ACT I. SCENE I.

HOld there you Monsieur Devol; prithe leave off play­ing fine in Consort, and stick to Time and Tune—So now the Song, call in the Eunuch; come my pretty Stallion, Hem and begin.

Sirrah, stick to clean Pleasures, deep Sleep, moderate Wine, sincere Whores, and thou art happy; Now by this damask Cheek I love thee; keep but this gracious Form of thine in health, and I'll put thee in the way of living like a man—What I have trusted thee with—My Love to the Princess of Cleve, Trea­sure it as thy Life, nor let the Vidam of Chartres know it; for how­ever I seem to cherish him, because he has the knack of telling a Story maliciously, and is a great pretender to Nature, I cast him off here—'Tis too much for him: Besides he is her Uncle, and has a sort of affected Honour, that wou'd make him grin to see me leap her—Hey Iaques—When Madam Tournon comes, bring her in; and heark you Sir, whoever comes to speak with me, while she is with me—

What if the Dauphin comes?

What if his Father comes, Dog—Slave—Fool! What if Paris were a fire, the President and Council of sixteen at the door! I'm sick, I'm not within—I'm a hundred mile off—My bosom Dear—So young, and yet I trust thee too—But away, to the Princess of Cleve, thou art acquainted with her Women, watch her Motions, my sweet-fac'd Pimp, and bring me word of her rising.

She is a prize, my Lord, and oh what a night of pleasure has Cleve had with her—the first too!

Any thing but what makes such a pleasure, wou'd I give for such another—But be gone, and no more of this provoking discourse, lest Ravishing shou'd follow thee at the heels, and spoil my sober design.

Madam, my Lord was just now asking for you.

Go tell him I'm coming—Is he dress'd?

Yes—But your Ladiship knows that's all one to him—

Honest Iaques, 'tis pity such. Honesty should not be en­courag'd—

This comes of Pimping, which she calls Honesty.

Thus thou mayst see the method of the Queen—We are the lucky Sieves, where fond men trust their Hearts, and so she sifts 'em through us—

What of Nemours, whom you thus early visit?

The Queen designs to rob him of a Mistress, Marguerite the Princess of Ianvill, whom he keeps from the knowledge of the Court; and if the Queen be a Judge, is contracted to her—

But how is't possible to work the Princess from the Duke Nemours, who loves him as the Queen affects Ambition.

Right, we must make 'em jealous of each other; Jea­lousie breeds disdain in haughty minds, and so from the extreams of violent Love, proceeds to fiercest hate. But see the gay, the brisk, the topping Gallant St. Andre

here, Couzen to Poltrot, who arrived from England with a pretty Wife last week, and Lodges in the Palace of this his related Fool—St. Andre has a Wife too of my acquaintance— Both for the Duke my Dear; but haste I'm call'd—

Madam—

I go.

Monsieur Iaques, your most obliged faithful humble Ser­vant. What, his Grace continues the old Trade I see, by the Flux of Bawds and Whores that choak up his Avenues, and I must confess, excepting my self, there's no man so built for Whoring [Page 4] as his Grace, black sanguine Brawny—a Roman Nose—long Foot and a stiff—calf of a Leg.

Your Lordship has all these in Perfection.

Sir your most faithful obliged humble Servant. Boy—

My Lord—

How many Bottles last night?

Five my Lord.

Boy.

My Lord.

How many Whores?

Six my Lord.

Boy—

My Lord.

What Quarrels, how many did I kill?

Not one my Lord— But the night before you Hamstrung a Beadle, and run a Link-man in the Back—

What, and no Blood nor Blows last night?

O yes my Lord, now I remember me, you drew upon a Gentleman that knock'd you down with a Bottle.

Not so loud you Urchin, lest I twist you neck round— Monsieur Iaques is his Grace stirring?

My Lord, he's at Council—

Od I beg his Pardon, pray give my duty to him, and tell him, if he pleased to hear a languishing Air or two, I am at the Princess of Cleve's with a Serenade—Go Raskal, go to Mon­sieur Poltrot—tell him he'll be too late—Black airy shape—but then Madam Cleve is Vertuous, Chast, Cold—Gad I'll write to her, and then she's mine directly, for 'tis but reason of course, that he that has been Yoak'd to so many Dutchesses, should at last back a Princess: Sir, your most obliged faithful and very humble Servant Sir.

SCENE II.

UNdone, undone! will your sinful Grace never give over, will you never leave Ruining of Bodies and Damning of Souls—cou'd you imagine that I came for this? What have you done?

No harm, pretty Rogue, no harm, nay, prithee leave blub­bering.

'Tis blubbering now, plain blubbering, but before you had your will 'twas another tone; why Madam do you wast [Page 5] those precious Tears, each falling drop shines like an Orient Pearl, and sets a Gaity on a Face of Sorrow.

Thou art certainly the pleasantest of Womankind, and I the happiest of Men; dear delightful Rogue, let's have another Main like a winning Gamester, I long to make it t'other hundred Pound.

Inconsiderate horrid Peer, will you Damn your Soul deeper and deeper, can you be thus insensible of your Crime?

Why there's it, I was as a man may be, very dry, and thou kind Soul, gav'st me a good draught of Drink; now 'tis strange to me, if a man must be Damn'd for quenching his thirst.

Ha, Ha—Well, I'll swear you are such another man— who wou'd have thought you cou'd delude a Woman thus, and a Woman of Honour too, that resolv'd so much against it; Ah my Lord! your Grace has a cunning Tongue.

No cunning Tournon, my way is downright, leaving Body, State and Spirit, all for a pretty Woman, and when gray Hairs, Gout and Impotence come, no more but this, drink away pain, and be gathered to my Fathers.

Oh thou dissembler, give me your hand, this soft, this faithless violating hand, Heaven knows what this hand has to answer for.

And for this hand, with these long, white, round, pretty Bobbins, t'has the kindest gripe, and I so love it, now Gad's Blessing on't, that's all I say—But come tell me, what no new Game, for thou knowest I dye directly without variety.

Certainly never Woman lov'd like me, who am not sa­tisfied with sacrificing my own Honour, unless I rob my delights by undoing others—

Come, come, out with it, I see thou art big with some new Intrigue, and it labours for a vent.

What think you of St. Andre's Lady?

That I'm in Bed with her, because thou darst befriend me.

Nay, there's more—Monsieur Poltrot lodges in his House, with a young English Wife of the true breed, and the prettier of the two.

Excellent Creature, but command me something extra­vagant, as thy kindness, State, Life and Honour.

Yet all this will be lost when you are married to Marguerite.

Never, by Heaven I'm thine, with all the heat and vi­gorous Inspiration of an unflesh'd Lover—and so will be while young Limbs and Lechery hold together, and that's a Bond me­thinks shou'd last till Doomsday.

But do you believe if Marguerite shou'd know—

The question's too grave—when and where shall I see the Gems thou hast in store?

By Noon or thereabouts; take a turn in Lunemburg Gar­den, and one, if not both, shall meet you.

And thou'lt appear in Person?

With Colours flying, a Handkerchief held out; and yet methinks it goes against my Conscience.

He was the Spirit of Wit—and had such an art in guilding his Failures, that it was hard not to love his Faults: He never spoke a Witty thing twice, tho to different Persons; his Imperfections were catching, and his Genius was so Luxuriant, that he was forc'd to tame it with a Hesitation in his Speech to keep it in view—But oh how awkard, how insipid, how poor and wretch­edly dull is the imitation of those that have all the affectation of his Verse and none of his Wit.

My Lord, Monsieur Poltrot desires to kiss your Grace's hand.

Let's have him to drive away our Melancholy—

I wonder what pleasure you can take in such dull Dogs, Asses, Fools.

But this is a particular Fool Man, Fate's own Fool, and perhaps it will never hit the like again, he's ever the same thing, yet always pleasing,; in short, he's a finish'd Fool, and has a fine Wife; add to this his late leaving the Court of France, and going to England to learn breeding.

My Lord Duke, your Grace's most obedient humble Servant, My Lord of Chartres and Monsieur Iaques, yours Monsieur; St. Andre desires your Grace's presence at a Serenade of mine and his toge­ther— And I must tell your Grace by the way, he is a great Master, and the fondest thing of my Labours—

And the greatest Oaf in the World.

How my Lord—

The whole Court wonders you will keep him company.

Such a passive Raskal, he had his Shins broke last night in the Presence, and were it not fear'd you wou'd second him, he wou'd be kick'd out of all Society.

I Second him my Lord, I'll see him Damn'd e'er I'll be Second to any Fool in Christendom—For to tell your Grace the truth, I keep him company and lye at his House, because I intend to lye with his Wife; a trick I learnt since I went into England, where o' my Conscience Cuckoldom is the Destiny of above half the Nation.

Indeed!

O there's not such another Drinking, Scowring, Roaring, Whoreing Nation in the World—And for little London, to my knowledge, if a Bill were taken of the weekly Cuckolds, it wou'd amount to more than the Number of Christnings and Burials put together.

What, and were you acquainted with the Wits?

O Lord Sir, I liv'd in the City a whole year together, my Lord Mayor and I, and the Common-Council were sworn Bro­thers—I cou'd sing you twenty Catches and Drolls that I made for their Feast-days, but at present I'll only hint you one or two—

Pray do us the Favour Sir.

Why look you Sir, this is one of my chief ones, and I'll assure your Grace, 'twas much Sung at Court too.

Excellent, incomparable.

Why is it not my Lord? This is no Kickshaw, there's sub­stance in the Air, and weight in the words; nay, I'll give your Grace a taste of another, the Tune is, let me see—Ay, Ay—

But I'll present your Grace with some words of my own, that I made on my Wife before I married her, as she sate singing one day in a low Parlour and playing on the Virginals.

For Heavens sake oblige us dear pleasant Creature—

I'll swear I'm so ticklish you'll put me out my Lord, for I am as wanton as any little Bartholomew Bore-Pig—

Dear soft delicate Rogue sing.

Nay, I protest my Lord, I vow and swear, but you'll make me run to a Whore—Lord Sir, what do you mean?

Come then begin—

Now a little Smutty my Lord is the fashion—

My Lord, the Serenade is just begun, and if you don't come just in the nick—I beg your Grace's Pardon for interrupting you—But if you have a mind to hear the sweetest Airs in the World—

With all my heart Sir—

Nay, since your Grace has put my hand in, I'll sing you my Lord, before you go, the softest thing—compos'd in the Nonage of my Muse; yet such a one as our best Authors borrow from. Nay, I'll be judg'd by your Grace, if they do not steal their Dying from my Killing—

Nay prithee Poltrot thou art so impertinent.

No more impertinent than your self Sir, nor do I doubt Sir, but my Character shall be drawn by the Poets for a Man of Wit and Sense Sir, as well as your self Sir—

Ay I'll be sworn shall it—

For I know how to Repartee with the best, to Rally my Wife, to kick her too if I please Sir, to make Similes as fast as Hops Sir, tho I lay a dying slap dash Sir, quickly off and quickly on Sir, and as round as a Hoop Sir—

I grant you Dear Bully all this, but let's have your Song another time, because mine are begun.

Nay, look you Dear Rogue, mine is but a Prologue to your Play, and by your leave his Grace has a mind to hear it, and he shall hear it Sir—

Ay and will hear it Sir, tho the Great Turk were at St. Dennis's Gate; come along my Orpheus, and then Sir we'll follow you to the Prince of Cleve's—

Ballad—When Phoebus had fetch'd, &c.

SCENE III.

Madam there is a Letter fall'n by accident into your hands—my Friend comes in behalf of the Vidam of Chartres to retrieve it, when I am dismiss'd from the King my Lord, I'll wait you here again.

My Lord—

Not a step further.

Madam, I come most humbly to enquire, whether the Dauphin Queen sent you a Letter which the Vidam lost?

SCENE I.

Hast to St. Andre's Palace, watch their Wives, till I appear— I have promis'd Nemours an Afternoon Assignation with 'em in Luxemburg Garden, but I will antedate the bus'ness as he is wait­ing, and set Marguerite upon him just as he meets 'em, which will heighten the design; be gone while I attend the bus'ness here—

Madam, the Duke has taken you at your word, and is gone with the Vidam; I made bold to over-hear part of your Discourse, be­cause I have more of his Infidelity to tell you—Betwixt one and two in Luxemburg Garden he has appointed some Ladies—

SCENE II.

With all my heart, 'tis not my time of Assignation yet with my Dutchesses, and this is very Fashionable.

Whither thou wilt, so we get rid of 'em—Z'life I am as weary of mine, as a Modish Lady of her old Cloaths—

What does the Maggot bite, you must be jogging from this place of little Ease? yet I am resolv'd to know some reason, why a Wife may not be as good Company as a Wench.

Prithe Spouse—do not provoke me, for I'm in the Witty Vein, and shall Repartee thee to the Devil.

Pray, St. Andre, leave trising your Curls, your affected Nods, Grimaces, taking of Snuff, and answer me—Why are we not as plea­sing as formerly?

Why, Nell—Gad 'tis special—This Amarum is very pun­gent—Why, Nell, I can give no more reason for my change of humour, than for the turning of a Weather-cock; only this, I love Whoring; because I love Whoring.

Nay, since you provoke us, know I can give a reason; we run after Whores, because you bar us from 'em—As some take pleasure to go a Deer-steeling that have fine Parks of their own—Gad, and there I was with her—This itch of the Blood, Spouse, is nothing but a Spice of the first great Jilt [...]our Grand-mother Eve; we long for the Fruit, because it is forbidden.

Nay, that's not all, for Misses are really more pleasant than a Wife can be, Probatum est. A Wife dares not assume the Liberty of pleasing like a Miss, for fear of being thought one. A Wife may pretend to dutiful affection, and bustle below, but must be still at night. 'Tis Miss alone may be allow'd Flame and Rapture, and all that—

Yet how do you know, but a Wife may have Flame and Rapture, and all that—

'Tis impossible, 'tis the Nature of a Wife to be as cold as a Stone—There's Slap Dash for you—

Yet out of a Stone a Man of Sense wou'd strike Fire: There's Slap Dash for you—

Will you be Constant to us, if we make it appear by your own Confession, that we can please as well as the subtl'st She that ever charm'd you?

Till which Miracle come to pass, since 'twas your own Propo­sition, I St. Andre and thou Elianor come not between a pair of Sheets—

How shou'd they know then?

Nor I Antony with thee Celia.

But we hope you are not in earnest, you cannot be so Inhumane.

'Tis a Curse beyond all Curses, to have a Man that can and will not; 'tis worse than teaching a Fool, or leading the Blind.

To Marry and live thus, is to be like Fish in Frosty Weather, have Water, but pine for want of Air.

Yet, who knows but Heav'n may send some Kind Good Man, that in meer pity may break the Ice, and give us a Breathing?

Can you be so hard-hearted?

Come Bully, let's away, for fear we shou'd melt; look ye Spouses of ours, if our Wenches prove ill-humour'd, we'll come back to you.

Agreed, rather than grow Rusty let our Wives File us— But I thank Heav'n 'tis not come to that yet—There's no such want, [Page 21] I'll have you to know Nell, there's no Woman can resist me if she wou'd, no Dutchess scapes me, if I make it my bus'ness to compass her.

Any Man of Wit and Sense like us, Charms all Women, as one Key unlocks all Doors at Court—Nay, I'll say a bold word for my self, Turn me to the sharpest Shrow that ever Bit or Scratch'd, if I do not make her feed out of my hand like a tame Pidgeon, may I be condemn'd to lye with my Wife.

Flesh and Blood can endure no longer, you are the vainest lying Fellows that ever liv'd, you compass a Dutchess—There's not a Foot­man but wou'd shame you.

Z'Death and Fury, if they shou'd try—

You pitiful, sneaking, rascally Cuckold, countenanc'd Scoundrels, that dare Bespatter Ladies of Honour thus—For Heaven sake what are you, how do you live, and where do you spend your time? in Ten­nis-Courts, Taverns, Eating-houses, Bawdy-houses, where you quarrel in Drink for your Trulls, who while you Manfully Fight their Cause, they run away with your Hats and Belts—

Then you come home, and swear you'll be reveng'd on this Lord, or that Duke, that assaulted you single, with all his Foot men.

And, says my Gentleman, if I had not been the most Skillful Person alive, my Body had been by this time like an Old-fashion'd Suit, Pink'd all over, and full of Ilet-holes.

But did he not disarm my Lord at last?

By all means, and made him beg his Life.

When indeed he compounded with the Constable for his own Liberty.

You Persons of Quality—What Person of Honour wou'd keep company with such Debauches? Z'life Madam, an Orange-wench is above their Ambition.

An Orange-wench! If they can but run in her debt, and the poor Creature come dunning 'em to their Lodgings, they'll Swear they lay with her, when they dare not be known that they are within.

Sometimes lye Lolling upon a long Scarf in the Play-house, talk­ing loud and affectedly, and Swear at night they had the prettiest thing just come out of the Country.

And wish themselves Damn'd if she did not smell of the Grass.

When in truth 'twas some disguis'd Bawd, that met 'em there ac­cording to Assignation.

Heark you Potiphar's Wife of mine, by Pharaoh's lean Kine thou shalt starve for this.

And for thee Nell—Mark me, thou shalt Dream and be tor­mented with Imagination, like one that having drunk hard is thirsty in the Night, dreams of Vessels brim-full, and drinks and drinks, yet never is satisfied.

For my part, I'll serve my Damn'd Wife as Tantalus was punish'd the Fruit shall bob at her Lips, which she shall never enjoy.

Very well, the World's come to a fine pass; if this be Marrying, wou'd I were a Maid agen. Men take Wives now as they snatch up a Gazette, look it over and then fling it by.

They forget us in a day or two, or if they read us over agen, 'tis only to rub up Remembrance, and commonly they fall asleep so.

What's to be done Child? for rather than live thus—

Rather than live thus let's do any thing.

Any thing Rogue, why Cuckolds are things.

Perhaps they think we have no such thing as Flesh and Blood about us, but we'll make 'em know, a young Woman in the flour of her Age, is not like painted Fruit in a Glass, only to be look'd on— Perhaps you are a more Contemplative Person, and will go farther about.

What, Dear Rogue, dost think I will leave thee? by this Kiss not I.

Thus then we'll slip on long Scarfs, and black Gowns, put on Masks, and ramble about.

Rare Rogue, let me Kiss thee agen—Certainly Intrigueing is the pleasantest part of Life; to meet a Gallant abroad in a Summers Evening, and Laugh away an hour or two in a Garden Bower, where no body sees nor no body knows, methinks 'tis so pretty and harmless, Lord, how it works in my Fancy—

We must tell Madam Tournon by all means—

I believe her Secret, and know her very good Natur'd; but for all that, methinks she has the Cant of a refin'd Florence Bawd—

The better for our purpose, she comes as wish'd.

Dear Precious Rosebuds your Servant, now for all the World you look as you were New-blown; and how do ye my pretty Primroses? 'tis a whole day since I saw ye.

Oh Madam! we have a Suit to your Ladiship.

I grant it whate'er it be; speak my Hyacinth.

Our Husbands are worse than ever.

They use us as if we had neither Beauty nor Portion.

What's this I hear? O Ingrate and Ignoble! Revenge your selves Sweetings—'Tis time to pule and put Finger in Eye, when you are past Propagation. But my Lady-birds you are in your Prime, let me touch your delicate Hands—Well, and do not these humid Palms claim a Man—Nay, and your Breasts, Lord! Lord! how swoll'n and hard they are, how they heave and pant now, by Cynthia, as if they [Page 23] were ready to burst? look to't, have a care of a Cancer, draw 'em down, draw 'em down, for let me tell you Jewels, it may be dangerous for you to go thus long without Cultivation—

What wou'd you have us do Madam?

Do Violet? why do as all the World does beside, lose no Time, catch him by the Forelock, get a Man to your mind—I'll acquaint you with one that's as true as the day, that will Fight like a Lion, and Love like a Sparrow—He has Eyes as black as Slows, you can hardly look on 'em, and a Skin so white—and soft as Sattin with the Grain: And for thee Tulip—

For me Madam!

For thee Hony-Suckle, such a Man, well, I shall never forget him, such a strait bole of a Body, such a Trunk, such a shape, such a quick strength, he will over any thing he can lay his hand on, and Vaults to Admiration.

But Madam, will you provide us Lodgings on occasion—

The Richest in the Town, the costliest Hangings, great Glasses, China Dishes, Silver Tables, Silver Stands, and Silver Urinals—And then these Gallants are the closest Lovers, so good at keeping a Secret— Well, give me your Man that says nothing, but minds the bus'ness in hand—For a Secret Lover's like a Gun charg'd with White Powder, does Execution but makes no noise.

Well, and let me tell you that's the Point, Madam—

Ay, and 'tis a Precious Point, a Feeling Point, and a Pleasing Point; you shall know him, you must know him, I shall dye if you don't know him—He has the fling of a Gentleman.

Pray Madam, how's that?

Why thus Apricock—Into your Arms, then stops your Mouth with a double-tongu'd English Kiss, that you can't be angry with him for your Blood.

I know 'tis my filthy Country way—But I'll assure you if he should serve me so, my Blood would rise at him.

But then you'd repent and fall before him, for he has the most particular obliging way, and she whom he particularly loves, is so oblig'd with his Particular—Well, for my part, my Twins of Beauty, I set an infinite Value on their Charesses, Distresses and Addresses; nay, I cou'd refuse a Quilt Imperial, to be oblig'd by them, tho on the bare Boards, or the cold Stones.

But, Madam, are they in being—

They are my Blossoms—Then they Kiss beyond Imagination, just for all the World as when you cut a pure Juicy China Orange, the Goodness runs over—Lord! now it comes in my Cogitation, I'm just now going to take a View of'em in Luxemburg Garden, where, if you [Page 24] please to walk, they shall Sun themselves in your Smiles—Come my Carnations, nay, I protest I will not go before ye.

But, Madam, we're at home.

O Lord, Beauties! I know not the way.

Indeed Madam you must—or we shall use Violence—

Well Ladies, since 'tis your command, I dare not but obey.

SCENE III.

THou Dear Soft Rogue, my Spouse, my Hephestion, my Ga­nymed, nay, if I dye to night my Dukedom's thine—But art thou sure the Princess of Cleve withdraws here after Dinner—

One of her Women whom I have Debauch'd, tells me 'tis her Custom; you may slip into the Closet and over-hear all, and yet me­thinks 'tis hard, because the Prince of Cleve loves you as his Life.

I sav'd his Life, Sweet-heart, when he was assaulted by a mi­stake in the dark, and shall he grudge me a little Fooling with his Wife, for so serious an Obligation?

A Pox upon him, here comes the Vidam with his sowre Morals—

'Tis certain I like her—She's very pretty, and Tournon shall help me to her—

In Love, by my Lechery—Ay, and she shall help thee to her— But who, but who is't my Man of Principles—

To tell your Grace, I am sure were to be a Man of none for my self—You that are the Whores Ingrosser—Let me see—There's Tournon your Ubiquitary Whore, your Bawd, your Bawd Barber or Bawd Surgeon, for you're ever under her hands, and she Plaisters you every day with new Wenches—Then there's your Domestick Ter­magant—Elianor and Celia, with something new in Chase—Why you outdo Cesar himself in your way, and dictate to more Whores at once than he did to Knaves—Believe me Sir, in a little time you'll be nick'd the Town Bull.

Why there's the difference betwixt my Sense and yours; wou'd I were, and your Darklin Mistress the first shou'd come in my way, Iove and Europa, I'd leap her in thy Face—Why, how now Vidam, what Devil has turn'd thee Grave, the Devil of Love, or the Devil of Envy?

Friendship, mere Friendship and care of your Soul; I thought it but just, to tell you the whole Town takes notice of your way.

Why then the whole Town does me wrong, because I take no notice of theirs; thus t'other night I was in company with two or three well-bred Fops, that found fault with my Obscenity, and protested 'twas such a way—Why 'tis the way of ye all, only you sneak with it under your Cloaks like Taylors and Barbers; and I, as a Gentleman shou'd do, walk with it in my hand. For prithee observe, does not your Priest the same thing? did not I see Father Patrick declaiming against Flesh in Lent, strip up to the Elbow; and telling the Congre­gation he had eat nothing but Fish these twenty years, yet protest to the Ladies, that Fat Arm of his, which was a chopping one, was the least Member about him?

Faith, and it may be so too.

Does not your Politician, your little great Man of bus'ness, that sets the World together by the Ears, after all his Plotting, Drudging and Sweating at Lying, retire to some little Punk and untap at Night?

I submit to the weight of your Reasons, and confess the whole World does you Injustice, wherefore I judge it fit that they Bring your Grace their Wives and Daughters to make you amends.

Why now thou talk'st like an honest Fellow, for never let bus'ness Flatter thee Frank into Nonsense: Women are the sole Plea­sure of the World; nay, I had rather part with my whole Estate, Health and Sense, than lose an Inch of my Love—I was t'other day at a pretty Entertainment, where two or three Grave Politick Rogues were won­d'ring, why Women shou'd be brought into Plays; I as gravely reply'd, the World was not made without 'em; he full Pop upon me—But Sir, it had been better if it had—

And then no doubt a gloomy Smile arose—

These are your Rogues, Frank, that wou'd be thought Cri­ticks, that are never pleas'd but with something new, as they call it, just, proper, and never as men speak; you're out of the way, men that hate us Rogues with a way—

But after all this they'll run you down, and say your Grace is no Scholar—

Why, Faith, nor wou'd be, if Learning must wrench a Man's Head quite round; I understand my Mother-tongue well enough, and some others just as I do Women, not to be married to 'em, but to serve my turn; what's good in 'em never scapes me, but as for Points and Tags, for which those solemn Fops are to be valued, I slight 'em, nor wou'd remember 'em if I cou'd; for he that once listens to Jingling, ten to one if ever he gets it out of his head while he lives—But prithee be gone, and leave me to my Musing; find Tournon out, my Vidam, and bid her remember the Handkercher—Away, thou art concern'd in the bus'ness, therefore away.

Ah Vidam! I cou'd tell thee such a Story of such a Friend of mine, the oddest, prettiest, out of the way of bus'ness, but thou art so flippant there's no trusting thee.

Tournon says the Flag's held out—

Tournon be Damn'd—Know then, but be secret, there is a Friend of mine belov'd—But by a Soul so Vertuous,

That was too much—

That quite from the method of all Womankind, she told it to her Husband.

That's strange indeed: And how did her Husband like it?

Why, after a tedious passionate Discourse, approved her car­riage, and swore he lov'd her more than ever; so they cry'd and kiss'd, and went away most lovingly together.

Why then she Cuckolds him to rights, nor can he take the Law of her; and I'll be judge by any Bawd in Christendom—And so my Lord farewell, I have bus'ness of my own, and Tournon waits you—

But heark you, Frank, I have occasion for you, and must press thee, I hope, to no unwellcome Office—only a Second—

With all my heart, my Lord, the time and place.

Just now in Luxemburg Garden, betwixt one and two, a Chal­lenge from a couple, the smartest, briskest, prettiest Tilting Ladies —

Your Servant Sir, and as you thrive, let me hear from your Grace, and so Fate speed your Plow.

And so Fate speed your Plow, and you go to that, and I shall tell you Sir, 'twas not handsomly done, to leave me thus to the Mercy of two unreasonable Women at once.

You have him now in view, and so I leave you.

Stand Sir.

To a Lady, while I have breath.

Wou'd you not fall to a Lady too, if she shou'd ask the Favour?

Ay, Gad, any pretty Woman may bring me upon my Knees at her pleasure.

O Devil —

Prithee my dear soft warm Rogue, let thee and I be kind—

And Kiss, you were going to say.

Z'Life, how pat she hits me, why thou and I were made for one another—Let's try how our Lips fit.

Is that your fitting?

'Fore Heaven she's wond'rous quick; Nay, my Dear, and you go to that, I can fit you every way—

You are a notorious talker.

And a better doer; prithee try.

As if that were to do now.

Nay then I'm sure of thee, for never was a Woman mine once, but was mine always.

Know then you are a heavy sluggish Fellow; but I see there is no more Faith in Man than Woman, Cork and Feathers.

Make a Shittlecork that's Woman, let me, if you please, be Battledoor, and by Gad for a day and a night I'll keep up with any Fel­low in Christendom.

Come away then and I'll keep count I warrant you—Monster— Villain —

Now is the Devil and I as great as ever—I come my Dear— But then what becomes of my other Dears—For whom I was Prim'd and Charg'd—

Why dont you come my Dear?

There with that sweet word she cock'd me—

Lord! how you tremble—

There the Pan flash'd—

I'll set my Teeth in you.

Now I go off—O Man! O Woman! O Flesh! O Devil!

SCENE I.

A Woman in Love with another, and confess it to her Hus­band—What wou'd I give to know her—Without all question Nemours is the Person belov'd.

That's plain by his eagerness in the Discovery, he forc'd me to hear him whether I wou'd or no; yet what I so admire in his Temper, is, that for all the former Heat, I no sooner mentioned you, but he flew from it, and run upon another Scent, as if the first had never been.

Where did you find him?

At the Princess of Cleve's, and my Heart tells me that's the Lady that acquainted her Husband how she was determin'd to make him a Cuckold—If he pleas'd to give his consent—

My Judgment, which is most Sagacious in these Matters, is most positive in your opinion, for by his whitely cast, the Prince of Cleve must be the Man fork'd in the Book of Fate—

And yet 'tis odd, that Nemours of all Men, shou'd have such luck at this Lottery.

O to choose, my Lord! because she's nice and precise; your demure Ladies that are so Squob in company, are Devils in a corner; they are a sort of melancholy Birds, that ne'er peep abroad by day, but they to whit, to whou it at night; nay, to my particular knowledge, all grave Women love wild Men, and if they can but appear civil at first, they certainly snap 'em; for mark their Language, the Man is a handsom Man, if he had but Grace; the Man has Wit, Parts and ex­cellent Gifts, if he wou'd but make a right use of 'em; why all these If's are but civil Pimps to a most Bawdy conclusion—But see, I descry him with a Mask yonder—

You'll remember St. Andre's Lady for this Discovery.

If she be not yours to night, never acquaint me with a Mystery agen—

Not a word to the Duke—My Gravity gets me a hank over him—Therefore if you tell him of any Love Matters of mine, you must never hope for more Secrets—

Trouble not your head, but away.

So this gets me a Diamond from the Queen, an Embassadors Merit at least. Confess to her Husband, alas poor Princess—See, they come; but that which startles me, is how a Woman of Marguerite's Sex can contain all this while as she seems to do; but perhaps she designs to pump him— Or has some further end, which I must learn.

But did you never promise thus before?

Never—But why these Doubts—Thou hast all the Wit in the World—Thou know'st I love thee without Protestations, why then this delay?

I have not convers'd with you an hour, and you are for running over me: No Sir, but if you can have patience till the Ball—Oh I shall burst—

Patience, I must; but if it were not for the clog of thy Modesty, we might have been in the third Heav'n by this, and have danc'd at the Ball beside—Ha! you faint—Take off your Mask—

Unhand me, or—But pray, e'er we part, let me ask you a serious question; what if you shou'd have pick'd up a Devil Incarnate?

Why, by your loving to go in the dark thus, I make me begin to suspect you—But be a Devil and thou wilt, if we must be Damn'd together, who can help it—

I shall not hold—

Yet, now I think on't, thou canst be no Devil, thou art so fraid of a Sinner; for you refus'd me just now, when I profer'd to sell my self, and seal the Bargain with the best of my Blood.

But if I shou'd permit you, cou'd you find in your heart to in­gender with a damn'd Spirit?

Yes marry cou'd I, for all you ask the question so seriously: For know, thou bewitching Creature, I have long'd any time this seven years to be the Father of a Succubus—

Fiend, and no Man—

Besides, Madam, don't you think a feat Devil of yours and my begetting, wou'd be a prettier sight in a House, than a Monkey or a Squirrel? Gad I'd hang Bells about his neck, and make my Valet spruce up his Brush Tail ev'ry Morning as duly as he comb'd my head.

But is it possible (for I know you have a Mistress, a Conve­nience as you call her,) that you cou'd leave her for me, who may be Ugly, Diseas'd, or a Devil indeed for ought you know?

Why, since you tax me with truth, I must answer like a Man of Honour; I cou'd leave her for thee or any else of your Tribe, so they were all like you—

But in the name of Reason, what is there in us Runners at All, that a Wife, or a Mistress of that nature, may not possess with more advantage?

Why, the freedom Wit and Roguery, and all sort of acting, as well as Conversation. In a Domestick she, there's no Gaity, no Chat, no Discourse, but of the Cares of this World and its Inconveniencies; what we do we do, but so dully; by Gad, my Thing ask'd me once, when my Breeches were down, what the Stuff cost a Yard—Ha! what now, upon the Gog agen? nay, then have with you at all Adventures, at least to put you in mind of the Ball—

Ha! yonder she lost him—see, what can she intend by keeping her self so close—But see La March has seiz'd her, and now the Mystery will open of it self.

Death and the Devil—We went talking along so pleasantly, when of a sudden whisp'ring, she wou'd not fail me at the Ball, she sprung from me at yon dark corner and vanish'd. Well if she be a Devil, Hell by her shou'd be a merry place, or perhaps she has not been there yet, but fell this Morning and took Earth in her way; my Comfort is, I shall make a new discovery if she keeps her word, and she has too much wit to break it before she tryes me.

And where are you to make this new discovery?

At the Ball in Masquerade—Thus wou'd I have Time rowl still all in these lovely Extreams, the Corruption of Reason being the Gene­ration of Wit; and the Spirit of Wit lying in the Extravagance of Plea­sure: Nay, the two nearest ways to enter the Closet of the Gods, and lye even with the Fates themselves, are Fury and Sleep—Therefore the Fury of Wine and Fury of Women possess me waking and sleeping; let me Dream of nothing but dimpl'd Cheeks, and laughing Lips, and flow­ing Bowls, Venus be my Star, and Whoring my House, and Death I defie thee. Thus sung Rosidore in the Urn—But where and when, with my Fops Wives, be quick, thou know'st my appointment with this unknown, and the Minute's precious.

Why, I have contriv'd you the sweetest Wight in the World, if you dare.

Dare, and in a Woman's Cause! why, I have no drop of Blood about me, but must out in their service, and what matter is't which way?

Know Poltrot's Lady has inform'd me, how St. Andre walks in his sleep, and that her Husband last night attempted to Cuckold him, that she watch'd and overheard the whole matter, but Poltrot cou'd not find the door before St. Andre return'd; she doubts not but he will try agen to night—Now if you can nick the time when Poltrot rises, and steal to her, ten to one but she'll be glad to be reveng'd—

Or she wou'd not have told thee the bus'ness—There wants but speaking with her, taking her by the hand, and 'tis a bargain—

Step, step aside, they are upon the hunt for you, and their Hus­bands have 'em in the wind; stand by a while to observe, and I'll turn you loose upon 'em—

Ha, Tournon! by my Honour a Prize, let's board 'em.

Be not too desperate my little Frigat, for I am, that I am, a Furious Man of Honour.

Now Heav'n defend us, what will you give us a Broad-side?

Lord! how I dread the Guns of the lower Tire.

Such notable Marks-men too, we never miss hitting between Wind and Water.

I'll warrant they carry Chain-shot; Pray Heav'n they do not split us Sister!

Yield then, yield quickly, or no Mercy, we have been so shat­ter'd to day already by two she Pirates, that we are grown desperate.

But what alas have we done, that you shou'd turn your Revenge upon us poor harmless Innocents, that never wrong'd you, never saw you before?

If you shou'd deal unkindly with us, 'twou'd break our Hearts, for we are the gentlest things.

And we will use you so gently, so kindly, like little Birds, you shall never repent the loss of your Liberty.

No, upon the word of a Man of Honour, your Legs shall be at liberty.

What will you Pinnion our Wings then, and let us hop up and down the House?

Not in the House where we live, pretty Soul, for there's two ravenous Sow-Cats will Eat you.

Your Wives you mean.

Something like, two Melancholy things that sit purring in the Chimney-corner, and to exercise their spite, kill Crickets.

Oh! for God-sake keep us from your Wives.

I'll warrant thee little Rosamond, safe from my jealous Elianor—

And if any Wife in Europe dares but touch a hair of thee, I say not much, but that Wife were better be a Widow.

But are your Wives handsome and well qualited? for whatever you say to us, when you have had your will you'll home at night, and for my part I cry All or none.

And All thou shalt have dear Rogue, never fear my Wive's Beauty or good Nature, they are things to her like Saints and Angels, which she believes never were nor never will be—She's a Bason of Water against Lechery, and looks so sharp whenever I see her, like Vinegar she makes me sweat.

And mine's so fulsome, that a Goat with the help of Cantha­rides wou'd not touch her.

But then for their Qualities—

Such Scolds, like Thunder they turn all the Drink in the Cellar.

Such Niggards, they eat Kitchin-stuff and Candles ends—Once indeed raving mad my Wife seem'd Prodigal, for a Rat having eat his way through an old Cheese, she baited a Trap for him with a piece of pareing—But having caught him, by the Lord she eat him up without mercy tail and all.

Are they not ev'n with us Sister?

'Tis hop'd tho, the Hangman will take 'em off of our hands, for they are shroadly suspected for Witches, mine noints her self ev'ry Night, sets a Broom-staff in the Chimny, and op'ns the Window, for what purpose but to fly?

Gad, and my Wife has Tets in the wrong place, she's warted all over like a pumpl'd Orange.

Yet sure, Gentlemen, you told these Hags another story once, and made as deep Protestations to them as you do to us?

Never by this hand, the Salt Souls fell in Lust with us, and haul'd us to Matrimony like Bears to the Stake.

Where they set a long black thing upon us, that cry'd Have and Hold.

Put the question they had been Handsome, brought you great Po [...]tions, were Pleasant and Airy and willing to humour you.

Nay then I can hold no longer: Z'death, there's it Madam, Willing! That Willingness spoils all my Dear, my Hony, my Jewel, it Palls the Appetite like Sack at Meals—Give me the smart disdainful [Page 37] she, that like brisk Champaign or spritely Burgundy, makes me smack my Lips after she's down, and long for t'other Glass.

Nay if your Grace come in there's no dallying, I'll make sure of one.

Nay, and for my part I am resolv'd to secure another; come Madam no striving, for I am like a Lion, when I lay hold, if the Body come not willingly, I pull a whole Limb away—

Yes Madam, he speaks truth, [...]ake it on my word who am a rational Creature, he is a great furious wild Beast.

Pray Heav'n he be not a horned Beast, is the Monster married?

Yes Ladies, they are both married.

Married! For Heav'n sake, Gentlemen, save us from the Cattle.

Why, what is the Breeze in your Tails? Z'death Ladies we'll not eat you.

Say you so? But we'll not trust you, I am sure you both look hungrily.

It may be their Wives use 'em unkindly.

And the poor good-natur'd things take it to heart.

I swear 'tis pity, they have both promising looks.

Proceed, sweet Souls, we'll defend you to death, spare 'em not.

Or it may be we mistake all this while, and their pitiful looks are caused by loving too much.

Right Madam, a little too Uxorious; Ha, Ha!

Now have not I one word to say, but stand to endure all Jerks like a School-boy with my Shirt up.

I'll have one fling at 'em tho' I dye for't; why Ladies you'll over­shoot your selves at this rate—Must we only be the Butts to bear all your Railery? methinks you might spend one Arrow at random, and take off that Daw that Chatters so near you—Gad, and I think I paid 'em there—

Butts and Daw! Let me never Laugh agen, if they be not Witty too—Why, you pleasant Rogues, Z'life I cou'd Kiss 'em if they did not stink of Matrimony.

Mum, Mum, Mum. Did not I tell you 'twas a madness to speak to 'em?

They envy my Friend too here, this pleasant Companion.

This dear agreeable Person.

Ay, Damme Madam, the Rogues envy us—

What a gentle Aspect?

How proper and Airy?

See, here's Blood in this Face.

Pure Blood, Madam, at your Service.

Will you walk dear Sir? give me your hand—

And me yours—

Come you dear ravishing Rogues—Your Servant Mr. Butts—

Gentle Mr. Butts—

Adieu sweet Mr. Butts.

Witty Mr. Butts, Ha, Ha, Ha!

Well, I'll to a Dutchess.

Lord! thou art always so high-flown—Hast thou never a cast Countess for me—

Come along to the Ball and thou shalt see, the Duke of Nemours is the Gallant to night—and Treats at his Palace, because 'tis the King's Birth-day—Let me see, what new Fancy for the Masquerade? Oh! I have it—Because the Town is much taken with Fortune-telling, I'll act the Dumb Man, the Highlander that made such a noise, and thou shalt be my Interpreter—Come along, and as we go I'll instruct thee in the Signs.

Dear Rogue, let's practise a little before we stir—As what sign for Lechery, because we may Nick our Wives.

Why thus, that's a glanting squeez'd Eye—or thus—for a moist Hand, or thus, for a Whore in a corner, or thus for downright Cuckolding.

Well, I swear this will be rare sport, and so my damn'd Spouse, I am resolv'd to tickle her with a squeez'd Eye and a moist Hand; and a Whore in a corner till she confess her self guilty of downright Cuckoldom; then in revenge for her last Impudence, Sue for a Divorce:

SCENE II.

SCENE I.

HE has confess'd to me he intends to Cuckold St. Andre when he walks in his sleep—Therefore if Love shou'd inspire me to nick the opportunity, I hope you will not bar the door which your Husband op'ns—

Ingrateful Monster—

Ingrateful, that's certain, and it lyes in your power to make him a Monster.

I dare not.

What?

Trust you.

Nay then I am sure thou wilt, let me but in to shew the power you have over me.

As how my Lord?

Why, when I have thee in my Arms, by Heav'n I'll quit my Joys at thy desire—

That will indeed be a perfect tryal of your love; come then through the Garden back-stairs, and when you see the Candle put out, thrust op'n the door.

By Heav'n I'll eat thy hand—Thou dear sweet Seducer, how it fires my Fancy to steal into a Garden, to rustle through the Trees, to stumble up a narrow pair of back stairs, to whisper through the [Page 44] hole of the door, to kiss it open, and fall into thy Arms with a flood of Joy—

Farewel, the company comes, I must leave you a while, to engage with my Husband, you'll fall asleep before the hour—

If I do, the very transport of Imagination shall carry me in my sleep to thy Bed, and I'll wake in the Act.

So there's one in the Fernbrake, and if she stir till Morning I have lost my aim; but now, why what have we here? a Hugonot Whore by this light—Have I? For the forward brisk, she that promis'd me the Ball Assignation, that said, there was nothing like slipping out of the crowd into a corner, breathing short an Ejaculation, and returning as if we came from Church—Let me see, I'll put on my Mask, fling my Cloak over my shoulder, and view 'em as they pass, not thou nor thou—

Ah thou unclean Person, have I hunted thee there like a Hart from the Mountains to the Vallies, and thou would'st not be found; verily thou hast been amongst the Daughters of the Philistines—Nay, if you are Innocent, stand before me, and reply to the words of my mouth—

I shall truly—

Say then—Hast thou not defil'd thy self with any Dalilah, since last you felt upon my Neck and loved much?

Nay verily—

Have you not overheated your Body with adulterate Wines? have you not been at a Play, nor touch'd Fruit after the leud Orange Women?

I am unpolluted.

And yet methinks there is not the same colour in your cheeks; nor does the Spirit dance in your Eye as formerly, why do you not ap­proach me?

Tournon turn'd Heretick! why thou dear Raskal, this is such a new Frolick, that though I am engag'd as deep as Damnation to another, thou shalt not 'scape me.

I love a Man that keeps the Commandment of his word.

And I a Woman that breaks hers with her Husband, yet loves her Neighbour as her self—I wou'd fain be in private with you.

And I with you, because I am resolv'd never to see you more.

Never to see me more? the reason.

Because I hate you.

And yet I believe you love me too, because you are precise to the Minute.

True, yet I hate you justly, heartily and maliciously—

By Gad, and I'll love the as heartily, justly and maliciously, as thou canst love me for thy blood; come away Riddle, and I'll unfold thee.

But is it true indeed, that your Friend can tell all the actions of our Life past, present, and to come, yet cannot speak one word?

O he's infallible! why what did you never hear of your second-sight men, your Dumb High-landers that tell Fortunes? why you wou'd think the Devil in Hell were in him, he speaks exactly.

I thought you had said he was Dumb?

Right, but I am his Interpreter, and when the fit comes on him, he blows through me like a Trunk, and strait I become his speaking Trumpet.

Pray, Sir, may not I have my Fortune told me too?

Ay—and there were a thousand of you, he will run you 'em over like the Chriss cross-row, and never miss a tittle; he shall tell ye his name that cry'd God bless you when you sneez'd last, tell you when you wink'd last, when and where you scratch'd last, and where you sate o' Saturday—

Pray let him tell us then, for we are Sisters, our Tempers and Conditions, whither married or unmarried, with all the Impertinences thereunto belonging—

I'll speak to him—Son of the Sun, and Emperor of the Stars—

Ha, Ha—

Look ye, look ye, he's pleas'd to tell you, but you must go near him, for he must look in your hand, touch your Face, Breasts, and where-ever else he pleases.

—Makes Horns with both his hands, puts his Finger in his Mouth and Laughs.

In nomine domine Bomine. I protest I am confounded; well Ladies, I cou'd not have thought it had been in you, but 'tis certainly true, and I must out with it; first he says, you are both married, you are both Libidinous beyond example, and your Husbands are the greatest Cornutors in Christendom—

Indeed.

Ay indeed, indeed and indeed—He says you are a couple of Messalina's, and the Stews cannot satisfie you; he says your thoughts are swell'd with a Carnosity; nay, you have the Green Sickness of the Soul, which runs upon nothing but weighing Stallions, churning Boars, and bellowing Bulls—

O! I confess, I confess—But for Heav'n sake, dear Sir— Let it not take Air, for then we are both undone.

O! Undone, undone Sir, if our Husbands shou'd know it, for they are a couple of the Jealousest, troublesome, impertinent Cuckolds alive.

Alack! Alack—O Iezabel! but I will have my Eunuchs fling her from the Window, and the Dogs shall eat her.

But, pray Sir, ask him how many times—

What, how many times you have Cuckolded 'em?

Spare our Modesty, you make the Blood so flush in our Faces.

But by Iove I'll let it out, I'll hold her by the Muzzle, and stick her like a Pig—

Will you speak to him Sir?

See, he understands you without it, he says your Iniquities are innumerable, your Fornications like the hairs of your head, and your Adulteries like the Sands on the Sea shore; that you are all Fish down­ward; that Lot's Wife is fresh to you, and that when you were little Girls of Seven, you were so wanton, your Mothers ty'd your hands be­hind you—

All this we confess to be true, but we confess too, if Fate had found out any sort of Tools, but those leaden Rogues our Husbands.

Whose Wits are as dull as their Appetites—

Mine such a Utensil, as is not fit to wedge a Block.

Nor mine the Beetle to drive him—

Nay then 'tis time to uncase and be reveng'd.

Heark you Strumpet—

Ha, Ha, Ha, are you not fitted finely,

—You must turn Fortune-tellers, must you?

And think we cou'd not know you?

Well Gentlemen, shall homely Beck go down with you at last?

But didst thou know me then indeed?

As if that sweet Voice of yours cou'd be disguis'd in any shape.

Nay, I confess I have a whirl in my Voice, a warble that is parti­cular—

And what say you Sir, shall musty Wife come into Grace agen?

She shall, and, here's my hand on't, all Friends Nell, and when I leave thee agen, may I be Cuckold in earnest.

Certain as I live, all this proceeded from his Lady, my dreaming Cuckold Wife cou'd never think on't; well, I am resolv'd this very night, when he Rambles in his sleep, to watch him, slip to his Wife and say no­thing. Hey! Come, come, where are these Dancers, a little Diversion and then for Bed.

I have lock'd the Vidam in your Closet, who will be sure to watch your Husbands rising, therefore be not surpriz'd—

Come, well let's away to bed.

And what then?

Nay, Gad that I can't tell, for what with Dancing, Singing, Fencing, and my last Dutchess, I am very Drowzy.

And so am I, perhaps our Wives have giv'n us Opium, lest we shou'd disturb 'em in the night.

Don't these Men deserve to be fitted?

They do, and Fortune grant they may—Hear us, O! hear us good Heav'n, for we pray heartily.

Than you do love me?

I do, and swear, but are these equal Terms, that you shall never touch a Man but me?

I will—But how can you convince me? Oaths with you Liber­tines of Honour are to little purpose.

But this must satisfie thee, there is more pleasure in thee after Enjoyment, than in her and all Womankind before it; thou hast Inspi­ration, Extasie, and Transport, all these bewitching Joys that make men mad—

And thou Villany, Treachery, Perjury, all those Monstrous, Diabolical Arts, that seduce Young Virgins from their In­nocent homes, to set 'em on the High-way to Hell and Damnation.

My Lord, I did, where she appear'd like her that gave Acteon Horns, with all her Nimphs about her, busie in tyeing Knots which she took from Baskets of Ribbons that they brought her; and methought she ti'd and unti'd 'em so prettily, as if she had been at Cross Questions, or knew not what she did, her Face, her Neck, and Arms quite bare—

No more, if I live I'll see her to night, for the Heroick Vein comes upon me—Death and the Devil, what shall become of the back­stair [Page 50] Lady then—Heark thee Bellamore, take this Key, dost thou hear Rogue? go to St. Andre's House, through the Garden up the back-stairs, push open the door and be blest. Hell! can't I be in two places at once? Heark thee, give her this, and this, and this, and when thou bitest her with a parting blow, sigh out Nemours.

I'll do't—

SCENE II.

SO let that corner be your Post, and as soon as ever you see St. Andre come stalking in his Dream, slip to his Lady, and when you have agreed upon the Writings, I'll be ready to bring you o [...] with a Witness—

Thou Dear obliging—

No more o' that; away, mark but how easily those that are gifted with Discretion bring things about; in the name of Goodness let Men and Women have their Risks, but still be careful of the Main— Here's a hot-headed Lord goes mad for a prating Girl, Treats her, Pre­sents her, Flames for her, Dies for her, till the Fool complies for pure Love, and when the bus'ness fails, is forc'd to live at last by the love of his Footmen; but she that makes a firm Bargain, is commonly thought a great Soul, for my Lord having consider'd on't, thinks her a Person of depth, and so resolves to have it out of her—But why do I talk so my self, when there's something to do, certainly I shou'd have made a rare Speaker in a Parliament of Women, or a notable Head to a Fe­male Jury, when his Lordship gravely puts the question, whither it be Satis or Non Satis or Nunquam Satis, and we bring it in Ignoramus— Ha! but who comes here? I must attend for Bellamore.

My Wife and I went to Bed together, and I'll warrant full she was of Expectation, so white and clean, and much inclin'd to laugh, and lay at her full length, as who wou'd say come eat me.

Said she so sweet Sir?

Not a bit by the Lord, not I, not I—

Alas! nice Gentleman.

A Farmer wou'd say this was barbarously done, because he loves Beef—But I have Plover in reserve—Ha! St. Andre, heark, I [Page 54] hear him bustle, O Lord! how my heart goes pit a pat! nay, I dreamt last night I was Gelt—

'Tis he, 'tis he, by the twilight I see him— Ay, now the politick head goes, it shall be branch'd by and by—What was that stop for, there's neither Gate nor Stile in your way; now by that sudden stretch, he seems as if he wou'd take a jump, or practice on the High rope; O your humble Servant Sir, I'll but do a little bus'ness for you, and be with you agen. Nay, look you Sir, I have as many Bobs as Democritus when he cry'd Poor lack—There's more Pride in a Puritans Band, short Hair, and Cap pinch'd, than under a Kings Crown. Poor Jack, Citizens, Citizens, look to your Wives, the Courtiers come, look to 'em, they'll do 'em, look to 'em, they'll do 'em, Poor Jack—

Ha! Ha! You'll tickle me to death—Nay, prithee Pen— Your Mistress will hear us—Thou art the wantonest Rogue—

Madam.

Here's.

Here's a Thief I took in your Chamber—

Ah Madam! retire for a moment, and I'll make you the whole Confession.

Confess and you know what follows, however I am resolv'd to hear what you can say for your self.

O Lord! O Lord! I had like to have trod upon a Serpent that wou'd have bit me to death. I went to take up the Cloths as gently as I cou'd for my Life, when a great huge hoarse Voice flew in my face, with Damme you Son of a Whore, I'll cut your Throat; you may guess I withdrew, for o' my Conscience the Fright had almost made me un­clean; but I'll to my own Spouse, and if the Lord be pleas'd to bring me off safe this bout, I'll never, never go a Cuckold-making agen while my eyes are open.

Heark, my Wife's coming up Stairs—Help up with my Breeches; so, so, smooth the Bed—What damn'd Luck's this— So, fall a rubbing the Room agen—Heark you Wife, Celia has been upon the hunt for you all this day, she's below in the Garden, go, go, we'll kiss when you come back—Now Sirrah, now you Rogue, she's gone, come, come, lose not your opportunity, I'll keep on my Breeches for fear—Ay? No, no, not upon the Bed, Pish, against the back of [Page 55] this Chair—Won't it—How can you tell—Try—I'll buy thee a new Gown, and a Fan, and a lac'd Petticoat, and pay thee double Wages; O! thou dear pretty soft sweet wriggling Rogue, what wou'dst thou dodge me, Gad but I'll have thee, Gad but I'll catch thee; Ay, and have at thee agen and agen.

Was ever Man of Honour thus unfortunately met with? I went into my Chamber and trod as softly as a half-starv'd Mouse, for fear of waking my Cat, when coming close to my Bed-side, methought it rock'd to and fro like a great Cradle, and the Cloaths heav'd as if some Beast lay blowing there—But the Beast was by the Bed-side it seems—Yes, I am, and who can help it, as very a Cornuto as e'er was grafted— I heard my beloved Wife too—The Plagues of Egypt on her—Speak so lovingly and angrily together—Nay, Prithee my Dear—Nay, now you are tiresome—I shall be asham'd to look you in the face agen! Why, how will she look upon me then? O Lord—O Lord—What shall I do? shall I stand thus like a Cuckoldly Son of a Whore, with my Horns in my Pocket and not be reveng'd—

But here comes as very a Cuckold as my self, I am resolv'd to wake him, and we'll fall upon 'em together—Allo, St. Andre, St. Andre.

Ti—ti 'tis im—im—im—possible I-I-I shou'd be the Man, Fo-Fo-For I cannot speak a plain word.

You're a Cuckold, a Cuckold, a Cuckold.

Why lo-lo-look you, I said it co-co cou'd not be me, for Sir, I all the World knows I am no Cu-Cu-Cu-ckold.

Wake, wake, I say, or I'll shake the bones out of your Body, your Horns are a growing, your Bed is a going, your Heifer's a Plowing.

Why, let her Plo-Plo-Plow on, if the Se-Se-Seed be well Sown, we shall have a good Cro-Crop—

Worse and worse, why then I will roar out directly and raise the Neighbours—Help! Ho, Help! Murder! Murder! Fire! Fire! Fire! Cuckoldom! Cuckoldom! Thieves! Murder! Rapes! Cuckoldom!

Thieves! Thieves! Ho! Iaques! Pedro—Thoma—

Thieves! Thieves—Wake! wake! my Lord.

Why, what a Devil's the matter? where am I?

O! you'll never leave this ill habit of walking in your sleep— 'Tis a mercy we had not all been Murder'd—You went down in your Shirt Sir, open'd the door, and let in Rogues that had like to have cut [Page 56] all our Throats—But for the future I am resolv'd to tye you to me with the Bed cord, rather than endure this —

Where's Poltrot?

Murder'd Sir, here! here! here! one of the Villains discharg'd a Pistol just in his Belly—

Shot in the Guts! Lord bless us! here Thom. a light! light! light! shot in the Guts say you—

Oh! Oh!—Lower, lower, lower—Feel, feel, search me, lower, lower —

Cold hereabouts—Let's bear him to his Bed, and send for a Surgeon—

Softly! softly! softly—Come not near me Crocodil; Oh! Oh—

Unhappy Chance, no where but just in the Guts?

Yes, yes, yes, in the Head too, in the Head Man, in the Head: Nay, and let me tell you, you had best search your own, but bear me off or I shall Swoon, I feel something trickle, trickle in my Breeches; Oh! Oh! Oh!

SCENE III.

ALass! Poor Prince, I protest the Violence of his Passion has cast him in a Fever, he dies of it—And how then? shall I Marry the Princess of Cleve, or stick to Marguerite as we are? for 'tis most certain she has rare things in her, which I found by my last Experiment, and I love her more than ever, almost to Jealousie; be­sides Tournon tells me, the Dauphin begins to buz about her agen, and who knows but in this heat of hers, as she says, she will hang her self out to sale, but he may nick the time and buy her—I like not that— No, I'll throw boldly, clear the Table if I can, if not, 'tis but at last forswearing Play, shake off my new acquaintance, and be easie with my reserve—Heark, I am just upon the Bower Musick—

I have hitherto obey'd my Master's order, but I'm resolv'd to dog him till he's lodg'd—

Now do I know the Precise will call me damn'd Rogue for wrong­ing my Friend, especially such a soft sweet natur'd Friend as this gentle Prince—Verily I say they lye in their Throats, were the gravest of 'em in my condition, and thought it shou'd never be known, they wou'd rouze up the Spirit, cast the dapper Cloak, leave off their humming and haing, and fall too like a Man of Honour.

I'll face him till he enters the Bower, and then call my Lord.

Scene the Bower, Lights, Song.

To Bed, and must we part then?

SCENE I.

COme, come, take her into Grace agen, 'twas but a slip:

Take her into Grace agen?—Why sure you wou'd have her bring me to that pass she did in England, when my Lord Hairbrain us'd to keep me in awe, stand biting my Lips, twisting my Hat, playing with my Thumbs while they were at it, and I durst not look behind me.

Meer Jealousie; you say your self you saw nothing.

No Sir, I thank you, I had more care of my Throat; neither is this the first Fault; for once upon a time, a little while after we were Married, at London—a Pox o' that Cuckolding Trojan Race; she was talking to me one day out of her Window more pleasantly than ordi­nary—And acted with her Head and Body wond'rous prettily—Butting at me like a little Goat, while I butted at her agen. I being glad to find her in so good humour, what did I Sir, but stole away, and came softly up the back-stairs, thinking to cry Bo—But Oh! Lord—How was I Thunder-struck, to find my Lord Hairbrain there all in a Sweat— Kissing and Smacking, Puffing and Blowing so hard, you wou'd have sworn they had been at Hot-cockles—

A little Familiar perhaps, things of Custom—

Ay Sir, Kiss my Wife and welcome, but for that Zeal in her shogging and Butting—Noli me tangere I cry—I am sure it ran so in my Ima­gination, I have been Horn-mad ever since—Therefore spare your pains, for I am resolute.

See where she comes my Lord—But you are resolv'd you say—However, let me advise you, have a care of making her de­sperate.

But am I not thy Wife? Let that attone—

Why then I'll cringe no longer, heark you Sir, leave off your Swelling and Frowning, and awkward ambling, and tell me in fine, whether you'll be reconcil'd or no, for I am resolv'd to stoop no longer to an ungrateful Person.

To your Husband, to your Head, to your Lord and Master, you will not Goodey Bathsheba, but you cou'd stoop your Swines Flesh last night you cou'd, to your Rank Bravado, that wou'd have struck his Tusks in my Guts; he had you with a Beck, a Snort, nay, o' my Con­science thou wou'dst not give him time to speak, but hunch'd him on the side like a full Acorn'd Boar, cry'd Oh! and mounted—

Are you resolv'd then, never to take me into Grace agen for one Slip?

No, I'm the Son of a Carted Bawd if I do; a Slip do you call it? what, when I heard the Bed crack with the Violence of my Cuckol­dom! No, I will ascend the Judge of my own Cause, proceed to Con­demnation, and banish thee for ever the Confines of our Benevolence—

What here, before the Vidam here?

Yes, Impudence, before the Vidam and the Duke Nemours; nay, to thy eternal Confusion, I will post thee in the Market-place; but first I'll find out St. Andre, and tell him the whole matter, that he [Page 63] may know too, what a Ram his blessed Ewe has made him, and then—

And then I'll have your Throat cut.

Ha! Tygress, cut my Throat! why thou Shee Bear! thou Dam of Lyons Whelps, thou Cormorant of Cormorants, why what wilt thou devour me Horns and all?

He that miss'd your Guts in the dark, shall take better aim at your Gullet by day-light; nay, to thy Terror of Heart be it known, thou Monster of ill nature, if I wou'd have consented last night to have run his Fortune, which is no small one, he wou'd have murder'd thee in thy Bed, for I heard him speak these very words, Let him lye, In Mortuis—& in limbo Patrum—Where I must have pray'd for that un­thankful Soul, or thou wou'dst have been Damn'd to all Eternity, dying suddenly and without Repentance—

O Lord! O Lord! In Mortuis, & in limbo Patrum; what, to be toss'd on burning Pitchforks for my Sins, why, what a Bloody­minded Son of Belial is this?

In fine, since you will have the truth, he has long had a design upon both our Bodies, to Ravish mine, and rip open yours.

Why then he's a Cannibal; Lord! Lord! Lord! Lord! why what pleasure can it be to any Man to rip me open? to Ravish thee in­deed, there's some Sense in that—But there's none in ripping me open; why this is such a brutish Cruelty—

Rogue, and so I told him—Therefore when he found that no­thing cou'd make me consent to your Murder, he Swore, and caught me by the hair, if I stir'd, or made the least noise, he wou'd Murder us all, set the House o' Fire, and so leave us to our selves—

And so thou wert forc'd to consent; why then by this Kiss, I Swear from my Soul, which might have been Damn'd as thou sayst, but for thee, I forgive thee—And what was he that Cuckolded St. Andre, such another Mephostophilus as this too?

O! my Dear, there are not such a pair of Fiends upon Earth agen—Why, they look upon't as a Favour to our Sex if they Ravish a Woman, for you must know they were formerly Heads of the Banditti—

Well, and I must praise thy Discretion in Sacrificing thy Body, for o' my Conscience, if they had seen this Smock-face of mine, I had gone to pot too before my Execution.

They sent their Pages this Morning to know whether it was our pleasure to have your Throats cut: But we answered 'em all was well, and desir'd 'em as ever they hop'd to see us agen, to stir no further in the matter.

Mum, Mum, dear sweet Soul, secure my Life and thou shalt command me for the future with as full a swing as thou canst desire, [Page 64] only like those that use that exercise, let it be too and fro, sometimes at home and sometimes abroad, and we'll be as merry as the day is long.

Be thou but true to me, and like the Indian Wives, I'll not out-live thee—

And I'll Swear now, that was kindly said, as I hope for mercy, but it makes me weep, what burn for me—And shall I not return, I will, I will, I will return when thou dost burn;

All Flesh is Grass, that's certain, we're all Mortal, the Court's in Mourning for the Prince of Cleve, the Vidam of Chartres is extreamly griev'd—Heark you Poltrot, sure as I am alive he dy'd of Jealousie. Well Nelle, for this last care of thine, I Swear to be constant to thy Sheets, and as thou sayst, I think it will not be amiss to tye me to thee now and then for fear of the worst—Ha! Poltrot—

Ha! Bully, I heard your kind Expressions to your Nelle, and I'll Swear I'll vie thee with who shall love most, for I'll Swear these daily Examples make my hair stand an end—Cut my Throat, and rip me open, he shall Cuckold me all over first, like the Man in the Almanack, nay, he shall Ravish her while I hold the door to my own deflow'ring.

SCENE II.

REsolv'd never to see me more, and give up her Honour to the Dauphin, that puling sniveling Prince, that looks as if he suck'd still, or were always in a Milk Diet for the Sins of his Floren­tine Mother.

Bless me! you are jealous.

I confess it—The last time I had her in Disguise, she made such Discoveries as I shall never forget: Lose her I must not, no, I'll lose a Limb first, therefore go tell her, tell her the Prince of Cleve's Death has wrought my Conversion, I grow weary of my wild Courses, repent of my Sins, am resolv'd to leave off Whoreing and marry his Wife—

So the Town talks indeed.

The Town is as it always was and will be, a Talk, a Hum, a Buz, and a great Lye—Do as I bid thee, and tell her, just as you left me, I was going to make my Court to the Princess upon her Husband's Tomb, which is true too, I mean a Visit by the way of Consolation, [Page 65] not but I knew it the only opportunity to catch a Woman in the undress of her Soul; nay, I wou'd choose such a time for my life, and 'tis like the rest of those starts, and one of the Secrets of their Nature—Why they melt, nay, in Plagues, Fire, Famine, War, or any great Calamity— Mark it—Let a man stand but right before 'em, and like hunted Hares they run into his lap.

But who's the Instrument to bring you to her?

Her Uncle the Vidam, she lies at his House immur'd in a dark room, with her Husband's Image in her view, and so resolves, he says, for Death. However I'll sound her in the ebb of her Soul, if my Boat run aground 'tis but calling for Marguerite, and she'll weep a Tide that shall set me afloat agen—As thus, I'll lay the Dauphin in her dish, nose her in the Tiptoe of her Pride, Railing, Lying, Laming, Hanging, Drowning, Dying, and she comes about agen.

Go thy ways Petronius, nay, if he were dying too, with his Veins cut, he wou'd call for Wine, Fiddles and Whores, and laugh him­self into the other World.

Where's Marguerite?

She follows like a Wind, with swollen Cheeks, ruffled Hair, and glareing Eyes, the Princess of Cleve has found her Fury, nor will she yet believe it.

SCENE III.

O! stay.

And I swear by this lascivious bit of Beauty, I will cleave to my Celia for Better for Worse, in Searge, Grogrum or Crape, though a Queen shou'd come in my way in Beaten Gold—

What then, Gentlemen, I perceive there have been Wars at home—

Not a Battle, my Lord, only a Charge, a Charge sounded or so.

What was it a Trumpet, or through a Horn Sir?

A Horn Sir, a Horn Sir, no Sir, 'twas not a Horn Sir—Only my Celia was a little disdainful, but we are Friends agen Sir, and what then Sir?

Come, come, all Friends, were Tournon here I wou'd forgive her, a litte Scorn in a pretty Woman, so it be not too much affected, is a Charm to new Friendship; therefore let each Man take his Fair one by the hand, thus lay it to his Lips, and Swear a whole Life's Constancy—

As I will to my Nelle, though I haule Cats at Sea, or cry Small-coal; and for him that upbraids her, I'll have more Bobs, than Demo­critus when he cry'd Poor-Jack. There's more Pride in Diogenes, or un­der a Puritan's Cap, than in a King's Crown.

For my part, the Death of the Prince of Cleve, upon second thoughts, has so truly wrought a change in me, as nothing else but a Mi­racle cou'd—For first I see, and loath my Debaucheries—Next, while I am in Health, I am resolv'd to give satisfaction to all I have wrong'd; and first to this Lady, whom I will make my Wife before all this Com­pany e'er we part—This, I hope, whenever I dye, will convince the World of the Ingenuity of my Repentance, because I had the power to go on.