well, they shall be hang'd, but they shall stay till they be hungry, and have digested their full Cups; if if you hang 'em now they're full and drunk, they'le think they have but swallowed a­wry or surfeited; and instead of being punished, the Rogues will go out like Senatours.

The old Souldier confesses they were of Sicily, and of Quality, and now sent for a Present to the Emperour, and that was the Vice-Roy that was slain, he would have yielded good money.

And one of the slaves confess'd the Woman was of such a Beauty, and so ravishing, that they fought who should pur­chase her.

There had been a fellow for your Bird at home, two such fleas would suck a Man to death.

Come, talk no more on't now, there's no remedy, Go pre­pare those others for the Mart, and see the slaves hang'd: What? how do they look? is't a handsome fraight?

Yes faith, Sir, there will be a jolly number with the Boys; and I would advise you, Sir, not to shew the Women and the Boys together, for they'le spoil the sale of the Wenches.

Why then we'll sell the Women first.

Who these Sicilians should be, troubles me; if we made haste we might hear some news of her at Naples, for there they were sold.

To morrow we'll provide for the journey; Lieutenant, see every thing in readiness.

Something I'll do, to give one of them her Freedom, as sure as you count her, though you refuse to sell it me.

Is the old fellow dead?

No. But I have prevail'd with him to quit his Physick; and I am certain, he hath neither eat, nor drank, nor slept since.

Let's go see him.

Cilius is melancholly for the Wench.

No matter, I'de rather he were angry then lost; for though he know not his own value, I know it, Come let's leave him.

'Tis not Treachery to save the Innocent. I'le do it.

ACT. IV. SCEN. II.

I'Le sacrifice to Fortune, she shall henceforth be the Power I'le worship, to whom I owe this unexpected Joy, she ha's tam'd Lust, till it was Love, and lent onely so much sin to the wick­ed as served me; and I that could not stand safe among the Inno­cent, find a security among the wicked.—Facertes?

Look here, ere I speak my news, Doe's not Virgilius see a Joy break like a Glory round about my Brow, to distinguish this my first happy hour?

It is thy Friendship that sympathizes mine. Oh Facertes, such an accident hath hapned since thou left'st me, that I must wink, rub mine eyes, and call all my Reason to secure me I do not dream.

What e're your Joyes are, they must give place to mine; for they are yours and mine, not as we are barely friends, but from the assurance that we shall ever be so.

I confess thy Joyes bring to me a greater Comfort then mine own, prithee give them a Name.

Do you believe a second view of her you have seen will not render her common to your eye? or, to possess those Beauties make them cheap in your Opinion? if not, I am happier then you, and when ever you enjoy your wishes I reap mine.

By our Friendship I beg this blessing from you, yet this is not strange where Friendship is not strange.

The slave is my Sister but by what accident fallen to this misery I know not.

Who? the fam'd Cicilia?

She. Never free till now, and this fall was but to raise her to a greater height.

Then I mistrust my Joyes; they grow too near a height to continue.

Are you sorry, Sir, it is she? Then it was not Chance changed our first design; is she less worthy of your Love now then before? I should be sorry to find your ignorance of what you va­lued preferred before your knowledge; or is there some second face you have met hath blotted out this too?

O Facertes, why art thou so subject to mistake thy Friend?

If I mistake, why are you so sad? I found you full of joy.

Not that 'tis she makes me sad; for, witness Heaven, I have no wish beyond her,; Her Eye circles my Heaven, and till I have place in her esteem I am in Hell.

Why should that suspition make you sad, considering you are, and what you have done for her? Besides, am not I here with a Brother and a Friends interest?

Who I am, That, Facertes, begets my despairs; for that 'tis I is all Arguments against me; will she not, when she sees me, call to mind a Father (whose piety the Gods spared) fallen, to sa­tisfie the lust of Empire? are not yet the wounds bleeding, and the yoke still laid upon her suffering Country? Now judge what can be said of hope, when this pleads against me. Oh Facertes, thou hast not read thy Sister, thou look'st with a Brothers eye, This fate I prophesie from one sight; and let me tell thee, if she be worthy of Virgilius she must hate Virgilius.

Sir, I confess my friendship made me oversee what I was reconcil'd to, and now I begin to fear; yet when she shall know how I have been obliged, That mercy I found from the fair Sophia, her honour will guide her to return Virgilius; for though it makes her to resent your injuries, yet she must be just to her, and then her gratitude secures you; for though she has honour, yet she has woman too, and mercy is as great an attribute as justice, and she cannot be always angry.

Against any thing but her frown I could arm, and this night be happy. For by a strange chance I have found a way (if she consent) to release her.

By what accident came you to that power? have you seen her since?

No, but this place is too publick; let's retire, and you shall know all; and when I would my Sister know, I'll read her through thy observations; but here let thy interest give way to my love.

I shall obey, Sir.

ACT. IV. SCEN. III.

MY thoughts can find no rest; Love, wilt thou not quit me in Prison? art thou covetous of my chains too? Fool! hast thou not miseries enough of thine own? And yet I ought not to revile him; for he that hath fill'd my heart is full of honour, and could he guess my fate, I know he would quit a Crown, as a burthen, and seek a freedom in these chains. The Gods are just, to let me fall into these miseries, that we may taste what 'tis our ambition imposes upon others, guilty only as I was, by being too weak.—Whose that? come in; Prisoners keep

no doors.

Madam, I come to tell you, our Captain has refused to sell me your freedom, and to morrow is the Mart at Naples; But if you dare trust him, whose misfortunes have made him appear your ene­my, I'll gage a life to save your honour, and give you freedom. The plot is already laid, and those that were taken with you I have already acquainted with it.

Sir, I shall willingly obey any directions, without a thought of fear, for sure there's no condition below this.

I will not now dispute this misfortune, but remedy it if I can; know, to morrow (lest the accident surprize you ere we put to sea) I have so ordered, that all the slaves that row in the Galley shall be loose, the Captain is my creature, and my self will still wait upon you, and be your guard; but be pleased to sit still when the word is given, and let us work your fate; But once free, com­mand Cilius where you please, your friends too shall privately be arm'd.

Sir, what to say in return of this, I know not, and if you that can be thus gallant, thus good, cannot likewise from that ho­nour that directs you now, find a reward, I fear you will lose this good deed.

It is a debt all honest men owe your virtue; and I but obey my genius, for I know not what it is, but something whispers to my soul, and bids me serve you, and when my life can purchase you a good, you shall not need command it; I beseech you no re­ply, a Souldiers prayers (that seldom importunes heaven) I hope will protect you.—

How now, what's the news?

I should speak with you, Sir.

Madam, I'll wait upon you straight.—Are they all ready?

I have done it, they are all resolv'd, I gave them their lives for it; and let him swear when he sees them there, 'tis no matter: they are all loose and arm'd, their chains are but for shew.

No matter for his rage, let him storm; once aboard, we are masters, for he's but one, and what's a General without obedi­ence? his power we give, and if a multitude knew their own strength, who can command that beast?

I'll away, and send the other Galleys off before, lest they assist him.

Be faithful, and I'll make thee fortunate.

Sir, never fear it, I have said it, and I'll do it; he that re­fuses to be a knave for a handsome woman, may he dye honest, and be executed for a knave.

Where's the Lieutenant?

Here, Sir, I have waited this hour for you.

Come, shall we go see the sick man?

I'll follow you, Sir.

ACT. IV. SCEN. IV.

NO rest! no ease! O miserable, miserable riches! some drink, O, some drink, ere this thirsty flame hath licked up all my life, meat, any thing to satisfie this wolf here.

Have patience, it cannot last above a day or two, about which time I hope to see you quit of all the troubles of this world.

Let me sleep then, quiet those Drums, that I may dream of meat and drink; is there nothing to eat, no drink? oh misery of miseries!—Who's there?

The Captain, Sir, and Lieutenant are come to see you.

Is it they? not a word then that I am hungry or thirsty, I'll buy thy silence at any rate.

How now, how is this sick man, where is he?

He has vomited such stuff, since the Lieutenant went; sure, that your worship gave him was good against an Impostume.

By this good day, the same water that eat Crabb's knife; what shall we do with this Rogue? a hole in his side, big enough to creep in at, will not kill him.

Let's speak with him.

Who's there? my noble Captain, and kind Lieutenant; thank you for this visit; truly, it joys me to see you both here, and

specially my noble Captain; And I am pretty lusty on the sudden; and I'll do what I do not use to do, I'll begin a health to my noble Captain, that he may see he is welcome; do'st hear honest friend, fetch a bottle of Sack, I'll even drink it, come what will after it, and my friend there shall pledge me; and do'st hear, reach me one

of the Gammons of Bacon out of the Chimney, it may be my Cap­tain has a stomack,—If he has not, I'm sure I have.

I am glad to find you thus merry, and so resolv'd; 'tis the part of a good man to prepare and dye cheerfully.

I told you, you would find him well prepar'd; and what think you, is not Sack and Bacon better then Barley-water and soak'd Chickens?

I confess, I was a fool then, but now I'll pledge you all the Sack I refus'd then; and to let my Captain see I resolve to dye, and serve him, look you but on, and I'll eat all the Gammon alone, but you must not tell the Physitian.

Give me a knife and some Bread, fill, fill a bowl of Sack, and bring it hither. Lord! Captain, you would not think how it

rejoyces me to see all this good company here.

I am beholding to you; fill, fill the sack.

Help to set me up.

Hold, give me the Cup; I'll begin a health to the sick man.

No, pray give me leave to begin my noble Captain's? pray, pray let me begin it.

No faith, I'll begin.

Pray drink to me then.

Why, you are very merry.

A Flincher,—Two draughts to one Cup?

This wine was musty, taste it.

Let me taste it, it may be 'twas an ill bottle, the wine's [Page 35] good wine, admirable wine.

Give me a bowl, I'll pledge it with a better will, because I see you do not desire it should succeed.

Alas! I desire to live but till I have drunk your health; To me good Captain, I'll pledge it with all my heart.

I hope so, I should take it ill to have you refuse me, for any nice scruple of your health.

As you did me, and cry, a Beer-grass would kill you.

Alas, I was a fool then, but now I am very desirous to re­deem that fault; To me good Captain, your wine cools.

Your hat Captain.

Oh! it's true.

Nay, pray drink, and spare your Complement.

Prithee give me a bit of that Gammon, to taste my Wine with.

Pray help him and me too, I would fain taste whether it be as good as the last was.

Yes faith, 'tis good, here Crab.

Nay pray let me drink to Crab.

No, by my faith, it shall go round.

Let me taste, was not your Wine musty too?

Here's none.

Fill, fill Crab, and drink to me, for I long to do thee reason, and begin my Captains.

It's an excellent Gammon, taste.

Some more, pray, to taste.

Where shall I carve you?

Any where, any where.

Sir, here's your Wine; will you pledge your health?

So, so, now I am happy; Noble Captain, a thousand times

I thank you, and with all my heart I'll pledge you.

Hold, a pox take you, Crab, for a couzening Rogue, you have put water in't.

No, by this hand.

No, by my life.

Let me taste, I'll not trust you.

Why taste, Noble Lieutenant; oblige me so far, as to let me drink my own health; nay Lieutenant, Noble Lieutenant.

Now, was it not pure?

Hup! by my Faith it was pure indeed; here fill it a­gain, give him a Brimmer.

I pray never spare me, Lieutenant, you were somewhat harsh the last time you were here, but I'll drink to you.

I was angry then, because you refus'd to pledge me; but now you'll drink, I am your Friend.

The Wine, where's the Wine?

Here's none left Sir, shall I fetch another bottle?

Is all gone?

Yes, Sir.

All gone?

Go fetch another, for he shall pledge me, this trick shall not serve's turn.

Pledge me, alass, Sir, rather then my life I'de pledge you.

No, no, thou shalt not; faith Captain he's now good na­tur'd, spare him; it will but make him sick; and troth he's an ho­nest fellow when he is himself.

He shall pledge me.

Alass, Sir, when we are sick, the best of us are unreason­able sometimes.

Lieutenant, Noble Friend.

I warrant thee, pray Sir let me excuse him for this time, he shall kiss the Cup onely.

I swear I'll drink it, not pledge my Captain, and 'twere present death I'de do it, fetch some Wine?

Nay, then I'll pardon you; for since I find you willing, I'll excuse your weakness.

Let the Wine alone, Crab.

Lieutenant.

Spare your thanks.

Lieutenant.

You know the Captain loves no Complements.

Farewell. Thank you for my Wine.

Captain.

Farewell, Farewell.

Captain, one word before you go.

What's the news?

Pray let me drink; for the truth is, I must either eat and drink or die.

How's that? and would you drink and live?

Why thou impudent Rogue; yesterday it was, if I drink I die, now some drink or you are dead.

Nay then he shall not drink, is this your professions?

Well Gentlemen, I see you'r resolv'd I must die; let me but have my fill, and I'll die tomorrow.

Why, faith, it is but abstaining till tomorrow, and then you are sure of it.

And is it not all one how I die, so I be dead tomorrow? if it be alike to you, pray let me choose; for if Surfeit or Famine can but kill, pray let me surfeit.

I am indifferent how, so it be done.

Call me spade if it be not.

And look we have no Equivocation, but see you be dead tomorrow.

I fear he will prove a Rogue.

I hope you would not desire that I should lay violent hands upon my self.

Marry the Gods forbid, lay violent hands upon thy self; no, no, now you have consented, I'll get one shall do it for you.

Give me some drink, and do what you will with me after­wards.

Set the Vessel by him.

But is it Sack, Lieutenant? is it Sack? excuse me if I be punctual too?

Give him a Bowl.

Give me another, give me a third.

Farewell, Farewell, look you be dead to morrow, or by these hilts I'll apply my Dagger to thy side, and that will be a cer­tain cure; come, Sir, will you please to go?

Captain, Captain, stay a little and see me die, give me ano­ther

Cup.

By this light, the Rogue is drunk.

Now do I not see any Reason, why I should die.

But I shall give you a Reason to morrow.

To die with all this Sack about me! No, I am immortal, let those die that are dry.—Hum, give me my sword.

Come leave him, he is drunk.

How now, what would'st you have?

You'll give me leave to wait on my Captain down?

No Ceremony, good Tullius, no Ceremony.

It shall be yours Captain, indeed it shall be yours.

Alass, Sir, give him leave to take cold.

Nay, if it must be so, I obey.

Nay, why Lieutenant, what do you take me for? how do you think I have been bred?

Remember to morrow.

Remember to morrow, let to morrow remember me.

ACT. IV. SCEN. V.

THis is the Place, Love be thou propitious, and let my fears prove false; hereabout should be the door.

It is true, I have promis'd him, when he comes, to deliver you; but he has vow'd to use you with Honour, do you not know him?

No Madam, this is the first time I ever saw him.

Pray what Country claimes your Birth?

Greece, Madam.

Pray grow not in Love with your griefs, but give some part of 'em to me, that now but begin to be sad.

Why should you be sad, that know no grief of Mind? have you lost Friends? or forfeited Freedom?

Fair one, I am more a slave then you; for I am bound by faults, and none can set me free; your miseries are but for a time, and I can release 'em, and yet cannot command my own Fate.

What strange misery can you apprehend? do you love unfortunately?

No, I love happily, but I have fallen unfortunately, and no length of dayes can set a period to my misery; I love, but can­not hope a return, for I should hate him I love if he could love me; yet, as his Honour forbids him that, and me all hopes to enjoy him, so if he be a perfect Man he hath Mercy too, and he may pity and forgive, though not love Paulina.

I would ask another Question, but that I am afraid it would search too near your griefs; dare you trust me with the knowledge who it is you love? can I serve you?

You must not, and therefore cannot, for it is the stranger that fought for you. When first my Eye met his, it shot a flame in here, and the nobleness of that Act (which was sacrific'd to you) shook me, and waked my sleeping Honour, and I began to find desires that till then were strangers here, for they had more of love then blood in them.—What's the business?

There's a young fellow without desires to speak with you.

Your pardon.

I have spoil'd your sport if all hit right.

ACT. IV. SCEN. VI.

MAdam, I come from that stranger that this morning your Charity preserv'd, what directions do you com­mand me in his affairs of Love!

Sir, you are welcome, and from him all is so; This night I would desire him meet in the garden, where he shall receive her.

I must beg the favour to speak with that Lady, I have a message to impart to her.

You shall command any thing my power can serve you in, there she comes, and I'le wait upon you straight.

What shall I say to her? my joys have rob'd me of my Tongue.

It is he that this morning nam'd me in the street.—Sir, have you any commands for me?

No Madam, I come to serve, if you'le please to enjoyn; and though a poor Sicilian, yet I know what duty all that wretch­ed Nation owes your Excellence.

Me Sir! sure you mistake.

No, Madam, I cannot mistake, nor can any miseries so cloud your Beauties, but through all the Innocency and Majesty of such a Princess will appear; sure you will not deny the name of Cicilia?

To you, Sir, I will not, yet I conjure you to conceal me, and let me know to whom I stand endebted for this Civil opinion.

My name is not worth your knowledge, but my for­tunes [Page 39] I boast of, for I had the honour to be a Souldier, and a Pri­soner with your Princely Brother, and fell with him the same day when we lost the battel at Siracusa.

Who, Facertes? where is he, at Rome! Oh, tell me how do's he bear the Insolence of that unworthy Conquerour? It is ma­ny years since I saw that beloved Brother, did he never speak of me?

Yes, Madam, I have often heard him mention you with Tears, and like a Brother give your Character to the fair Sophia, sister to Virgilius, who saved his Life when he was doom'd to the hook.

The Hook? Oh, ye powers, why do you let this wicked Tyrant thus triumph o're our miseries? But for Virgilius, that false seed of the old Tyrant, that's young and false, and cruel in his youth, let him find some curse, strange as his wickedness.

Madam, upon my life, you injure him; for, my soul to pawn, he loves your Brother: and had no share in that guilty Tri­umph, for he was then in Gallia.

Oh, thou art deceiv'd, he envies my Brother, and cannot love; and when he could not by force conquer him, by falshood he sought his ruine.

I perceive, Madam, you are a stranger to the Prince's affairs at Rome.

What are they? new miseries?

Have you not heard how, at the Triumph, the fair Sophia and he, in a look, chang'd hearts, and that now he has his freedom?

No, this is the first time that I heard of it.

Madam, I saw him free; and (by his friendship with Virgilius) 'tis hoped he shall marry the Princess Sophia: But this is a secret I dare not give to any ear but your own.

My Brother and Virgilius friends? 'tis false, it must be false, I know he is too much my Brother to make a Friendship there.

His Love to the Sister, and her merits, who has a virtue equal to her Beauty, made him forget the injuries which Virgilius (in ambitious honour, not malice) threw upon him; besides, it will be a guard for Sicily hereafter, and Facertes gains his ends upon them.

Pray no more of this discourse; I hope my Brother has no ends beyond his Honour; it cannot be he should forget mine and his own injuries, or so bury a Brothers and a Fathers loss; but if ab­sence can do all this, yet his Honour is with him, and that may tell him how glorious, in story, a Slave appears, whilst he keeps his Honour; and how mean and poor that Prince is that sells it for his passion.

Excellent Maid—Madam, I am sorry my dis­course displeas'd you.

I would I were with him, or I would I could but write to him.

Madam, if you'le please to write, I'le deliver it him.

No, Sir, that would be too great a trouble, for I believe, [Page 40] those Occasions which drew you hither are of more considera­tion then a letter.

None of such importance as to serve my Prince; 'Tis true, I have a Comrade, a Prince that has disguis'd himself into that condition, and is resolved, under that private habit, to see the world; a scurvy Accident befel him to day, upon the Mole, at the Slaves Mart, where he 'scaped hardly with his life; some wounds he has too, which will retard him, I fear, till my return.

Was it not this morning? a young man, brown-hair'd?

Yes, it was about a slave he saw, and fell in love with; and while he stay'd for money to redeem her, another bought her; I was not at the beginning, but, I thank my fate, I came time e­nough to his Rescue.

Is he safe then?

Yes, Madam, but so impatient, for fear some violence should be offer'd to her, I am now going in search of her; for I know he'le find no Peace, till he has gain'd her freedom.

Is he a Prince, say you, and in love with that Slave?

Yes, Madam, and now his soul labours in pain, to know what condition she is of; but I hope his flame is made of young mens fire, such as will not last.

Why do you hope so?

Because I have the honour to be his friend; and though I serve his passion, yet I should be loath to see him continue his Love for a Slave, that has nothing but miseries for his Honour to work upon.

A Prince! then all my Prayers fall not to the Earth, nor lose their way 'twixt heaven and my miseries.

Your prayers, Madam? how, under pardon, are you concern'd in his love or birth?

You are a Souldier, and by your honour I conjure you; you are a Sicilian, and now Ile take the power you gave, and command you; or by my Brother and his friendship I enjoyn you.

What, Madam?

Nothing, nothing; ye gods! whither am I falling? down,

down Woman; All the pleadings of my Sex be gone, I will not be a slave to my Passion.

Nor will I be so rude as to press a Secret from you; yet your Brother, Madam, should not serve you more faithfully, nor more willingly, then I.

I must not, no, I will not; yet I durst tell you, but 'tis not like Cicilia, nor the Laws that she has ever followed.

Madam, your name has given Laws, and Cicilia's Acts have ever stood Examples, as unquestioned as unimitable: and by your self, I beg this trust.

Then, as you are a Souldier, take it, and protect it, (I know no guilt,) why should I fear? I was that slave he fought for; and I rejoyce, the man I honour is so favoured of the Gods.

O Madam, this is a blessing beyond my hopes; dare you trust me to discover who you are? I'le first sound whether his Love [Page 41] aim with honour, and by degrees work upon him till I have found the secrets of his heart; he shall despair too, and in fear spend some days; But at length dare you not let him know there is a hope? pray leave it to me, I'le see all the Laws of Love observ'd, he shall doubt, and hope, and you shall defer his Joys; But still

I'le wish your Love may increase too, for I know he'le deserve it.

Sir, I have not said I love, nor will not, till I hear him say so first; I confess I hope he loves, and what that hope can be call'd I acknowledge.

Then all my Joys are full—Nay, my Sister, you must not turn away.

Sister?

Did I say Sister?

Yes, and if my Ears abuse me not, this morning you call'd me sister.

Then I'le hide my self no longer from thee; and since you could confess to a stranger you hop'd he loved, I claim so

much trust as to confess you love; will this satisfie you who I am? I mean to give it to the Prince.

Oh, my Brother, why did you hide your self from me? is it true you told of your self? are you in love? shall not I know your story, that I may rejoyce in your joys?

Thou shalt know all, but let me not now defer the Prince's joy, who waits without and suffers in the doubts which longing love brings.

The Prince without? is that a truth? pardon me, for since you have deceiv'd me once, it is lawful to suspect.

Yes, and there is another truth which I durst not disco­ver till thy love warranted it me: But now know the man thou hated'st is the man thou lovest; for Virgilius is that Prince; but when thou hast made an acquaintance with him thou wilt confess thy ignorance only could hate him.

Virgilius, then I am miserable!

Do not say so, but take a Brothers knowledge of him, I have tryed him, friend and enemy, and by both find him pure; and I conjure you, give me your griefs, and believe my love before your hate of the man you love.

Is it Virgilius then?

By thy self, it is he.

Swear not, unworthy; witness the Gods, that saw and pi­ti'd not my griefs, with what pain I lost thee; yet that was nothing, compar'd to this affliction, that finds thee thus; Go boast to thy friend, what success thy treachery, assisted by a Brothers interest, has gain'd upon a Sister, o'recome with misery.

Why do you accuse me thus? have I injur'd you? is it a fault, to tell you your opinion wrongs a gallant man?

Were he a God, and his friendship of so sovereign a nature, it would protect us against their rods, when with a plague they make a curious search amongst men: were he this, yet, in thee and me 'twere sin to sacrifice to him; and I would sooner oppose that [Page 42] plague which only wounds my mortal part, then meet Virgilius as a friend.

Why do you conclude me so unworthy, as to call him friend without a satisfaction?

Thou art not Facertes; he knows there can be no satis­faction: did he not ruine our Country? fell not my aged Father under a Roman sword? is not Lucius, our Brother, lost? and his Ghost still wandring for want of Funeral Rites: But if thou art Facertes, remember how his falshood let thee adorn a triumph; but these are past. Am not I this day sold a slave? do's not our Country still bleed; and whil'st we talk, the licens'd lust of the common Souldier add new crimes? Oh! my Brother, let me not have reason to repent that neerness, but learn to hate him; and while he is in our power take a brave revenge; that he would do something to redeem these faults is no Argument to prefer him be­fore your Country; and though it be gallant in him to love, yet in thee or me a low mean sin.

Had he not said all this, had he not condemn'd himself, I had done it; but when I see his youth soul-sick with love, and full of despairs, ready to sacrifice himself to redeem the misfor­tunes of a conquest (which he was but a servant in) I must tell Ci­cilia, when he leaves thus to be an enemy, I must be a friend, for I scorn to hate what loves me; but he loves thee, and to destroy him now is murder, and not revenge.

That he loves I owe him nothing, for it was chance and fate; and that I love him will be no guard: if I did not love him, 'twere easie to destroy the thing I hate; but it shall be my glory, through my love and loss of peace, to find revenge.

But his love was no chance; this journey we design'd by the counsel of his Sister, whose interest pleads here, and we were bound for Sicily, and his intents were to heal, by marriage, the wounds you thus lament in our Country; and if now you destroy this means of peace, you have ruin'd it; Cicilia has destroy'd her Country, and to obey her passion wilfully sacrificed our freedom.

Still thou blowest new fires; were your designs for Sicily and me? what has rendred me so cheap to my Brothers thought, as to believe I would receive such a visit from a vain swoln Con­queror, promising to himself success? But he shall find I dare, and can scorn him; and now if I had all the passions that our sex ever yet sunk under, I'de forbid him to my self; and he and you shall find Cicilia's mind not subject to his conquest.

Women, when they have said they are angry are half revenged; and friends, when they have avowed a quarrel. I know her soul full of softness, however her fortune makes this war betwixt her nature and her justice.—Sir, you have heard, I fear, the little hope she gives; yet she loves, let that secure you.

Will you take my opinion of your Sister hereafter? This I

foresaw.

What shall we do?

Something I will do, pray, let me serve her in some dis­guise, till she be freed from this place while I have an interest here.

If I can, I'll perswade her to escape this night.

I would I had spoke with her, I would fain say something to her before I dye.

Dye, Sir?

Yes dye, Facertes, now when I would fainest live; for why should I linger here when that which makes her excellent must render me miserable? for had she forgiven me, I could not have forgiven her; for she has justice, and I despair; farewell Fa­certes, I'll meet thee at the Galley.

Pray stay, Sir, you shall speak with her, and it may be she cannot find that strength against you.

If you'll gain me the liberty of speaking with her, I shall gladly do it; and then what I will do shall ask no long time to consider.

Pray, Sir, follow me.

I dare not press in there; I that have forced a passage through the world dare not enter there where love onely has the guard.

ACT. IV. SCEN. VII.

THey are now there; she is false, and you abus'd; she threatned me with wounds, unless I would obey her, and invite him to her bed, and the slave would scarce be won to come.

But has she given the slave to him that I presented to her to day?

She has given him all, and to lay the greater scorn upon you, to your enemy, she is one who loves the slave, and wants the common excuse of being woo'd.

Was this the reason she commanded me not to pursue my revenge? Fool, it shall now fall on you both.

You must be speedy then; for this night they are gone, and the garden is the appointed place to receive the slave in; but if you'l obey my counsel, they shall find their graves there; and then the old woman will laugh at the young Rascals.

But how shall I come to this opportunity of revenge?

Go arm your self, and take such to your assistance, whose [Page 44] faith you have tryed, and bring'em in the evening to our garden, where I'll place you so, that you shall have a full view of them, and take your revenge safely.

The Moon will assist us, for she shines early this night.—This in earnest.

Sir, I expect no money, I have said, I love you.

O, excuse me till to morrow.

I thank you, Sir,—How all these young things are subject to oversee a woman when she is stricken a little in years! and this Fool too, whom I chuse, because I thought all had been alike to fools, and yet see how hardly he is drawn on; as I live, but that there is one young man that I love, I would make him kill'em both, and take the wench; Ah! farewell the memory of my dear Britain, Gorgianus; well did he deserve to be their Patron, he never refus'd and old woman, but they knew his virtue, and while he was young call'd him home. O happy Island, that has one young man in it that will be charitable to the old woman: Every one strives to feed the young till their bellies burst again, while we praise and beg, and can scarce get'em to sell us their ware.—How now, what have we here? oh is it you? I'll retire.

If thou hast not lost all thine honour, By the memory of thy Fathers ashes, By that chaste Mother, whose memory thou so oft hast worshipped, give me leave to retreat to my strength, and while I have power preserve my honour, lest there be none left in our fa­mily, for thou hast thrown off thine, as if it had been a burthen to thee.

Dare you not hear him speak? if you have no Argu­ment to deny what he said, why do you accuse me of weakness, when I was conquered?

I dare not longer hear him speak? for all the weakness that our sex or nature is subject to plead against me, and I have on­ly honour to defend me; yet I can give you powerful Reasons that can destroy all his hopes.

No, no, give 'em him when you see him.

'Tis just you fly me, 'tis just you scorn me, and here I stand mine own judge, my own accuser and executioner too, if you frown, and bid me strike.

Sir, you mistake me, if you think I scorn you; there are other ways, and just ones, to be revenged without a fault.

Facertes, you do not covet a revenge more then I thirst to give it; and now I know what you desire, with wings I'll haste to serve you.

You cannot, her fruits are seldom sweet, unless we pluck them our selves.

Let me beg you will not pay such a rate as your inno­cence for it, can you not forgive? Is there nothing can expiate [Page 45] what my fate was only guilty in? for I was never faulty to you.

Nothing; my honour tells me I must not find a peace,—But my heart tells me I belie it.

Oh, do not frown; can you not be just but you must be an­gry too? The Judge that speaks the Malefactors fate, and tells him to morrow thou shalt dye, he do's it because it is just, not that he is pleas'd with the wretches misery. Oh, be you but so merciful; let my doom come but as a necessity from you, and not appear to affect my miseries.

Brother Facertes, what shall I say? Cicilia, be thy self, or thou hast lost the glory of thy revenge.

No, divinest, do not wrong me so, as to think I plead for life; 'tis for your pity onely that I beg; do not you destroy me, command some one that the act but addes to his guilt; stain not with blood that innocence, nor with cruelty punish cruelty.

No, Sir, I know your friend has said enough to secure you I cannot be cruel; but since such a sullen fate attends me that my passion will rob me of the revenge I hop'd to have had on you, I'll take it on my self; and if thou lovest through my own wounds, strike thy false heart which I see, yet have no power to punish.

False? oh, do not say so, any thing, but false.

Did'st thou not plead thus, till thy Arguments pre­vail'd with my Brother, that Brother under whose Sword thou fel [...], and found'st protection, though his enemy? did'st thou not vow there he should not be led in triumph, who else would not have lived? for he defended himself only to let thy pride see thou could'st not overcome him; and when he had taught thee with his sword that he could conquer, he yielded to let thee see he durst dye.

Dare you be judg'd by that Brother?

Yes, when he is himself; but these injuries are silent, when I call to mind that barbarous rage that did not spare the aged snow of my honoured Father. What glory could his death add to your conquest, whose heart had not blood enough to stain the sacrilegious weapon.

Oh! Madam, for these misfortunes which call me their head, I plead the duty I owed a Father, whose Battel I fought; and it became me to obey mine, as it do's you to mourn yours.

Then, to these add the vanity of this journey, promising your self a victory over our hearts too; and because your sword is forbid in this war, alone you undertook the journey; as if Virgi­lius name were enough to slave the world.

Madam, witness Facertes, how full of despairs I obeyed my fate, and your misfortunes will quit me of vanity; for when they had set a rate upon your beauty, when there was a price made for the excellent Cicilia, yet then I durst not hope a purchase. Vain, false and cruel! think me any thing but such a monster.

Oh Brother! cruel Brother! Sir, if I have injur'd you, I shall teach you to forgive by forgiving greater faults: my faith, [Page 46] and my faith, alas, that can neither advantage me, nor prejudice Virgilius.

Do not say so; 'tis the saving balm; 'tis mercy it self; and your faith of me must save me here, as mine hereafter; Oh, Divinest, stop not your mercy, but let it fall here; your eyes are full of pity; let that precious dew drop upon my thirsty heart, and save me, ere despair hath licked all my life thence; Turn not away, but look upon me as I appear in repentance, in the whiteness of my

tears, in their Innocency, in my Souls Love to Cicilia, strewed up­on the Earth in submission. Behold me, and view me, not as I stand stained with thy miseries, but speak to me, and speak mercy, Mercy whose figure thy fair self wears, and adorns; O let her softness guide thy tongue, and let my Souls bleeding sadness make thy fathers wounds dumb.

Oh, ye gods, why did not ye make him Innocent? pray Sir, Why do you kneel?

For mercy, is there no mercy? your tears should be

friendly; can you weep when you are Angry?

No, Sir, my tears have Prophetique misery, and so much weakness in them, they deserve your pity.

Oh, Madam, do not call it weakness, This is Charity, and her Alms yields a double benefit, and adorns as well as saves; Oh, my fate, would you had made me any thing that's most scorn'd, rather then an Enemy here.

That had been too great a Blessing; for kno [...] Sir, you do not, more then I, wish your Innocence, or with sadder thoughts mourn your guilt.

She must not see this Passion; Sir, pray let your love give way a little to Our safety; Paulina is coming, and 'twill be dangerous, by the discovery of yours, to put her Love to a de­spair; Sister, I hope your Reason has found a way to be reconcil'd to this Prince, whose misfortunes I know cannot deserve your hate; when your Justice guides; pray let her not see you here.

I can forgive him, and you; But I can ne're forgive my self; and something I'le do shall save my honour.

Pray, Sir, put off this sadness, and sollicite Paulina to deli­ver her this Night; is she as unsensible of your Love as she ap­pear'd to be?

She is all honour, all her self; All thy Sister, and I happy onely to be more miserable.

Pray retire, before Paulina comes.

I'le follow you.

This way we shall meet her, courage Sir; After Parly Womans wars give Quarter still, and she cannot long be cruel.

ACT. IV. SCEN. VIII.

ARe you all provided?

Yes, Sir, how many are they?

Three is the most; give me a Pistol, 'tis about the time she appointed, stay here, and whistle, if she comes; I'le look out.

This wench has every day a Quarrel; I kil'd two for her, the last Olympick.

Marry, the gods send her many Quarrels, peace Brings us no harvest; Who comes here?

The Moon is up, and he not come. They are upon de­parture; This Coward will fail me, and they will escape, and the Rascal will scorn me to death.

Who's there?

'Tis I, whose that? the Prince?

No, Madam, but one of his Creatures.

Who's that? Ennius? why, where have you been ma­ny a day?

Faith, I durst not be seen till last night.

You promis'd me a visit once, but you broke your word.

Lets retire, and call my Lord; I'Ie pay it now.

Follow me then, is my Lord this way?

Yes, let me guide you.

Who's that passed by?

It's the old Woman, that serves Paulina.

O, are you ready, Sir, you have stayed the utmost time; she expects him with longing thoughts, they are all provided, and a Gally lies ready at the Mole, to convey them away; but if your hearts be true, we will stay their Journey.

We are all ready, and resolute.

Follow me then, I'le see you plac'd where they must pass by.

Lead the way.

ACT. IV. SCEN. IX.

WHat return to make you, for this good Act, I know not; But I shall ever admire you for daring (in so wicked a Place) to be so singly good.

I, that durst be wicked, ought not to dispute now; but with shame to look upon my faults, and offer this, as my first sa­crifice, [Page 48] to witness I repent; and may my wishes prove fortunate, and make you happy in that Love that makes me miserable.

You cannot be so miserable as I,—That must love my

Enemy.

Madam, are you ready, they stay at the Garden gate, shall I let them in?

Yes, yes, and see the gates shut that lead to the street.

All is safe, pray make haste.

Wee'le meet you, call at my window.

ACT. IV. SCEN. X.

THis Moon is friendly, come, pray let not this cloudy sadness hang upon our Joys; you see she consented to put her self into your protection; her tears too are your warrant, for all Womens storms are past when those showers fall.

I do not now grieve for fear she should be angry, but that I am so unlucky as to deserve it; and my Friends can wit­ness my heart never sinned against her, yet something lies heavy upon it I cannot remove; for my fears tell me shee'l take some Revenge upon her self; for you saw it was her Passion, not her rea­son, that forgave me.

I know her Religion will protect her against her self, and she has too much honour, to wish health, and put poyson in the Cup; and though she threatned revenge, yet she scorns to take it when she is reconcil'd.

Oh, she is too Excellent to be false; Peace. Whose there?

Is the Galley ready, they Expect you.

All's ready, lead the way.

Follow me.

Stand close, I hear 'em come.

Stay here, while I return, with the Key.

This is the Garden.

Oh! This may be just: but whether it be fair, or no, Heaven, thou see'st.

How do you, Sir?

Why well, Facertes; The Bullet but glanced.

Oh my sister, If thou hast a hand in this Treachery, may Plagues suddain and lasting find and sink thee with despairs, when mercy flies thee as thou hast done thy honour; nor shall all

the tyes of love, or nature, prove thy guard, nor the mercies due to thy weeping penitence; No, thy sex shall not protect thee from the Justice of my swoln rage, which with sword, and words (that wound more) shall afflict thee.

Why dost thou rage and curse her, still mistaking that ex­cellent Maid? Upon my Soul, she has no hand in't, she is too full of Honour, to take so base a way to her Revenge, or seek by Treachery a life that's onely worn to serve her; and when she frownes, may command me put it off.

Draw your sword then, and take my counsel, if your strength fail not, and fall, as if their malice had been more prosper­ous,

perchance the Villain, Author of this deed, lurks here about, and expects such a sign ere he dare discover himself.—Pray, Sir,

let me bear you home.

No, Facertes, let me die here.

Unfortunate Youth, Murther, Villaines, where are you, you accursed Actors of this black deed? do you hide already Cowards? dare you not look on your Act?

It was my Brothers voice that cry'd Murther.

I heard a Pistoll, where's Olympia?

Heark, there's some body comes.

Villaines, dare you not yet appear?

Yes, fool, we dare, and laugh upon your miseries.

Yes, an old Woman will laugh; fool, thou had'st better have destroy'd thy Mother, then with scorn have awaked my Malice, now where is all your young wits? am not I prov'd a Mo­ther of your Joyes? fool, I am reveng'd now.

What cry was that?

How now, what ailes you?

Oh me, oh me, I am dead.

Then, though our miseries be great, they are not so ill as I fear'd; what moved thee, Villain, to this base Act?

Revenge, fool; thought'st thou, I could forgive a wound, and such an Injury as to have her I call mine possess'd by another?

Villain, thou shalt dearly pay for this base Act; Rise, Sir,

the Truth is now at large discovered.

Oh!

Ha, alive?

Yes, and I hope shall find so much Mercy as to punish thy Treachery.

Draw, Ennius, we have yet as many swords as they.

I warrant you, Sir, and as good hearts.

Traitor, thou want'st the cause.

It is they, they are set upon, I hear their swords too; let's haste, our presence may bring some aid; for Heavens sake, let us not look on and see them murthered.

Hold, as thou hast Mercy, hold; and as thou hast faults, shew Mercy.

Yes, in this Justice, for Justice is ever merciful.

There, Villain, There's thy treacheries first reward; thou art going for thy last.

Ha! upon the ground, Facertes, what accident is this?

Where's the Prince?

Here, how fares Facertes?

Well, onely a little scratch'd.

Sir, I hope you believe I had no hand in this Treachery.

No Madam, we know the unworthy cause.

What was it?

All our Joyes (within this minute) had a cloud on them; and I confess, I was afraid it had hid my Sisters faults, whilst I fear'd a mistake of Justice had betray'd thee to a Murther; yet then in his wounds the Prince was himself, and collected; I chid my mistrust; see, he bleeds still, do's not that expiate? This is twice he has shed it in sacrificing to thy liberty; and now to be angry is wilfull and humor, not honour.

Do you command, Cicilia shall obey; for I confess, the Prince is Master of that honour I but talked of; will you mediate a pardon for the Injuries my Passion threw upon him? and I shall joy to find I was mistaken.

O Madam, do not speak of pardon, for your Innocence knows not the way to that Injury I could not forgive; But I will not talk; for I should hate my self, if I had words to express this Joy.

Ha! The Prince slain, and Olympia dead? as you love your safety haste hence; he whom your Justice has found is the Vice-Roy's Son, and its present death if you be taken.

No distraction; The Galley is ready, and waits us at the Mole, thither we'll immediately; Sister, dare you yet put your self into the Princes Protection?

Yes, but not now; when I am free I will; and as I re­fus'd at first, because it was early, so now, 'cause it is forced, and looks like giving upon the Death-bed; and I would be loath to be­come the Princes Legacy.

I beseech you, let not a nicity interrupt my Joyes; but trust me with your protection, till I have made good my vowes to your Brother, whose Joyes my Affairs have deferr'd: But when you see him possessed of his Country, then I'll kneel for a Blessing in the fair Cicilia; dare you bid me hope?

I promise to do what honour shall warrant [...] and when these wounds are heal'd, I shall not call it weakness that makes me yield to my passion.

This Cloud is blown over by Fate; and now I'll smile and prophecy, through all our wounds and tears, a joyfull issue.

We'll for Sicily first, the Vice-Roy being dead they dare not refuse my Authority; besides, if they do, the Army is mine, and that shall secure Facertes. Madam, what Commands have you to enjoyn me, that I may return this favour?

When you appear'd a private Man and compass'd with dangers you had a power here, which now is turn'd to duty; and I beg a protection in your company, for the Prince was known to have an Interest here; and to be found dead in my Garden will bring a certain ruine upon me; For that I am Innocent will be no guard, but I shall fall now to expiate my other faults; and I confess, I would fain live now, for I am certain I repent, and shall ever sa­crifice to the Prince Virgilius as my good Genius.

Sure we shall not deny you a safety, to whom we owe all ours.

No Complement, but this way through the Garden to the Galley, the wind is somewhat high.

The Clouds are black, we'll keep under the shore, that if need be, we may put in upon the Coast of Calabria.

Not I, as I live.

Let me beg that Olive branch sign of Peace; and witness

all, I joy more to be thus bound, then to have conquer'd Sicily.

ACT. V. SCEN. I.

THe Captain has refused to give me the freedom of her I Love, but if the Lieutenant keep his word, I shall make him repent it at as sad a rate as I bear my misery; 'tis not Love, sure, that afflicts my Heart, for I have heard 'em say, That it is a soft and gentle Passion, which strokes and courts the Mind, and his

service perfect freedom, for Love is both the Famine and the Food, none of these chains afflicts them; I have seen Women and Boyes play with this Power: 'Tis the sport of Virgins, and yet their Hearts last Ages; Nay, they can be false too, and yet not lose one Grace, nor one Beautyfalls; Even the perjur'd Lovers weare their quiet Minds and fair Faces still, whil'st I pine and wither under these two dayes misery. I cannot eat nor sleep since I saw her, and my frinds are irksome to me, I love loanness, and hunt Corners, and prize a thought of being her slave, more then a Conquest over the world; Yet I stammer still, and cannot speak sence when my griefs would tell her, the story of what I ail. I have lost my Courage too of late; for, by all our Gods, I start and tremble when I see her; Nay, I am a Dog if I do not weep when I behold her; no Boy at School has his tears readier then I, I could weep like froward Children. This makes me mad, to find my self a­bandoned by all the Gods, whose ends I cannot guess, nor why they send me this new way to misery.

How, Sir, upon the ground? up, Sir, the Souldiers are prepar­ed, and expect your presence only to finish the work; The slaves too are loose and privately arm'd; and when he is once aboard, give but the sign, and be Master both of him and her.—Fie, Sir, [Page 52] what means this dejection? up, for shame.

See Lieutenant, I am grown the obedient'st thing that

ever sigh'd himself away; O Lieutenant, kind old Friend, if we miscarry in this design, I am lost for ever; for I am become the wretched'st thing thy heart can fancy.—Prithee pray.—

Bondue, pray? you have found your Man indeed.

The Angry Gods to send Men and bold wounds, not cow­ardly thoughts and Women when they will, call Cilius to the Earth again.

Death! what ayle you, Sir?

Oh Friend! this trouble of my Mind is sent like some new disease to scourge thy Friend, and act what sword and sickness could not do; and my despair will throw me upon some horrid Crime, against which 'tis in vain to oppose or Armes or Virtue; The Tyrant-Boy Lords it o're my Heart, and now he has wounded me will make me kiss the Dart.

Oh! is this it you complain of? Let me know Man or boy that dares wrong you; By this hilt, I will send him on a cold Errand.

Thy threats are vain, for my griefs are a disease I never felt before; The remedy too is hid from Gods and Men, the Maid, the lovely Maid thou gav'st me.

A pox on her, the Wench, is she the cause? was she not sound, Sir?

Sound!

I, sound, by this hand for all that I know she was; I am a Dog if I touched her; and but for a kiss or two you had her as pure as I found her.

Peace, Beast.

By this Light, Sir, I am in earnest, and unless 'twere Crab had a touch,—for no body else was alone with her, 'tis that old Rogue has spoild her.

Villain, Slave.

Why, in passion, Sir? you are not the first; why this, what a pox, a Clap is no such dishonour to a Souldier.

Peace, wretch.

He is modest; a Plague upon her for a dissembling prating Whore: By this hand I would ha' ventur'd my life she had been sound.

Dog, dost thou know her whom thou thus profan'st?

Know her? mischiefs know her and the whole sex, they are nothing but dissimulation: why do you strike me? you beg of me to be your Baud, and are angry for a mischance, thank your self; you were never quiet till you had a bout with her.

He will mistake me still.

Mistake you? 'Tis you mistake your self; can I help it if you have a Clap; if you will tell me what you ail, there are wayes and easie cures enough for such chances, without the sword; you have but one remedy for all diseases, that damn'd sword, you think, can cure all.

Fool, thou hast prophan'd a Maid with thy base thoughts purer then thy Prayers.

I understand not your Raptures; if she has given you a touch, I'll help you to a Chirurgeon, and my self to another; if you'll be modest and lick your self whole you may.

How natural 'tis for him to apprehend such dangers as he has found. Fool, thou hast mistaken me all this while, and would'st thou have been silent I had told thee; 'tis her Eyes that have wounded me, and my disease is Love, desperate Love; if I can judge of that strange Passions; for 'tis Love for her that dies for another; hast thou a remedy for such a wound in the Mind?

Love, is that your disease? I am glad 'tis no worse; by my troth, Sir, if you will starve with meat before you, I will bu­ry you, but I will never pity you; Love and Marriage are the only two mischiefs that belong to the Sex which I have not had, and therefore can onely prescribe you Wine and Women for a remedy.

Prithee no more and if thou lov's [...] me, let thy kind­ness excuse my Passion, without making Mirth of my mi­sery.

Now. cannot I be angry with him though I bleed; Sir, I would fain serve you if I knew how. Can you tell what 'tis your Love would have? what does the blind Child cry for, would he lie with the Wench? by this hand I will fetch her to you once more, if I thought that would cure your disease.

No more as you are a Souldier, by your Honour no more; your Honesty in other things excuses your Ignorance in this; no more I say. Alone I will find my remedy; and this sword, as I said before, has a Cure for all my miseries; for he that dares die may defie the worst of Fates.

Faith, Sir, but he that dies for a Woman in Italy is but a small friend to the Sex and Lachrymae, and by my consent should be buried in a feather-bed.

ACT. V. SCEN. II.

WHat, are you all resolv'd?

Yes, Sir, release us and we'll do it.

Or must I make an Oration to perswade you to this Geer?

No, Sir, we need no perswasions.

Methinks you should not, considering I humbly desire you not to be hang'd, and shall take it for an obligation, if you will throw away your cold water, and pledge me in Greek wine, and entreat your worships to quit these iron Jewels, and hard benches, for Gold-chains and pretty Wenches.

Sir, we hope you do not mean to abuse us, and shew us this heaven only in words.

By this good day I am real, and you shall all be loose and arm'd; and when he comes aboard, put off speedily, and then dis­cover your selves; if he resists, kill him, if not, only bind him; by these hilts, I have order to hang you every man, and mine own safety tells me I were best to do it.

Oh! Lieutenant, noble Lieutenant, you know we have been honest Rogues to you always.

All but my friend that would cut my throat the other day, because I would not give him my Wench.

'Tis true, Lieutenant, I was faulty, and you may leave being a Lyon, and take revenge upon a Dog; but you know you spoil a good fellows drinking when ever you hang me; and it may be, you'l not find one to bear my part in your Catches when I am gone; and then you'l wish you had not been so revengeful.

No, you Rogues, you know I am of a most merciful na­ture, and that makes you so presumptuous; and to confirm you, I'll have all joyn hands, and you shall see what a miracle I'll work; so now, circle me about while I conjure up a spirit that shall tell me all your thoughts, and you mine.

Is Bacchus a Devil, Lieutenant, that he obeys your charm? I thought he had been a God.

Faith, that is as he is used, and may be both; But I mean he shall play the Devil now; and therefore each man take into his hand one of these Familiars; and when he has sucked the secret from him, let him release the spirit into the Cellar again.

But what secret, Lieutenant?

Converse with that spirit, and he will instruct thee: whi­sper to him thus.—Hup, and thou shalt find liberty slip down thy

throat.

Hast thou met him yet?

Not yet, but I believe he's hard by, for I met his bag­gage; I could be angry to think he should have so many fine Wenches and we none.

He's in the right, anger and lust, liberty is hard by, I war­rant

it; but she is in the last drop, and have at her; will you take my word hereafter?

Yes, but good Lieutenant, call to the devil for one Bottle more, and let it be burnt sack.

It is too late, yonder comes our chief, The brave Cilius.

Chief, Lieutenant? We have no Chief, Lieutenant, but liberty.

How now, Lieutenant, what noise is this?

We have been consulting, Sir, about this business; I, and my fellow Souldiers here,—I have ground the Rogues to such an edge they will cut iron; and being perswaded they are free, you may command them like Dogs.

Haste then to the Galley, I'll stay the Captain and his com­pany till you are aboard; and honest friends when this is done, command your own and my power to serve you.

Long live Cilius, long live Cilius.

Thanks to all, did the storm last night do no mischief amongst the Gallies?

I had taken six when I lay down, and it did but rock me.

Pray lose no time, but haste aboard; for I must wait up­on the Captain.

Fear not us; how now, who have we here?

Gentlemen, and my fellow Souldiers, I have an humble suit to you.

What is't, what is't?

That I may have leave to live.

Live? why not?

You must ask my Lieutenant that, he knows the reason better then I; for he has a bill of my hand, to be dead to morrow.

Thou art a fool, here's nothing but liberty; and he that dares drink shall never dye.

Nay, I'll drink, so I may live.

Hum! Fellow Tullius, no covenants, no conditions for drinking while you live, drink freely.

Joyn hands, and sing aboard, there's liberty.

ACT. V. SCEN. III.

MAdam, be confident, for it shall not be in his power to wrong you, my self will be your guard.

Sir, last night (but that I threatned, not to out-live his in­jury) he had forc'd me.

We appear'd upon her call, and with our cries made him suspect the noise might have given notice to the Souldiers.

Force you? he dares not do it, by our Laws he dies, or any that forces a Virgin after she is in our publick Treasury, which you are now; for your price, Madam, if you were sold, is to be divi­ded; 'tis true, if he will marry you, that priviledge he has as Cap­tain; [Page 57] he pays our shares, and takes you, but from all those dan­gers, my life and honour to pawn, I'le secure you.

The gods, Sir, I hope, will reward this goodness, and joyn with you to protect our Innocence.

Will it be long, Sir, ere we go to the Galley?

No, he is now coming with the rest of the Slaves; I be­seech you be not sad, it looks prophetickly, and 'tis a kind of ill Omen; The Souldiers are all firm for you, I dare not stay; for to be seen with you might breed Suspition.—I kiss your hand.

Be not dejected, Madam, you see by what strange means your stars have raised you a power among your Enemies. This gallant youth will not be so false as to deceive your trust; and once in Italy Sophia's name is guard enough.

Sir, had you nam'd your self, or Countrey, The fam'd Nigro had found no Enemies here; for we are all a part of that un­fortunate Island, that are thus forc'd to live by spoil of them that have destroyed us; and I am sad to think of the misfortune of Our Princess, especially this last Accident, wherein the vertuous Cicilia suffer'd; But for those slaves whose falshood were the Authors of her Misery, This day the Dogs shall, upon the hook, find a Justice.

Sir, I have no joy now left; for I have seen all my Masters family ruin'd; and Our Countrey sold to slavery, yet if we make haste, we may again redeem the unfortunate Cicilia; for be­ing sold at Naples, 'tis not likely they will so suddenly remove her.

We are this morning bound thither, the Slaves Mart is held there to day.

What do I hear? Nigro nam'd, was not that he my Bro­ther saved in the Siracusan battel?

Yes, Madam, and that was he that saved the Prince Facertes in that battel where his Father fell.

And the Princess Cicilia was she that Prisoner that the slaves stole? Oh, my Facertes, then thy hopes and mine are sunk.

Have patience, Madam, lest you discover who you are; these new griefs of their lost Princess may bring a certain ruine upon us, should they know how near a relation you have to the cause.

I am instructed Sir, what are they that stand bound?

Roman Prisoners, slaves for the Mart.

Though their Tyrannies have made them odious; yet when I see them miserable it finds a pity.

Are you ready, Sir, all stays; The wind is fair too.

Did the storm do no harm, last night? it was very violent for the time.

Not much, the Gallies were well moored, onely the Lyon drove.

Come Sir, We have now a double Occasion; and I hope we shall in Naples find our last hope; Cilius, bring off the Slaves, and follow.

I shall follow, to your pain, Come Madam, now let [Page 58] your prayers strengthen our designs; for where they side, the party cannot lose.

ACT. V. SCEN. IV.

MAdam, the unfriendly winds have forced us to an un­frequented place, and brought new troubles; but I hope your vertue can arm against them.

I am so used; Sir, to misery, that this is a common chance, and here onely the Gods war with us.

Pray let me serve you, your charity deserves a greater care then this.

Madam, the unruliness of the weather made you lose the benefit of last nights sleep; pray repose here while we watch, lest some rude passengers interrupt you.

I cannot sleep, Sir, I have too many cares, and waking thoughts upon me, Brother; how do's our Friend do?

She will not rest neither, she seems to be less able to bear troubles then you; pray give Example, and try to sleep, lest sick­ness find you, and add a heavy accident to your other misfortunes.

If the Prince will sleep too, I will try to betray my

thoughts; for truly I am weary.

Till you are safe I cannot; but I'le kneel by you; are you not afraid of me? for 'tis my fortune and cross fate that brings you all these troubles; and where I am you cannot be happy; say Divinest, am not I troublesome to you?

Oh, Sir, do not make me blush, to say you are welcome; for I grieve more, that you are so unfortunate as to have a share in my miseries, then that I was unfortunate; for I have now no wish, but that the Prince Virgilius had no Interest in the cause.

No more of sadness now; but pray try if you can take some rest.

'Tis not sadness now; there is a Joy in this grief; and when we are happy, 'tis a pleasure to recount our pass'd miseries.

What noise is that?

It draws nearer.

Some Bacchanale, by their Song,—whether tends this noise, turn back again, there's no way this way.

Sir, we have seen strange things, and therefore let us go.

How now, my Friend, who would you speak with?

With none of you; pray turn, and take another Path.

Turn, no not we; and I advise you not to stop us, for we have a world of Sack about us, and our way lies this way.

Lieutenant, by these hilts, 'tis he that kil'd our Cor­poral, he that fought for the Slave at Naples.

Is it so? Look about, it may be, she is here too.

What do you stare at?

I look for a thing that troubles you; Oh, there it lies; come fellows, we'le help 'em to carry it.

Away, be gone, or I'le make thee curse the time thy er­ring feet strayed this way.

Draw, Mates, Sir, we dare fight; you shall not brave us

at home, though you did at Naples.

Draw, Facertes, these are the same Pirates we charg'd when thy fair Sister was sold at Naples.

Yes, yes, these are they, and we will sell your worships there.

Lose no time, for that Horn was a Call, and I fear some aid.

Though courage be a vertue, and beauteous conquest courted amongst men, yet murther has no share in either; and those that be disarm'd cannot be call'd enemies, nor their death conquest; and if ever you knew what it was to want it, you'l find mercy, and hear me, a kneeling Virgin that never bowed to any (but the Gods) before, and save my Brother.

And save thy Brother?

If there be any thing that's dear to thee, by that I conjure thee; save him.

Fair one, I have already unfortunately struck against one who now commands my fate; and know, I do not use to war with mi­series; or if I could, who durst destroy what your prayers protect? or what desperate fool hope a safety, when your prayers have call'd down his ruine?—Take his life, unbind him, and bind me, if you cannot forgive; for know, there is one in Beauty, Inno­cence and Miseries so like you, that I glory to serve you; for 'tis a kind of sacrifice to her; for whose dear sake had you interpos'd those eyes, you had divided us more then seas; and would I were able to say too that she were free as well as safe; and something, it may be, I shall do for that liberty too.

May your Prayers, your Sword, nor your Love never find a stop, but such as addes glory to the conquest, for being thus good, thus merciful.

Madam, I cannot talk.—Souldiers, carry these to the Captains Quarter, and with your lives protect them from all inso­lence; let them be apart with the Romans, and stay with them till I come. Your pardon, Madam, I must hence, lest this accident discover a Plot, whose good success may make me capable to serve you; if it miss, it brings a ruine where I must love, and cannot hope return. Sir, you that know so well how to deal wounds, I am cer­tain will forgive them.

Sir, I never hated the person of mine enemy, much less you that have proved a friend.

I dare not stay; your pardon. Be careful of your charge; and do you hear, be speedy, and meet me at the Captains Quar­ter; my peace dwell for ever here.

I am paid, how the slave has notch'd me!

How do you, Sir?

How do I? why thou seest I am spoil'd: a douzen of Surgeons will scarce repair me; how now, what are those?

Prisoners, Sir.

There's some comfort in that, come, bring 'em away, bring 'em away, set half a douzen of Surgeons to work.

Oh Facertes, I fear the Prince is lost.

ACT. V. SCEN. V.

HA! gone, fool that I was, whither did my rage guide me? I have fought and conquer'd to my ruine, as rash­ly and unreasonably as beasts, forgetting the cause for which I fought; they are gone, which way shall I take? Love, either guide me to her rescue, or to my grave.

I am pay'd; what a case I am in—The Bottle is whole,

that's some comfort still; I live now by the Spirit of sack, for all my blood's gone.—H'as lam'd my drinking hand too: How shall I stop a Pipe? I leak apace, and reel as if I were drunk; how I stumble? dying is a king of being drunk; It grows night by my eyes; I shall faint ere I get to my Quarter. A pox take him that set me abroach, he has quite spoil'd my skin, a Tanner will not give a groat for it,—This is the first time that I re­member

I ever fell when I was sober; if I die alone, I shall be as Melancholy, as a lame man in a ditch, Oh! for a Beer Glass of Sack, or Crab, and a Catch, to prepare for the Melancholy, and a cold grave.

This was my Lieutenants plot, All the world is my Ene­my; how they have hack'd me, it is a scurvy trade, this fighting it wears out ones cloaths, worse then drinking; I will hide me in this Wood till the storm is over; and if I get safe to Naples, Celia and I will live out my few days merrily, and spoil my Captains plot; I

will spend all, and die mine own heir.

Sure I heard Tullius his voyce; who's there?

I am pursu'd, yet if I can counterfeit dead well, I may live; My fear will betray me; O that I were valiant enough but to lie still; I never found the use of courage till now: Lord, how I shake!

'Tis his voice; Tullius, Tullius, prithee stay a little.

'Tis my Lieutenant; if he should take this opportunity now, and kill me, and say the Enemy did it, and share with my Captain in all I have; Oh, the misery of Wealth! men can neither be happy with it, nor without it; I dare not look towards him, I'le creep backward, and run away.

The ill-natur'd Rogue is gone, and left me; I shall bleed to death before any Friend finds me; Now the Rogue is reveng'd upon me for the frights I put him in to day.

Hum! say you so, bleed to death—His wounds have heal'd mine—Now do I grow strong, and valiant—Lieutenant

how is't?

Faith, quite spoil'd, I fear the Rogues have made lanes quite through me; prithee help me to my Quarter, for I am faint.

Has been something uncivil with your Breeches, I smell it,—How fell you out? did he refuse my Captains health?

No, no, there was no wine in the business, yet there was a Wench, the other half of mans mischief; but 'tis no time now for to talk, for unless thou help'st me to a Surgeon, thou wilt find me a mortal Lieutenant.—Give me thy hand good Tullius, oh! what

hast thou done.

Alas! farewell, noble Lieutenant, We must all dye; there is a tall man, and a fair drinker, gone; I will say that for thee.

Why Tullius, thou wilt not leave me in this misery? I have not fingers enough to stop the holes; get a Surgeon, or I shall dye.

'Tis sack, pure sack, and 'tis pity it should leak thus; but

that I will not hinder our Captain the occasion of being your heir, when you die so conveniently now, just upon his going out.

A pox o'this fooling, 'tis unseasonable; be but kind to me, and thou shalt be my heir.

How! your heir? By this light, and 'tis well consider'd, now I think on't; I will be thy heir, or at least a careful steward for my Captain; let me see, this sword has a good guard, this hat and feather how sits it?

What do'st thou mean?

This Buff-coat will not be amiss neither.—

Villain, unhand me.

Nay, nay, you must part.

Dog.—

And these Breeches too, and this Doublet, I'll wear them for your sake; nay, no resisting.

Slave, Villain.

See how impatient you are, come, come, you are going to another world (as you say) quit the thoughts of these transitory things now, and prepare to dye finely like a fine gentleman, and a Lieutenant.

Hell take thee, slave.

'Tis more then ever I got by a Legacy before; by my faith, 'tis a fair Coat; a pox take'em that cut it thus: Now for the Breeches.

Why, thou wilt not murder me?

No, no, only borrow your Breeches; for look, Sir, what need you such gay things as these now when you are going to lie alone in the dark?

Oh! misery of miseries!

Ha, ha, this revenge is better then long life.

O inhumane slave!

What noise is that?

'Tis vengeance, slave; I will make thee curse thy self.

Silence, my small friend, or else I have a Plaister of cold

iron, hight a Dagger; By this hilt, I will apply the point to your side, if you breathe one loud syllable more; marry, if you will, curse inwardly; 'twas my own case once, and I forgive it.

Patience, oh patience.

I, I, come when she will, you will have use of her; this noise draws this way, I must pluck him into the wood, and then I'll cut his throat; you had best bethink you of some odd prayer, for it must be so.

Murther, Villain, Dog.

Come, come along, Sir; why should you grudge to dye when I am to be your heir?

Oh misery, misery of miseries, is there no revenge?

ACT. V. SCEN. VI.

WHence grew this sudden Alarm?

I fear, from the discovery of the Plot; if it be so, we are lost for ever.

Lead them in and bind 'em, and some one run for a Surgeon.

What are these, Sir?

I know not; pray heaven they be worth the purchase: We have paid dear for 'em; prethee help me off.

Facertes! 'tis he, and women in his company; I will not suspect him she that is jealous; sets a cheap rate upon her self; for if he be worthy of such a pain as jealousie, he cannot be so faulty as to deserve it.

I am amaz'd, 'tis the Princess Sophia.

Sophia?

What miseries do I see, Madam, to add to mine own afflictions; I never thought I should have liv'd to see the day [Page 63] wherein I should have grieved to have met the fair Sophia.

Why are you afflicted to meet me now?

Oh! Madam, my love begets my sorrows; for what shall I think? my thoughts are divided, to meet your Highness, where license sows, and sin reaps; here, where rage fetches her fire, and murther bathes his bloody hands; and unsensibly recounts in security the treacherous stabs.

Say this guilt be here, must I be subject to the infection?

I do not think you are guilty, yet my fears tells me, where tir'd lust retires to pant, such beauties as adore the fair So­phia, must kindle fresh fires.

Why do you wound me thus with your suspition, and rob me of the joy I had to see you? 'tis not kindly done to add such a pain to my misfortune; had you fall'n into the power of our sex, though sold to sin; like these, I could have dy'd sooner then have injur'd you so as to think you would-out live your honour; and when you are just to me, you will not believe I prize mine so little as to sell it for a sham'd life.

Oh! divinest, pardon my love, whose fears still appre­hend the worst.

Madam, let the impatiency that begets this rudeness ex­cuse it while I profess my self, by all ties, yours; for though, till now, a stranger to you; yet I am one that owes your civil menti­ons a life, which your mercy lent this unfortunate Brother.

Speak, Facertes, is this the Princess, Cicilia?

This was; but what she is now the Gods only know.

Oh! Madam, in love and miseries we are become one; and my whole stock of tears I would waste here, could that wash off my Countries crime, or remove the stain.

I have forgot my part of them; so new and so strange are the favours you and your gallant Brother have loaded us with, that his dangers now are all my fears.

My Brother! where is he? have you seen him?

Yes, Madam; and I fear he is at this instant hunting, with certain danger, our uncertain safety.

Ha! the same Prisoners that were stole, and sold at Naples.

Upon my life, Sir, 'tis true.

'Tis, 'tis she, and the Prince Facertes too.

The honour'd Nigro?

Alive? oh ye Gods! This day is full of your hands; and all is like you (wonder.)

Rise, why do you kneel? oh, lay that aged head here; where are we? what strange place is this the Sicilian Deity is run to hide her self in?

Though I do not know thy face; yet to Facertes name, here kneels a subject, and one of those your dead Father call'd faith­ful, my name Terresius.

Terresius?

Yes Terresius, Nigro, that with him from the same battle, when you fled with this gallant Prince, bore away the hopeful Lucius; we have run strange fortunes since; but I durst not tell him what he was, lest his fiery nature should have pull'd on a certain ruine.

My Brother Lucius living?

Yes, Sir; and that, I hope, will expiate the fault my igno­rance this day committed.

Where is he, Sir?

I left him pursuing the victory, but I'll haste and tell him this news it will stay his rage, which else may pursue his own ruine upon his friends.

For heavens sake haste, lest he and the Prince Virgilius meet; for either of their conquests brings my ruine.

Let me accompany you.

I dare not, Sir, for yet the Souldiers know you not; and their mistake of duty to me may bring on a sad consequence.

For heavens sake lose no time, but haste to prevent this danger.

I'll send an Officer, Sir, to guard you; and then with safety you may come but till then; I beseech you stir not.

Pray, Madam, what blest chance brought my Brother to have the power to serve you.

Defer that story till a fitter time, and haste now to the saving of your Brother.

Pray lead the way, lest our ceremony hinder our charity.

If you'l give me leave to command, I'll obey; you must not refuse me your hand; oh! that the Gods had made our Coun­tries joyn thus in peace.

ACT. V. SCEN. VII.

THey cannot escape; I have fir'd their Galley, and mine lies loose, in wait for any that shall come to their aid. Miserable Virgilius! unfortunate that I am, preserved onely to a greater loss; this way a Souldier (whose dying words could only guide me) said they took; I'll hunt them to their den but I'll find the monsters.

ACT. V. SCEN. VIII.

THe Galley fir'd, and the Lieutenant slain; Hell upon him, he has cross'd all my designs; Fate thou art Fate [Page 65] still, but whither just or no thus to strike against the intentions of the honest, the Gods be Judge; All my hopes are sunk; that ex­cellent Maid is lost too, and I shall appear guilty and treacherous to her; But if I find the cursed Incendiary, with his hatefull Blood I'll quench the flame: Take that path, if you find him, call.

Sir, this is he.

This, by description, should be him I seek.

What art thou, that walk'st with such confidence in these forbidden Woods? Know, thou hast kindled a fire nothing but thy Blood shall extinguish.

Unless thou wilt fall too, and make one in that ruine, I counsell thee immediately to deliver (without repetition) those whom thy treacherous odds have ravished hence.

I will not revile thee, because I mean to fight with thee; Yet I would gladly know whence thou art, that hopest with thy threats to wash off this glorious colour, and shake those fruits that Conquest gave a growth to here.

Rome claimes my Birth.

So it do'es of him I hate more then the loath'd Issues of the Earth.

What art thou, that dar'st avow such a hatred of a Roman to a Roman's face?

I am of Sicily, the unfortunate subject of your Rage.

So is she I prefer equal with the Gods; yet her interest in the Nation shall not protect thee that art so base as to make spoil of thine own nest.

You'll find words of no force here, and thou lookest as if thou would'st not yield upon intreaty.

Nor canst thou conquer me, when I fight in her cause, though thou tak'st the odds of his sword.

His? he dares not strike, where he sees my sword drawn upon a single opposite.

You will not deliver these Ladies then?

I'll give thee all my glory first; yet I know thou art the Author of all those miseries that shall succeed; for had'st not thou burnt my Galley, I had decreed their safety, but now thou hast sold them to perpetual slavery.

The guilty never want excuses, but I shall punish both those falshoods.

Souldier, upon your life stir not a foot to my rescue, I scorn to live upon Charity.

I'll talk no longer, their freedomes or thy sword; for my vowes are writ in Heaven, never to sheath this sword till I found them or a Grave.

One of them I'll guide you to, or miss my aime.—For­tune,

hast thou decreed that I shall blush to death? Loose where my Love and Countries Genius both strike? If thou bee'st a Deity save my Honour.

Will you yield, or try a farther Fate?

No, Roman, we may be overcome, but we scorn to yield.

Ask thy life, or thou art dead.

No, when thou canst give it, 'tis not worth asking.

Then 'tis not worth taking.

What noise is that?

I know not, Sir.

Draw, and kill any thing that offers to rescue me; for when Cilius cannot stand alone in this cause, let him fall for ever.

I would thou had'st not deserv'd my sword.

Stand, he that advances a step as Friend or Enemy, till they have done, shall kill or die.

How now, Sirrah? Cilius, if the name of Facertes or Cici­lia have a power, you'll cease to be an Enemy there.

Or if the brave Virgilius be satisfi'd with shedding of Sci­cilian Blood, he will now spare the lost Lucius, and reconcile him­self

to that Brother Enemy.

Prince Lucius!

Virgilius!

Yes, Sir, Virgilius, and there are coming those whose In­terest in either will quickly clear this doubt.

Sir, by the name of Brother; I conjure you to defer this hate till you have heard us speak.

And if I have a Sisters interest it will disarm Virgilius.

Sister? what strange accident brought thee hither?—Madam, will you pardon that uncivil Joy that pass'd you to find

a Sister?

Yes, Sir, if you'll help me find a friend to Virgilius, and a lost Brother to Cicilia.

Terresius, unfold this Riddle, amazement yet with-holds my sword, and has almost bound my Reason; what means this shuffling of Facertes, Cicilia, Virgilius and Lucius together? Those names, and this dearness, what means it?

Dare you trust me?

The honour'd Nigro.

Or me, whose faith you have bought; and give us leave to reconcile this wonder?

Madam, I am all your slave, and when your hand deals it destruction shall fall on Cilius unresisted.

Dare you shew your breast? 'tis all I beg.

Yes, fair one, and every thought of it shall to you be visible.

Here, here, 'tis a thousand witnesses to prove the lost Lucius.

'Tis so, and upon his knees Teresius begs his pardon for keeping this secret so long from you; But now it comes accom­pany'd with many blessings; see here your Brother, the Prince Fa­certes, and the Excellent Cicilia, whose Loves have been by Fate ap­pointed to restore our Country to her long-lost liberty.

And if Lucius finds a part of this Joy, let him with friend­ly armes embrace Virgilius, who is now a Brother, and ever a Friend.

Dare you from my hand take him?

That I have been thus long silent, let the wonder you have begot plead for me; And, Sir, that we durst be Enemies should

be no stop to that faith, which confirms we dare be friends.

Sir, your last act assures Virgilius, who cannot believe he is safe till you embrace him; for I know, such an Enemy as Prince Lucius reconcil'd will prove a conquering friend.

The Gods make this friendship as lasting as 'tis strange.

Madam, doth this change bring no hope to Lucius? must he still be the despairing Cilius? dare you not yet tell me who you

are?

Yes, my Name's Sophia.

Ha, the Princess Sophia?

Yes, Lucius: But why is my Brother sad? do's he mourn my Interest there?

No, Sir, I neither mourn yours there, nor the Excellent Sophias here; but I am hunting out a way to bear my self like Lu­cius in this great day; your hand, Madam,—Here Facertes from Fate receive this Jewel, 'tis a Wealth I cannot hope to possess, but by being unworthy of it; and it shall be Lucius his glory to say, To keep his Fame, he gave that away.

Let no replyes defer the Joyes that attend this day.

To the Temple then, while with healing sacrifice Vir­gilius loads the Altars.

I shall follow, if Lucius will lead the way. Thus blest, and thus embraced, more a God then they.

ACT. I. SCEN. I.

No more, I'le sooner be reconcil'd to want, or sickness, then that Rascal; A thing, that my Charity made sociable; one, that when I smil'd would fawn upon me, and wag his stearn, like starved Dogs; so nasty, the Com­pany cried foh upon him; He stunk so of Poverty, Ale, and Bawdry. So poor and despicable, when I relieved him, he could not avow his calling, for want of a Cassock, but stood at Corners of Streets, and whisper'd Gentlemen in the Ear, as they pass'd, and so deliver'd his Wants like a Message which being done, the Rogue vanished, and would dive at Westminster like a Dabchick, and rise again at Temple-gate; The ingenuity of the Rascal, his Wit being snuft by want, burnt cleer then, and furnish'd him with a bawdy Jest or two, to take the Company; But now the Rogue shall find he has lost a Patron.

As I live, if I had thought you would have been in such a fury, you should never have known it.

Treacherous Rogue, he has always rayl'd against thee to me, as a danger his Friendship ought to give me warning of; and nightly cry'd, yet look back, and hunt not, with good Nature and the beauties of thy Youth, that false Woman; But hear thy Friend, that speaks from sad Experience.

Did he say this?

Yes, and swears ye are as unsatiate as the Sea, as Cove­tous, [Page 72] and as ungrateful: that you have your Tempest too; and Calmes, more dangerous then it.

Was the slave so Eloquent in his malice?

Yes, faith, and urg'd, you (for your part) were never particular, and seldom sound.

Not sound? Why, he offer'd to marry me, and swore he thought I was chast, I was so particular; and prov'd it, that con­sent was full marriage, by the first Institution, and those that love, and lie together, and tell, have fulfill'd all Ceremonies now.

Did he offer to marry thee?

Yes, yes.

If ever then I deserv'd from thee, or if thou be'st deer to thy self, as thou hast any thing thou hop'st shall be safe or sound about thee, I conjure thee, take my Counsel; Marry him, to af­flict him.

Marry him?

If I have any power I shall prevaile; thou know'st he has a fat Benefice, and leave me to plague him, till he give it me to be rid of thee.

Will you not keep me then?

I keep thee? prithee, wilt thou keep me? I know not why men are such Fools to pay? We bring as much to the sport, as Wo­men; Keep thee? I'de marry thee as soon; Why? that's Wedding sin; No, no keeping I, that you are not your own, is all that pre­fers you before Wives.

I hope this is not real.

Art thou such a stranger to my humor? Why I tell thee, I should hate thee if I could call thee mine, for I loath all Wo­men within my knowledge, and 'tis six to four if I knew thy sign I'de come there no more; A strange Mistris makes every night a-new, and these are your pleasing sins; I had as live be good, as sin by course.

Then I am miserable.

Not so, if you'le be instructed, and let me pass like a stranger when you meet me.

But have you these humors?

Yes faith; yet if you will observe them, though you Marry him, I may perchance be your Friend; But you must be sure to be coy; for to me the hunting is more pleasure then the Quarry.

But if I observe this, will you be my Friend hereafter?

Firm as the day; Hark, I hear him; I knew he would

follow me, I gave him a small touch that waken'd his guilt; Re­solve to indear your self to him, which you may easily do, by ta­king his part when I have vex'd him; No dispute, Resolve it, or as I live here I disclaim thee for ever.

'Tis well, something I'le do.

Open the door, I say, and let me in; your favorite and his Tythes, shall come no more here.

Yes, but he shall; 'tis not you, nor your brac'd Drum, shall fright me hence, who can command the souls of men; I have read [Page 73] Divine Seneca; thou know'st nothing but the earthly part, and canst cry to that, Faces about.

Thou read Seneca? thou steal his Cover, to clothe thee, naked and wicked, That for money wouldst sell thy share of the Twelve, and art allow'd by all that know thee, fitter to have been Judas, then Judas was for his treachery.

Rail, do Rail, my illiterate Captain, that can only abuse by memory; and should I live thou couldst read my Sentence, I should never die.

No ingrateful, live till I destroy thee; and thankless Wretch, Did all my care of thee deserve nothing but thy malice, and trea­cherous speaking darkly still? with thy fine, No, not he, when any malicious discourse was made of mee, and by thy false faint, No, Faith; Confess, in thy denials, whilst thy smiling Excuses stood a greater and more dangerous Evidence against me, then my Ene­mies Affidavits could have done.

I'le lie for never a lean Souldier of you all.

I have, for thee, slave, when I have been wondred at for keeping Company with such a face; But they were such as know thee not; all which thy looks deceiv'd, as they did me; They are so simple they'd Couzen a Jury, and a Judge that had Wit would swear thou ly'dst, shouldst thou confess what I know to be true, and award Bedlam for thee; 'tis so strange and so new a thing, to find so much Rogue lodge at the sign of the Fool.

Leave this injurious language, or I'le lay off my Cassock, for nothing shall priviledge your Braggers tongue, to abuse me, a Gentleman, and a Souldier ancienter then thy self.

Yes, thou wer't so; and now I think on't, I'le recount the Cause, which, it may be, thou hast forgot, through the variety of sins; It was a Hue and Cry that follow'd thee a Scholar, and found thee a Souldier.

Thou ly'st; thou, and scandal have but one tongue, hers dwells with thy Cowards teeth.

Oh! do you rage? nay, I'le put the cause in Print too, I am but a skirvy Poet, yet I'le make a Ballad shall tell how like a faithful disciple you follow'd your poor Whore, till her Martyrdom in the Suburbs.

I'le be reveng'd for this scandal.

Then shall succeed, thy flight from the University, dis­guis'd into Captain only the outside was worse Buff, and the in­side more Atheist, then they furnish'd with an Insolent Faith, un­charitable heart, envious, as old Women, cruel and bloody as Cowards; thus arm'd at all points, thou went'st out, Threatning God, and trembling at men.

I'le be reveng'd, thou poor man of War, I'le be re­veng'd.

And why so bitter? whose house is this? who dares tell this story?

Why sweet? hath he not treacherously broke into our Cabinet, and would have stol'n thee thence? By these hilts, I'le [Page 74] hang him; and then I can conclude my Ballad with, Take warning all Christian People by the same: I will, you lean Slave; I'le prosecute thee, till thou art fain to hide in a Servitors gown again, and live upon Crums with the Robin Red-breasts that haunt the Hall, your old Mess-Mates; Do you snarle? I'le do't, I will, and put thee to fight with the Dogs for the Bones that but smell of meat; those that your hungry Students have polish'd with their teeth.

If you do this, good Captain, Lieutenant, and Company (for all your Command, I think, is within your reach) I say, if you dare do this, I shall sing a song of one that bad stand, and made a Carrier pay a dear Rent for a little ground, upon his Majesties high-way.

How now, Mistress Wanton? What's this? What's this?

This? 'Tis matter for a Jury, I'le sweare, and positively, I'le hang thee, I'le do't, by this hand, let me alone to swear the Ju­ry out of doubt.

But you are in Jest, Mistris Wanton, and will confess (I hope) this is no truth.

Yes Sir, as great a truth, as that you are in your unpay'd-for Scarlet; Fool! didst think, I'de quit such a Friend, and his stay'd fortune, to rely upon thy dead pay, and hopes of a second Covenant?

His fortune? what is'st? Th'Advowson of Tybourn Deanry?

No, nor Rents brought in by long staff-speeches, that asks Alms with frowns, till thy looks and speech have laid violent hands upon mens Charity.

Let him alone, I'le warrant, hee'l never be indicted for drawing any thing but his tongue, against a man.

Very good.

Dear M^rs Wanton, you have won my heart, and I shall live to dote upon you for abusing this impetuous Captain; will you listen to my old suit? will you marry me, and vex him? say, dare you do't, without more dispute?

'Twas a good Question; she that dares marry thee dares do any thing; she may as safely lie with the great Bell upon her, and his Clapper is less dangerous then thine.

Why, I pray?

What a miserable condition wilt thou come to? his wife cannot be an honest Woman; and if thou should'st turn honest, would it not vex thee to be chaste and Paxat, a Saint without a Nose? what Kalender will admit thee, by an incurable slave that's made of Rogues flesh, consider that.

Why, that's something yet; Thou hast nothing but a few scars, and a little old Fame to trust to, and that scarce thatches your head.

Nay then I see thou'rt base, and this Plot (not Acci­dent,) and now I'doe not grudge him thee; go together, 'tis pity to part you, Whore and Parson, as consonant.

As Whore and Captain.

Take her, I'll warrant her a breeder, I'll prophecy she shall lie with thy whole Congregation, and bring an Heir to thy Parish, one that thou maist enclose the Common by his Title, and recover it by Common Law.

That's more then thy dear Dam could do for thee, thou Son of a thousand Fathers, all poor Souldiers, Rogues, that ought mischiefs, no Midwives for their Birth; But I cry thee Mercy, my Patron has an Estate of old Iron by his side, with the Farm of old Ladies he scrapes a dirty living from.

He earn from an old Lady? hang him, he's only wicked in his desires; and for Adultery he cannot be condemn'd, though he should have the vanity to betray himself; God forgive me for belying him so often as I have done; the weak-chin'd slave hir'd me once to say, I was with Child by him.

This is pretty, Farewell; and may the next Pig thou far­row'st have a promising face, without the Dads fool or Gallows in't, that all may swear, at first sight, That's a Bastard; and it shall go hard but I'll have it call'd mine; I have the way, 'tis but praising thee, and swearing thou art honest before I am askt: You taught me the trick.

Next Levy I'll preach against thee, and tell them what a piece you are; your Drum and borrowed scarf shall not prevail, nor shall you win with Charmes half-ell-long, (hight ferret Rib­band) the youth of our Parish, as you have done.

No, lose no time, prithee study and learn to preach, and leave railing against the Surplice, now thou hast preach'd thy self into Linen; Adieu, Abigal, Adieu, Heir apparent to Sir Oliver Marre-text; To Church, go, I'll send a Beadle shall sing your Epi­thalamium.

Adieu, my Captain of a tame band, I'll tell your old Lady how you abused her breath, and swore you earn'd your money harder then those that dig in the Mines for't. Exit Captain. A fart, fill thy sail, Captain of a Gally Foyst. He's gone, come sweet, let's to Church immediatly, that I may go and take my Revenge; I'll make him wear thin Breeches.

But if you should be such a Man as he sayes you are, what would my Friends say, when they hear I have cast my self away?

He sayes? Hang him, lean, mercenary, provant Rogue; I knew his beginning when he made the stocks lowsie, and swarm'd so with vermin we were afraid he would have brought that Curse upon the County; He sayes? but what's matter what he sayes? a Rogue, by Sire and Damm; his Father was a broad fat Pedler, a what do you lack, Sir, that haunted good houses, and stole more then he bought; His Damm was a Gypsie, a pilfering canting Sibyll in her youth, and she suffered in her old age for a Witch; Poor Stromwell, the Rogue was a perpetual Burthen to her, she carried him longer at her back then in her belly; he dwelt there, till she lost him one night in the great Frost upon our Common, and there he was found in the morning candid in Ice: a pox of [Page 76] their Charity that thaw'd him, you might smell a Rogue then in the bud, he is now run away from his Wise.

His Wife?

Yes, his Wife; Why, do you not know he's married ac­cording to the Rogues Liturgy? a Left-handed Bridegroom; I saw him take the Ring from a Tinkers Dowager.

Is this possible?

Yes, most possible, and you shall see how I'll be reveng'd on him; I will immediatly go seek the Ordinance against Re­formadoes.

What Ordinance?

Why, they do so swarm about the Town, and are so de­structive to Trade and all Civil Government, that the State has declared, No person shall keep above two Colonels and four Captains, (of what Trade soever) in his Family; For now the War is done, Broken breech, Wood-monger, Rag-man, Butcher, and Link-boy, (Comrades that made up the ragged Regiment in this holy War) think to return and be admitted to serve out their times again.

Your Ordinance will not touch the Captain, for he is a known Souldier.

He a Captain? an Apochryphal Modern one, that went Convoy once to Brainford with those Troops that conducted the Contribution-Puddings in the late holy War, when the City ran mad after their Russet Levites, Apron-Rogues, with horn hands; Hang him, he's but the sign of a Souldier; and I hope to see him hang'd for that Commission, when the King comes to his Place again.

You abuse him, now he's gone; But,—

Why? dost thou think I fear him? No Wench, I know him too well for a Cowardly slave, that dares as soon eat his Fox, as draw it in earnest; the slave's noted to make a Conscience of nothing but fighting.

Well, if you be not a good Man, and a kind Husband—

Thou know'st the Proverb, as happy as the Parsons Wife, during her Husbands life.

ACT. I. SCEN. II.

SEcret, give me the Glass, and see who knocks.

Niece, what, shut the Door? as I live this Musick was meant to you, I know my Nephews voice.

Yes, but you think his friends has more Musick in't.

No Faith, I can laugh with him, or so, but he comes no nearer then my lace.

You do well to keep your smock betwixt.

Faith, Wench, so wilt thou and thou beest wise, from him and all of them, and be rul'd by me, we'll abuse all the Sex, till they put a true value upon us.

But dare you forbid the travel'd Gentlemen, and abuse them and your servant, and swear, with me, not to marry in a twelve moneth, though a Lord bait the hook, and hang out the sign of a Court Cupid, whipt by a Country Widow; then I believe we may have mirth cheaper then at the price of our selves, and some sport with the wits that went to lose themselves in France.

Come, no dissembling, lest I tell your servant, when he re­turns, how much you're taken with the last new fashion.

Madam, 'tis almost Noon, will you not dress your self to day?

She speaks as if we were Boarders; Prethee, Wench, is not the dinner our own, sure my Cook shall lay by my own Roast till my stomack be up.

But there may be Company, and they will say, we take too long time to trim. Secret. Give me the flowers my servant sent me, he sware 'twas the first the Wench made of the kind.

But when he shall hear you had Musick sent you to day, 'twill make him appear in his old cloathes.

Marry, I would he would take exception, he should not want ill usage to rid me of his trouble; as I live, custom has made me so acquainted with him, that I now begin to think him not so displeasing, as at first; and if he fall not out with me, I must with him, to secure my self. Sure (Aunt) he must find Sence and Rea­son absent, for when a Question knocks at his head, the Answer tells that there is no body at home; I ask'd him, th'other day, if he did not find a blemish in his understanding, and he sware a great Oath, Not he; I told him 'twas very strange, for Fool was so visible an eye-sore, that neither Birth nor Fortune eould reconcile to me.

Faith, methinks his humour is good, and his purse will buy good company, and I can laugh and be merry with him sometimes.

Why, pray, Aunt, take him to your self, and see how merry we will be; I can laugh at any bodies Fool, but mine own.

By my troth, but that I have married one Fool already, you should not have him. Consider, he asks no portion, and yet will make a great joynture; a Fool with these conveniences, a kind loving Fool, and one that you may govern, makes no ill hus­band; Niece, there are other Arguments too, to bid a Fool wel­come, which you will find without teaching; think of it, Niece; you may lay out your affection to purchase some dear wit, or judgement of the City, and repent, at leisure a good bargain, in this Fool.

Faith, Aunt, Fools are cheap in the Butchery, and dear in the Kitchin; they are such unsavory infipid things that there goes more charge to the sauce then the Fool is worth, ere a woman can confidently serve him, either to her bed or board; then if he be a loving Fool, he troubles all the world a days, and me all night.

Friendship-love, Madam, has a remedy for that.

See if the air of this place has not enclin'd Secret to be a Baud already. No, Secret, you get no Gowns that way, Upon my word; if I marry, it shall be a Gentleman that has wit and honour, though he has nothing but a sword by his side; such a one naked is better then a Fool with all his Trappings, Bells and Baubles.

Why, as I live, he's a handsome fellow, and merry; mine is such a sad soul, and tells me stories of Lovers that dy'd in de­spair, and of the lamentable end of their Mistresses (according to the Ballad) and thinks to win me by Example.

Faith mine talks of nothing but how long he has lov'd me; and those that know me not, think I am old, and still finds new causes, (as he calls them) for his love; I ask'd him the other day if I chang'd so fast or no.

But what think'st thou, Secret; my Nephew dances well, and has a handsome house in the Piazza.

Your Nephew? not I, As I live; he looks as if he would be woo'd; I'll warrant you, he'l never begin with a woman till he has lost the opinion of himself; But since you are so courteous, I'le speak to his friend, and let him know how you suffer for him.

Him! marry God bless all good women from him; why, he talks as if the Dairy-maid and all her Cows could not serve his turn; then they wear such baudy-breeches, 'twould startle an ho­nest woman to come in their company, for fear they should break, and put her to count from the fall of them; for I'le warrant, the year of the Lord would sooner out of her head then such a sight.

I am not such an enemy now to his humour as to your Nephews, he rails against our sex, and thinks by beating down the price of women to make us despair of Merchants; But if I had his heart-strings tied on a True-lovers-knot, I would so firk him till he found physick in a Rope.

He's a scurvey tongu'd fellow, I'me sure of that; and if I could have got a staff, I had mark'd him.

What did he do to thee, Secret?

Why, he swore, he had a better opinion of her then to think she had her Maiden-head; but if she were that Fool, and had preserv'd the toy, he swore he would not take the pains of fetching it, to have it; I confess, I would fain be reveng'd on them, because they are so blown up with opinion of their wit.

As I live, my Nephew travels still; the sober honest Ned Wild will not be at home this moneth.

What say you? will you abuse them and all the rest, and stand to my first Proposition?

Yes, faith, if it be but to bury my servant, Sadd; for he can­not last above another Fall, and how, think you, will your servant take it?

Mine! oh God help me, mine's a healthy Fool, I would he were subject to pine and take things unkindly; there were some hope to be rid of him; for I'll undertake to use him as ill as any body.

As I live, I am easily resolv'd; for if I would marry, I know neither who nor what humour to chuse.

By my troth, Madam, you are hard to please; else the Courtier might have serv'd turn.

Serve turn! Prithee what haste, Secret? that I should put my self to bed with one I might make a shift with; when I marry, thou shalt cry, I, marry, Madam; this is a husband without blushing wench, and none of your so-so husbands; yet he might half overcome my aversion, I confess.

Overcome! I think so, he might have won a City his way; for when he saw you were resolv'd he should not eat with you, he would set himself down as if he meant to besiege us, and had vow'd never to rise till he had taken us in; and because our sex forbad force, he meant to do it by famine; yet you may stay, and miss a better market; for hang me, I am of Secrets opinion; he had but two faults, a handsome fellow, and too soon deny'd.

'Tis true, he was a handsome fellow, and a civil, that I shall report him; for as soon as it was given him to understand; I desir'd he would come no more, I never saw him since, but by chance.

Why did you forbid him?

There were divers exceptions; But that which angred me then, was, he came with the Kings Letters Patents, as if he had been to take up a wife for his Majesties use.

Alas! was that all? why, 'tis their way at Court, a com­mon course among them, and was it not one the King had a great care of? when my mother was alive, I had such a packet from the Court directed unto me, I bid them pay the Post, and make the fellow drink, which he took as ill as I could wish, and has been ever since such a friendly enemy.

Nay, as I live, she was for the Captain too; his Scarfe and Feather won her heart.

Truly, Madam, never flatter your self; for the Gentle­man did not like you so well as to put you to the trouble of say­ing, no.

Lord, how I hated and dreaded that Scarfe and Buff­c [...]at?

Why, Mistress Pleasant, a Captain is an honourable Charge.

Prithee, Secret, name them no more, Colonel and Cap­tain, Commissioner, Free-quarters, Ordance and Contribution; When Buff utters these words, I tremble and dread the sound; it frights me still when I do but think on them; Cuds body, they 're twigs of the old Rod (Wench) that whipt us so lately.

I, I, and they were happy dayes, Wench, when the Captain was a lean, poor, humble thing, and the Souldier tame, and durst not come within the City, for fear of a Constable and a Whipping-post; they know the penal Statutes give no Quarter; Then Buff was out of countenance, and sculk'd from Ale-house to Ale-house, and the City had no Militia but the Sheriffs-men; In [Page 80] those merry days, a Bailiff trode the streets with terror, when all the Chains in the City were rusty, but Mr. Sheriffs, when the people knew no evil but the Constable and his Watch; Now every Committee has as much power, and as little manners, and examines with as much ignorance, impertinence and authority, as a Constable in the Kings key.

See, who's that so loud?

The men you talk'd of, newly come to Town.—

ACT. I. SCEN. III.

Remember our covenants, get them that can, all friends; and be sure to dispatch the Plot, to carry them into the Country, lest the brace of new-come Monsieurs get them.

Those flesh-flies? I'll warrant thee from them, yet 'twas foolishly done of me to put on this gravity; I shall break out, and return to my self if you put me to a winters wooing.

A little patience do's it; and I am content to suffer any thing till they're out of Town: Secret says, they think my pale face proceeds from my love.

Do's she? that shall be one hint to advance your designs, and my revenge; for so she be couzen'd I care not who do's it, for scorning me, who (by this hand) lov'd her parlously.

Sir, what shall I do with the horses?

Carry them to Brumsteds.

What shall I do with your worships.

Mine? take him, hamstring him, kill him, any thing to make him away, lest having such a conveniency I be betray'd to another journey into the Country. Gentlemen, you are all wel­come to my Country-house; Charing-cross, I am glad to see thee, with all my heart.

What? not reconcil'd to the Country yet?

He was not long enough there to see the pleasure of it.

Pleasure? what is't call'd? walking or hawking, or shoot­ing at Butts?

You found other pleasures, or else the story of the Meadow is no Gospel.

Yes, a pox upon the necessity. Here I could as soon have taken the Cow, as such a Milk-maid.

The wine and meat's good, and the company.

When, at a Tuesday-meeting the Country comes in to a match at two shillings Rubbers, where they conclude at dinner what shall be done this Parliament, railing against the Court and Pope, after the old Elizabeth-way of preaching, till they are drunk with zeal; and then the old Knight of the Shire from the boards end, in his Coronation breeches, vies clinches with a silenc'd Mini­ster, [Page 81] a Rogue that rail'd against the Reformation meerly to be eas'd of the trouble of preaching.

Nay, As I live, now you are to blame, and wrong him, the man's a very able man.

You'l be able to say so, one day, upon your wives report; I would he were gelt, and all that hold his opinion: By this good day, they get more souls then they save.

And what think you of the Knights Son? I hope he's a fine Gentleman, when his green Suit, and his blew stockings are on; and the welcomest thing [...]live to Mrs. Abigail, but Tib and Tom in the Stock.

Who, Mr. Jeoffry? Hobinol the second; By this life, 'tis a very Veal, and he licks his Nose like one of them; By his discourse you'ld guess he had eaten nothing but Hay; I wonder he doth not go on all four too, and hold up his leg when he stales; he talks of nothing but the stable. The Coblers Black-bird at the corner has more discourse; he has not so much as the family-jest, which these Coridons use to inherit; I pos'd him in Booker's Prophesies, till he confest he had not master'd his Almanack yet.

But what was that you whisper'd to him in the Hall?

Why, the Butler and I, by the intercession of March beer, had newly reconcil'd him to his Dads old Cod-piece Corslet, in the Hall; which, when his zeal was up, he would needs throw down, because it hung upon a Cross.

But what think you of my neighbour? I hope her charity takes you.

Yes, and her old Waiting-womans devotion; she sigh'd in the Pew behind me; A Dutch Skippe [...] belches not so loud, or so sow­er; my Ladies miserable sinner, with the white [...] she do's so squeeze out her prayers; and so wring out, Have [...] upon us; I warrant her, she has a waiting-womans sting in her conscience; she looks like a dirty soul'd Baud.

Who is this, my Lady Freedom's woman that he de­scribes?

The same, the Independent Lady, I have promised to send her a Cripple or two by the next Carrier; her subject husband would needs shew me his house one morning; I never visited such an Ho­spital, it stunk like Bedlam, and all the servants were carrying Poultisses, Julips, and Glisters, and several Remedies for all Dis­eases, but his; The man sigh'd to see his Estate crumbling away; I counsell'd him either to give or take a ounce of Rats-bane, to cure his mind.

She is my Cozen; but he made such a complaint to me, I thought he had married the Company of Surgeons Hall; for his di­rections to me for several things for his Wives use, were fitter for an pothecaries-shop then a Ladies Closet.

I advised him to settle no Joynture, but her old Stills, and a Box of Instruments upon her; she hates a man with all his Limbs; a Wooden-leg, a Crutch and Fistula in Ano, wins her heart; her Gentleman-usher broke his leg last Dog-days, meerly [Page 82] to have the honour to have her set it, a foul rank Rogue, and so full of salt humours, that he posed a whole Colledge of old Wo­men with a Gangrene; which spoil'd the jest, and his ambling be­fore my Lady, by applying a hand-saw to his gartring place; and now the Rogue wears booted Bed-staves, and destroys all the young ashes to make him legs.

I never saw such a nasty affection; she would ha done well in the incurable; a Hand-maid to have waited on the Cripples.

She converses with naked men, a [...] handles all their mem­bers though never so ill affected, and calls the Fornication Charity; all her discourse to me was flat bawdry, which I could not chide, but spoke as flat as she, till she rebuked me, calling mine beastliness, and hers, Natural Philosophy; By this day, if I were to marry, I would as soon have chosen a drawn whore out of mine own Hos­pital, and cure the sins of her youth, as marry a she-Chirurgeon; one that for her sins in her first Husbands dayes cures all the crimes of her Sex in my time. I would have him call her Chiron, the Centaur's own Daughter; a Chirurgeon by Sire and Damm, Apollo's own Colt, she's red-hair'd too, like that bonny beast with the golden Mane and flaming taile.

You had a long discourse with her, Jolly; what wa'st about?

I was advising her to be divorc'd, and marry the Man in the Almanack; 'twould be fine pastime for her to lick him whole.

By this day, I never saw such a Mule as her Husband is, to bear with her madness; the house is a good house, and well fur­nished.

Yes, but 'tis such a sight to see great French Bedds full of found [...], sons of Batchelors, Priests Heirs, Bridewell Orphans; there they lie by dozens in a Bed, like sucking Rabbets in a dish, or a row of pins; and then they keep a whole Dairy of milch Whores to suckle them.

She is succesful, and that spoils her, and makes her deaf to counsel; I bad him poyson two or three, to disgrace her; for the Vanity and Pride of their remedies make those Women more dili­gent then their Charity.

I asked him why he married her; and he confessed, if he had been sound he had never had her.

He confess'd, she cur'd him of three Claps before he married her.

Yes, and I believe some other member (though then ill affected) pleaded more then his tongue; and the Rogue is like to find her business still, for he flies at all; My God, I owe thee thanks for many things; but 'tis not the least, I am not her Husband, nor a Country Gentleman, whither I believe you can­not easily seduce me again, unless you can perswade London to stand in the Country; To Hide Park, or so, I may venture upon your Lady-fair dayes, when the Filly Foales of fifteen come kick­ing in, with their Maines and tailes ty'd up in Ribbands, to see [Page 83] their eyes roule and neigh, when the Spring makes their blood prick them; so far I am with you by the way of a Country Gentleman and a Beer-drinker.

For all this dislike, Master Jolly; your greatest acquaint­ance lies amongst Country Gentlemen.

I, at London, there your Country Gentlemen are good Company, where to be seen with them is a kind of credit; I come to a Mercers shop in your Coach; Boy, call your Master; he comes bare, I whisper him, Do you know the Constants and the Sadds of Norfolk? yes, yes, he replyes, and strokes his beard; they are good Men cry I, yes, yes; No more, cut me off three sutes of Sattin, he does it, and in the delivery whispers, Will these be bound? pish, drive on Coachman, speak with me to morrow.

And what then?

What then? why, come again next day.

And what if the Country Gentleman will not be bound?

Then he must fight.

I would I had known that before I had sign'd your Bond, I would have set my sword sooner then my Seal to it.

Why, if thou repent there's no harm done, fight rather then pay it.

Why, do you think I dare not fight?

Yes, but I think thou hast more wit then to fight with me; for if I kill thee, 'tis a fortune to me, and others will sign in fear; and if thou should'st kill me, any body that knows us would swear 'twere very strange, and cry, there's Gods just judgement now upon that lewd youth, and thou procur'st his hang-mans place at the rate of thy Estate.

By this hand, he is in the right; and for mine I meant to pay when I sign'd; hang it, never put good fellowes to say, prithee give me a hundred pounds.

'Tis true, 'tis a good ganty way of begging; yet, for being kill'd, if I refuse it, would there were no more danger in the Widows unkindness, then in your fighting; I would not mistrust my design.

Why I, there's a point now in nicity of Honour, I should kill you for her; for, you know I pretended first; and it may be if I had writ sad lines to her, and hid my self in my Cloak, and haunted her Coach, it may be in time she would have sought me; not I, by this hand, I'll not trouble my self for a Wench, and married Wid­owes are but Customary authoriz'd Wenches.

Being of that Opinion, how can'st thou to think of mar­rying one?

Why, faith, I know not, I thought to rest me, for I was run out of breath with pleasure, and grew so acquainted with si [...], I would have been good (for variety;) in these thoughts, 'twas my fortune to meet with this Widow, handsome, and of a clear Fame.

Did'st love her?

Yes, faith? I had Love, but not to the disease that makes [Page 84] men sick; and I could have lov'd her still, but that I was angry to have her refuse me for a fault I told her of my self, so I went no more.

Did she forbid you but once?

Faith, I think I slipt a fair Opportunity, a handsome wench, and three thousand pounds per annum in certainty, besides the possibility of being saved.

Which now you think desperate?

That is you; Cross or Pile, will you have him yet or no?

Peace, observe them.

Faith no, I do not despair, but I cannot resolve.

Who are those?

Captain, whither in such haste? what defeated? call you this a retreat, or a flight from your friends?

Your Nephew, and his Governour, and his Friend! here will be a Scene, sit close, and we may know the secret of their hearts.

They have not met yet since they return'd, I shall love this bay window.

Prithee let me go, there's mischief a Boyling; and if thou shak'st me once more thou wilt Jumble a lye together I have been hammering this hour.

A pox upon you, a studying lies?

Why, then they are no lies, but something in the praise of an old Ladies Beauty, what do you call that?

Who are those?

I'st not the Captain, and my Friend?

Ned Wild? Tom Careless? What ayl'st thou, dost thou scorn my embraces?

I see you have never been abroad, els you would know how to put a value upon those whose careful observation brought home the most Exquisite Garb and Courtship that Paris could sell us.

A pox on this fooling, and leave off Ceremony.

Why then agreed, off with our masks, and let's embrace

like the old knot.

Faith, say, where have you spent these three years time? in Our Neighbour France? or have you ventur'd o're the Alps, to see the seat of the Caesars?

And can tell us (Ignorant, doom'd to walk upon our own Land) how large a seat the Goddess fix'd her flying Tro­jans in.

Yes, yes, and have seen, and drunk (perhaps) of Tybers fa­mous stream.

And have been where Aeneas buried his Trumpeter, and his Nurse; Tom looks as if he had suck'd the one, and had a Bat­tel sounded by the other, for Joy to see our Nation ambitious not to be understood or known when they come home.

So, now I'me welcome home, this is freedom, and these are Friends, and with these I can be merry; for Gentlemen, you must give me leave to be free to.

So you will spare us miserable men, condemn'd tc London, and the Company of a Michelmas Term, and never travel'd those Countries that set Mountains on fire a purpose to light us to our lodging.

Why this is better then to stay at home, and lie by hear­say, wearing out your selves and Fortunes like your cloathes, to see her that hates you for being so fine, then appearing at a Play drest like some part of it, while the Company admire the Mercers and the Taylors work, and swear they have done their parts to make you fine Gentlemen.

Then leap out of your Coach, and throw your Cloak over your shoulder, the Casting Nets to catch a Widow, while we have seen the world, and learn'd her Customs.

Yes, Sir, and return'd perfect Mounsieurs.

Yes, even to their diseases; I confess my Ignorance; I can­not amble, nor ride like S. George at Waltham.

Yet, upon my Conscience, he may be as welcome with a trot, as the other with his pace; and faith, Jack, (to be a little free) tell me, dost thou not think thou hadst been as well to pass here, with that English Nose thou carryedst hence, as with the French tongue thou hast brought home?

It is an Accident, and to a Souldier 'tis but a scar; 'tis true, such a sign upon Mr. Jolly's face had been as ill as a Red Cross, and Lord have mercy upon us, at his lodging door, to have kept women out of Court.

For ought you know of the Court.

I know the Court, and thee, and thy use, and how you serve but as the handsomest movables, a kind of Implement above stairs, and look much like one of the old Court Servants in the hangings.

But that they move, and look fresher, and your Apparel more Modern.

Yet, faith, their Office is the same, to adorn the Room, and be gaz'd on: Alas! hee's sad, Courage man, these riding cloaths will serve thee at the latter day.

Which is one of their grievances, for nothing troubles them more then to think they must appear in a foul winding sheet, and come undrest.

Gentlemen, I am glad to find you know the Court; we know a Traveller too, especially when he is thus chang'd and Ex­chang'd, as your Worships, both in Purse and Person, and [Page 86] have brought home forreign visages and Inscriptions.

Why that's their perfection, their ambition to have it said, there go those that have profitably observ'd the vices of other Countreys, and made them their own; and the faults of several Nations, at their return, are their Parts.

Why there's Jack Careless, he carried out as good stable manners as any was in Suffolk, and now he is return'd with a shrug, and a trick to stand crooked, like a skirvy Bow unbent, and looks as if he would maintain Oyl and Sallads against a Chyne of Beef; I knew a great Beast of this kind, it haunted the Court much, and would scarcely allow us (fully reduc'd to Civility) for serving up Mutton in whole joynts.

What, silent?

Faith, the Captain is in a study.

Do, do, Conn the Rivers and Towns perfectly, Captain; thou may'st become Intelligencer to the People, and lie thy two sheets a week in Corrantoes too.

And could you not make Friends at Court, to get their Pictures cut ugly, in the Corner of a Map, like the old Navigators.

Wee'le see, wee'le see.

I'le interrupt them; Servant, you're welcome to Town; how now, Nephew? what, dumb? where are all our travel'd tongues?

Servant! who doth she mean? By this hand, I disclaim the Title.

Captain, Secret has taken Notes, and desires you would instruct her in what concerns a waiting Woman, and an Old Lady.

Very good, yet this shall not save your Dinner.

Nay, while you are in this humor I'le not sell your Com­panies; and though Master Jolly be incensed, I hope he will do me the favour to dine with me.

Faith, Lady, you mistake me if you think I am afraid of a widow; for I would have the world know I dare meet her any where, but at Bed.

No more Aunt, wee'le come; and if you will give us good meat, weel bring good humors, and good stomacks.

By this day I'le not dine there, they take a pleasure to raise a spirit that they will not lay, I'le to Banks's.

A Pox forbid it, you shall not break Company, now you know what we are to do after Dinner.

I will consent, upon condition you forbid the spiritual Non-sence the age calls Platonick Love.

I must away too; But I'le be there at Dinner, you will joyn in a Plot after dinner.

Any thing, Good, Bad, or Indifferent, for a Friend and Mirth.

I must go and prevent the Rogues mischief, with the Old Lady.

ACT. II. SCEN. I.

AWay, unworthy, false, ingrateful; with what Brow dar'st thou come again into my sight, knowing how unworthy you have been, and how false to love?

No, 'tis you are unworthy, and deserve not those truths of Love I have pay'd here; else you would not believe ev'ry report that Envy brings, and condemn, without hearing me, whom you have so often try'd and found faithful.

Yes, till I too credulous had pity on your tears; till I had mercy you durst not be false.

Nor am not yet.

What dost thou call False? is there a treachery beyond what thou hast done; when I had given my Fame, my Fortune, my self, and my husbands honour, all in one Obligation, a sacrifice to that Passion; which thou seem'st to labour with despair of, to tell and Brag of a conquest o're a Woman, fool'd by her Passion, and lost in her love to thee, unworthy;—

By this Day, 'tis as false as he that said it; hang him, son of a Batchelour; a slave that envying my Fortune in such a happiness as your love, and chast embraces, took this way to ruine it; Come, dry your Eyes, and let the guilty weep; if I were guilty I durst as soon approach a Constable drunk, as come here; you know I am your slave.

You swore so, and honour made me leave to triumph over your miseries.

Do you repent that I am happy? if you do, command my death.

Nay, never weep, nor sit sadly, I am Friends, so you will onely talk and discourse; for 'tis your company I onely covet.

No, you cannot forgive, because you have injur'd me; 'tis right womans Justice; Accuse first, and harder to reconcile when they are guilty, then when they are Innocent, or else you would not turn from me thus.

You know your youth hath a strong power over me; Turn those bewitching Eyes away; I cannot see them with safety of mine honour.

Come you shall not hide your Face, there's a Charm in it against those that come burnt with unchast fires; for let but your Eyes or Nose drop upon his heart it would burn it up, or quench it strait.

No Cogging, you have injur'd me; and now though my

love plead, I must be deaf, my honour bids me; for you will not fear again to prove unworthy when you find I am so easie to for­give—Why, you will not be uncivil.

So, the storm is lay'd, I must have those Pearls—she shov'd me away with her mouth, I'le to her again.

Where are you? what do you take me for? why you

will not be uncivil?

Uncivil! By thy chaste self, I cannot, Chick; thou hast such a terror, such a guard in those eyes, I dare not approach thee, nor can I gaze upon so much fire; Prithee, Sirrah, let me hide me from their power here.

You presume upon the weakness of our sex; what shall I say or do? Tyrant Love!

There's a charm in those Pearls; pull them off; if they have a Frost in them, let me wear them, and then we are both safe.

I would you had taken them sooner, I had then been innocent, and might with whiteness have worn my love which I shall ne're out-live.

Dear, do not too fast pour in my joys, lest I too soon reach my heaven.

Be gone then, lest we prove (having gain'd that height) this sad truth in Love; The first minute after noon is night.

Part now? The Gods forbid; take from me first this load of joys you have thrown upon me; for 'tis a burthen harder to bear then sadness; I was not born till now, this my first night in which I reap true bliss.

No, no; I would it had been your first night, then your falshood had not given argument for these tears; and I hate my self to think I should be such a foolish fly, thus again to approach your dangerous flame.

Come, divert these thoughts; I'll go see your Closet.

No, no, I swear you shall not.

You know, I am going out of Town for two days.

When you return, I'll shew it you; you will forget me else when you are gone, and at Court.

Can your love endure delays? or shall business thee from hence remove? these were your own Arguments; come, you shall shew it me.

Nay, then I perceive what unworthy way your love would find; Ye Gods, are all men false?

As I live, you shall stay; come, you ought to make me

amends for slandring of me; Hang me, if ever I told; and he that reports it is the damn'dst Rogue in a Country, Come, I say.—

Ah! As I live, I will not, I have sworn; do not pull me, I will not be damn'd, I have sworn.—

As I live, I'll break your Bodkin then, a weeping Tyrant! Come; by this good day, you shall be merciful.

Why, you will not be uncivil; you will not force me, will you? As I live, I will not.

Nay, and you be wilful, I can be stubborn too.

Hang me, I'll call aloud, why Nan! nay, you may force me; But, As I live, I'll do nothing.

ACT. II. SCEN. II.

A Pox upon you, are you earth'd? The Rogue has got her Neck-lace of Pearl; but I hope he will leave the Rope to hang me in, how the pox came they so great? I must have some trick to break his neck, else the young Rogue will work me out; 'tis an excellent old Lady, but I dare not call her so; yet would she were young enough to bear, we might do some good for our heirs, by leaving such a charitable brood behind; she's a woman after the first kind; 'tis but going in to her and you may know her; then she'l oblige so readily, and gives with greater thankes then others receive, takes it so kindly to be courted. I am now to ob­lige her (as she calls it) by professing young Wilds love, and de­siring an assurance; she's sensible of his sufferings, which though it be false, and beyond my Commission, yet the hopes of such a new young thing that has the vogue of the Town, for handsomest, 'twill so tickle her age, and so blow up her vanity, to have it said, He is in love with her, and so endear her to me for being the means that the Parsons malice will be able to take no root;—She comes, I must not be seen.—

Give me that Letter I'll swear, you shall not read it.

Take it, I'll away, What time shall I call you, in the even­ing? there's a Play at Court to night.

I would willingly be there, but your Ladies are so cen­sorious, and malitious to us young Ladies, in the Town, especially to me, because the Wits are pleas'd to afford me a visit, or so; I could be content else to be seen at Court; Pray what humour is the Queen of? the Captain of her Guard I know.

The Queen? Who's that knocks at the back-door.—

Smooth my Band, I know not, go down that way, and look you be not false; if you should be false, I'll swear, I should spoil my self with weeping.

Farewell, in the evening I'll call you.

Who's there? Captain? Where have you been all this while; I might sit alone, I see, for you, if I could not find con­versation in Books.

Faith, Madam, friends newly come to Town engag'd me, and my stay was civility rather then desire, what Book's that?

I'll swear he was a Witch that writ it; for he speaks my thoughts as if he had been within me; the Original, they say, was French.

Oh, I know it, 'tis the accomplish'd Woman, Your self, he means by this, while you are your self.

Indeed, I confess, I am a great friend to conversation, if we could have it without suspition; But the world's so apt to judge, that 'tis a prejudice to our honour now to salute a man.

Innocence, Madam, is above opinion, and your fame's too great to be shook with whispers.

You are ever civil, and therefore welcome; pray, what news is there now in Town? for I am reclus'd here; unless it be yours, I receive no visits; and I'll swear, I charg'd the Wench to day not to let you in; I wonder she let you come.

Faith, Madam, if it had been my own business I should not have ventur'd so boldly; But the necessity that forces me to come concerns my friend, against whom if your mercy be now bounded with those strict ties of honour, and cold thoughts which I have ever found guard your heart, My friend, a young and handsome man, is lost, is lost in his prime, and falls like early blos­soms; But methinks you should not prove the envious frost to de­stroy this young man, this delicate young man, that has whole bun­dles of Boys in his Breeches; yet if you be cruel, he and they dye, as useless as open Arses gathered green.

Good Captain, out with the particular, what way can my charity assist him; you know by experience I cannot be cruel, remember how I fetch'd you out of a swoond, and laid you in my own bed.

That act preserved a life, that has always been labour'd in your service; and I dare say, your charity here will find as fruitful a gratitude.

But, I hope, he will not be so uncivil as you were; I'll swear, I could have hang'd you for that Rape, if I would have follow'd the Law; but I forgave you upon condition you would do so again; but what's this young man you speak of?

Such is my love to you and him, that I cannot prefer mine own particular before your contents; else I'de have poyson'd him ere I'de have brought him to your house.

Why, I pray?

Because, he's young, handsome, and sound parts; that I'me sure will ruine me here.

His love may make all these beauties, else I have an honour will defend me against him, were he as handsome as young Wild.

Why I, there it is; that one word has remov'd all my fears and jealousies with a despair; for that's the man whose Love, Life and Fortune, lies at your feet; and if you were single, by law­ful ways he would hope to reach what now he despairs of.

Let him not despair, Love is a powerful pleader, and youth and beauty will assist him; and if his love be noble I can meet it; for there's none that sacrifices more to friendship-love, then I.

My friends interest makes me rejoyce at this; dare you trust me to say this to him, though it be not usual, pray speak; Nay, you are so long still a resolving to be kind: Remember, cha­rity is as great a vertue as chastity, and greater, if we will hear na­ture plead; for the one may make many Maids, the other can but preserve one: But I know you will be perswaded, let be my impor­tunity [Page 91] that prevail'd, shall I bring him hither one evening?

Why do you plead thus? pray be silent, and when you see him, tell him he has a seat here, and I—

Out with it, what is't? shall he call you Mistress? and his Platonick?

Away, away; Me?

No niceness, is't a match?

Lord, would I were as worthy as willing (pray tell him so) he shall find me one of the humblest Mistresses that ever he was pleas'd to honour with his affections.

Dare you write this to him, and honour me with bear­ing it? I confess, I am such a friend to friendship-love too that I would even bring him on my back to a mid-nights meeting.

If you will stay here, I'll go in and write it.—

Madam, I forgot to ask your Ladiship one Question.

What was't?

There hapned a business last night betwixt Mr. Wild and one Jolly, a Courtier that brags extreamly of your favour; I swear, if it had not been for friends that interpos'd themselves there had been mischief, for Mr. Wild was extream zealous in your cause.

Such a Rascal I know; Villain, to bring my name up­on the Stage, for a subject of his quarrels, I'll have him cud­geld.

And I'll swear, he deserv'd it; for the quarrel ended in a Bet of a Buck-hunting-nag, that sometime to day he would bring a Neck-lace and chain of Pearl of yours (not stoln, but freely gi­ven) to witness his power.

Did the vain Rascal promise that?

Yes, but we laught at it.

So you might; and, as I live, if the Neck-lace were come from stringing I'de send them both to Mr. Wild, to wear as a favour, to assure him I am his, and to put the vain slave out of countenance.

I marry, such a timely favour were worth a dozen Let­ters, to assure him of your Love, and remove all the doubts the others discourse may put into his head; and faith I'de send him the chain now, and in my Letter promise him the Neck-lace, he'l deserve such a favour.

I'll go in and fetch it immediately, will you favour me to deliver it?

I'll wait upon your Ladiship.

I'll swear you shall not go in, you know I forswore

being alone with you.

Hang me, I'll go in; do's my Message deserve to wait an Answer at the Door?

I, but you'l be naught.

O, ne're trust me if I break.

If you break some such forfeit you'l lose; Well, come in for once.

You are so suspitious.

I'll swear, I have reason for't, you are such another man.

ACT. II. SCEN. III.

IS he gone?

Yes, he's gone to the old Ladies, high with mis­chief.

Fare him well, easie Fool, how the Trout strove to be tickled, and how does this Ring become me? Ha! they are

fine kind of things these Wedding Rings.

Besides the good custom of putting so much Gold in 'em, they bring such conveniencies along.

Why I, now I have but one to please; and if I please him, who dares offend me? and that Wife's a fool that cannot make her Husband one.

Nay, I am absolutely of Opinion, it was fit for you to marry; but whether he be a good Husband or no.

A pox of a good Husband, give me a wise one; they onely make the secure Cuckolds, the Cuckold in grain; for die a Husband that has wit but with an Opinion thou art honest, and see who dares wash the colour out; Now your fool changes with eve­ry drop, dotes with confidence in the Morning and at Night, jealous even to Murther, and his Love (Lord help us) fades like my Gredaline Petticote.

This is a new Doctrine.

'Tis a truth, Wench, I have gain'd from my own Obser­vations, and the Paradox will be maintain'd. Take wise Men from Cuckolds, and fools to make them; for your wise Man draws eyes and suspition with his visit, and begets jealous thoughts in the Husband, that his Wife may be overcome with his parts; when the fool is welcome to both, pleaseth both, laughes with the one, and lies with the other, and all without suspition; I tell thee, a fool that has money is the Man. The wits and the we's, which is a distinct Parreal of Wit bound by it self, and to be sold at Wit-hall, or at the sign of the Kings-head in the Butchery; these wise things will make twenty jealous, ere one Man a Cuckold; when the fa­mily of fools will head a Parish ere they are suspected.

Well, I see one may live and learn; and if he be but as good at it now, you are his own; as he was, when he was your Friends Friend, (as they call it) you have got one of the best hid­ers of such a business in the Town; Lord, how he would Sister you at a Play!

Faith, tis as he is us'd at first; if he get the bridle in's teeth he'll ride to the Devil; but if thou beest true, we'll make him amble ere we have done; the Plot is here, and if it thrive I'll al­ter the Proverb, The Parson gets the Children, to, the Parson Fa­thers them.

Any thing that may get Rule; I love to wear the Breeches.

So do we all, Wench; Empire? 'tis all our aim; and I'll put my ranting Roger in a Cage but I'll tame him; he loves already, which is an excellent Ring in a fools nose, and thou shalt hear him sing.—

Do this, I'll serve you for nothing; the impetuous slave had wont to taunt me for beating of my Husband, and would sing that song in mockery of me.

In Revenge of which, thou (if thou wilt be faithful) shalt make him sing.

ACT. II. SCEN. IV.

GO, you are a naughty Man; do you come hither to rail against an honest Gentleman? I have heard how you fell out, you may be asham'd on't, a Man of your Coat.

What? to speak Truth and perform my Duty? the world cries out you are a scab'd sheep, and I come to tarr you, that is, give you notice how your Fame suffers ith' opinion of the world.

My Fame, Sirrah? 'tis purer then thy Doctrine, get thee out of my house.

You uncivil fellow, do you come hither to tell my Lady of her faults, as if her own Levite could not discern 'em?

My own Levite? I hope he's better bred then to tell me of my faults.

He finds work enough to correct his dearly beloved sinners.

And the Right Worshipfull my Lady, and your self, they mend at leasure.

You are a saucy fellow, Sirrah, to call me Sinner in my own house; get you gone with—your Madam, I hear, and (Madam) I could advise, but I am loath to speak; take heed, the world talkes, and thus with dark sentences put my Innocence into a fright, with you know what you know good Mistress Faith­full; so do I, and the world shall know too thou hast married a Whore.

Madam, a Whore?

No, Sir, 'tis not so well as a Madam-whore, 'tis a poor Whore, a Captains cast Whore.

Now bless me, marry a Whore? I wonder any Man can endure those things, what kind of Creatures are they?

They'r like Ladies, but that they are handsomer; and though you take a priviledge to injure me, yet I would advise your Wo­man [Page 94] to tie up her Tongue, and not abuse my Wife.

Fie, art thou not asham'd to call a Whore, Wife? Lord bless [...]ns, what will not these men do when God leaves them! But for a Man of your Coat to cast himself away upon a Whore, come Wench, let's go and leave him! I'll swear, 'tis strange, the State doth not provide to have all Whores hang'd or drown'd.

I, and 'tis time they look into it, for they begin to spread so, that a man can scarce find an honest woman in a Country; they say, they're voted down now, 'twas mov'd by that charitable Mem­ber that got an Order to have it but five miles to Croyden, for ease of the Market-women.

I, I, 'tis a blessed Parliament.

That I have plaid the fool, is visible; this comes of rash­ness; something I must do to set this right, or else she'l hate, and he'l laugh at me, I must not lose him, and my revenge too, something that's mischief, I am resolv'd to do.

ACT. II. SCEN. V.

NOW is the Parsons Wife so contemptible?

No, but I'me so full of that resolution to dislike the sex, that I will allow none honest, none handsome; I tell thee, we must beat down the price with our selves, court none of 'em; but let their Maiden-heads and their Faces lie upon their hands, till they're weary of the commodity, then they'l haunt us to find proper Chap-men to deal for their ware.

I like this, but 'twil be long a doing, and it may be er'e they be forc'd to sell, our bank will be exhausted, and we shall not be able to purchase.

I, but we'l keep a credit, and at three six moneths, thou and the Captain shall be my Factors.

You had best have a partner, else such an undertaking would break a better back then yours.

No partners in such commodities, your Factor that takes up Maiden-heads, 'tis upon his own accompt still.

But what course will you take to purchase this trade with women?

I am resolv'd to put on their own silence and modesty, answer forsooth, swear nothing but Gods nigs, and hold Argu­ments of their own cold Tenents, as if I believ'd there were no true love below the line, then sigh when 'tis proper, and with forc'd studies betray the enemy, who seeing my eye fix'd on her, her va­nity thinks I am lost in admiration, calls and shakes me ere I wake out of my design, and being collected, answer out of purpose. Love, divinest? yes, who is it that is mortal and do's not, or which amongst all the Senate of the Gods, can gaze upon those [Page 95] eyes, and carry thence the power he brought? This will start her.

Yes, and make her think thee mad.

Why that's my design; for then I start too, and rub my eyes, as if I wak'd, then sigh and strangle a yawn, 'till I have wrung it into tears, with which I rise, as if o'recome with grief; then kiss her hands, and let fall those witnesses of faith and love, brib'd for my design. This takes; for who would suspect such a Devil as Craft and Youth to live together?

But what kind of women do you think this will take?

All kind of women, those that think themselves hand­some; it being probable, concludes it real; and those that are handsome in their opinion, that small number will believe it, be­cause it agrees with their wishes.

And when you are gone, it may be they sigh, and their Love breaks out into Paper, and what then?

What then? why then I'll laugh, and shew thee their Letters, and teach the world how easie 'tis to win any woman.

This is the way, and be sure to dislike all, but her you design for; be scarce civil to any of the sex besides.

That's my meaning, But to her that I mean my prey, all her slave; she shall be my Deity; and her opinion my religion.

And while you sad it thus to one, I'll talk freer then a pri­viledg'd fool, and swear as unreasonably as losing Gamesters, and abuse thee for thinking to reclaim a woman by thy love, call them all bowls thrown that will run where they will run, and Lovers like fools run after them, Crying, Rub, and fly, for me; I believe none fair, none handsome, none honest, but the kind.

We must make the Captain of our Plot, lest he betray us; this will gain us some revenge upon the Lovers to whom I grudge the Wenches, not that I believe they're worth half the cost they pay for them; and we may talk, but 'tis not our opinion can make them happier, or miserable.

Jolly, Will, where hast thou been? We had such sport with the Parson of our Town, he's married this morning to Wanton.

Who? the Captains Wench? he's in a good humor then; as you love mirth, let's find him, I have news to blow his rage with, and 'twill be mirth to us, to see him divided betwixt the several causes of his anger, and lose himself in his rage while he disputes, which is the greater; your opinion, Gentlemen; is this, or his Wench, the greater loss?

What hast thou there? Pearl! they're false, I hope.

Why do you hope so?

Because I am thy friend, and would be loath to have thee hang'd for stealing.

I will not swear they are honestly come by; but I'll be sworn, there's neither force nor theft in't.

Prithee, speak out of Riddles, here's none but your Friends.

Faith, take it, you have heard the Captain brag of an old [Page 96] Lady, which he thinks he keeps close in a Box; but I know where hangs a key can let a friend in, or so: From her, my brace of wor­thies, whose wits are dull'd with plenty, this morning, with three good words, and four good deeds, I earn'd this toy.

The mirth yet, we will all share; I am in pain till we sind him, that we may vex his wit that he presumes so much on.

Let's go, let's go, I will desire him to let me see his Wench; I will not understand him if he says she's gone.

I'll beg of him, for old acquaintance sake, to let me see his old Lady.

Heark, I hear his voice.—

Which way?

The Game plays it self; begin with him, Ned, while we talk, as if we were busie, we'l take our Q.

When I put off my hat.

'sBlood, I thought you had been sunk, I have been hunt­ing you these four hours. Death, you might ha left word where you went; and not put me to hunt like Tom Fool, 'tis well you are at London, where you know the way home.

Why in choler? We have been all this while searching you; come, this is put on to divert me for claiming your promise, I must see the Wench.

You cannot a dad, a dad you cannot.

I did not think you would have refus'd such a kindness.

What's that?

Nothing, a toy, he refuses to shew me his Wench.

The Devil he do's; what have we been thus long Com­rades, and had all things in common, and must we now come to have common Wenches particular? I say, thou shalt see her, and lye with her too, if thou wilt.

What? in thy dumps, Brother, call to thy aid thy two edged wit; the Captain sad? 'tis prophetick, I'de as live have dreamt of Pearl, or the loss of my teeth; yet if he be musty, I'll warrant thee, Ned, I'll help thee to a bout; I know his Cloak, his long Cloak that hides her; I am acquainted with the Parson, he shall befriend thee.

'Tis very well, Gentlemen; but none of you have seen her yet?

Yes, but we have, By thy self, by thy anger, which is now bigger then thou; By chance we crost her, coming from Church, leading in her hand the Parson, to whom she swore she was this day married.

And our friendships were now guiding us to find thee out, to comfort thee after the treachery of thy Levite.

Come, bear it like a man, there are more Wenches, What hast thou spy'd?—

His Pearl, I believe.

Gentlemen, I see you are merry; I'll leave you; I must go a little way, to enquire about a business.

Has got a sore-eye, I think.

I will only ask one Question, and return.

No faith, stay, and be satisfy'd.

Do, good Brother, for I believe there is no question that you now would ask, but here's an Oracle can resolve you.

Are those Pearl true?

Yes?

And did not you steal them?

No.

Nor he did not buy them with ready money; But took them upon Mortgage of himself to an old Lady.

Dwelling at the sign of the Buck in Broad-street; are you satisfy'd, or must I play the Oracle still?

No, no, I am satisfied.

Like Jealous men, that take their wives at it, are you not?

Well, very well, 'tis visible, I am abus'd on all hands; But Gentlemen, why all against me?

To let you see your Wit's mortal, and not proof a­gainst all.

The Parson hath shot it through with a Jest.

Gentlemen, which of you, faith, had a hand in that?

Faith, none; onely a general Joy, to find the Captain over reach'd.

But do you go sharers in the Profit, as well as in the Jest?

No faith, the Toy's mine own.

They are very fine, and you may afford a good peny worth, will you sell them?

Sell them? I, where's a Chapman?

Here, I'le purchase them.

Thou? No, no, I have barr'd thee, By and Mayn, for I am resolv'd not to fight for them; that excludes thy purchase by the sword; and thy wench has prov'd such a loss, in thy last Adventure of Wit, that I'me afraid, it will spoil thy credit that way too.

Gentlemen, as a Friend, let me have the refusal, set your price.

Hee's serious.

Leave fooling.

Why if thou could'st buy them, what would'st thou do with them.

They're very fair Ones, let me see them, me-thinks they should match very well with these.

These, which?

Which?

They are true.

Yes, But not earn'd with a pair of stoln verses, of, I was not born till now, this my first night, and so forsooth; nor given as a Charm against lust.

What means all this?

What? why 'tis truth, and it means to shame the Divel; by this good day, he repeats the same words with which I gather'd these Pearls.

Why then we have two to laugh at.

And all Friends hereafter, let's fool altogether.

Gentlemen with the fine Wits, and my very good Friends do you, or you, or he think I'le keep you Company, to make you laugh, but that I draw my honey from you too?

Come, come, the Captain's in the right.

Yes, yes, the Captain knows it, and dares tell you, your Wit, your Fortune, and his Face, are but my Ploughs; and I would have my fine Mounsieur know, who, in spight of my Counsel, will be finer then his Mistriss, and appears before her so curiously built she dares not play with him for fear of spoiling him; and to let him know the truth I speak, To his fair hands I present this letter, but withal give him to understand, the Contents belong to me.

The Pearl are sent to me.

I deny that, unless you prove you sent me; for the Letter begins, Sir, this noble Gentleman, the bearer, whom you are pleas'd to make the messenger of your love, and so forth; And now you should do well to enquire for that noble Gentleman, and take an Account of him how he has lay'd out your Love, and it may be hee'l return you Pearl for it; and now Gentlemen, I dare propose a peace, at least a Cessation of Wit (but what is defensive) till such time as the Plot which is now in my head be effected, in which you have all your shares.

So she knows I have not the Pearl, I am content.

Shee'l quickly find that, when she see's you come not to night, according to my appointment, and hear's I have sold the Pearl.

Here then ceaseth our Offensive War.

I'le give you Counsel worth two Ropes of Pearl.

But the Wench, how came the Parson to get her?

Faith 'tis hard to say which labour'd most, he, or I, to make that Match, but the knave did well; There it is (if you as­sist) I mean to lay the Scene of your mirth to night, for I am not yet fully reveng'd upon the Rogue; for that I know him miserable is nothing, till he believe so too; Wanton and I have lay'd the Plot.

Do you hold Correspondence?

Correspondence? I tell thee the plots we lay'd to draw him on would make a Comedy.

Sir, the Ladies stay Dinner.

And as we go I'le tell you all the story, and after Dinner, be free from all Engagements, as we promis'd thee; and follow but your directions, I'le warrant you mirth and a prety Wench.

Agreed, any thing that breeds mirth is welcome.

Not a word at the Widows, let them go on quietly, and steal their Wedding too.

I heard a Bird sing, as if it were concluded amongst the Couples.

They have been long about it; my Couze is a girle de­serves more haste to her Bed, he has arriv'd there by Carriers Journeys.

But that I hate wooing, by this good day, I like your [Page 99] Aunt so well and her humour she should scarce be thrown away upon Pale-face, that has sigh'd her into a Wedding Ring, and will but double her Joynture.

Why I, thus it should be, pray let us make them the Seat of the war all Dinner, and continue united and true among our selves, then we may defie all forreign danger.

And with full Bowles let us crown this peace, and sing, Wit, without war, no Mirth doth bring.

ACT. II. SCEN. VI.

WAs she deaf to your report?

Yes, yes.

And ugly, her Abigail, she had her say too?

Yes, yes.

And do you walk here biting your Nayls: do you think I'le be satisfy'd with such a way of righting me?

What would'st have me do?

Have you no Gall? be abus'd and laugh'd at by a dull Captain, that a strict Muster would turn Fool? you had Wit, and could rail, when I offended you, and none so suddain, none so ter­rible, none so sure in his Revenge, when I displease you.

Something I'le do.

Do it then, or I shall curse that e're I saw you Death, let the sign of my Lady, an out of fashion whore, that has pay'd for sin, ever since yellow starch and wheel Fardingales were cry'd down, let her Abuse me, and say nothing? if this passes.

As Christ bless me, but I did (sweet heart:) and if it were not Church livings are mortal, and they are always hitting me in the teeth with a man of your Coat, she should find I am no Church man within, nor Mr. Parson but in my Coat; Come to Dinner, and after Dinner I'le do something.

I shall do something will vex some body.

Will you please to come to Dinner? the Company stays.

Come, let's go in.

No, I must walk a little to disgest this breakfast, the guests else will wonder to see I am troubled.

Come, let this day pass in Mirth, spight of mischief, for lucks sake.

I'le follow you, and do what I can to be merry.

Why, he stands already.

Peace, let me alone, I'le make him Jostle, like the Millers Mare, and stand like the Dun Cow, till thou may'st milk him.

Pray break him of his miserableness, it is one of the chief Exceptions I have against him; he reared a puppy once, till it was ten days old, with three hap' worth of milk, and then with his own Dagger slew it, and made me dress it: blest my self to see him eat [Page 100] it, and he bid me beg the Litter, and swore it was sweeter and wholsomer then sucking Rabbets, or London Pigs, which he call'd Belmens issue.

Heark, he calls me, we must humour him a little, he'll

rebell else.

ACT. II. SCEN. VII.

YOu re welcome all, but especially Master Jolly; no reply, with I thank your Ladyship.

I beseech you, Sir, let us never be better acquainted.

I shall endeavour, Lady, and fail in nothing that is in my

Jolly power to dis-oblige you; for there is none more ambitious of your ill Opinion then I.

I rejoyce at it, for the less Love, the better welcome still.

And as ever you had an ounce of Love for the Widow, be not Friends among your selves.

Aunt, though we were at strife when we were alone, yet now we unite like a Politick State against the common Enemy.

The common Enemy, what is that?

Women, and Lovers in general.

Nay, then we have a party Niece, claim; quickly, now is the time, according to the Proverb; Keep a thing seven years, and then if thou hast no use on't throw't away.

Agreed, let's challenge our Servants; by the Love they have profes'd, they cannot in honour refuse to joyn with us; and see where they come.—

Sir, tis done.

Be secret and grave, I'll warrant our design will take as we can wish.

Sweet Mistress Pleasant.

Servant Sadd.

Madam.

We are threatened to have a War wag'd against us, will you not second us?

With these youths we'll do enough, Madam.

I'll swear my Servant gave hit for hit this morning, as if he had been a Master in the Noble Science of Wit.

Mine laid about him with spik and span new Arguments, not like the same Man, his old sayings and Presidents laid by.

Thus arm'd, then, we'll stand and defie them.

Where's your Points, sure Aunt, this should be your [Page 101] Wedding day, for you have taken the Man for better for worse.

No, Nephew, this will not prove the day that we shall either give or take a Ring.

Hang me, if I know you can go back again with your Honour.

Or in Justice refuse him Liberty, that has serv'd out his time; either marry him or provide for him, for he is maim'd in your service.

Why Servant Sadd? you'll arm; my Nephew has thrown the first dart at you.

Hast hit, hast hit?

No, Captain, 'twas too wide.

Too wide? Marry he's an ill Marks-man that shoots wider then a Widow.

We are both in one hole, Captain; but I was loath to venture my Opinion, lest her Ladyship should think I was angry; for I have a good mind to fall upon the Widow.

You're a constant Man, Master Jolly; you have been in that mind this twelve-months day.

You are in the right, Madam; she has it to shew under his hand, but she will not come in the List with him again; she threw him the last year.

Come, shall we eat Oysters? Who's there? call for some Wine, Master Jolly; you are not warm yet, pray be free, you are at home.

Your Ladyship is merry.

You do not take it ill, to have me assure you you are at home here?

Such another invitation (though in jest) will take away Master Sadds stomack.

No, faith, Ned, though she should take him, it will not take away my stomack; my Love is so fix'd I may wish my wishes, but she shall never want them to wait upon hers.

A Traytor, bind him, has pull'd down a side; profess your Love thus publick?

I by my faith, continue Master Sadd, give it out you Love, and call it a new Love, a Love never seen before, we'll all come to it as your Friends.

Gentlemen, still I Love; and if she to whom I thus sacri­fice will not reward it, yet the worst Malice can say, is, I was un­fortunate and misfortunate; not false made me so.

In what Chapter shall we find this written, and what verse? you should preach with a Method, Master Sadd.

Gentlemen, if ever he spoke so much dangerous sence before (either of Love or Reason) hang me.

Madam, my Love is no news where you are; Know, your scorn has made it publick; and though it could gain no return from you; yet others have esteemed me for the Faith and Con­stancy I have pay'd here.

Did not I foretell you of his Love? I foresaw this danger, [Page 102] shall I never live to see Wit and Love dwell together?

I am but a poor Souldier, and yet never reach'd to the Honour of being a Lover; yet from my own observations, Master Sadd, take a Truth; 'tis a folly to believe any Woman loves a Man for being constant to another, they dissemble their hearts onely; and hate a Man in Love worse then a Wencher.

And they have Reason; for if they have the grace to be kind, he that loves the Sex may be theirs.

When your constant Lover, if a Woman have a mind to him, and be blest with so much grace to discover it; He, out of the noble mistake of Honour hates her for it, and tells it per­chance, and preaches Reason to her Passion, and cryes, miserable Beauty, to be so unfortunate as to inhabit in so much frailty.

This counsel makes her hate him more then she lov'd before; These are troubles, those that love are subject to, while we look on and laugh, to see both thus slav'd while we are free.

My prayers still shall be, Lord deliver me from Love.

'Tis Plague, Pestilence, Famine, Sword, and sometimes sudden death.

Yet I love, I must love, I will love, and I do love.

In the present tense.

No more of this Argument, for Loves sake.

By any means, Madam, give him leave to love, and you are resolv'd to walk tied up in your own Armes, with your Love as visible in your Face, as your Mistresses colours in your Hat; that any Porter at Charing-Cross may take you like a Letter at the Carriers, and having read the superscription, deliver Master Sadd to the fair hands of Mistress or my Lady such a one, lying at the sign of the hard heart.

And she, if she has wit (as I believe she hath) will scarce pay the Post for the Pacquet.

Treason, how now Niece, joyn with the Enemy?

A health, Ned, what shall I call it?

To Master Sadd, he needs it that avowes himself a Lover.

Gentlemen, you have the Advantage, the Time, the Place, the Company; But we may meet when your wits shall not have such advantage as my Love.

No more of Love, I am so sick on't.

By your Pardon, Mistress, I must not leave Love thus un­guarded, I vow my self his follower.

Much good may Love do him, give me a Glass of Wine here; Will, let them keep company with the blind Boy, give us his Mother, and let them preach again; hear that will, he has good luck, perswades me 'tis an ugly sin to lie with a handsome Woman.

A pox upon my Nurse, she frighted me so when I was young with stories of the Devil, I was almost fourteen er'e I could prevail with Reasons to unbind my Reason, it was so slav'd to Faith and Conscience; she made me believe Wine was an evil spi­rit, [Page 103] and Fornication was like the Whore of Babylon, a fine face, but a Dragon under her Pety-coats; and that made me have a mind to peep under all I met since.

Fie, fie, for shame, do not talk so; are you not asham'd to glory in sin, as if variety of women were none.

Madam, we do not glory in Fornication; and yet I thank God, I cannot live without a woman.

Why, do's your Ladiship think it a sin to lye with variety of handsome women? if it be, would I were the wicked'st man in the company.

You have been mark'd for an indifferent sinner; that way Captain.

Who I? No faith, I was a fool, but and I were to begin again, I would not do as I have done, I kept one; but if ever I keep another, Hang me; nor would I advise any friend of mine to do it.

Why, I am sure 'tis a provident and safe way; a man may always be provided and sound.

Fie upon this discourse.

Those considerations betrayed me, A pox; it is a dull sin to travel, like a Carriers-horse, always one Road.

Fie, Captain, repent for shame, and Marry.

Your Ladiship would have said, Marry, and repent; No, though it be not the greatest pleasure, yet it is better then marry­ing; for when I am weary of her, my unconstancy is term'd ver­tue, and I shall be said to turn to grace. Beware of women, for better for worse; for our wicked nature, when her sport is lawful, cloyes straight; therefore, rather then Marry keep a Wench.

Faith, he is in the right, for 'tis the same thing in number and kind; and then the sport is quickned, and made poynant with sin.

Yet 'tis a fault, faith, and I'll perswade all my friends from it; especially here where any innovation is dangerous; 'twas the newness of the sin that made me suffer in the opinion of my friends; and I was condemned by all sorts of people; not that I sinn'd, but that I sinn'd no more.

Why I, hadst thou been wicked in fashion, and privily lain with ev'ry body, their guilt would have made them protect thee; so that to be more wicked is to be innocent at lest safe; A wicked world, Lord help us.

But being particular to her, and not in love, nor subject to it, taking an Antidote ev'ry morning, before I venture into those in­fectious places where Love Beauty dwells; this enraged the Mai­den, Beauties of the Time, who thought it a prejudice to their Beauties to see me careless, and securely pass by their conquering eyes; my name being found amongst none of those that deckt their Triumphs. But from this 'tis easie to be safe, for their Pride will not let them love, nor my leisure me. Then the old Ladies that pay for their pleasures; they, upon the news, beheld me wirh their natural frowns, despairing when their money could not pre­vail; [Page 104] and hated me when they heard that I for my pleasure would pay as large as they.

Gentlemen, take warning; a Fee from ev'ry man; For by this day, there's strange counsel in this confession.

Captain, you forget to pledge Mr. Careless; here, will you not drink a cup of wine, who's there? Bring the Oysters.

Yes, Madam, if you please.

Proceed, Captain.

Fie, Mr. Wild, are you not asham'd to encourage him to this filthy discourse.

A glass of wine then; and I'll drink to all the new marri­ed Wives that grieve to think, at what rate their Fathers purchase a little husband. These when they lie thirsting for the thing they paid so dear for.

These, methinks, should be thy friends, and point thee out as a man for them.

Yes, till the faithful Nurse cries; Alas, Madam, he keeps such a one, he has enough at home; then she swells with envy and rage against us both, calls my Mistress ugly, common, unsafe; and me, a weak secure fool.

These are strange truths, Madam.

I, I, but these Oysters are a better jest.

But she's abus'd that will let such reason tame her desire, and a fool in Loves School; else she would not be ignorant that va­riety is such a friend to love, that he which rises a sunk coward from the Ladies bed would find new fires at her Maids; nor ever yet did the man want fire, if the woman would bring the fuel.

For Gods sake, leave this discourse.

The Captain has a mind we should eat no Oysters.

Aunt, we came to be merry, and we will be merry, and you shall stay it out; Proceed Captain.

Fie Captain, I'me asham'd to hear you talk thus: Marry, then you will have a better opinion of women.

Marry! yes, this knowledge will invite me, it is a good encouragement, is it not think you? What is your opinion? were not these Marriages made in Heaven? By this good day, all the world is mad, and makes haste to be fool'd, but we four: And I hope there's none of us believes there has any Marriages been made in Heaven, since Adam.

By my faith, 'tis thought the Devil gave the Ring there to.

Nephew, I'll swear I'll be gone.

Hold her, Ned, she goes not yet; there's a fourth kind of wo­men that concerns her more then all the rest, Ecce signum—She is

one of those who, cloathed in Purple, triumph over their dead hus­bands; these will be caught at first sight, and at first sight must be catcht; 'tis a Bird that must be shot flying, for they never sit; if a man delay they cool, and fall into considerations of Joynture, and friends opinion; in which time, if she hears thou keep'st a Wench, thou had'st better be a Beggar in her opinion; for then her Pride, it may be, would betray her to the vanity of setting up a proper [Page 105] man; (as they call it) but for a Wencher no Argument prevails with your Widow; for she believes they have spent too much that way, to be able to pay her due benevolence.

As I live, I'll be gone if you speak one word more of this uncivil subject.

Captain, let me kiss thy cheek, for that Widow; you un­derstand this, Widow? I say no more; Here Captain, here's to thee; as it goes down, A pox of care.

Jesus! Mr. Jolly, have you no observations of the Court, that are so affected with this of the Town?

Faith, they say, there's good sport there, sometimes.

Mr. Jolly is afraid to let us partake of his knowledge.

No faith, Madam.

By this drink, if he stay till I have eaten a few more, I'll describe it.

What should I say, 'tis certain the Court is the bravest place in the Kingdom, for sport, if it were well lookt to, and the Game preserved fair; But as 'tis, a man may sooner make a set in the Strand. And it will never be better, whil'st your divine Lovers inhabit there.

Let the King make me Master of the Game.

And admit us Laiety-lovers.

I would he would; for as 'tis, there's no hopes amongst the Ladies; besides, 'tis such an example to see a King and Queen good, Husband and Wife, that to be kind will grow out of fashion.

Nay, that's not all, for the women grow malicious, be­cause they are not courted; nay, they bred all the last mischiefs, and call'd the Kings chastity a neglect of them.

Thou art in the right; An Edward, or a Harry, with seven Queens in Buckram, that Haught among the men, and Stroakt the wo­men, are the Monarchs they wish to bow to; they love no tame Princes, but Lyons in the Forest.

Why, and those were properly call'd the Fathers of their People, that were indeed akine to their Nobility; now they wear out their youth and beauty, without hope of a monumental Bal­lad, or Trophee of a Lie-bell that shall hereafter point at such a Lord, and cry that is the royal Son of such a one.

And these were the ways that made them powerful at home; for the City is a kind of tame Beast; you may lead her by the horns any whither, if you but tickle them in the ear sometimes. Queen Bess, of famous memory, had the trick on't; and I have heard them say, In Eighty eighty, er'e I was born, as well I can re­member, she rode to Tilbury on that bonny Beast, the Mayor.

I would I might counsel him; I'de so reform the Court.

Never too soon; for now, when a stranger comes in, and spies a Covey of a Beauties, would make a Faulconer unhood, be­fore he can draw his Leash he is warn'd that's a markt Partridge; and that, and ev'ry he, has by their example a particular she.

By this light, the six fair Maids stand like the Working­days in the Almanack; one with A scored upon her breast, that is [Page 106] as much to say, I belong to such a Lord; the next with B for an elder Brother; C for such a Knight; D possest with melancholy, and at her breast you may knock an hour er'e you get an answer, and then she'l tell you there's no lodging there; she has a constant fellow Courtier that has taken up all her heart to his own use: in short, All are dispos'd of, but the good Mother; and she comes in like the Sabbath, at the weeks end; and I warrant her make any one rest that comes at her.

I marry; but if she were like the Jews Sabbath, it were somewhat; but this looks like a Broken Commandment, that has had more work done upon her, then all the week besides.

And what think you, is not this finely carryed? you that are about the King, counsel him, if he will have his sport fair, he must let the Game be free, as it has been in former Ages; then a stranger that has wit, good means, and handsome cloaths, no sooner enters the privy Chamber, and beat about with three graceful legs, but he spring a Mistress that danc'd as well as he, Sung better, as free as fair; those at first sight could speak, for wit is always acquainted: These fools must be akin er'e they can speak; and now the friends make the bargain, and they go to Bed er'e they know why.

Faith, he's in the right, you shall have a Buzzard now hover and beat after a pretty Wench, till she is so weary of him she's forc'd to take her Bed for covert, and find less danger in being truss'd then in flying.

And what becomes of all this pudder, after he has made them sport for one night, to see him towse the Quarry, he carries her into the Country, and there they two fly at one another till they are weary.

And all this mischief comes of Love and Constancy; we shall never see better days till there be an Act of Parliament against it; Enjoyning Husband not to Till their Wives, but change and lay them fallow.

A pox, the women will never consent to it; they'l be till'd to death first.

Gentlemen, you are very bold with the sex.

Faith, Madam, it is our care of them; why you see they are married at fourteen, yield a Crop and a half, and then dye, 'tis meerly their love that destroys'em; for if they get a good hus­bandman, the poor things yield their very hearts.

And do you blame their loves, Gentlemen?

No, not their love, but their discretion; let them love, and do, a Gods name; but let them do with discretion.

But how will you amend this?

Instead of two Beds and a Physitian; I'de have the State prescribe two Wives and a Mistress.

Ho! it will never be granted; the State is made up of old men, and they find work enough with one.

We will petition the lower House, there are young men, and (if it were but to be factious) would pass it, if they thought [Page 107] the upper house would Cross it; Besides, they ought to do it, Death! they provide against cutting down old Trees, and pre­serving high-ways and Post-horses, and let pretty Wenches run to decay?

Why may it not come within the Statute of Depopulation? As I live, the State ought to take care of those Pretty creatures; Be you Judge, Madam; Is't not a sad sight to see a rich young Beauty, with all her Innocence and Blossoms on, subject to some rough rude Fellow, that ploughs her; and esteems and uses her as a chattel, till she is so lean, a man may finde as good Grass upon the Common, where it may be shee'le sit coughing with sunk Eyes, so weak that a Boy (with a Dog) that can but whistle, may keep a score of them?

You are strangely charitable to Our Sex, on a sudden.

I know not what they are; but for my part, I'le be a Tray­tor ere I'le look on, and see Beauty go thus to wrack; it is enough, custom has made us suffer them to be enclos'd; I am sure, they were created common, and for the use of Man, and not intended to be subject to jealousie and choler, or to be bought or sold, or let for term of lives or years, as they are now, or else sold at Out-crys; Oh! Yes; who'le give most take her.

Why do not some of you, Excellent men, Marry, and mend all these Errours, by your good Example?

Because we want Fortunes, to buy rich wives, or keep poor ones, and be loath to get Beggars, or whores, as well as I love 'em.

Why, are all their Children so that have no fortune think you?

No, not all; I have heard of Whittington and his Cat, and o­thers, that have made Fortunes by strange means; But I scarce believe my Son would rise from Hope, a half peny, and a Lambs­skin; And the Wenches commonly having more Wit & Beauty then Money, foreseeing small Portions, grow sad, and read Romances, till their Wit spie some unfortunate merit like their own, without money too, and they two sigh after one another, till they grow my­sterious in Colours, and become a Proverb for their constancy; and when their Love has worn out the cause, marry in the end a new Couple, then grown asham'd of the knowledge they so long hunted, at length part, by consent, and vanish into Abigail and Governour.

Well Gentlemen, Excuse me for this One time; and if ever I invite you to Dinner again, punish me with such another discourse, in the mean time let's go in and dine, meat stays for us.

Faith Madam, we were resolved to be merry; We have not met these three years till to day, and at the Bear we meant to have din'd; and since your Ladyship would have Our Company, you must pardon Our humour; here Mistriss Sadd, here's the Wi­dows health to you.

ACT. III. SCEN. I.

NEphew, how do you dispose of your self this afternoon?

We have a design we must pursue, which will rid you of all this troublesome Company; and wee'l make no Excuse, be­cause you peeped into our privacies to day.

Your humble servant, Ladies; Gentlemen, wee'l leave you to pursue your fortunes.

Farewel Widow, may'st thou live unmarryed till thou run'st away with thy self.

No, no, When that day comes, Command the humblest of your Servants.

Farewel Aunt; sweet Mistris Pleasant, I wish you good fortune.

Farewel, farewel Gentlemen; Niece, now if we could be rid of these troublesome Lovers too, we would go see a Play.

Rid of them? Why, they are but now in season; as I live,

I would do as little to give mine content as any she in Town, and yet I do not grudge him the happiness of carrying me to a Play.

I, but the world will talk, because they pretend; and then we shall be sure to meet my Nephew there, and his wil'd Company, and they will laugh to see us together.

Who will you have? Tym the Butler, or Formal your Gentleman Usher? I would take Philip the foreman of the shop assoon.

Let's mask our selves, and take Secret, and go alone by water.

Yes, and follow her like one of my Aunts of the Suburbs; it is a good way to know what you may yield in a Market; for I'le undertake, there are those shall bid for you before the play will be done.

As I live, Madam, Mistriss Pleasant is in the right; I had such a kindness offer'd me once, and I came to a price with him in knavery; and hang me, if the Rogue was not putting the earnest of his affection into my hand.

Let's go to the Glass-house then.

I'le go to a Play with my Servant, and so shall you; hang Opinion, and wee'le go to the Glass-house afterwards; it is too hot to Sup early.

Pray Madam go, they say 'tis a fine Play, and a Knight writ it.

Pray let Secret prevail, I'le propose it to the Lovers; in the mean time go you, and bid the Coachman make ready the Coach.

Alas, Madam, hee's sick, poor fellow, and gone to bed, he could not wait at Dinner.

Sick?

Why, see how all things work for the young men, either their Coach, or a Foot; Mr. Constant, what think you of seeing a Play this afternoon? is it not too hot to venture, this Infectious time?

Fie, Madam, there's no danger, the Bill decreas'd Twenty last week.

I swear, they say, 'tis a very good Play to day.

Shall we go, Niece?

Faith 'tis hot, and there's no body but we.

Do's that hinder? pray Madam, grudge us not the favour of venturing your self in Our company.

Come, leave this Ceremony, I'le go in, and put on my Mask; Secret shall bring you yours;

No, I'le go, and put it on within.

ACT. III. SCEN. II.

BY this day, you have netled the Widow.

The Captain neglected his dinner for his mirth, as if he had forgot to eat.

When did he oversee his drinking so?

Gentlemen, still it is my fortune to make your worships Merry.

As I live, Captain, I subscribe, and am content to hold my wit as Tenant to thee; and to night I'le invite you to Supper, where it shall not be lawful to speak till thou has victual'd thy Man of War.

Shall's be merry? what shall we have?

Half a score dishes of meat, choose them your self.

Provide me then the Chines fry'd, and the Salmon Cal­ver'd, a Carp, and black sawce, Red-Dear in the blood, and an Assembly of Woodcocks, and Jack-snipes, so fat you would think they had their winding Sheets on; And upon these, as their Pages, let me have wait your Sussex Wheat-Ear, with a Feather in his Cap; Over all which let our Countrey-man, General Chyne of Beef, Command: I hate your French pottage, that looks as the Cook maid had more hand in it then the Cook.

I'le promise you all this.

And let me alone to Cook the Fish.

You Cook it? No, no, I left an honest fellow in Town, when I went into Italy, Signiour Ricardo Ligones, one of the ancient house of the Armenian Ambassadours; if he be alive he shall be our Cook.

Is he so Excellent at it?

Excellent? You shall try, you shall try; Why, I tell you, I saw him once dress a shooing-horn, and a Joyners apron, that the Company left Pheasant for it.

A Shooing-horn?

Yes, a shooing-horn; marry, there was Garlick in the Sawce.

Is this all you would have?

This, and a Bird of Paradise, to entertain the rest of the night, and let me alone to Cook her.

A Bird of Paradise, what's that?

A Girl of Fifteen, smooth as Satten, White as her Sunday Apron, Plump, and of the first down: I'le take her with her guts in her Belly, and warm her with a Countrey dance or two, then pluck her, and lay her dry betwixt a couple of sheets; There pour into her so much oyl of Wit as will make her turn to a man, & stick into her heart three corns of whole love, to make her taste of what she is doing, then having strewed a man all over her, shut the door, and leave us, wee'le work our selves into such a Sauce as you can never surfeit on, so Poynant and yet no Hogough; Take heed of a hogough, your Onion and woman make the worst sawce; This shook together by an English Cook (for your French seasoning spoils many a woman) and there's a Dish for a King.

For the first Part, I'le undertake.

But this for Supper; Capt. No more of this now; This af­ternoon, as you are true to the Pettycoat, observe your Instructions, and meet at Neds house in the Evening.

We will not fail.

I must write to Wanton, to know how things stand at home, and to acquaint her how we have thrived with the Old Lady to day.

Whither will you go to write?

To thy house, 'tis hard by, there's the Fleece.

Do, and in the mean time I'le go home and dispatch a little business, and meet you.

Make haste then.

Where shall I meet you?

Whither shall we go till it be time to attend the design.

Let's go to Court for an hour.

Do, I'le meet you at the Queens side.

No, prithee, we are the Mounsieurs new come Over; and if we go fine they will laugh at Us, and think we believe Our selves so; if not, then they will abuse our cloaths, and swear we went into France onely to have our cloaks cut shorter.

Will you go see a Play?

Do, and thither I'le come to you, if it be none of our Gentlemen Poets, that excuse their writings with a Prologue that professes they are no Scholars.

On my word this is held the best penn'd of the time, and he has writ a very good Play; By this Day, it was extreamly applauded.

Do's he write Plays by the day; Indeed a man would ha judged him a labouring Poet.

A Labouring Poet? by this hand hee's a Knight; upon my recommendation venture to see it; hang me if you be not extream­ly well satisfied.

A Knight and write Playes? it may be, but 'tis strange to us; so they say there are other Gentlemen Poets without Land or Latine; this was not ordinary; prithee when was he knighted?

In the North; the last great knighting, when 'twas Gods great Mercy we were not all Knights.

I'll swear, they say, there are Poets that have more Men in Liveries, then Books in their studies.

And what think you, Gentlemen, are not these things to start a Man? I believe 'tis the first time you have found them lie at the sign of the Page, Foot-men and gilded Coaches; They were wont to lodge at the thin Cloak, they and their Muses made up the Family; And thence sent Scenes to their Patrons, like Boyes in at windowes, and one would return with a Dublett, another with a pair of Breeches, a third with a little ready Money; which, to­gether with their credit with a company, in three Tearms you rare­ly saw a Poet repaired.

This truth no body denies.

Prithee let us resolve what we shall do, lest we meet with some of them: for it seemes they swarm, and I fear nothing like a Dedication, though it be but of himself; For I must hear him say more then either I deserve or he believes; I hate that in a Poet, they must be dull, or all upon all Subjects; so that they can oblige none but their Muse.

I perceive by this you will not see the Play; what think you of going to Sims, to Bowles, till I come?

Yes, if you will go to see that Comedy; but there is no reason we should pay for our coming in, and Act too; like some whose interest in the Timber robs them of their Reason, and they run as if they had stolne a Byass.

Resolve what you will do, I am contented.

Let's go walk in the Spring-garden.

I'll do it for Company, but I had as live be rid in the Horse-market, as walk in that fools faire; where neither wit nor money is, nor sure to take up a Wench; there's none but honest Women.

A pox on't, what should we do there? let's go and cross the Field to Pikes, her kitching is cool Winter and Summer.

I like that motion well, but we have no time, and I hate to do that business by halfe; after Supper, if you will, we'll go and make a night on't.

Well, I must go write, therefore resolve of somewhat; shall I propose an indifferent place where 'tis probable we shall all meet.

Yes.

Go you before to the Devil, and I'll make haste after.

Agreed, we shall be sure of good Wine there and in Fresco, for he is never without Patent snow.

Patent snow, what doth that project hold?

Yes, faith, and now there is a Commission appointed for Toasts against the next Winter.

Marry, they are wise, and fore-saw the Parliament, and were resolv'd their Monopolies should be no grievance to the People.

Farewell, you will be sure to meet.

Yes, yes.

ACT. III. SCEN. III.

BId them ply him close and flatter him, and rail upon the old Lady and the Captain; and, do you hear, give him some hints to begin the story of his life, do it handsomely, and you shall see how the Sack will clip his tongue.

I warrant you, I'll fit him.

When he is in his discourse, leave him and come down into the Parlour, and steal away his box with the false Rings that stands by his bed-side; I have all his little Plate here already.

Make you haste, I'll warrant you I'll dress him.

ACT. III. SCEN. IV.

SIR, the Lady Love-all passed by even now.

The Lady Love-all? which way went she.

To the rich Lady the Widow, where your Worship dined.

'Tis no matter; here, carry this Letter, and bring an an­swer to the Devil quickly; and tell her we'll stay there till the time be fit for the design.

ACT. III. SCEN. V.

JAck, How goes the world? Bring us some bottles of the best Wine.

You shall, Sir; your Worship is welcome into England.

Why look you, who sayes a Drawer can say nothing, but anan, anan, Sir? score a quart of Sack in the half-moon.

Your Worship is merry; but I'll fetch you that, Sir, shal speak Greek, and make your Worship prophecy, you drank none such in your journey.

Do it then, and make a hole in this Angell thou maist creep through; who is't that peepes, a Fidler? Bring him by the

Ears.

A Taylor, an't like your Worship.

A Taylor? hast thou a stout Faith?

I have had, an't like your Worship; But now I am in despair.

Why then thou art damn'd; go, go home, and throw thy self into thine own Hell, it is the next way to the other.

I hope your Worship is not displeas'd.

What dost do here? a Taylor without faith, dos't come to take measure of ours?

No, I come to speak with one Master Jolly, a Courtier, a very fine spoken Gentleman, and a just Compter, but one of the worst pay-masters in the world.

As thou lov'st me, let's keep him here till he comes, and make him valiant with Sack that he may urge him till he beates

him; we shall have the sport, and be reveng'd upon the Rogue for dunning a Genleman in a Tavern.

I'll charge him: Here drink, poor fellow, and stay in the next room till he comes.

I thank your Worship, but I am fasting; and if it please your Worship to call for a dozen of Manchets that I may eat a crust first, then I'll make bold with a glass of your Sack.

Here, here, drink in the mean time, fetch him some bread.

Will your Worship have me drink all this vessel of Sack?

Yes, yes, off with't, 'twill do you no harm.

Why do you not take some Order with that Jolly to make him pay thee?

I have petition'd him often, but can do no good.

A pox upon him, petition him, his heart is hardned to ill, threaten to arrest him; nothing but Serjeant can touch his Con­science.

Truly, Gentlemen, I have reason to be angry, for he uses me ill, when I ask him for my money.

Where is Master VVild, and Master Careless?

I hear his voice.

Let the Coach stay. How now, who would he speak with?

Do not you know?

Yes, and be you Judge if the Rogue does not suffer deser­vedly; I have bid him any time this twelve moneth but send his wife, and I'll pay her, and the Rogue replyes, no body shall lie with his wife but himself.

Nay, if you be such a one.

No more they shall not, I am but a poor man.

By this hand, he's drunk.

Nay then, I arrest you in mine own Name at his Majesties Suit.

As I live, thou shalt not beat him.

Beat him? I'll kiss him, I'll pay him, and carry him about with me, and be at the charge of Sack to keep him in the humour.

Help, rescue, I'll have his body, no Bayle shall serve.

Sir, yonder is a Gentleman would speak with you; I do not like his followers.

What are they, Bailiffs?

Little better.

Send him up alone, and stand you ready at the Stairs feet.

How can that be?

It is the Scrivener at the Corner, pick a Quarrel with him for coming into our Company; the Drawers will be armed be­hind them, and we will so rout the Rascals; take your swords, and let him sleep.

What Scrivener?

Cropp the Brownist, he that the Ballad was made on.

What Ballad?

Have not you heard of the Scriveners Wife that brought the Black-moore from the holy Land, and made him a Brownist; and in pure charity lay with him, and was deliver'd of a Mag-Pie; a pied Prophet; which when the elect saw, they prophesi'd, if it liv'd, 'twould prove a great enemy to their Sect; for the Mid-wife cri'd out, 'twas born a Bishop, with Tippet and white-sleeves; at which the zealous Mother cri'd, Down with the Idoll; so the Mid-wife and she in pure devotion kill'd it.

Kill'd it? what became of them?

Why, they were taken and condemn'd, and suffer'd under a Catholick Sheriff, that afflicted them with the Letany all the way from New-gate to the Gallows, which in Rog'ry he made to be set up Altar-wise too, and hang'd them without a Psalm.

But how took they that breach of Priviledge?

I know not, Gregory turn'd them off, and so they de­scended, and became Brown-martyrs.

And is the husband at door now?

Yes, yes, but he's married again to a rich Widow at Wap­ping, a Wench of another temper, one that you cannot please bet­ter then by abusing him; I always pick quarrels with him, that she may reconcile us, the peace is always worth a dinner, at least. Hark, I hear him.—Save you Mr. Cropp, you are come in the nick to pledge a health.

No, Sir, I have other business, shall I be paid my money, or no?

Yes.

Sir?

You asked whether you should be paid your money, or no, and I said, Yes.

Pray, Sir, be plain.

And be you so, Sir; how durst you come into this Room, and company, without leave?

Sir, I have come into good Lords company, er'e now.

It may be so, but you shall either fall upon your knees, [Page 115] and pledge this health, or you come no more into Lords compa­nies, no, By these hilts.

'Tis Idolatry; Do, martyr me, I will not kneel, nor joyn

in sin with the wicked.

Either kneel, or I'll tear thy Cloak, which by the age and looks, may be that which was writ for in the time of the Primitive Church.

Pay me, and I'll wear a better; it would be honestlier done, then to abuse this, and prophane the Text; a Text that shews your Bishops in those days wore no Lawn-sleeves; and you may be asham'd to protect him that will not pay his debts; The cries of the Widow will come against you for it.

Remember, Sirrah, the dinners and suppers, fat Venison and good words, I was fain to give you, Christning your Children still, by the way of Brokadge; count that charge, and how often I have kept you from fining for Sheriff, and thou art in my debt; then I am damn'd for speaking well of thee so often against my conscience, which you never consider.

I am an honest man, Sir.

Then ushering your wife, and Mistress Ugly her daughter, to Plays and Masques at Court; you think these courtesies deserve nothing in the hundred; 'tis true, they made room for themselves with their dagger Elbows; and when Spider your daughter laid about her with her breath, the Devil would not have sat neer her.

You did not borrow my money with this language.

No, Sirrah; then I was fain to flatter you, and endure the familiarity of your family, and hear (nay fain sometimes to joyn in) the lying praises of the holy Sister that expir'd at Tyburn.

Do, abuse her, and be curst; 'tis well known she dy'd a

martyr; and her blood will be upon some of you, 'tis her Orphans money I require; and this is the last time I'll ask it, I'll find a way to get it.

Ar't serious? By that light, I'll consent, and take it for an infinite Obligation if thou wilt teach the rest of my Creditors that trick; 'twill save me a world of labour; For, hang me if I know how to do't.

Well, Sir, since I see your resolution, I shall make it my business.

Prithee, let's be rid of this fool.

Fool? let him pay the fool his money, and he'l be gone.

No, Sir, not a farthing; 'twas my business to borrow it, and it shall be yours to get it in again; nay, By this hand, I'll be feasted too, and have good words; nay, thou shalt lend me more er'e thou get'st this again.

I'll lay my Action upon you.

Your Action you Rogue, lay two.

Lay three for Battery; What have we here? a she Credi­tor too? who would she speak with?

She looks as if she had trusted in her time.

Would you speak with any here, old Gentlewoman?

My business is to Mr. Jolly.

From your self, or are you but a Messenger?

My business, Sir, is from a Lady.

From a Lady? from what Lady, pray? Why so coy?

From a Lady in the Town.

Hoh! hoh! from a Lady in the Town; Is it possible I should have guest you came from a Lady in the Suburbs, or some Country-madam, by your riding face?

I think we have routed the Rascals. Faithful? what makes thy gravity in a Tavern?

Sport, it seems, for your saucy companions.

Ho, ho, Mull, ho; No Fury, Faithful.

'Tis well, Sir; my Lady presents her service to you, and hath sent you a Letter, there's my business.

Prithee, who is her Lady?

The Lady Love-all.

Oh, oh, do's she serve that old Lady? God help her.

God help her: Pray for your self, Sir, my Lady scorns your prayers.

Faithful, come hither; Prithee is thy Lady drunk?

Drunk, Sir?

I, drunk, or mad, she'd never writ this else; she requires me, here, to send back by you the Pearl she gave me this morning; which sure she'd never do if she were sober; for you know, I earn'd them hard.

I know? What do I know? you will not defame my Lady, will you?

By no means, this is by way of counsel; fie, give a thing, and take a thing; if he did not perform, he shall come at night, and pay his scores.

'Tis well, Sir; is this your return for my Ladies Favours? shall I have the Pearl, Sir?

No; and tell her 'tis the opinion of us all, he that opens her stinking Oyster is worthy of the Pearl.

You are a foul-mouth'd fellow, Sirrah; and I shall live to see you load a Gallows, when my Lady shall find the way to her own again.

If she miss, there are divers can direct her, you know; adieu, Faithful, do you hear? steal privately down by the back­door, lest some knavish Boy spie thee, and call thine age, Baud.

Prithee, who is this thing?

'Tis my Ladies Waiting-woman, her Baud, her she Confes­for, her self at second hand; her beginning was simple and below stairs, till her Lady finding her to be a likely promising Baud; se­cret [Page 117] as the Key at her Girdle, obedient as her thoughts, those ver­tues rais'd her from the flat Peti-coat, and Kercher, to the Gorget and Bum-roll; and I remember 'twas good; sport at first, to see the Wench perp! ext with her Metamorphosis; she since has been in love with all the Family, and now sighs after the Levite; and if he for­sake her too, I prophesie, a Waiting-womans curse will fall upon her, to dye old, despis'd, poor, and out of fashion.

Why do you not hang out a painted cloath? and take two pence a piece, and let in all the tame fools at door, those sons of wonder that now gape, and think you mad.

'Tis no matter what they think, madness is proper here; are not Taverns Bacchus his Temples, the place of madness, Do's not the sign of madness hang out at the door?

While we within possess our joys and cups, as full of plea­sure as weeping Niobe's afflicted eyes were swell'd with grief and tears; Blessing on the cause that made our joys thus compleat; for see Plutus in our Pockets, Mars by our sides, Bacchus in our head, self-love in our hearts, and change of Virgins in our Arms, Beau­ties whose eyes and hearts speak love and welcome; No rigid thinkers, no niggard beauties that maliciously rake up their fire in green sickness to preserve a spark that shall flame only in some dull day of Marriage; let such swear and forswear, till (of the whole Parish) they love each other least, whil'st we wisely set out our cob­webs in the most perspicuous places to catch these foolish flies.

He's in the right; do'st think we retreated hither to beat a bargain for a score of Sheep, or dispute the legality of Votes, and weigh the power of Prerogative and Parliament, and club for concluding Sack, or read the Fathers here, till we grow costive, like those that have worn their suffering Elbows bare, to find a knowledge to perplex'em? A pox on such brain-breaking thoughts; avoid them, and take with me into thy hand a glass of eternal Sack, and prophesie the restauration of senses, and the fall of a Lover from grace, which our dear friend, Mr. Jolly, will prove to whom the Lady Love-all (by Faithful lately departed) sent for the Pearl you wot of.

But, I hope, he had the grace to keep them.

No, no; I'me a fool, I.

Was not my Boy here?

No, we saw him not.

A pox of the Rogue, he's grown so lasie.

Your Boy is come in just now, and call'd for the key of the back-door, there's women with him.

Oh! that's well, 'tis Wanton; I sent for her, to laugh over the story of the old Lady and her Pearl; where have you been all this while, Sirrah?

I could overtake the Coach, Sir, no sooner.

The Coach? what Coach?

The Lady Love-alls.

The Lady Love-alls? why what had you to do with her Coach?

I went to give her the Letter your worship sent her.

The Letter? what Letter?

That your worship gave me.

That I writ, at Neds house, to Wanton?

The Letter you gave me, Sir, was directed to the Lady Love-all, and she storm'd like a mad-woman at the reading of it.

Why, thou wilt not beat the Boy for thy own fault? what Letter was it?

'Twas enough, only a relation of the Pearl, wherein she finds her self sufficiently abus'd to Wanton.

Now, Gentlemen, you have two to laugh at.

A pox of fooling, let's resolve what to do, there's no deny­ing, for she has all the particulars under my hand.

You must resolve of something, for she's coming, and stay'd only till the back-door was open'd.

How did she know I was here?

Your worship bad me tell her, you would stay here for her.

How came this mistake?

Why, the Devil ought us a shame it seems. You know I went home to give Wanton an accompt how we advanc'd in our design; and when I was writing the superscription, I remember the Boy came in and told me the Lady Love-all pass'd by.

And so, it seems, you in pure mistake directed your Letter to her.

Well, resolve what you'l do with her, when she comes.

Faith, bear it like men, 'tis but an old Lady lost; lets re­solve to defie her, we are sure of our Pearl; but lest we prolong the war, take the first occasion you can all to avoid the room; when she's alone, I'll try whether she'l listen to a composition.

Have you no friends in the close Committee?

Yes, yes, I am an Essex man.

Then get some of them to move, it may be voted no Letter.

I, I; and after 'tis voted no Letter, then vote it false, scan­dalous and illegal, and that is in it; they have a president for it in the Danish packet, which they took from a foolish fellow, who pre­suming upon the Law of Nations, came upon an Embassie to the King without an Order, or Pass from both houses.

Heark, I hear her coming.

Sir, I received a Letter, but by what accident I know not; for I believe it was not intended me, though the contents con­cern me.

Madam, 'tis too late to deny it; is it peace or war you bring? without dispute, if war, I hang out my defiance; if peace, I yield my weapon into your hands.

Are you all unworthy? your whole sex falshood? is it not possible to oblige a man to be loyal? this is such a treachery no age can match; apply your self with youth and wit to gain a Ladies love and friendship only to betray it? was it not enough [Page 119] you commanded my fortune, but you must wrack my honour too, and instead of being grateful for that charity which still assisted your wants, strive to pay men with injuries, and attempt to make the world believe I pay to lose my fame? and then make me the

scorn'd subject of your Whores mirth; Base and unworthy, do you smile, false one? I shall find a time for you too, and my venge­ance shall find you all.

Yea, Sir; and you that had such a ready wit to proclaim my Lady, Whore and me Baud, I hope to see you load a Gallows for it.

Once again, is it peace or war?

Peace? I'll have thy blood first, Dog; where's my Pearl?—You ought to right me, Sir, in this particular; it was to you I

sent them.

Madam, I sent not for them.

No more words; I have them, I earn'd them, and you paid them.

You are a foul-mouth'd fellow, Sirrah.

Peace, Wench, I scorn their slander, it cannot shake my honour; 'tis too weighty and too fixt for their calumny.

I'll be sworn for my part on't, I think it is a great honour; I am sure I had as much as I could carry away in ten nights, and yet there was no miss on't.

You? I think so; there's no mark of my work, you see, and yet I came after thee, and brought away loads would have sunk a Sedan-man.

By this relation she should be a woman of a great fame.

Let that consideration, with her condition, and her age, move some reverence, at least to what she was; Madam, I am sorry I cannot serve you in this particular.

I see all your mean baseness, pursue your scorn; Come, let's go, Wench, I shall find some to right my fame; and though I have lost my opinion, I have gain'd a knowledge how to distin­guish of Love hereafter; and I shall scorn you and all your Sex, that have not Soul enough to value a noble Friendship.

Pray, Madam, let me speak with you.

We'll have no whispering; I said it, and I'll maintain it with my sword.

Sir, there's one without would speak with you?

With me?

No, Sir, with Master Wild.

Madam, I'll wait upon you presently.

Madam, I know my Company is displeasing to you, therefore I'll take my leave; Drawer, shew me another Room?

Oh Faithfull, Faithfull; I am most miserably abus'd, and can find no way to my Revenge.

Madam, I'll give them Rats-bane, and speedily too, ere they can tell; for that Rascall the Captain has a Tongue else, will proclaim you, and undoe your Fame for ever.

I, I, my Fame, my Fame, Faithfull; and if it were not for mine Honour, (which I have kept unstained to this minute) I would not care.

This it is; you will still set your affection upon every young thing; I could but tell you on't.

Who could have suspected they would have been so false in their Loves to me that have been so faithfull to them.—Honest Friend, where is Master Wild?

The other Gentlemen carried him away with them?

Are they all gone then?

Yes, by this hand; These Gentlemen are quickly sa­tisfi'd; what an ugly Whore they have got! how she states it!

Come, let's go Wench.

Mistress, who payes the reckoning?

What saies he?

He askes me, who payes the reckoning?

Who payes the reckoning? why, what have we to do with the reckoning?

Shut the door, Dick, we'll have the reckoning before you go.

Why, good-man sawce-box, you will not make my La­dy pay for their reckoning, will you?

My Lady? a pox of her Title, she'd need of something to make her pass.

What do you say, Sirrah?

I say, the Gentlemen paid well for their sport; and I know no reason why we should lose our reckoning.

What do you take me for, my Friend?

In troth, I take you for nothing; but I would be loath to take you for that use I think they made shift with you for.

Madam, this is that Rascally Captains plot.

Patience, Patience, oh for a bite at the slaves heart. Friend, mistake me not, my name is Love-all, a Lady; send one along with me and you shall have your money.

You must pardon me, Madam, I am but a Servant; if you be a Lady pray sit in an Inner Room, and send home your Woman for the money; The sum is six pounds, and be pleased to remem­ber the Waiters.

Go Faithfull, go fetch the money; Oh Revenge, Re­venge: shall I lose my Honour, and have no Revenge.

ACT. IV. SCEN. I.

BY all that a longing Bride hopes for, which I am not, I am better pleas'd with this Revenge then mine own plot, which takes as I could wish; I have so anointed my high Priests with Sack, that he would have confuted Baal's Priest; and now he do's [Page 121] so slumber in his Ale, and calls to bed already, sweares the Sun is set.

Faith, Wench, her abusing of me made me leave her for the Reckoning.

Yes, faith, they have treated her upsey Whore lain with her, told, and then pawn'd her.

Yes, yes, you are fine things; I wonder Women, can en­dure you; for me, I expect you worse, and am arm'd for't.

Faith let's send and release her, the jest is gone far enough; as I live, I pity her.

Pity her? hang her, and rid the Country of her, she is a thing weares out her limbs as fast as her cloathes, one that never goes to bed at all, nor sleepes in a whole skin, but is taken to pieces like a Motion, as if she were too long; she should be hang'd for offring to be a Whore.

As I live, she is in the right; I peep'd once to see what she did before she went to bed; By this light, her Maids were dis­secting her; and when they had done, they brought some of her to bed, and the rest they either pin'd or hung up, and so she lay dis­membred till Morning; in which time, her Chamber was strew'd all over, like an Anatomy School.

And when she travels any where she is transported with as great a care, and fear of spoiling, as a Juglers Motion, when he re­moves from Faire to Faire.

She is a right broken Gamester, who, though she lacks wherewithall to play, yet loves to be looking on.

He is awake, and calls for you impatiently, he would fain be in Bed, the Company is all gone.

Are you instructed?

Let me alone, I'll warrant you for my part.

Farewell then, you are all ready; who playes Master Constable?

I, I; and Ned Jolly the sumner.

Farewell, farewell then.

It is a delicate wench.

She has excellent flesh, and a fine face; by this light, we

must depose the Captain from his reign here.

I like her shrewdly; I hate a wench that is all Whore and no Company; This is a Comedy all day, and a Faire at night.

I hope to exalt the Parsons horn here.

And what think you? is it not a sweet sin, this lying with another mans Wife?

Is Jolly come

No, but he'll be here instantly.

Is he a bed?

Yes, yes, and he sleepes as if he had been put to bed by his Sexton, with dust to dust, and ashes to ashes.

And we'll wake him with that shall be as terrible to him as the latter day.

Let him sleep a while that he may be fresh, else the Jest is spoil'd; for it is his sense of his disgrace must work my Ends.

I'll go home then, and get supper ready, and expect you.

Do, Our Scene lies here; Who's there, Jolly?

Yes.

Are you fitted?

Yes, I have got the Black-fryers Musick; I was fain to stay till the last Act; and who do you think I saw there?

I know not.

Guess.

Prithee, I cannot guess.

Your Aunt and Mistriss Pleasant, and trusty Secret.

What man?

The Lovers onely, so close in a Box!

It will be a match, and there's an End; prithee let them go to't; what is't to Us, let's mind our busines now, and think on them hereafter.

A pox upon them for a couple of Stauk-hounds; have they killed at last? Why, this is Fools fortune; it would be long enough ere one that has wit got such a wife.

No more of this now; have you borrowed the watchmens Coats?

Yes, and Bills, Beards, and Constables staff, and Lanthorn; and let me alone to fit him, for the Summer; But when this is done I expect my Fee, a Tythe Night at least; Wanton, I will lie with thee for thy Roguery; what are you dumb, you will not refuse me, I hope?

Not, if I thought thou desiredst it; but I hate to have it desired indifferently, and but so so done neither when 'tis done.

I hope you will not disgrace my work, will you?

Faith, they say thy pleasure lies in thy Tongue; and there­fore, Though I do not give thee leave to lie with me, yet I will give thee as good a thing that will please thee as well.

Some Roguery I expected.

No Faith, I am serious; and because I will please you both, Master Wild shall lie here, and you shall have leave to say you do, which will please you as well.

Faith, and my part is some pleasure, else, I have loved, en­joyed, and told, is mistook.

I, but never to love, seldom enjoy, and always tell? Faugh, it stinks, and stains worse then Shoreditch durt, and wo­men hate and dread men for't; Why, I that am a whore profess'd cannot see you, he digest it, though it be my Profit and Interest. For [Page 123] to be a private whore in this Town starves in the nest like young Birds when the old one's kil'd.

Excellent Girl, 'tis too true Jolly; your tongue has kept, many a woman honest.

Faith, 'tis a truth, this I shall say, you may all better your pleasures by, if you will observe it; I dare say, the fear of telling keeps more women honest then Bridewell Hemp; And were you wise men, and true Lovers of liberty, now were the time to bring wenching to that perfection no age could ever have hoped; now you may sow such seed of pleasure, you may be prayed for here­after; Now, in this Age of zeal and Ignorance, would I have you four, in old cloathes, and demure looks, present a Petition to both Houses, and say, you are men touched in Conscience for your share in that wicked ness which is known to their worships by the plea­sure of Adultery, and desire it may be death, and that a Law may be pass'd to that purpose; How the women will pray for you, and at their own charges rear Statu's in memory of their Benefactors; the young and kind would then haunt your Chambers, Pray, and present you, and Court the Sanguine youth, for the sweet sin se­cur'd by such a Law; None would lose an Occasion, nor chur­lishly oppose kind Nature, nor refuse to listen to her summons, when youth and Passion calls for those forbidden sweets; when such security as your lives are at stake, who would fear to trust; with this Law all Oaths and Protestations are cancell'd; Letters and Bawdes would grow useless too; By instinct the Kind will find the Kind; and having one nature become of one mind; Now we lose an Age, to observe and know a mans humour, ere we dare trust him; But get this Law, then 'tis, like and enjoy; and whereas now, with expence of time and Fortune, you may glean some one Mistriss amongst your neighbours wives, you shall reap women whole Armfulls as in the Common field; there is one small Town, wise onely in this Law; and I have heard them say, that know it well, There has been but one Execution this hundred years; yet the same party searched seven years, and could not find an honest wo­man in the Town.

An Excellent Plot, let us about it; Inke and Paper, dear Wanton, we will draw the Petition presently.

Will Master Jolly consent too? You must not then, assoon as a handsome woman is named, smile, and stroak your Beard, tell him that is next you, you have layen with her; such a lie is as dangerous as a truth, and 'twere but Justice to have thee hang'd for a sin thou never commitedst, for having defam'd so many women.

If all those Lyars were hang'd, I believe the scale would weigh down the guilty.

One Rogue hang'd, for Example, would make a thousand kind Girls: If it take it shall be called my Law, Wanton's Law; Then we may go in Pettycoats again, for women grew imperious and wore the Breeches, only to fright the poor cuckolds, & make the Fools digest their Horns—Are you all ready, shall I open the door?

Yes.

I'le expect you at my house.

Wee'l come, wee'l come.

So, knock lowder.

Who's there? what would you have?

Here's his Majesties Watch, and Master Constables Wor­ship must come in; We have a warrant from the Lords to search for a Delinquent.

You come not here, I'le answer your warrant to morrow.

Break open the door.

I would you durst.

Lord! Dear what shall we do?

Why, sweet, I'le warrant you, art thou not my wife, my Rib, bone of my bone? I'le suffer any thing ere one hair of thee shall be touch'd.

Heark, they break open the door.

They dare not; why dost thou tremble so? alas, sweet Innocence, how it shakes?

Break open the door.

I'le complain to the Bishop of this Insolence.

They come, they come, Lamb.

No matter sweet; They dare not touch thee; what would

you have Mr. Constable? you are very rude.

Read our Warrant, and our business will excuse us? do you know any such person as you find there?

Yes, Sir, but not by this name; such a woman is my wife, and no Lindabrides; we were married to day, and I'le justifie her my wife the next Court day; you have your answer, and may be gone.

We must take no notice of such Excuses now; if she be your wife, make it appear in Court, and she will be delivered unto you.

If she be my wife Sir? I have wedded her and Bedded her, what other Ceremonies would you have? Be not afraid, sweet heart.

Sir, We can do no less then Execute our Warrant; we are but Servants; And, Master Constable, I charge you in the Kings Name to do your Duty; behold the body of the Delinquent.

Touch her that dares; I'le put my Dagger in him, fear

nothing, sweet heart; Master Constable you'll repent this Insolence offerd to a man of my Coat.

Help, my dearest, will you let me be hal'd thus?

Villains, what will you do? Murther, Rape.

Yes, yes, 'tis likely; I look like a Ravisher.

Hold him, and wee'le do well enough with her.

What have we here, an old woman?

Let me go, slaves and Murtherers.

Let him go.

Do any of you know this woman? this is not she we look'd for.

No? Rascal, that mistake shall not excuse you.

It is old Goodman what d'ye call him? his wife.

Hold the Candle, and let's see her face.

What have were here, Adultery? take them both, here will be new matter.

Master Constable, a little Argument will perswade you to believe I am grosly abus'd; sure this do's not look like a piece that a man would sin to enjoy, let that then move your Pity, and care of my Reputation; consider my calling, and do not bring me to a publike shame for what you're sure I am not guilty of, but by plot of some Villains.

Dear, will you disclaim me now?

Oh, Impudence!

Master Constable, do your duty; take them both away, as you will answer it.

Give him his Cassock, to cover him.

Why Gentlemen, whither will you carry me?

To the next Justice, I think it is Master Wild, he is newly come from travel, it will be a good way, Neighbours, to express our Respects to him.

No faith, Gentlemen, e'ne go the next way to Tybourn, and dispatch the business without Ceremony, for yee'll utterly dis­grace me; this is that damn'd Captain; My wife is abroad too, I fear she is of the Plot.

Come, away with'em.

Whither will they lead us, Dear?

Oh, oh, Impudence! Gentlemen, do not lead us together I beseech you.

Come, come, lead them together, no Ceremony's; your faults are both alike.

ACT. IV. SCEN. II.

YOu had best brag now, and use me like my Lady what'st ye call; But if you do I care not.

Come, y'are a Fool, I'le be a faithful Friend, and make good conditions for thee before thy husband be quit.

You must do it now or never.

Heark, heark, I hear them—What's the news?

We have brought a Couple of Delinquents before your Worship, they have committed a very foul fault.

And we have brought the fault along too, that your Wor­ship may see it, you will be the better able to judge of the of­fenders.

Ha! What do I see? my wife in Master Justices Lap?

What has the poor fellow done?

Why Madam, he has been taken a Bed with this woman, anothers mans wife.

In bed with her? and do you raise him to punish him? Master Constable, if you would afflict him, Command them to lie together again; Is not the man mad?

This is fine Roguery, I find who rules the roast.

Well, to the business; you say, he was taken in bed with another mans wife.

Yes, and't like your Worship.

Make his Mittimus to the Hole at New-gate.

Sure I have seen this Fellows face.—Friend, have I ne­ver seen your face before?

If I mistake not, I have seen one very like your Ladyships too, she was a Captains cast-whore in the Town. I shall have a time to be reveng'd.

How now, Sirrah? are you threatning? away with him.

I'll fetch a stronger Watch, Sir, and return presently.

Do, Master Constable, and give the poor Woman some­thing, and set her free; for I dare say 'twas his wickedness, she lookes like one that ne're thought on such a thing.

God bless your Worship, I am innocent; he never left making Love till I consented.

Oh miserable! miserable!

How now, what's the news here? my honoured Friend, and Master Parson, what makes you here at this time of night? Why I should have thought this a time to have envy'd you for your fair Brides embraces, do you give these favours? are these your Bride-laces? It's a new way.

Is it new to you?

How now Captain?

Wanton, is this your plot to endear your Husband to you?

No, 'tis thy plot, poor beaten Captain, but I shall be reveng'd.

Yes, faith, it was my plot, and I glory in't, to undermine my Machiavell, which so greedily swallowed that sweet bait that had this hook.

'Tis well.

But my anger ends not here. Remember the base language you gave me, Son of a thousand Fathers, Captain of a tame band, and one that got my living by the long staffe-speeches; for which, and thy former Treacheries, I'll ruine thee, Slave; I'll have no more Mercy on thee, then old women on blind puppies; I'll bring you to your Commendations in Latine Epistles again, nor leave thee any thing to live on, no, not Bread, but what thou earn'st by raking Gentlewomens names in Anagrams; and Master Justice, if ever you'll oblige me, stand to me now, that I may procure the whipping of him from the Reverend Bench.

I am undone.

I can do nothing but Justice, you must excuse me; I shall onely make it appear how fit it is to punish this kind of sin in that Coat in time, and to crush such serpents in the shels.

Mercy, Oh Mercy!

Officers, away with him.

No Mercy?

Yes, upon Conditions there may be some Mercy.

And these they are—let the watch stay in the t'other Roome.—First, your Wife shall have her liberty, and you yours, as she reports of you; and when you bring her with you, you shall be welcome; then you shall not be jealous, that's another point.

That he shall have a Cure for—

Yes, yes, I'll apply something to his Eyes shall cure him of his doubt.

Then you shall ask the Captain pardon and your Wife; to him you shall allow half your Parsonage to maintain her; The Deedes are ready within; if you'll sign them, and deliver your Wife to our use, she shall discharge you.

I submit, Sir, But I hope your Worship will desire no wit­ness to the use of my Wife; The Sumner and the Watch too; I hope your Worship will enjoyn them silence.

You shall not need to fear, I'll have a Care of your Credit;

call in the Watch; Do you know these Faces?

Ha! abus'd?

Nay, no flinching, if you do, I betake me to Master Sumner again.

And I become severe Master Constable in a trice.

No, no, I submit, and I hope we are all Friends; I'me sure I have the hardest part, to forgive.

And I, before all this Company, promise to forget and forgive thee, and am content to take thee again for my dear and mortal Husband, now you are tame; but you must see you do so no more, and give your self to be blind; when it is not fit for you to see; and practise to be deaf; and learn to sleep in time, and find business to call you away when Gentlemen come that would be private.

Why so, now things are as they should be; and when you will obey, you shall command: But when you would be imperi­ous, then I betake me to my Constables Staff 'till you subscribe. Cedunt Armis Togae; and if it be false Latine, Parson, you must par­don that too.

By this hand, I must have my Tythe-night with thee; thou art such a wag; say, when? when wilt thou give me leave? ha!

Never.

Never?

No, never.

D' ye hear, I am none of them that work for Charity; ei­ther resolve to pay, or I kick down all my Milk again.

What would you have?

Give me leave to lie with you.

No indeed.

No?

No; but rather then quarrell, as I said before, I will give you leave to say you have lain with me.

I am of opinion she owes you nothing now, so Mistress Wanton, take your Husband; and to remove all doubts, this night I'll be at the charge of a Wed ding supper.

This is better then Newgate hole yet, Bridewell Hemp, brown bread and whip-cord.

ACT. IV. SCEN. III.

BY my troth, is was a good Play.

And I am glad I am come home, for I am en'e as weary with this walking; For Gods sake whereabouts do's the pleasure of walking lie? I swear, I have often sought it till I was weary, and yet I could ne're find it.

What do these Halberds at your door?

Halberds, where?

There, at your Lodging.

Friend, what would those Watch-men have?

The house is shut up for the sickness this afternoon.

The sickness?

Yes forsooth, there's a Coach-man dead full of the Tokens.

Where is the Officer?

He is gone to seek the Lady of the House, and some other Company that din'd here yesterday, to bring her in, or carry her to the Pest-house.

Ha! What shall we do, Niece?

If you please to command our Lodging.

It will be too much trouble.

Let's go to Love-all's.

Not I, by my Faith; it is scarce for our Credits to let her come to us.

Why? is she naught?

Faith, Madam, her Reputation is not good.

But what shall we do then?

Dare you adventure to oblige us?

Thank you Sir, We'll go to my Nephews at Covent-Garden; he may shift among his acquaintance.

It was well thought on, the Piazza is hard by too.

We'll borrow your Coach thither, and we'll send it you back again straite.

We'll wait upon you, Madam.

This accident troubles me; I am heartily sorry for the poor Fellow.

I am sorry too; but pray, Aunt, let us not forget our selves in our grief; I am not ambitious of a Red-cross upon the door.

Mistress Pleasant is in the right; for if you stay the Offi­cers will put you in.

We shall trouble you, Sir, for your Coach.

ACT. IV. SCEN. IV.

I Am reconcil'd; and will no longer be an uncharitable Church-man; I think this sack is a cooler.

What? do's it make you to see your errour?

Yes, and consider my man of war; nor will I again dispute his Letters of Mart, nor call them Passes for Pyrates; I am free.

And welcome, any thing but anger is sufferable, and all is jest when you laugh; and I will hug thee for abusing me with thy eyes in their scabbards; but when you rail with drawn eyes, red and naked, threatning a Levites second revenge to all that touches your Concubine, then I betake me to a dark-lanthorn, and a Con­stables-staff, and by help of these Fathers whom I cite I prove my Text, women that are kind ought to be free.

But Captain, is it not lawful for us Shepherds to reclaim them?

A meer mistake; for sin like the Sea may be turned out, but will ne're grow less; and though you should drain this Mistress Doll, yet the Whore will find a place, and perhaps overflow some Maid, till then honest; and so you prove the author of a new sin, and the defiler of a pure Temple; therefore I say, while you live, let the Whore alone till she wears out; nor is it safe to vamp them, as you shall find, read Ball the first and the second.

No more discourse. Strike up Fidlers.

See, who's that knocks?

Sir, 'tis Mistress Pleasant, and the two Gentlemen that din'd there to day.

My Aunt, and Mistress Pleasant.

What a pox makes them abroad at this time of night?

It may be, they have been a wenching.

Sir, they were upon alighting out of the Coach when I came up.

Quickly, Mrs. Wanton, you and your husband to bed, there's the Key; Mr. Parson, you know the way to the old Cham­ber, and to it quickly, all is friends now.

Sweet heart, we'l steal away.

The Devil on them, they have spoyld our mirth.

Jack, get you and your company down the back-way in­to the Kitchin, and stay there till we see what this Visit means.

Means! What should it mean? it is nothing but the mis­chievous Nature all honest Women are endu'd with, and natu­rally given to spoyl sport: I wonder what Fart blew them hither to night.

Nay, have a little patience, Captain; you and Mr. Jolly must sit quietly a while within, till we know the cause.

It is but deferring our mirth for an hour, or so. Servant. Sir, here's my Lady.

Quickly remove those things there: Captain, step in there.—

Nephew, do you not wonder to see me here, at this time of night?

I know it is not ordinary, therefore I believe 'tis some de­signe: what is it, Mrs. Pleasant? Shall I make one?

As I live, Sir, pure necessity; neither mirth nor kind­ness hath begot this Visit.

What, is your Coach broke?

Faith, Nephew, the truth is, the Sickness is in my house, and my Coach-man dy'd since Dinner.

The Sickness?

I, as I live, we have been walking since the Play; and when we came home we found the Watch at the door, and the house shut up.

And a Constable gone in search of all those that dined there to day, with order to furnish us lodgings in the Pest-house.

Are you not afraid to receive us?

As I live, the accident troubles me; and I am sorry such a misfortune should beget me this favour; and I could wish my self free from the honour, if the cause were removed too.

As I live, Mr. Wild, I must have been forc'd to have lain with my servant to night, if you had not received me.

If I thought so, I would carry you out in my arms, I am so much Mr. Constant's friend.

But are you more his friend then mine, Mr. Wild?

No, but I presume by this he has gain'd so much interest as he would not be very displeasing to you.

Oh! your humble servant, Sir.

If I had had a mind to that lodging, I had ne're come hi­ther; for when I have a mind to it, I'll marry without dispute; for I fear no body so much as a husband; and when I can conquer that doubt, I'll marry at a minutes warning.

No dispute now, can you furnish us with a couple of Beds?

Yes, yes.

And have you er'e a woman in the house?

My Sisters Maid is here.

Madam, if you resolve to do us this honour, you shall find clean linen, and your Beds quickly ready.

But where will my Nephew and you, Sir, lie to night?

Oh, Madam, we have acquaintance enough in the Town.

Well, Sir, we'l accept this courtesie; and when you come into Suffolk you shall command my house.

Prithee call Bess, and bid her bring sheets to make the Bed; I'll go and fetch in a Pallet, 'tis as good a Bed as the other, and if you will stay the removing, we'l set up a Bed-stead.

No, a Pallet, pray; but what shall we do for night cloathes, Aunt?

Why, what are those you bought my Sisters?

Is not that Linen gone yet?

No faith, Madam, his man forgot it, till the Carriers were gone last week.

Will that serve?

Yes, yes, pray do us the favour to let us have it, 'tis but washing of't again.

Nay, if it will serve, discourse no more; I'll fetch the bundle; and prithee fetch the Combs and Looking glasses I bought the other day; for other necessaries that want a name the wench shall furnish you with.

Nay, but where is she, Nephew?

I'll call her, if she be not gone to Bed; it is an ignorant young thing, I am to send her to my Sisters in the Country; I have had such ado to put her in the Fashion.

What Country is she? Prithee, Mr. Wild, let's see her.

I'll call her down.

Madam, now we see y'are safe we'l kiss your hands, and wait upon you to morrow.

It must be early then, Sir; for I shall borrow my Nephews Coach, and be gone betimes into the Country to take a little fresh Air, and prevent the search.

Pray, Madam, be pleased to command ours.

No, Sir, I humbly thank you; my Nephew's will hold our company.

Your humble servant, Mistress Pleasant.

Your servant, Madam.

Good night, Mr. Constant.

Sir, you'l excuse us, we have no body here to light you down.

Madam, I am here your servant as much as those that wear your Livery; and this house holds no other; we can be civil, Madam, as well as extravagant.

Your humble servant, Mr. Careless.

Gentlemen, if you'l wait on my Lady to her Chamber, then I'll wait upon you down.

You oblige us, Sir.

ACT. IV. SCEN. V.

THe Plague?

The Plague; As I live, and all my relation is truth, every syllable; But, Mrs. Wanton, now must you play your master-piece; be sure to blush, and appear but simple enough, and all is well; thou wilt pass for as arrant a Chamber-maid as any is in the Parish.

Hum! new Plots?

Let me put on a Petti-coat and a Muffler, and I'll so Cham­ber-maid it, and be so diligent with the clean Smock and the Cham­ber-pot: now would I give all the Shooes in my Shop to lie with 'em both.

Let me alone to fit them, I can make a scurvey Curt'sie na­turally; remember, I am an Essex woman, if they ask.

Come, come quickly, take those Sweet-meats; bring the great Cake and Knife, and Napkins, for they have not supp'd; and Captain, make some Lemonade, and send it by the Boy to my Chamber; and do you hear, Jolly, you must stay till we come, for we must lie with you to night.

We'l stay, but make haste then.

And bring our Cloaks and Swords out with you.

I will, I will; but be quiet all.

Mr. Wild, I hope there is no Plot in this.

There's no jealousie, Mr. Parson; 'tis all serious upon my life.

ACT. IV. SCEN. VI.

FAith, Aunt, 'tis the first time I have had the honour to see you in my house; and as a stranger I must salute you.

As I live, Nephew, I'me asham'd to put you to this trouble.

It is an obligation.—Mrs. Pleasant, I know you have not supp'd; I pray you be pleas'd to taste these Sweet-meats, they are of Salls doing; but I understand not Sweet-meats, the wine I'll an­swer for; and, in a word, you are welcome: You are Patrona, and we your slaves.

Good rest, and a pleasing dream, your humble servant wishes you.

Good night, Nephew; good night, Mr. Careless.

Good night, Mr. Careless; your humble servant, Mr. Wild.

Why I, here are men have some wit; By this good night, had we lain at my servants, we should have found the lac'd Cap and Slippers that have been entail'd upon the Family these five de­scents, advanc'd upon the Cup-boards-head instead of Plate.

They are a couple of the readiest youths too; how they run and do all things with a thought! I love him for sending his Sister, a pretty wench.

Pray, let's go to bed; I am weary.

You will not go to bed with all those windows open; sweet heart, prithee shut them, and bring me hither;—Dost understand me? As I live, 'tis a great while since I went to the Play.

It has been one of the longest days; a year of them would be an Age.

Oh, do you grow weary; you'l break your Covenant ere the year go out.

Prithee, shut the windows, and come pin up my hair.

ACT. IV. SCEN. VII.

SEE you wait diligently, and let them want nothing they call for; come shall we go? 'tis very late.

But how do's VVanton carry it?

They saluted her; and Mrs. Pleasant swore you might see the Country-simplicity in her Face.

A pox upon her, crafty Gypsie.

Why, art not thou glad to see she can be honest when she will?

I'll shew you all a Trick, for her, within these few days, or I'll miss my aim.

Come, let's go.

I have a mind to stay till Wanton comes.

Stay a little then, for 'twill not be long ere they be a Bed.

I hear VVanton's voice.

Are they a Bed?

Yes, and have so admir'd you, and Mr. Careless, and a­bus'd the Lovers; well, Gentlemen, you are the wits of the time; but if I might counsel, well they might lye alone this night; but it should go hard if I lay not with one of them within a moneth.

Were they so taken with their lodging?

All that can be said they said, you are the friendliest men, the readi'st men, the handsom'st men that had wit; and could tell when to be civil, and when to be wild; and Mrs. (what's her [Page 134] name) the Younger, asked why Mr. VVild did not go a wooing to some rich Heir; upon her conscience, she said, you would speed.

Well, well, there's a time for all things; come let's go.

Take a light.—Good night, VVanton.

D'ye hear, d'ye hear; let me speak with you.

What's the business?

I cannot get hence this night: but your good angels hang at my heels; and if I can prevail, you shall stay.

What to do?

What to do? why I'll be hang'd if all this Company do not guess.

Prithee, what should we stay for?

For the widow, and her Neice; are they worth the watch­ing for a night?

Yes, certainly.

Then take my counsel, and let me give it out y'are mar­ried, you have new cloaths come home this morning, and ther's that you spoke of I'll fetch from the Taylors, and here's a Parson shall rather give them his living, then stay for a License; the Fid­lers too are ready to salute 'em.

But if they refuse?

Which, upon my conscience, they will.

As you hope, else you are laugh'd at for missing the wi­dow: Ned, follow my counsel, appear at her Chamber window in thy Shirt, and salute all that passes by; let me alone to give it out, and invite Company and provide dinner; then when the business is known, and I have presented all your friends at Court with Rib­bands, she must consent, or her honour is lost, if you have but the grace to swear it, and keep your own counsel.

By this hand, he has reason; and I'll undertake the widow.

It will incense them, and precipitate the business which is in a fair way now; and if they have wit, they must hate us for such a treachery.

If they have wit they will love you; beside, if it come to that, we two will swear we saw you married, and the Parson shall be sworn he did it:—Priest, will you not swear?

Yes, any thing; what is't, Captain?

If this jest could do it, yet 'tis base to gain a wife so poor­ly; she came hither too for sanctuary; it would be an uncivil and an unhospitable thing, and look as if I had not merit enough to get a wife without stealing her from her self; then, 'tis in mine own house.

The better; nay, now I think on't, why came she hither? how do you know the Plague is there? all was well at dinner; I'll be hang'd if it be not a Plot; the Lovers too whom you abus'd at dinner, are joyn'd with them; a trick, a meer trick of wit to abuse us; and to morrow when the Birds are flewn, they'l laugh at you, and say, Two Country Ladies put themselves naked into the hands of three travel'd City-wits, and they durst not lay hold on them.

A pox upon these Niceties.

If they have not some design upon you hang me, why did they talk so freely before me else?

Let's but try, we are not now to begin to make the world talk; nor is it a new thing to them to hear we are mad fellows.

If you get them, are they worth having?

Having? yes.

If you miss them the Jest is good; Prithee, Ned, let me prevail, 'tis but a mad trick.

If we would, how shall we get into the Chamber?

Let me alone for that; I'le put on my country simplicity, and carry in a Chamber pot; then under Pretence of bolting the back door I'le open it, and yet I grudge them the sport so honest­ly; for you wenchers make the best husbands; after you are once married, one never see's you.

I warrant thee wench.

No faith, I have observ'd it, they are still the doting'st husbands, and then retreat and become Justices of the Peace, and none so violent upon the Bench, as they, against us poor sinners; yet I'le do it, for upon my Conscience the young Gentlewoman will fall upon her back, and thank me.

Away, go then, and leave your fooling, and in the Morn­ing, Ned, get in, and plead naked with your hands in the bed.

And if they cry, put your lips in their mouths, and stop them.

Why look you, you have the Authority of the Church too.

Well, I am now resolv'd; go you about your part, and make the Report strong.

And d'ye here? be sure you set the Cook at work, that if we miss we may have a good Dinner, and good wine, to drink down our grief.

Miss? I warrant thee thrive.

Nay, if I knock not down the VVidow, geld me, and come out to morrow compleat Uncle, and salute the Compa­ny, with, you are well-come Gentlemen, and good morrow Nephew Ned.

Uncle Tom, good morrow, Uncle Tom.

All's done, the door is open, and they're as still as Childrens thoughts; 'tis time you made you ready, which is, to put off your breeches, for 'tis almost day; and take my Councel, be sure to offer force enough, the less reason will serve; Especially you, Master VVild, do not put a may'd to the pain of saying, I.

I warrant thee, wench; let me alone.

Wee'll in, and undress us, and come again; for we must go in at the back door.

I'le meet you, is the Captain gone?

Yes, yes, hee's gone.

Come Master Parson, let us see the Cook in Readiness, where are the Fidlers? what will become of our Plot? for the [Page 136] Coach-man; Master Sadd and his friend will stink of their jest if this thrive.

They have slept all night, on purpose, to play all day.

When the Ribbands and Poynts come from the Exchange, pray see the Fidlers have some, the Rogues will play so out of tune all day else, they will spoil the dancing if the plot do take.

Let's see them in the Chamber first, and then I shall go with some heart about the business; so, so, creep close and quietly; you know the way, the widow lies in the high bed, and the Pallet is next the door.

Must we creep?

Yes, Yes, down upon your knees, always, till you get a woman, and then stand up for the Cause; stay let me shake my smock over you for luck sake.

Why so, I warrant you thrive.

A pox take you, I'll pare your nails when I get you from this place once.

Sweet heart, sweet heart, off with your shooe.

I, with all my heart, there's an old shooe after you; would I gave all in my shop the rest were furnish'd with wives too.

Parson, the Sun is rising, go send in the Fidlers, and set the Cook on work, let him chap soundly.

I have a tythe Pig at home, I'll e'ne sacrifice it to the Wedding.

They will find them in good Posture, they may take Privy marks if they please; for they said it was so hot they could endure no cloathes, and my simplicity was so diligent to lay them naked, and with such 'twists and turns fastned them to the feet, I'll answer for't, they finde not the way into them in an hour.

Why then they may pull up their Smocks, and hide their faces?

Master Jolly, there was one without would speak with you.

Who was it?

It is the Lady that talks so well.

They say indeed she has an Excellent Tongue, I would she had chang'd it for a face; 'tis she that has been handsome.

Who? not the Poetess we met at Master Sadds?

Yes, the same.

Sure shee's mad.

Prithee tell her I am gone to bed.

I have done as well Sir; I told her Mistris Wanton was here, at which discreetly, being touch'd with the guilt of her Face, she threw out a Curse or two and retreated.

Who is this you speak of, I will know who 'tis.

Why 'tis she that married the Genoway Merchant; they conzen'd one another.

Who? Pegg Driver, Bewgle Eyes?

The same, the same.

Why she is ugly now?

Yes, but I have known her, by this hand, as fine a wench as ever sinn'd in Town or Suburbs; when I knew her first, she was the Original of all the wayn-Scote Chambermaids, with Brooms, and barefoot Madams, you see sold at Temple-Bar, and the Exchange.

Ah! th'art a Divel; how could'st thou find in thy heart to abuse her so? Thou lov'st Antiquities too; The very memory that she had been handsome should have pleaded something.

Was handsome signifies nothing to me.

But shee's a wit, and a wench of an Excellent Discourse.

And as good company as any's i'th Town.

Company? for whom? Leather-Ears, his Majesty of New­gate watch? There her story will do well, while they louse them­selves.

Well, you are curious now, but the time was, when you have skipp'd for a kiss.

Prithee, Parson, no more of wit, and was handsome, but

let us keep to this Text—and with joy think upon thy little Wan­ton here, that's kind, soft, sweet and sound; These are Epithetes for a Mistris; Nor is there any Elegancy in a woman like it; give me such a naked Scence, to study Night and Day; I care not for her Tongue, so her face be good; A whore dres't in verse, and set speeches, tempts me no more to that sweet sin, then the Statute of whipping can keep me from it; This thing we talk'd on, which re­tains nothing but the name of what she was, is not onely Poetical in her discourse, but her Tears and her Love, her health, nay her Pleasure, were all Fictions, and had scarce any live-flesh about her till I administred.

Indeed 'tis time she sat out, and gave others leave to play; for a Reveren'd whore is an unseemly sight; besides it makes the sin malicious, which is but venial else.

Sure, hee'le make a case of Conscience on't; you should do well (sweet heart) to recommend her Case to your Brethren that attend the Committee of Affection, that they may order her to be sound and young again, for the good of the Commonwealth.

ACT. V. SCEN. I.

OH, are you ready? are you ready?

Yes, and't like your worship.

And did you bid the Cook chop Lustily, and make a Noise?

Yes, Sir, hee's at it.

I hear the Captain.

Have you brought Clothes and Ribbands?

Yes, yes, all is ready; did you hear them squeak yet?

No, by this light; I think, 'tis an appointment, and we have been all abus'd.

Give the Fidlers their Ribbands, and carry the rest in; Mistris VVanton, you must play my Ladys Woman to day, and Mince it to all that come, and hold up your head finely when they kiss you, and take heed of swearing when you are angry, and pledg­ing whole cups when they drink to you.

I'le warrant you, for my part.

Go get you in then, and let your husband dip the Rosemary.

Is all ready?

All, all, some of the Company are below already, I have so blown it about, one Porter is gone to the Exchange, to in­vite Master Wild's Merchant to his Wedding, and, by the way to bid two or three Fruiterers to send in Fruit for such a Wedding, another in my Ladies name to Sall's, for sweet meats; I swore at Bradborn in his Shop my self, that I wonder'd he would disappoint Master Wild for his Points, and having so long warning; He protested 'twas not his fault, but they were ready, and he would send John with them presently; One of the Watermen is gone to the Mellon Garden, the other to Cooks at the Bear, for some Bottles of his best Wine, and thence to Gracious-street, to the Poulterers, and all with directions to send in Provisions for Master Wild's Wedding; and who should I meet at Door, but Apricock Tom, and Mary, waiting to speak with her young Master; they came to beg that they might serve the Feast; I promis'd them they should, if they would cry it up and down the Town, to bring Company; for Ma­ster Wild was resolved to keep open house.

Why then here will be witnesses enough.

But who should I meet at the corner of the Piazza, but Joseph Taylor; he tells me, there's a new Play at the Fryers to day, and I have bespoke a Box for Master Wild and his Bride.

And did not he wonder to hear he was married?

Yes; but I told him, 'twas a Match his Aunt made for him, when he was abroad.

And I have spread it sufficiently at Court, by sending to borrow Plate for such a Wedding.

There's half a dozen Coach fulls of Company lighted; they call for the Bride-Laces and Points.

Let the Fidlers play then, and bid God give them joy, by the name of my Lady Careless and Mistriss Wild.

Where shall we play, Sir?

Come with us, wee'le shew you the window.

ACT. V. SCEN. II.

NIece, Niece, Niece Pleasant.

Ha! I hear you, I hear you, what would you have?

Do you not hear the Fidlers?

Yes, yes, but you have wak'd me from the finest dream.

A dream, what was't? some knavery.

Why, I know not, but 'twas merry, e'ne as pleasing as some sins; well, I'le lie no more in a mans bed, for fear I lose more then I get.

Heark, that's a new Tune.

Yes, and they play it well; This is your Jaunty Nephew; I would he had less of the Father in him, I'de venture to dream out my dream with him; In my conscience hee's worth a dozen of my dull Servant, that's such a troublesome visitant, without any kind of conveniency.

I, I, so are all of that kind; give me your Subject Lover; Those you call Servants are but troubles, I confess.

What is the Difference, pray, betwixt a Subject, and a Ser­vant Lover?

Why, one I have absolute Power over, the other's at large; Your Servant Lovers are those take Mistresses upon tryal, scarce give them a Quarters warning before they are gone.

Why, what do your Subject Lovers do? I am so sleepy.

Do? All things for nothing; then they are the diligent'st and the humblest things a Woman can employ; Nay, I ha' seen of them tame, and run loose about a house; I had one once, by this light, he would fetch and Carry, go back, seek out, he would do any thing; I think some Faulconer bred him.

By my Troth, I am of your mind.

He would come over, for all my Friends; but it was the dogged'st thing to my enemies, he would sit upon's tail before them, and frown, like John a Napes when the Pope is nam'd; he heard me once praise my little Spanniel Bitch Smut for waiting, and hang me if I stirr'd for seven years after, but I found him lying at my door.

And what became of him?

Faith, when I married he forsook me; I was advis'd since, that if I would ha'spit in's mouth sometimes he would have stay'd.

That was cheap, But 'tis no certain way; for 'tis a gene­rall opinion, that marriage is one of the certain'st cures for Love that one can apply to a man that is sick of the sighings; yet if you were to live about this Town still, such a Fool would do you a [Page 140] world of service; I'me sure Secret will miss him, and would al­wayes take such a care of her ha's sav'd her a hundred walkes for Hoods and Masques.

Yes, and I was certain of the earliest Fruits and Flowers that the Spring afforded.

By my troth, 'twas foolishly done to part with him; a few crums of your affection would have satisfied him, poor thing.

Thou art in the right; in this Town there's no living with­out 'em; they do more service in a house for nothing, then a pair of those, what d' ye call 'ems, those he waiting-women, Beasts, that Custome impose upon Ladies.

Is there none of them to be had now, think you? I'de feign get a tame one, to carry down into the Country.

Faith, I know but one breed of them about the Town that's right, and that's at the Court; The Lady that has them brings 'em all up by hand; she breedes some of them from very puppies; there's another wit too in the Town that has of them; but hers will not do so many tricks; good sullen diligent waiters those are which she breedes, but not half so serviceable.

How do's she do it? is there not a trick in't?

Onely patience, but she has a heavy hand with 'em (they say) at first, and many of them miscarry; she governes them with signes, and by the Eye, as Bank's breedes his Horse; there are some too that arrive at writing, and those are the right breed, for they commonly betake themselves to Poetry; and if you could light on one of them, 'twere worth your money; for 'tis but using of him ill, and praysing his verses sometimes, and you are sure of him for ever.

But do they never grow surly, Aunt?

Not, if you keep them from raw flesh, for they are a kind of Lyon-lovers; and if they once taste the sweet of it, they'll turn to their kind.

Lord, Aunt, there will be no going without one this Summer into the Country; pray let's enquire for one; either a he one to entertain us, or a she one to tell us the story of her Love; 'tis excellent to bed-ward, and makes one as drowsie as Prayers.

Faith, Niece, this Parliament has so destroy'd 'em, and the Platonick Humour, that 'tis uncertain whether we shall get one or no; your leading Members in the lower House have so cow'd the Ladies, that they have no leisure to breed any of late; Their whole endeavouts are spent now in feasting, and winning close Committee-men, a rugged kind of sullen Fellows, with implaca­ble stomacks and hard hearts, that make the gay things court and observe them, as much as the foolish Lovers use to do; Yet I think I know one she-Lover, but she is smitten in years o'th wrong side of forty; I am certain she is poor too; and in this lean Age for Courtiers, she perhaps would be glad to run this Summer in our Park▪

Dear Aunt, let us have her; has she been famous? has she good Tales, think you, of Knights? such as have been false or true to Love, no matter which.

She cannot want cause to curse the Sex; handsome, witty, well born, and poor in Court, cannot want the experience how false young men can be; Her Beauty has had the highest fame; and those Eyes that weep now unpitied have had their Envy, and a dazling Power.

And that Tongue, I warrant you, which now growes hoarse with flattering the great Law-breakers, once gave Law to Princes; was it not so Aunt? Lord, shall I die without begetting one story?

Penthesilea, nor all the cloven Knights the Poets treat of, yclad in mightiest Petticoats, did her excell for gallant deeds; and, with her Honour, still preserv'd her Freedom; My Brother lov'd her; and I have heard him swear, Minerva might have own'd her Language; An Eye like Pallas, Juno's wrists, a Venus for shape, and a Mind chaste as Diana, but not so rough; never uncivilly Cruel, nor faulty kind to any; no vanity, that sees more then Lo­vers pay, nor blind to a gallant Passion; Her Maxim was, he that could Love, and tell her so handsomely, was better Company, but not a better Lover then a silent Man; Thus, all Passions found her Civility, and she a value from all her Lovers. But alass, Niece, this was (which is a sad word) was handsome, and was beloved, are abhorred sounds in Womens ears.

Hark, the Fidlers are merry still; will not Secret have the wit to find us this morning, think you?

God give you joy, Master Careless; God give your La­dyship joy, my Lady VVild.

What did the Fellow say? God give me joy?

As I live, I think so.

God give you joy, Mistress Pleasant Wild.

This is my Nephew, I smell him in this knavery.

Why did they give me joy by the name of Mistress VVild? I shall pay dear for a nights lodging if that be so, especially lying

alone; By this light, there is some knavery afoot.

Rise, rise, for shame, the year's afore you.

Why, Ned Wild, why Tom, will you not rise and let's in? what, is it not enough to steal your wedding over night, but lock your selves up in the morning too? All your Friends stay for points here, and kisses from the Brides.

A little Patience, you'll give us leave to dress us?

Why, what's a Clock, Captain?

It's late.

Faith, so it was before we slept.

Why, Nephew, what means this rudeness? As I live, I'll fall out with you. This is no jest.

No, as I live, Aunt. We are in earnest; but my part lies here, and there's a Gentleman will do his best to satisfie you;

and sweet Mistress Pleasant, I know you have so much wit as to perceive this business cannot be remedied by denials; here we are, as you see, naked, and thus have saluted hundreds at the window that past by, and gave us joy this morning.

Joy, of what? what do you mean?

Madam, this is visible, and you may coy it, and refuse to call me Husband; But I am resolved to call you Wise, and such

proofs I'll bring as shall not be denyed.

Promise your self that; see whether your fine wits can make it good; you will not be uncivil?

Not a hair but what you give, and that was in the Con­tract before we undertook it; for any Man may force a Womans Body, but we have laid we will force your Mind.

But that needs not, for we know by your discourse last night and this morning, we are Men you have no aversion to; and I believe, if we had taken time and wooed hard, this would have come a course; but we had rather win you by wit, because you defi'd us.

'Tis very well, if it succeed.

And, for my part, but for the jest of winning you, and this way, not ten joynters should have made me marry?

This is a new way of wooing.

'Tis so, Madam; but we have not laid our plot so weakly (though it were sudden) to leave it in any bodies power but our own to hinder it.

Do you think so?

We are secure enough, if we can be true to our selves.

Yet we submit in the midst of our strength, and beg you will not wilfully spoile a good jest by refusing us. By this hand, we are both sound, and we'll be strangely honest, and never in ill humours, but live as merry as the Maids, and divide the year be­tween the Town and the Country; What say you, is't a Match? Your bed is big enough for two, and my meat will not cost you much; I'll promise nothing but one heart, one purse betwixt us, and a whole dozen of boyes, is't a bargain?

Not, if I can hinder it, as I live.

Faith, Mistress Pleasant, he hath spoken nothing but reason, and I'll do my best to make it good; Come faith, teach my Aunt what to do, and let me strike the bargain upon your Lips.

No, Sir, not to be half a Queen; if we should yield now your wit would dominere for ever; and still in all disputes (though never so much reason on our side) this shall be urged as an Argu­ment of your Master wit to confute us; I am of your Aunts mind, Sir; and if I can hinder it, it shall be no match.

Why then know, it is not in your Powers to prevent it.

Why, we are not married yet.

No, 'tis true.

By this good light then I'll be dumb for ever hereafter, lest I light upon the words of Marriage by chance.

'Tis hard, when our own Acts cannot be in our own pow­er, Gentlemen.

The plot is only known to four, the Minister and two that stood for Fathers, and a simple Country Maid that waited upon you last night, which playes your Chamber-maids part.

And what will all these do?

Why, the two friends will swear, they gave you; the Parson will swear, he married you; and the wench will swear, she put us to bed.

Have you men to swear we are married?

And a Parson to swear he did it?

Yes.

And a wench that will swear, she put us to Bed?

Yes, By this good light, and witness of reputation.

Dare they or you look us in the face, and swear this?

Yes faith, and all but those four know no other but re­ally it is so; and you may deny it, but I'll make Mr. Constable put you to bed, with this proof, at night.

Pray, let's see these witnesses.

Call in the four only.

Well, this shall be a warning to me; I say nothing, but if ever I lye from home again.

I'll lye with you.

'Tis well; I dare say, we are the first women (if this take) that ever were stollen against their wills.

I'll go call the Gentlemen.

I that have refus'd a fellow that lov'd me these seven years, and would have put off his hat, and thanked me to come to bed, to be beaten with watch-mens staves into anothers; For by this good light, for ought that I perceive, there's no keeping these out at night.

And unless we consent to be their wives, to day, M. Ju­stice will make us their whores at night: oh, oh, what would not I give to come off! not that I mislike them, but I hate they should get us thus.

Follow.—Will not you two swear we were married last night?

Capt. Yes, By this light, will we.

Will not you swear you married us?

Yea, verily.

And come hither, pretty one, will not you swear you left us all a bed last night, and pleas'd?

Yes forsooth; I'll swear any thing your worship shall ap­point me.

But, Gentlemen, have you no shame, no conscience; will you swear false, for sport?

By this light, I'll swear, if it be but to vex you: Remem­ber you refus'd me, [That is contrary to Covenants though with my brace of Lovers; what will they do with their Coach-mans

plot? but 'tis no matter, I have my ends; and so they are couzen'd I care not who does it.]

And, faith, Madam, I have sworn many times false, to no purpose; and I should take it ill, if it were mine own case, to have a friend refuse me an Oath upon such an occasion.

And are you all of one mind?

Verily we will all swear.

Will you verily? what shall we do, Aunt?

Do you laugh? By this light, I am heartily angry.

Why, As I live, let's marry them, Aunt, and be reveng'd.

Marry, where's the Parson?

Here, here, M. Parson, come and do your Office.

That fellow? No, by my troth, let's be honestly joyn'd, for lucks sake, we know not how soon we may part.

What shall she do for a Parson? Captain, you must run and fetch one.

Yes, yes; but methinks this might serve turn; By this hand, he's a Marshal, and a Case, by Sire and Dam; pray try him, By this light, he comes of the best preaching kind in Essex.

Not I, As I live, that were a blessing in the Devils name.

A pox on your wedding; give me my wife and let me be gone.

Nay, nay, no choler, Parson; the Ladies do not like the colour of your Beard.

No, no, fetch another, and let them escape with that trick, then they'l jeer your beards blew, y'faith.

By this hand, he's in the right; either this Parson, or take one anothers words; to Bed now, and marry when we rise.

As I live, you come not here till you are married; I have been no body's whore yet, and I will not begin with my husband.

Will you kiss upon the bargain, and promise before these witnesses not to spoil our jest, but rise and go to Church.

And what will M. Constant and M. Sadd say?

Why, I'll run and invite them to the wedding; and you shall see them expire in their own Garters.

No, no, ne're fear't, their jest is only spoil'd.

Their jest, what jest?

Faith, now you shall know it, and the whole Plot: In the first place, your Coach-man is well, whose death, we, by the help of Secret, contriv'd, thinking by that trick to prevent this danger, and carry you out of Town.

But had they this Plot?

Yes faith, and see how it thrives; they'l fret like carted Bauds when they hear this news.

Why, Aunt; would you have thought M. Sadd a Plotter? well, 'tis some comfort we have them to laugh at.

Nay faith, then, Gentlemen, give us leave to rise, and I'll take my venture, if it be but for a revenge on them.

Gentlemen, bear witness.

Come, come away, I'll get the points; I'me glad the Coach-man's well, the Rogue had like to have spoild our Comedy.

ACT. V. SCEN. III.

MArried?

And to them?

I, married, if you prevent it not; catch'd with a trick, an old stale trick; I have seen a Ballad on't.

We shall go neer to prevent 'em.—Boy, My Sword.

Whither so fast?

You guess.

If you mean the wedding, you come too late.

Why, are they married?

No, but lustily promised.

We may come time enough to be reveng'd though.—

Upon whom? your selves, for you are only guilty: who carried them thither last night? who laid the Plot for the Coach­man?

Why, do they know it?

Well, you'l find the Poet a Rogue, 'tis he that has be­tray'd you; and if you'le take my counsel, be reveng'd upon him.

Nay, we were told he did not love us.

By my life, you wrong him; upon my knowledge the Poet meant you should have them.

Why, who had the power to hinder then?

I know not where the fault lies directly; they say, the wits of the Town would not consent to't, they claim a right in the Ladies, as Orphan-wits.

The wits! hang 'em in their strong lines.

Why I, such a clinch as that has undone you; and upon my knowledge 'twere enough to hinder your next match.

Why, what have they to do with us?

I know not what you have done to disoblige them; but they crost it; there was amongst 'em too a pair of she-wits, some­thing stricken in years; they grew in fury at the mention of it, and concluded you both with an authority out of a modern Au­thor; besides 'tis said, you run naturally into the six-peny Room and steal sayings, and a discourse more then your peny-worth of jests, every Term; why, just now, you spit out one jest stollen from a poor Play, that has but two more in five Acts; what conscience is there in't, knowing how dear we pay Poets for our Plays?

'Twas, Madam, with the ill face, one of those whom you refus'd to salute the other day, at Chipps house; a Chees-cake had sav'd all this.

Why do you not make haste about your busines, but lose time with this Babler?

Madam, will you give us leave to make use of your Coach?

You may command it, Sir; when you have done, send him to the Exchange, where I'll dispatch a little business, and be with you immediately.

So, this fire's kindled; put it out that can. What would not I give for a Peepers place at the meeting; I'll make haste, and it shall go hard but I'll bear my part of the mirth too.

ACT. V. SCEN. IV.