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Sir Antony Love: OR, The Rambling Lady.
A COMEDY.
As it was Acted at the THEATRE-ROYAL by Their MAJESTIES Servants.
Written by THO. SO ƲTHERNE.
Artis ſeverae ſi quis amat effectus, Mentémque magnis applicat— —det primos verſibus annos, Maeoniumque bibat faelici pectore fontem. Petro. Arb. Satyr. pag. 3.
LONDON, Printed for R. Wellington at the Lute in St. Paul's Church-yard. MDCXCVIII.
☞ Lately Publiſhed, The Hiſtory of Polybius the Mogalopolitan; containing a General AcRoman People, during the Firſt and Second Punick Wars. Tranſlated by Sir Henry Sheers, and Mr. Dryden. In Three Volumes: The Third Volume never before Printed.
An Italian Voyage, or a compleat Journey thro' Italy. In Two Parts. With the Character of the People, and Deſcription of the chief Towns, Churches, Monaſteries, Tombs, Li&c. of all the Princes; with Inſtructions concerRichard Laſſell, Gent. The Second Edition. With large Additions, by a Modern Hand.
Familiar Letters: Written by John late Earl of Rocheſter, to the Honourable Henry Savile,
Eſq and other Perſons of Quality: With Love-Letters, written by the late Ingenious Mr. Tho. Otway, Sir George Etheridge, and the late Duke of Buckingham. Price 5 s.
MEN.
Antony Love.
Valentine.
Ilford.
Gentle Golding.
Abbe.
Canaile his Brother.Verole.
Palmer, a Pilgrim.Wait-well, Sir Antony's Governour and Traffique, a Merchant.Cortant, a Taylor's Man.Verole.
Gentle.
Ilford.
Montford.
Montford.
Williams.
Bowen.
Antho. Leig.
Hodgſon.
Sandford.
Powel. Jun.Cibber.
Tho. Kent.
WOMEN.
Floriante Daughters to Count Canaile.
Charlott Daughters to Count Canaile.
Volante, the Abbe's Niece and Charge.Butler.
Bracegirdle.
Knight.
SCENE, Mompelier.
THere is that certain Argument of Poverty in Poetry, that its Off
From the very Start of my Deſign upon this Play, I had a Deſign up
You know the Original of Sir Antony, and therefore can beſt judge how the Copy is drawn; tho' it won't be to my Advantage to have 'em too narrowly compar'd; her Wit is indeed inimitable, not to be painted: Yet I must ſay, there's ſomething in my Draught of her, that carries a ReMontford, I am pleaſed, by way of Thanks, to do her that publick Juſtice in Print, which ſome of the beſt Judges of theſe Performances, have, in her Praiſe, already done her, in publick places; That they never ſaw any part more maſterly play'd: And as I made every Line for her, ſhe has mended every Word for me; and by a Gaiety and Air, particular to her Action, turn'd every thing into the Genius of the Character.
You have here Seven hundred Lines more in the Print, than was upon the Stage, which I cut out in the apprehenſion and dread of a long Play.
The Abbe's Character languiſhes in the Fifth Act for want of the Scene between him and Sir Antony, which I plainly ſaw before, but was conLee's Playing (which, tho' his Part, that place only gvve him an occa
I am gratefully ſenſible of the general good Nature of the Town to me, which you muſt give me leave to value my ſelf upon, ſince the Pride pro
So far for Prefacing.
Now, Sir, as to my Dedication: I fear my Credit in this place, is as little worth, as in Lumbard-ſtreet; you may take up Money upon it, as ſoon as a Reputation: But the Bleſſing of the Fortune lies in having as little need of your Friend's Purſe in the City, as your Friend's Praiſe in Coven-Garden: They who know you, will take you upon your own Word; and they who don't, will hardly upon mine. However, this I muſt ſay, if there be a quickneſs in the Dialogue, and Converſation of this Comedy, I owe it in a great meaſure to my familiarity with you; which in the free
WELL, Governour, I think I have Atchiev'd, under thy Con
Nay, you come on amain.
And, though I ſay it, have done as much—
And suffer'd as much.
For the Credit of my Country men, and the Reputation of a Whoremaſter, as the erran'ſt Rake-hell of 'em all.
You're a pretty Proficient indeed, and ſo perfectly act the Cavalier, that cou'd you put on our Sex with your Breeches, o' my Conſcience, you wou'd carry all the Women before you.
And drive all the Men before me; I am for Univerſal Empire, and wou'd not be ſtinted to one Province; I wou'd be fear'd, as well as lov'd:
You're in the way to't; you change your Men as often as you do your Women; and have every day a new Miſtreſs, and a new Quarrel.
Why, 'tis only the Faſhion of the World, that gives your Sex a better Title than we have, to the wearing a Sword; my conſtant Exerciſe with my Fencing Maſter, and Converſation among Men, who make little of the matter, have at laſt not only made me adroit, but deſpiſe the Danger of a Quarrel too.
A Lady-like Reputation, truly. But how prepoſterouſly Fortune places her Favours, when no body is the better for 'em.
Why how now, Governour?
She ſeldom gives a Man an Eſtate, who has either the Conſcience or Youth to enjoy it—
But he may leave it to one who has.
An honeſt Man might be thankful for half your Fortune with the Women. But what pleaſure can you find in following 'em?
The ſame that ſome of the Men find.
You can't enjoy 'em.
But I may make 'em ready for thoſe who can.
Are there ſuch Sports-men?
Very many, who beat about more for Company, than the plea
This is ſo like you now: Why Love ſhou'd be your buſineſs; and you make a buſineſs of your Love: You are young and handſome in Petticoats; yet are contented to part with the Pleaſures of your own Sex, to ramble into the Troubles of ours. In my Opinion, you might be better employ'd.
I do it to be better employ'd; to recommend me to Valentine, for whoſe dear ſake I firſt engag'd in the Adventure; robb'd my Keeper, that nauſeous Fool Golding, of Five hundred Pounds, and under thy Diſcretion, came a Collonelling after him here into France.
Why do you loſe time then? Why don't you tell him ſo?
Thou wou'dſt have had me, with the true Conduct of an Engliſh Miſtreſs, upon the firſt inclination, cloy'd him with my Perſon, without any aſſurance of his reliſhing me; enough to raiſe his Appetite to a ſecond taſte: No, now I am ſure he likes me; and likes me ſo well in a Man, he'll love me in a Woman; and let him make the Diſcovery if he dares.
Let me
To the Lodgings you ſhall; thoſe I ſaw, and lik't; they're Private, and Convenient, make 'em ready; I'll tell thee all anon— And do you hear— my Female Wardrobe too muſt be produc'd, my Womans Equi
But ſicken at that ſound.
Valentine and Ilford are diſappointed of their Bills, and in ſpite of their good Eſtates want Money; now, tho' I lend upon the old conſidera
And will be welcome to 'em at this time—
Moſt certainly; and take this along with you, Governour; You muſt make your Converſation neceſſary ſometimes, as well as agreeable, to preſerve a Friendſhip with an Engliſh-man.
How's this, Sir Antony? under the Diſcipline of your Governour, and his Wiſdom, this Morning?
Like a good Chriſtian, Valentine, clearing old Accounts, that I may begin a new Score, with a better Conſcience.
Confeſſing, and repenting paſt Enormities—
About the pitch of thy Piety, Ilford, repenting only, becauſe they are paſt.
So far you may repent with Honour.
Nay, I Confeſs my ſelf a Child of this World; for at this mo
Thou art above Example, or Imitation—
Will go near to overthrow the Wiſdom of his Precepts; the Mo
But, Sir, it wou'd be well.
It wou'd be better, Sir, thou pitiful Preacher, wou'dſt thou but follow thy Pimping; 'tis a better Trade, and becomes thy Diſcretion as well: You'll find me hereabouts—
You have Compounded for Whoring then, Sir Antony?
Any thing but Fighting; he has ſwing'd me away for my Quarrel yeſterday i'th' Tennis-Court.
You deſerv'd to be ſwing'd for't—
I ſhou'd chide you too, though 'twas upon my account.
To run a Gentleman thro' the Arm, for not witneſſing all you ſaid in Commendation of Valentine—
When he was not ſo much as acquainted with my Perſon—
Was—
Something more bold than welcome, I grant you; but I had not fought a great while, my hand was in, and I was puſhing at Reputation. For, I Gad, I look upon Courage to proceed more from Habit and Practice, than any Virtue of the Mind.
How Sir Anthony
Wooden Legs, in a great many, Valentine.
Courage often runs in a Blood—
They ſay ſo of the Pox, indeed. The Sins of the Fathers may run in the Blood ſometimes, and viſit the third and fourth Generation: But their Virtues dye with the Men. And if the Example, and Cuſtom of the World (ſupported by good eating and drinking) had not infus'd a nobler Spi
'Tis ſenſibly extravagant, and wild!
Inimitably new! But how do you to avoid Drinking?
Why that avoids me, thanks to the Cuſtom of the Countrey, and the better Diverſions of this Place; not but I can arrive at a Bottle too.
If you were in London—
There I grant you— Where the young Fellows begin the Re
There you wou'd be at a loſs.
I ſhou'd indeed; where they go to Taverns, to ſwallow a Drunken
I thought that folly fell off with their Fathers—
The Entertainment of it did indeed.
Who, as they began it in their Frolick, ſupported it in their Wit.
And ſince the Sons are ſo plainly diſinherited of the Senſe, they have no Title to the Sins of their Fathers.
Unleſs they kept 'em more in Countenance.
Yet they would do ſomething, like their Fathers.
As an ignorant Player in England, whom I ſaw undertaking to Copy a Maſter Actor of his time; began at his Infirmity in his Feet; and growing famous for the imitation of his Gout, he cou'd walk like him, when he cou'd do nothing elſe like him.
The Gout, and the Pox take him for't—
And all thoſe, I ſay, who, only from their Opinion of themſelves, are encourag'd to meddle in other Men's matters, without ever bringing any thing about of their own.
Aye, thoſe medling Fools, Ilford! who are in all places, yet ever out of their way—
And not only out of their own way, but always in other Mens—
And ſtill as ridiculous as a Fellow of thy Severity and Reſerve wou'd be in the fantaſtical Figure of a Lover.
Whoever has the Woman; you have your Wit, Sir Antony—
They go together, Sir— You'll find it ſo.
Whom have we here?
A
One of that travelling Tribe, without their Circumciſion.
Of Chriſtian Appellation, a Pilgrim.
'Tis a ſenſeleſs Conſtitution of Men!
Who make themſelves Mad, to make the reſt of the World Fools, by finding a Faith for all their Fopperies.
How can they paſs upon the World?
As other Conſtitutions, and Orders of Men as ſenſeleſs, paſs; that are founded too in as much Cozenage and Roguery as this can be.
You are an Enemy of Forms, Sir Antony.
Oh, Sir, the Virtue of the Habit often covers the Vices of the Man: There's Field enough in England to find this in, without the Abby-lands, Gentlemen.
Weeds are the general growth of every Soil.
How many Fools in the State, and Atheiſts in the Church, carry them
Theſe are Diſguiſes, I grant you, worth a ſenſible Man's putting on; but a Pilgrim's Habit is as ridiculous as his Pretence; and I wou'd no more wear a Fools Coat, to be thought devout; than be devout for the ſake of the Livery.
Fools are the Guts of all Churches, and make the Bulk of every Opi
Hang him, let him paſs; ſpare him for the ſake of the Church, and ſpare the Church for the ſake of our Abbe.
Who is, indeed, a moſt conſiderable Pillar of it, to his own profit, and our pleaſurable living in this Town.
He is a very Pope in Mompelier, the Head here—
And a fit Head he is for ſuch ſinful Members as we are.
We Members! You are a Proteſtant, Sir Antony.
You may be ſurly enough to tell 'em you are one; but I am al
And of the Women you converſe with, Knight.
And when I can't convince 'em, I conform.
A very civil Character of a faſhionable Conſcience.
Of a ſenſible Man, I think: Why muſt your Capacity be the Mea
Every Man a Villain, or a Fool, who does not fall into your Notion of things?
No Opinion ever ſprung out of an Univerſal Conſent; Truth can no more be comprehended, than Beauty: We have our ſeveral Reaſons for the one, and Fancies for the other. And as Beauty has not the ſame influence upon all Complexions; ſo Reaſon has not the ſame Force upon all Under
Ilford is one of thoſe Fellows, whom if you divide from in one thing, will never cloſe with you in any. Tho the Abbe and you do differ about the way to Heav'n, you may go to the Devil together, I warrant you.
However wide we may be from his Opinion of t'other World, I'm ſure he joyns with us in our Opinion of this.
For my part, I regard the Man, not his Religion; and if he does my Buſineſs in this World, let him do his own in the next.
Nay, Gentlemen, I have as honourable an Opinion of the Abbe, as you can have: I know there's nothing to be done without him—
That the Converſation of the beſt Families in Mompelier runs thro' his Reformation—
That ſome of our Fortunes—
All our Fortunes—
Yours particularly with Floreante, at preſent depending upon his Fa
And the Quality of my Rival, Count Verole.
No Dancings, no Balls, no Maſquerades, in a ſweet Circle of Society, as it has been, from one Good Houſe to another, without his In
Subſtantial Reaſons for our Reſpect.
Weighty Motives all for our Attendance.
Are they ſo, Sir? No more of your Proteſtant then, if you wou'd not be damn'd for a Heretick, by the Women in a Catholick Countrey.
We ſhou'd ha' been at our Patron's Levy, Gentlemen.
He'll bate us us the Ceremony: You're going to viſit him?
You muſt along with us.
I'll follow you.
You are his Favourite; we are no body without you—
The ſupport of our intereſt with him.
Buſineſs, Buſineſs, Gentlemen.
Pox o' your Buſineſs—
'Twill end in that—prithee let him go; a Whore I warrant you— Whore; more proſtituted too, to Knaves and Fools: Yet my grave Friend, you'll have a ſhare in both, or I miſtake your Nature.
You are anſwer'd.
Indeed my little Friend is ſo far right, Money, and Whore, make one anothers uſe; either is dull alone.
This Pilgrim here again!
He follows us; what wou'd he have?
Your Charity, good Gentlemen.
Prithee leave us; there's Charity in my Advice to thee, not to loſe thy labour; beſides, we are Engliſh-men; and never think of the Poor out of our own Pariſh.
Nor there neither, but according to Law, and when we cannot help it.
Charity is a Free-will-Offering, and we part with nothing we can keep, I aſſure you—
Not ſo much as our ſins.
Eſpecially at this time—
Unleſs it be to live upon 'em.
Alas! what pity 'tis, that Gentlemen ſo much in debt—
That we ſhall never pay—
To Heaven—
And other Creditors.
Of Youth ſo ſweet, of Form ſo excellent—
You or me, Ilford? Who does he mean?
So finiſh'd, by the great Creator's Hand, I worſhip him in thee.
As thou do'ſt the King's Picture in his Coyn—
In hopes of getting by it.
You are ſo faſhion'd—
For a Sinner.
And by Natures Hand deſign'd—
A Whoremaſter.
You can't want—
Women? No, Pilgrim, I ſhan't want 'em, in thy Acquaintance, I'm ſure.
You can't want Grace, the Beauty of the Soul, the Accompliſhment of Virtue to the work: You can't wan't Chairty; for Charity is call'd our Gratitude to Heav'n—
You call it ſo.
You would not be Ungrateful?
I wou'd not be a Fool, nor imagine ſuch an Aſs as thou art cou'd ever be Commiſſion'd, a' God's Name, to collect the Revenues of this World—
Nor to Convert (thoſe Deodands of Devotion) the publick Charita
We build no Churches, Pilgrim, nor found Hoſpitals, but in our own Countrey; nor there neither, but to Father our own Baſtards.
Your Mendicant Women-Saints, we allow off indeed: All our Charity runs thro' their Devotion.
Soft little Hands become an Offering, and thoſe we often fill.
Are you ſo loſt.
To all that thou can'ſt ſay.
Thy Godlineſs may Convert others, tho' it does nothing upon us.
What can I do for you?
Pimp for us.
I will Pray for you.
Do't in a Corner alone then,
I may joyn with you in yours, before I have done; the Abbe won't fail me.
I have my hands full, Gentlemen; but my Trade is ſettled, my Correſpondence eaſie, my Factors employ'd, and my Returns will be quick.
Pray make 'em ſo; and come as ſoon as you can to us.
I ſail with every wind, in the Teeth of Fortune ſometimes.
Have a care of being bit, Sir Antony.
I Valentine I warrant you—
You may venture him: He has nothing to loſe, that I know of, but his Youth; and that wonnot long ſupport the expence of the life he leads.
He loſes no time, indeed.
But miſemploys a great deal, in my Opinion.
Youth will have its Sallies.
The Sallies of his Youth will ſooner lead him to Repentance and the Pox, than to his Mannor of Love-dale, as he calls it.
His Manſion-houſe in Gloceſterſhire.
His Caſtle in the Air, which no Man ever heard of, till he was pleas'd to fancy, and Chriſten it, for the Seat of his Family.
Then you don't believe him a Barronet, of twelve hundred pounds a year, under Age, and upon an Allowance for his Travel, from his Guardians?
I believe he may have been ſome Court Page, ſpoil'd firſt by the Con
I don't know who he is, or wat he has: If he be no Knight, he's a pretty Fellow, and that's better: And if he has not Twelve Hundred Pounds a Year, he deſerves it, and does not want it: Which is more than you can ſay of moſt of your Knights, that have that Eſtate, I'm ſure.
Nay, that I grant you too.
He lives as like a Gentleman, has all things as well about him; is as much reſpected by the Men, and better receiv'd by the Women, than any of us.
He's a pretty Womans Man indeed.
And a merry Man's Man too, Sir; for you muſt own, he has a great deal of Wit.
Pretty good Natural Parts, I confeſs; but a Fool has the keeping 'em, no Judgment in the World; and what he ſays, comes as much by chance—
As Epicurus's World did; Perfect, and Uniform, without a Deſign.
He flies too much at random to pleaſe any Man of Diſcretion.
There is indeed the Quarrel of Twelve Years difference, between thy Diſcretion, and his Wit. He may live up to thy Diſcretion, George, but we ſhall neither of us arrive at his Wit.
How long will his Wit ſupport him?
That muſt be his Care, and not our Buſineſs: I never examine any man's Pockets, that is not troubleſome to mine.
If he be not troubleſome, his Neceſſities may throw him upon ſome ſcandalous Action—
That may require thy Bailing him?
That may reflect upon us.
O! thou wer't always tender of thy Reputation, when thou wer't to pay for the Scandal, I'll ſay that for thee, Ilford: But if want of Money be a Crime; Heav'n help the guilty: We are diſappointed of our Bills at preſent too.
But we have Letters of Credit, and may uſe 'em upon occaſion.
And
O! Sir, you need not doubt his giving you an opportunity of ſhewing your Gallantry in that part of your Friendſhip; he'll borrow Money of you, warrant you.
And he ſhall have it, tho' I borrow it for him. But, Sir, you had not always this ſlight Opinion of Sir Antony.
I did not always know him.
Nor he the Abbe's Niece.
I found him out but lately.
For your Rival.
His Vanity, Extravagance, and general Pretenſion to Women, are in
Eſpecially when the gayety of that Humour is likely to get the better of your formality, in Volante's eſteem: He is your Rival.
My Rival!
And I don't wonder, you don't like him.
He's a general Undertaker, indeed; and in that part of his Converſa
I am not of your mind: And here he comes to convince you.
Juſt as I left you! You ſcorn to ſtir an inch out of your quality, to put your ſelves in the way of Fortune, tho' you know her to be blind.
You meet her at every turn, Sir Antony.
She muſt come home to you to be welcome.
When do you bring her home?
But you may be ſullen, and ſour, domineer, threaten your Stew
My Guardians won't be ſo ſerv'd: My Governour teaches me to provide a
And have your labour for your pains.
I can take pains, Sir, and the profit of my pains, Sir; Fifty pieces in a Morning, Sir, the price of my pains, and give the Lady a penni
How! Fifty Pieces?
From a Woman, Sir Antony?
Nothing, Sir, a trifle.
Your Miſtreſs pays like a Widow—
That had loſt her Youth upon a Husband, and the hopes of a Joynture—
And juſt deliver'd, wou'd redeem the folly of the paſt, by the enjoy
In a ſober Reſolution, of making the price of her pennance, the pur
By refunding upon a young Fellow, what ſhe had wheadl'd from an old one.
I warrant her old, and ugly, by her Penſion.
She's young enough to be a Maid, handſome enough to be a Mi
Faith, ſhe comes down—
Deeper than I can, I aſſure you.
She pays well, I'll ſay that for her.
And is well— I'll ſay that for her.
And does every thing well.
You wou'd ſay that for her, Valentine? And ſhe does every thing well; that way ſhe is a Widow, I promiſe you.
Take us into your Aſſiſtance.
We are Friends, and will ſtand by you.
We are out of Employment that way—
And wou'd Journey-work under you.
Any thing to be wicked, Gentlemen: But, Ilford, thou art honou
She muſt not go out of our Family.
She's handſome and convenient; as able to anſwer all our wants, as all we are to ſatisfie the importunity of hers.
Well; I am ſatisfy'd, I am her Man.
Or any Woman's Man, who wants to be ſatisfy'd.
She muſt like me, for being of her Opinion, in liking thee.
That indeed may do ſomething, and time may bring it about: In ſhort, this is the Engliſh Lady you have heard me ſpeak of: I allow her the favour of my Perſon; and ſhe allows me the freedom of her Purſe: And I am glad I command it ſo luckily, to anſwer the Occaſions of my Friends.
You can command nothing we can have occaſion for.
By your Pardon, Sir, you may be too proud to be oblig'd; but I have occaſion for the Money and Woman too, ſo as you were ſaying, Sir Antony—
Why, I ſtill ſay a true bred Engliſh-man is ever out of humour when he's out of Pocket: He knows no more how to want Money, than how to borrow it—
And when he does, is as ſurly in borrowing, as others are in lending Money.
'Tis almoſt as dangerous too, to offer him Money, as to lend Money to another Man: For he is as likely, out of a want of Senſe, to ſuffer your Courteſie; as a Stranger, out of a want of Honeſty, never to return it.
That way, indeed, our Countrymen take care, never to think them
And cheat our Benefactors of their good Offices, by an Ingrati
But the Lady, Sir Antony—
More of the Lady at leiſure; in the mean time, here are Fifty Pieces of hers, too keep up your Fancy: If your Occaſions require a greater Sum— ſhe ſhall ſupply you—
And I'll ſupply her.
Upon your Bond, for the payment of the whole to her in England—
By all means.
A Blank Bond, becauſe ſhe wou'd not be known here.
With all my Heart, but won't ſhe take a Gentleman's Word?
O yes, when ſhe has his Bond for the performance. When our ſurly Friend is Civil enough to be oblig'd, I have a Twin-Purſe at his Service too.
You are very much out of his Favour of late.
So I find: What's the Matter with the Fool?
How have you diſoblig'd him?
But he's in Love, and conſequently an Aſs.
And I believe Jealous of you.
Faith I'll give him Cauſe. Volante is as fit for my purpoſe of Tormenting him that way, as I could wiſh. Shall we to the Abbe, Gentle
Golding! An Engliſh-Man?
So his Servants tell me, Sir.
Juſt come to Town, ſay'ſt thou?
He has not peep'd abroad, ſince his coming, Sir.
Do you know any ſuch Gentleman, Valentine?
I did; a conſiderable Coxcomb of that Name, in England; a Knight, Sir Gentle Golding. Sir Antony, you may have known him too.
I have heard of him. If this ſhou'd prove my Coxcomb Govern
But Damn him, he has not Courage enough to croſs the Channel.
I know he is in France, I heard of him at Paris.
Faith, Sir, it muſt be the Man—
Whom we muſt manage then.
Why do'ſt think ſo?
Your Deſcription is ſo like him, Sir.
Why, haſt thou found him out—
For his Father's Son, and his Mother's Fool.
And our Fool, Gentlemen: If he be a Fool, I'll have my Snack of him.
There's enough for you all, without wronging the Family, as he will quickly convince you. He knows you, Sir—
Then 'tis the very Fool.
And deſigns to wait upon you.
At his Peril be't: I owe him a Revenge, for Lucia's ſake.
Is this the Spark?
That bought her of her Aunt—
Now for my Character.
When ſhe was yet too young, to Judge between the Fortune and the Fool.
That's ſome Excuſe however.
A little time ſhew'd her, her ſenſeleſs Bargain.
So I hear.
Which, ſhe repenting, gave you the cheaper Penniworth of her Perſon: Then was the time—
That I was in France; out of the reach of any other Pleaſure, had ſhe deſign'd me any, than the bare News, that ſhe had found him out, loath'd, and abhorr'd him.
Loathing and Abhorring, are Tokens of Mortification indeed: But Pennance is not enough for ſuch a Fault; 'tis generally as ſhort liv'd, as the Sin that begot it. What marks of Amendment has ſhe ſince given?
What marks of Amendment wou'd you have?
I know nothing of her Amendment.
Wou'd you have her Snivle, like a Girl; more afraid of her Mo
Repent upon the firſt Intrigue—
Turn Honeſt, and diſparage the Pleaſure, by leaving the Trade.
That muſt not be.
By no means, Valentine.
Wou'd you have her already fall off—
Become a Civil Perſon—
And take up—
With ſome body that better deſerves her; that way I wou'd have her a Civil Perſon, and fall off from her Fool.
Indeed a Woman never repents of a Fool ſo heartily, as in the Arms of a Man of Senſe.
How Fortune has diſpos'd of her, I know not; but I lik'd her once ſo
If that will preſerve your good Opinion of her, ſhe will conti
Then I honour her.
She has robb'd him of Five Hundred Pounds, run away from him; and ſo expos'd him, that he has been the common Rhyming Theam, the Hackney Pegaſus for the Puny Poets to ſet out upon, in their vaſt Ambition, of arriving at a Lampoon.
And that perhaps has ſent him into France.
Well, I will have her Knighted.
Of what Order? A Knight Errant, or an Errant Knight?
A Knight Errant, of thy Order, ſhe muſt be.
That ſhe is already.
And thee a Right Honourable, for thy News.
You may depend upon it.
If ever I light on her, I'll thank her for this Juſtice to us all.
Golding may tell us more of her.
But he and I muſt clear another ſcore.
BRother, you may forget your ſelf, and your Rank, as much as you pleaſe, in our Niece Volante: I have nothing to do with her, but to wiſh her well.
'Tis very well.
You are her Guardian: Her Perſon, her Fortune, and her Conduct are in your Care.
I'll take Care of 'em.
You muſt anſwer for 'em.
I will anſwer for 'em.
But my Daughters are under my Government; and whilſt they are, they muſt, nay ſhall do nothing to diſhonour me.
They will do nothing to diſhonour you.
I'll put it out of their Power, had they a mind to't.
They ha' no ſuch Mind.
That's more than I can tell, from the Liberties you give theſe Eng
They are Gentlemen.
I apprehend a Danger, tho' you won't.
Pugh, pugh, there is no danger.
I'll prevent it, if there were.
All Men of Fortune, in their Countrey.
They are not Men of Quality. Wou'd Count Verola were come.
Don't do ſo raſh a thing.
I'll rid my ſelf of all my fears at once; diſpoſe my youngeſt DaughFloriante—
To make her more miſerable.
Suitable to her Birth.
To a Fool, the worſt of Fools; a Singular, Opinionated, Obſtinate, Crooked-temper'd, Jealous-pated Fool.
If he were ſo, that Fool's a Count; and the Count makes amends for the Fool.
Then he is welcome— Count Verole enters to 'em.]
What ſays the Abbe?
Sir, you are moſt welcome.
I ſhall be glad to find it from the Man I ſo much honour—
Ah, Monſieur L'Abbe.
You have prevented us.
We were going to viſit you.
In Nomine Domine, Amen.
The Abbe making his Will!
Amen to our Abbe's Devotions.
You fall as naturally as a Pariſh-Clerk, into the cloſe of a Prayer.
I love to bring things to a good end.
Nay I have done; my Devotion won't tire your Attention.
You are like the Prelate, that being dignify'd for long Prayers, ha
Long Prayers are for poor Prieſts that want Preferment, Men of Qua
In Men of your Rank they are Phariſaical, and always to carry on a Deſign.
I neither have a Faith in them nor their Followers; and therefore I ſeldom or never pray at all.
How! never Pray at all?
The Church and I are agreed upon the Bargain; and few words are beſt, when the Parties are of a mind.
But the Church may better your Bargain.
I am mortify'd to the Dignities and Deſigns of the Church; have laid aſide the Pomp and Pride of my Profeſſion, I am contented to ſit down in a Sine-Cure; and, with the poor pittance of 2000 Piſtols a year, make the moſt of a good Conſcience and good Company.
A good Conſcience is good Company indeed.
I mean, Sir, I'll make a Conſcience of good Company—
Make the beſt of the Bleſſing, and enjoy it as long as you can.
Ah! my little Knight underſtands me, tho' you won't, Sir.
You'll anger him—
He jumps into the Point with me.
And into the Company too, dear Abbe; I muſt make one.
Make one, thou mak'ſt all; thou'rt all in all; the whole Company thy ſelf; thou art every thing with every body; a Man among the Women, and a Woman among the Men.
How Abbe! Sir Antony a Woman?
One might indeed miſtake him, by his Face.
He wou'd miſtake him, I believe.
Somewhere elſe.
But there's no faith in Faces; the Women have found him out, and won't truſt him.
Ay, ay, the Women Abbe, the Ladies—
As mad as ever they were, my Nieces you mean!
I long to be among 'em.
Nay, they long too, if that wou'd do 'em any good. And think it long.
I have not ſpoke to a Woman this half hour.
We are all idle without you.
Sin has been as ſilent among us.
As in the firſt Seſſion of a Parliament, in fear of a Reformation.
Ah! very well, I faith, my little Man. But no, no Reformation, I warrant you; matters ſhall not be much mended by my Management; Sin muſt ſometimes get the better of the Saint.
Or the Devil may ſtill wear black, Sir.
Let him wear what he will: We have had him in our Family this Morning.
What's the matter?
My Brother has diſcover'd ſomething between you, and his Eldeſt Daughter.
That's unlucky.
Which to prevent, he deſigns to Marry her inſtantly to Count Verole.
That's bad indeed.
What is there to be done?
Nothing that I know of.
What's to be done? Any thing's to be done?
What if I run away with her?
With all my heart.
Or if I cut his Throat.
With all my heart.
Or Bed-rid him with a beating.
With all my heart.
If none of theſe will do, let him Marry her.
And I muſt ſay with all my Heart.
If you can't make her your Wife, make him your Cuckold.
With all my heart.
Ah! if I durſt but hope that way.
Hope, you muſt hope Man, and you muſt dare Man, if you wou'd do any thing with the Women.
Can you encourage me?
Why, Faith, what-ever her Father deſigns, ſhes does not deſign to Marry him: And Diſobedience may make way for other Sins.
I know ſhe hates him.
And I know ſhe likes you. And if I have any Authority from the Church—
Which is not to be diſputed.
Or any Intereſt from my Eſtate—
Which muſt be conſiderable—
Not to be oppos'd—
And which muſt furniſh the better part of her Fortune, he ſha'nt have her.
That's gaining time at leaſt.
He's naturally jealous.
And has ſettled that Nature by a Spaniſh Education, they ſay.
He was bred in Spain indeed.
A miſerable Woman ſhe muſt be then.
I wou'd not have a Niece of mine marry'd into a Family, or Nati
Our Women are the happy Women, Sir.
Why, indeed your Engliſh-men are the fitteſt Men for Husbands in the World! Wou'd all my Female Relations were married into your Countrey!
Wou'd they thought as well of us, as you do.
There is a Lady quarrels at her Condition, or likes another Man bet
Such things have happen'd indeed.
There they ſay Cuckoldom is in faſhion.
Nay, more than in faſhion, Sir, 'tis according to Law; CuckolEngland.
We give our Women fair play for't.
And ſcorn any Tie upon 'em, more than their Inclinations.
Why, what wou'd a Lady ask more in Marriage? I'll maintain it, ſuch a Priviledge is better than her Dower; and in a prudent Woman's thoughts, muſt take place of any other Conſideration.
'Tis as much before a Dower in Profit too, as in time; for a Husband may cheat a Wife of her Dower.
Or wear out her Title by out-living her; and then ſhe is bob'd of her Reverſion.
Or leave her ſo old, ſhe may be paſt having any good from it.
Unleſs ſhe lays it out in redeeming ſome younger Brother—
That had ſpent his Annuity in a Lord's Company—
Or in following a Common Whore—
Or in following as Common a Miſtreſs, the Court.
And being reduc'd to the laſt Fifty, had ventur'd it prudently on a Birth-day Coat, and the Hopes of an Employment.
One, who in ſpight of having been once undone, will have no more profit from his Experience, than to fall into the ſame folly agen, with the ſame occaſion.
Then hang him for a Fool, enough of him— I am convinc'd with what you ſay, Gentlemen: And you ſhall have my Niece, you have her Conſent, and my Conſent, and Sir Antony's good Word; which I promiſe you, goes a great way with the Women.
Your Niece Volante is her Confident.
I'll make her your Friend.
I'll ſecure her for you.
Why you ſecure her?
For ſuch a favour, Sir, I think I may.
Your Intereſt is mighty.
So far I can engage her.
You engage her!
Nay, oblige her.
Her Friendſhip may oblige her, but not you.
Pray don't quarrel about obliging her; Volante is my Favourite, ſhe ſhall pleaſe her ſelf, and I believe wou'd pleaſe Sir Antony —Gentlemen, you are three, and my Nieces are three; I wo'nt meddle in your Choice; agree among your ſelves; win 'em, and wear 'em; I had rather you ſhou'd have 'em, than my Brother diſpoſe of 'em.
Sir, you oblige us all.
Our Dinner ſtays for us, we'll ſettle thoſe things within: I have al
We have had him already.
And our ſhare of laughing at him too, Sir.
He pretends to be a Man of extraordinary Sanctity; I medled with that as little as I cou'd, for fear of raiſing a Spirit I cou'd not lay; beſides, I had matters of more moment to mind then.
How did you get rid of him?
With much ado I put him and his Hiſtory off, telling him, ſome Engliſh Hereticks were to Dine with me—
We are oblig'd to you, Sir.
And if he pleas'd to ſpare that miraculous Account, (which he will be ſure to give of himſelf) for the Converſion of the Wicked, he might then have a proper occaſion for ſo great a Deſign.
I ſhould think the worſe of my Conſtitution as long as I liv'd, if I ſhou'd grow qualmiſh of any thing he cou'd ſay to me.
I knew I muſt hear him, and therefore provided your Converſation to qualify his.
The Novelty may divert us.
He profeſſes more Charity, than to force his Nonſence upon you.
That Puniſhment I muſt go through, before he will go away, and pay for my Penance too.
At the expence of his Vow of Poverty.
Why, there our Chriſtian Liberty's confeſt.
Wou'd we had ne're a more impoſing Prieſt.
One word before you go.
Prithee come along— no Cautioning in ſuch a ſlight Affair—
I am glad you think it ſuch a ſlight Affair.
Meer merriment.
I never thought it more.
Matter of Mirth, and Jeſt.
Nay, that's too much.
Upon a fooliſh Pilgrim.
Upon Volante.
Volante! Thou talk'ſt of Volante, and I anſwer thee, the Pilgrim: Why thou art diſtracted, Man; and I ſhall ſuſpect my ſelf to be no wiſer than I ſhou'd be, for keeping thee Company.
Sir, however you think to carry it, I muſt tell you—
With a very Grave Face—
This is no jeſting time—
Becauſe 'tis a ridiculous Subject.
That I am in love—
In ſerious ſadneſs.
With that Lady.
That never was ſad, nor ſerious in her life: Prithee, no more of this, Ilford, in Love! Thou art a very honeſt Fellow, and haſt a great many good Qualities, but thy Talent lies quite another way.
Sir, I am ſerious enough to be angry, if you laugh at me.
But you are in Love with her, you ſay: Why every body that ſees her, is in Love with her, if that wou'd do any good; but is ſhe in Love with you?
I think my Eſtate may recommend my Perſon to a Welcome, where
Do's ſhe think ſo?
Why do you ask the Queſtion?
Volante is too Witty, to be very Wiſe; and requires no Settle
And why may not I be her Man, pray?
Fy, Fy, Sir, more Modeſty might become a Man of your Gra
What, you follow her!
Nay, you follow her; ſhe does not put me to the trouble.
No, Sir— I ſhall put you to more trouble, if you don't quit your Pretenſions to her—
Quit my Pretenſions to her!
And promiſe me—
I will promiſe you—
O, will you ſo, Sir?
That (whatever I would have done by fair means) I will now follow her in ſpight of your Teeth—
In ſpight of my Teeth—
Purſue her, till ſhe yield to my Deſires—
The Devil you will!
And lye with her under your Noſe.
You ſhall be Damn'd firſt.
Nay, then have at the Lady.
This was a Trick to ſave his Cowardice.
I had rather part with my Pretenſion to a Quarrel, than to my Miſtreſs at any time.
I hope you are not hurt.
Sir, you aſſert a Priviledge, the Lady never gave you, of Treating her at that Familiar rate.
At what familiar rate?
Sir, you may be reſpectful, look ſimply, and bow at a diſtance, in a Modeſt Diſpair, of ever coming nearer to pleaſe; but I am for a cloſer Converſation, when I like my Company.
I am ſorry, Sir, my Carriage gives Offence; but I muſt think you treat me more familiarly, that ſaucily ſhou'd dare to cenſure me, limit my Actions, and preſcribe me Rules.
A Fooliſh Fellow, Madam, not worth your Anger; leave him to his Repentance, and your Scorn.
I muſt bear it all.
But pray, how came this Difference?
'Twas your Quarrel, Madam.
I am ſorry for it.
You may judge what a Husband he'll make, who (being but a Servant) dares aſſume an Authority over you—
Which I never gave him, that I remember.
I told you, you were out of the Road of her Favour.
The Report of this Quarrel, and the Occaſion of it, will be but a ſcan
It ſhall go no further for me.
I ſuppoſe the folly on't will keep you ſilent; you may be aſham'd on't indeed.
I beg you Pardon for it.
Beg, Sir Antony's; for till he pardons you, I am ſure, I won't.
There is no Remedy, you muſt ſubmit.
I am a Woman's Fool, and muſt obey.
'Tis many a Wiſe Man's Fortune.
We are Friends.
If you have Favours to expect from me, deſerve 'em by fair means.
Or come to me, and I'll ſpeak a good word for thee to the Lady.
You Triumph, Sir.
Till when, we take our leaves.
Is not that Sir Antony?
They are proper Counſellors for our purpoſe of Diſobedience—
As we cou'd ha' met withal.
You'll be no Nun, Siſter?
Nor you no Counteſs?
I wou'd be as willingly enclos'd in the Walls of a Monaſtery, as in the Arms of that Count Verole; and in the Arms of Death rather than in either.
Well; I'm not ſo difficult; I had rather be alive upon any Terms, than dead upon the beſt; I had rather be a Nun, than be nothing at all; tho' there's nothing I had not rather be, than be a Nun.
Any Man's Company, rather than the Company of all Women.
'Tis more to my Humour, I confeſs to you, among the reſt of my Venial Offences; But Valentine! he is your Man, Siſter; wou'd I had the fellow of him—
For your Confeſſour, Siſter?
I cou'd confeſs ſomething to him that wou'd make him enjoyn me another kind of Penance, than my Prayers.
What! Abſolve you from your Devotion?
And perſwade him to make a Sinner of me, rather than ſuffer my Father to make me a Saint, ſo much before my time.
You are a mad Girl: But what of Valentine?
He ſhou'd not be out of our Deſign.
I'll anſwer for him, he won't.
His Intereſt's ſo concern'd, he ſhould not be wanting in any occaſion of abuſing our Father.
Or of uſing the Count as he deſerves.
They're both behind us, Mum—
My Lord, that goes a great way with me, I aſſure you.
If he wou'd hang himſelf—
For what, young Lady?
For your kind Care of me.
I'm glad you're ſenſible I mean you well.
A Nunnery is Virtue's beſt Retreat from a bad World.
Fy, Charlott, you'll tell all.
How cou'd ſhe gueſs at that?
Bring Sir Antony to my reſcue, I beſeech thee.
To make it but more yours.
Out of the Rank, he means, of commen Men; and indeed, he ſcarcely looks of Humane Kind.
What do I look like then?
There's nothing like you, you are your ſelf.
I wou'd be nothing elſe.
What, not of God's Creation?
I am of his Creation.
Of the King's you may be; but he who makes a Count, ne're made a Man; remember that, and fall that mighty Creſt.
It ſeems you know me then.
By that coy, cock't-up Noſe, that hinders you from ſeeing any Man, that does not ſtand upon the Shoulders of his Anceſtors, for long De
I would be nothing, if I were no Count.
Pray more reſpect.
This is the Count Verole.
O, is it ſo?
That's to Marry my Cozen.
I have been too bold, pray Ladies joyn with me—
To laugh at him.
To ask his Pardon.
For the future, know me, and know your ſelf, I ask no more.
Then I am pardon'd, for I know my ſelf, and think I know your Worſhip. Can you fight?
Ha! What do you mean?
Why faith I come but upon a
What does the Gentleman mean?
Walk but aſide with me, I'll tell you what I mean.
You have no Secret for me?
Why then it ſhall be none.
He won't draw before the Women, ſure.
Since the Ladies muſt be by, as they muſt be the Judges at laſt, you muſt know then, I come to you from a Gentleman—
Is he no more?
He's every thing in that, that makes a Man.
You may go, as you came, for me, Sir, if he be but a Gentleman.
His name is Valentine, your Rival in that Lady.
My Rival is my Equal; I am born above his Rank, he cannotrival me.
He does rival you, and will rival you.
Envy he may my Fortune with that Lady.
Well! Envy then, if that muſt be the Word; he envies you; and only wants an opportunity of telling you, how much he envies you.
A modeſt Requeſt truly.
He can't deny it him—
Before his Miſtreſs too.
Now Sir, if you will be ſo courteous, as by me, who am to be his Second, to favour him with knowing where, and when he may wait up
How may that be, pray?
To Cut your Throat, Sir.
O Sir, I'll ſpare his Compliment.
My Friend's an Engliſh Man, and never loſes a Miſtreſs for want of fighting for her, I aſſure you: Nay, I have known ſome of my Country
It ſhou'd be good Nature for another then.
Such Arguments wou'd not prevail on us.
Unleſs to Cuckold 'em.
How will our Count get rid of this buſineſs?
I wait your Anſwer, Sir.
My Anſwer is, when I am as angry as your Friend is, which, at pre
You muſt be made angry then.
When I am under a defeat of my hopes about that Lady, as he may be, and, in an abſolute deſpair of better ſucceſs, and have nothing elſe to do with my ſelf, I may be angry, and then I may fight with him.
Muſt you be angry when you fight?
Or Mad, or Drunk; 'tis no Employment for a ſober Man.
Have you no Notion of Courage?
Notion indeed, young Man; for Courage is no more, than juſt ſuch a degree of Heat, to ſome Complexions natural; but thoſe Men, who want that Heat, may raiſe their Spirits to't.
I marry! there's a Receipt indeed.
Paſſion will fire the coldeſt Elements; the Lees of Wine ferment the dulleſt Phlegm to Froth and Vapour; I've ſeen a Drunkard in this Fit, attempt dangers to Rival Caeſar: If ſuch Extravagancies make the Brave, Madmen are Heroes.
This won't do my buſineſs. Will you fight?
'Tis common Soldiers work.
You muſt fight with him.
Not while I can hire Ruffians to take the trouble off my Hands.
You muſt expect to be us'd very ſcurvily, where-ever he meets you.
I ſhall be provided for him.
O, here he comes himſelf.
If you're for muſtring your Friends, I have your Father of my Party.
The Ladies never want an entertainment, when they have Sir Antony to encourage the Mirth. Pray what particular Diverſion has he given you?
Very particular indeed.
You were a Party concern'd.
And only wanting to make up the Farce.
Yes, this is he, my very, very Fool!
Very handſom Gentlewoman indeed, all three of 'em: and that's Sir Antony, that the Abbe commended ſo much.
The very ſame, Sir.
I will be acquainted with him—
Sir Antony.—
Sir you moſt humble Servant.
Do you know me, Sir?
Not I, but I'm an Engliſh-man, and the Engliſh always keep to
Of their Money, or Manners?
Of their Mother Tongue.
Of their Mother-Church, their Religion. Now I deſigning to continue, as I am—
A Fool.
Have a mind to ſpend my Money among my Country-men.
You're very welcome—
To be cheated only by your Friends.
There's Valentine, a very pretty Fellow; but I have known him a great while; I am for Variety, and freſh Faces: Here's honeſt Ilford, my very good Friend, of half an hours acquaintance, will recommend me.
You recommend your ſelf, Sir.
Truly I hear you are an Extraordinary Perſon, and a Knight, Sir; I am a Knight my ſelf, Sir!
And an extraordinary Perſon truly: Pray of what Family, Sir?
Of what Family? Of my Father's Family before me; the FaGoldings, of which, I am your Servant, and Sir Gentle Golding.
This is Sir Gentle Golding—
Sir, as I may ſay, I may thank you for this favour.
If you are for this ſport, I'll find you Game, Sir.
O, of all things Ilove the Women.
Sir Gentle declares that by his Dreſſing.
You ſhan't dreſs in vain, I'll find you employment among 'em.
I'll depend upon you then, and from this time forward, we muſt be intimate as Men of the ſame Brother-hood, and Worſhip— ought to be.
See, ſee, our Count has rally'd again!
With your Father in his Tail, to ſuſtain him.
We muſt not ſtay till they come. At Night I may expect you?
If any thing extraordinary happens—
I'll come expreſs with the Tidings.
You ſhall hear from us.
Your ſervant, your ſervant.
You ſee, Sir Gentle, we make a ſhift.
Make Shift! We make a Carnival; all the Year a Carnival: Every Man his Woman, and a new one at every Town we come at.
Ah, wou'd I could ſay ſo too!
You ſay ſo, Sir Gentle? Fye, fye, you don't deſire to ſay ſo, to my knowledge.
That's very fine i'faith.
You only rally your Country Men.
Not I, as I hope to be ſav'd, Val, tho' I love a Joke, I never rally a Friend.
You a Miſtreſs! Why, you have forſworn the Sex!
O Lord, O Lord! that's a likely buſineſs indeed! I forſwear the Sex! I wou'd as ſoon forſwear my own Sex, as the Womens; why, I have made it my indeavour, ever ſince I was a Man of Eſtate, to be accounted a Knight of Intrigue; ſo you never were more miſtaken ſince you were born, Sir.
Why, what a lying World we live in! I was told you were ſo ſcurEngland—
Softly, ſoftly, Man.
By Lucia—
A Jilting Jade! You knew her, not worth remembring.
That you were reſolved never to venture on the Sex agen.
Prithee, dear Val, no more on't: There's ſome ill Nature in my part of the Story; I wou'd not have it go further for my own ſake.
It goes no further for our hearing it.
We know it already.
Ay, it may be ſo; I confeſs, poor Creature, I gave her a Jea
And that perhaps, in her Deſpair of pleaſing you much longer, might be a Reaſon of doing what ſhe did.
Why truly very likely.
And therefore ſhe robb'd you.
Of 500 Pounds.
She might ha' ſhew'd a Conſcience in her cheating though! Five Hundred Pounds was too much in reaſon—
Sir Antony, you are my Friend upon all occaſions; but the truth is, I gave her an Opportunity; left my Cabinet open on purpoſe; and was glad to get rid of her for the Money.
You ſhall pay as round a Sum for this Lie, before I part with your Vanity.
And this is all?
The ſhort and long of the ſtory.
Leave the ſilly Creature to her Garret, where ſhe will be in a little time: ſhe'll hang her ſelf in her Garters when the Money is ſpent.
I warrant her, will ſhe, and be glad to come off ſo too.
So, forgetting Diſaſters at home, you travel—
To drive and old Miſtreſs out of his Head.
And recover here, what he had loſt in England by the Gallantry of a French Intrigue—
Which I come qualified for, Gentlemen; being able to bid up to the Price of any of 'em.
If you ſhew your Money, we may borrow.
You may borrow, but I never lend; you are acquainted, and have your good Breeding and Behaviour to recommend you to the Ladies.
You ſhew your Wiſdom in your good Husbandry, Sir Gentle; you are a Stranger, and muſt be oblig'd to your Pocket for what you muſt expect from 'em.
And therefore, Sir Antony, I will part with my new Acquain
Money does every thing with the Women in France, Sir.
I won't ſpare it upon them, Sir Antony: I rely upon you for a Miſtreſs then.
You ſhall ſee her this Evening.
Bills and Buſineſs, Gentlemen; but now we live together, no Ceremony: Adieu for a moment; and dear Sir Antony, yours.
You are in his favour.
And will be in his Pocket: Leave him to me.
Our Abbe and the Pilgrim agen! This Viſit is to you.
He has a mind to make a Convert of me, that's certain; but whether in the Fleſh or the Spirit, is the queſtion.
He's for the outward Man, I warrant him.
And his Arguments of this World, whatever the Pilgrim's may be.
Ah my little Man! you have loſt a mighty Satisfaction; the Pilgrim has wrought Wonders upon us all within.
Much above my Expectation, indeed.
His Story ſtaggers me, I confeſs; and has cur'd me of an old Diffi
Well, he's a Rogue; and you han't found him.
You are the only Infidel in the Company.
You diſſemble a Belief; 'tis neceſſary to the Church, and you get by the Trade; but none of you remove Mountains, that I hear of.
Do but hear what he can ſay.
'Tis a work of the Spirit indeed; and the Spirit works unſeen of Hu
Do as I order you.
There is an obſtinacy in Sin, that won't be confuted before Company; Reproof may return into our own Teeth a Rebuke and a Reproach unto our ſelves. For which Reaſon I am aſſured, that a Privacy in Communication, and a Retirement from the eyes of the World (when the Cauſe is Conſcienti
Thoſe Neceſſaries thou ſhalt have at my Lodging; I follow thee, Pilgrim: Farewel Gentlemen, if I am convinced in this Point, and live to ſet foot in England agen, I ſhall ſatisfie thoſe Heretical Unbelievers, that I have ſeen one Miracle in a Catholick Country.
THis is a dry Subject, Pilgrim; there's no engaging in't with out a Bottle.
You'll have your own ways here.
Have you infus'd the Opiate in his Wine?
I warrant him he ſleeps for't; your's is half Water.
If I don't find him a Knave, I'll make him a Fool, for troubling me with his Impertinence: But chiefly, for the dear Jeſt of expoſing his Re
Nay, I will have no Bleſſing upon our Endeavours, but a Bumper—this will baniſh Croſſes: Here's to the falling of the Fleſh, and the riſing of the Spirit.
'Tis a myſterious Health, of ſacred ſenſe; ev'n to the pulling down of Satan's Throne.
A little Wine does well to qualifie the Water you drink in your Pilgrimage.
Sometimes without offence, Wine may be us'd; tho' our whole Life is but a Pilgrimage—
That's as you pleaſe to make it. Come Sir, this is the Searcher of Hearts; here's to the opening of ours—
Hearts and Eyes, that we may ſee our Errors. This Wine will warm him, ſure.
Confeſſion is a ſtep to Repentance, you ſay.
The ready Road—
Then drink off your Glaſs, Pilgrim: How do you like your Wine?
'Tis warm, I promiſe you—
Able to diſtinguiſh a Saint from a Sinner; and will keep you out of the Mire, better than your wooden Shoes.
'Twill rather leave us there. But to our purpoſe now—
Another Glaſs to ſtrengthen my Attention; I ſhall edifie the bet
Sure he can't make me drunk.
I expected you wou'd ha' drunk to my Converſion.
I ſhou'd ha' began it in Charity, indeed; but I'll make you what Reparation I may, and drink a full Glaſs for my forgetfulneſs.
I warrant him my own.
To your Converſion be it—
This is the way to't, and the pleaſanteſt Road you can travel in: For let me tell you, the World is bad enough at the beſt; we need not take Pains to make it worſe.
Too many do indeed.
Such fooliſh Apoſtles as thou art then: Why, I begin to deſpair of thee: I took thee for a ſanguine, ſenſual Sinner, a Man of Senſe, and an Hypocrite. But I find thee a peaking Penitent, and an Aſs.
You ſit in the Seat of the Scorner.
Tho' you paſs upon the Abbe, and other Fools, I expected you wou'd have open'd your ſelf to me: I profeſs my ſelf, what I thought you were under your Habit, a Rogue: We might have been of uſe to one ano
I muſt not loſe this Opportunity.
Now I begin to believe all the ſilly things you have ſaid of your ſelf; your being weary of, and leaving the World, when you had a good Share of it your own; your parting with the Pleaſures (which you call the Vanities) of it, at a time, when you were in a condition of enjoy
My Service to you.
Of a conſiderable Quality and Fortune to a Younger Brother; who indeed needed no other Expectation for his Wants, than the abundance of your Folly to live upon.
You cenſure me too raſhly.
I ſpeak my Thoughts, and am ſo far from imitating you any way, that when an Elder Brother ſtood between me and a good Eſtate, I made bold to remove him.
By no violent means.
Something before his time. I had a Joynture too incumber'd me; but a Phyſician after my own Heart eas'd me, and my good Lady-Grand
And dare you own it?
Not at a Barr of Juſtice.
So horrid a Villany!
Never troubles me: I don't proclaim it but in my Cups, and where I think I'm ſafe to Men of my own Kidney—
You confeſs your ſelf a Villain?
Any kind of Rogue that ſerves my turn; for I am of a Principle, that levels every thing in the way of my Pleaſure or Profit.
A Worthy Principle!
I cheat the Men, and lye with the Women, as many as I can get in my Power.
Sir, I honour you; pray ſit down agen.
To hear you preach agen?
And are you really this Rogue you pretend to be?
Are you the Fool you pretend to be?
I muſt come nearer you.
How, Jewels!
I bring my Welcom with me.
Enough to ſet up a Saint: The Lady of Loretto may keep her Chamber; thou haſt ſpoyl'd her Holy-days, by robbing her Shrine: For thou haſt robb'd hers, or ſome other, that's certain.
'Tis certain I have the Jewels: How I came by 'em, and why I put on this Habit—
Then you are no Pilgrim?
No more than you are a Prieſt. I am as errant a Rogue as you can be; a Shifter of Shapes and Names; have travell'd through every Profeſſion, and cheated in all; ſo having by my Induſtry gathered a handſom Fortune, I converted that into Jewels, and my ſelf into a Pilgrim, for the ſafer conSpain, whither I was going till I lit upon you.
I ſaw you through your Weeds, and had a mind to diſcover you.
Well, now you have diſcovered me—
Why, now I like you.
But are you ſure you like me?
Like you extreamly.
If you can like me, you may love me too; for a Woman I know you are.
Am I diſcover'd too—
Have you a Miſtreſs to be convinc'd to the contrary?
We were made for one anothers Converſation; here's that ſhall keep it in humour.
I have heard of Mark Antony's Pearl Cordial.
You ſhall drink nothing elſe but Pearl diſſolv'd: Ha! What's the matter with me?
Now, now my Doſe begins— you grow indifferent—
My Senſes vaniſh all.
What fall a-ſleep before me?
By and by I'll come agen to you.
He looks as he were drunk-dead, or dead-drunk.
Examine his Pockets, lets ſee what Credentials he has for his Character, tho' you ſee I have treated him like an Embaſſador without 'em.
Here are Tablets full of Memorandums, to avoid ſuch and ſuch places where he has done his Rogueries.
Very well; theſe, when he awakes, will make good, if he ſhould have the impudence to diſpute my Title to the Theft.
You won't keep all the Jewels?
A round Ranſom may redeem 'em; but him I muſt expoſe, GoAbbe's.
Moſt carefully.
And if Sir Gentle enquire for me, as I expect he will, direct him thither.
I won't fail.
I have a Miſtreſs for him.
Volante is ſo buſie for another, ſhe has nothing to do for her ſelf; ſo cloſely employ'd for Valantine, ſhe has no Employment for any Body; or when ſhe has, 'tis partially deſign'd for that Boy-Knight, in prejudice of every Man that may with more reaſon pretend—
Sir Antony— Sir Antony— a word with you—
Prithee let me go; I am big with a Jeſt, and ſhall certainly miſ
Be deliver'd of your Burthen then, lay it at my door; I'll Father it for a Friend.
As ſome Men wou'd a Baſtard, for the Reputation of getting it.
I have thought better of this Rivalling buſineſs between us; I ſee plainVolante declares for you—
I think the poor Creature loves me indeed.
And 'tis to no purpoſe to proceed—
None in the World, Sir.
In the meaſures I had taken in making my way to her; therefore now I come, like a Friend, to deſire a Favour of you.
Now you ſay ſomething, Ilford.
And like a Friend to adviſe you; you're a very pretty Fellow, and have a great many dancing years to trip over, before you come to be ſetious.
I hope ſo, Sir.
You ſhou'd Ramble before you Settle—
For fear of rambling after—
You are too great a Good, among the Women, to think of being par
Too gay for a Lover.
Too gay for a Husband.
Ay, marry Sir, a Husband!
How Sir?
I make Love ſometimes, but do not often Marry.
What do you follow Volante for then?
Can't you tell for what? For as good a thing you may ſwear, Ilford: You gueſs at her Inclinations, poor Rogue; and a Lady ſhall never loſe her Longing upon me; I deſign to Lie with her.
Without marrying her?
Without asking any Conſent but her own; I am not for many words, when I have a mind to be doing.
So impudent a thing I never heard!
Quarrelling agen Gentlemen!
Upon the old Subject.
I hate the Employment and Character of an Informer: But you come ſo upon the ſcandalous minute, I muſt tell you what; that young Gentleman—
Sir Antony has no Friend of you, Sir.
Nor you of him, Madam; as you will find, when you hear what he ſays of you.
Pray what's the matter?
He has the Impudence not only to deſign it, but ev'n to me his Rival, who love and honour you—
Your Story, Oh, your Story!
He dares notoriouſly tell me to my Face, That he never deſign'd to marry you; but becauſe you were in love with him, poor Creature, he wou'd do you the favour to Lie with you.
Madam, you know he hates me upon your Account; and this is one of the poor Endeavours of his Malice to ruin me: You can't think I wou'd be ſuch a Villain—
I won't think it, Sir Antony.
Such an Ideot, if I cou'd have it in my head, to declare it to my Rival.
Oh no— it is not probable.
By Heav'n and Earth he ſaid it.
I wou'd not believe it for Earth and Heav'n, if he did.
Nay then 'tis labour loſt.
If you'll deliver this Letter to Valentine, you'll do him more ſervice, [Gives Ilford a Letter.] than you have me with your News— I won't leave you behind me, Sir Antony.
I'm going to the Abbe's, Madam.
Well! I cou'd almoſt wiſh, he wou'd lie with her, to convince her, tho' ſhe won't believe me, ſhe will him; and that, in time, will be a ſuffi
The Count has his Gurd du Corps, Valentine.
Sir Antony has Alarm'd him.
He is in a ſtate of War, fit to give Battle already.
What he wants in his Perſon, he has in his Equipage: But they threaten too much, to do any Harm.
Do you ſecure your Perſon; Volante ſhall ſecure your Miſtreſs againſt him, I warrant her.
Here's a Letter ſhe gave me for you.
Down with your Burthen; and place him in that Chair. So, this is as proper a Scene to recommend our Farce to the Family, as we can have—
Sir Gentle Golding is below, and wou'd ſpeak with you.
I know your Deſign upon him; and I'll be gone to put things in Order to receive him—
To receive Valentine: He ſhall be welcome to me; but to deceive Sir Gentle.
You are as buſie
Ha! he begins to ſtir: How long will the Opiate hold him?
If he wakes before the Company comes, you loſe your pleaſure of laughing at him.
But I have a ſudden Though, may give us a better Diverſion.
Sir Antony, your moſt incomparable humble Servant.
Sir Gentle, I've done your Buſineſs.
With the Lady you promis'd me?
With that very Lady; I've ſecur'd an Appointment for you; but being a Woman of Quality—
There you oblige me for ever.
Tho' ſomething decay'd, and fall'n in her Fortune— She muſt be humour'd in little things; ſhe will have her Forms.
I warrant her; and very fit ſhe ſhou'd. A Perſon of Quality is known by her Forms.
They laſt but till the Evening, then I'll carry you to wait on her. Shews the Pilgrim.] Here's a drunken Pilgrim will afford you Merriment e
Dead drunk, as I intend to live ſober.
Do me the favour to ſtay; and ſecure him, if he ſhou'd wake. I'll but bring the Abbe and his Family to ſhare in abuſing him, and be with you again.
Why what an Unlucky, Hypocritical Rogue is this, to be diſcoAntony! If he were but half as Holy, as he pretended, he might 'ſcape by Miracle; but he ſleeps ſo ſound, no Revela
Boy, Draw the Curtain, Sirrah—
Is the Light in your Eyes, Sir? What pains he takes to come to himſelf! Gad, I'll play the Rogue with him—I'll be the Midwife to his Labour—Stay, let me ſee, a ſtiff Straw wou'd do rarely, to probe his So
Ha! Am I alive? Where have I been? Where am I now? How came I here? Who are you? What wou'd you have?
Have! My ſelf in a Wiſh to England. Wou'd I were in my Mothers Belly again.
Speak, I conjure you, ſpeak to me.
He's as heartily frightned, as I can be; I'll pluck up a Spirit, and ſpeak to him.
Some ill thing has poſſeſs'd me.
Yes, poſſeſs'd thou art, by the lowd Spirit of powerful Wine poſſeſs'd. A drunken Devil.
A Bottle, and Sir Antony I remember, and the Diſcoveries I made him.
You are diſcovered, and in the Abbe's Houſe—
In the Abbe's Houſe!
Where now your buſineſs is to be laugh'd at, and expos'd; and the whole Family are coming to make your Holineſs a Ridiculous Viſit to that purpoſe.
That young Rogue Sir Antony! Has he done nothing elſe to me?
Have you loſt your Learning? How cou'd you miſs it ſo ſoon? A Table-book?
Sir, I am robb'd; and I took you very ſuſpiciouſly about my Pock
Why, do I look like a Pick-pocket? I'd have you to know, I ſcorn your Words: But that Trick ſhan't ſerve your turn—
Serve my turn, Sir—
You muſt not 'ſcape me ſo.
Look you, Sir, here's the Inſide of my Pockets; I have nothing about me, but Bills of Exchange, and this Purſe of Elizabeth Broad Gold: You ſhall ſearch me, if you pleaſe.
I have ſearch'd you, and found you, and muſt go by you too—
O Lord Sir, I don't hinder you—
No, no, you had not beſt.
Pray take it away: I have a natural Averſion to the ſmell of Gun-powder—
Tho' 'twill be difficult to get away, for the Servants are order'd to ſtop you.
How! to ſtop me!
Now he wont offer to go.
The Servants ordered to ſtop me, do you ſay?
If you be the Pilgrim.
Then I'll be the Pilgrim no longer—
What will you be then pray?
Ev'n Sir Gentle Golding; I will get off in your Perſon, ſince I can't in my own; I muſt change Out-ſides with you—
O Lord Sir, there's no Occaſion for it: I know nothing of a Deſign upon you.
That's more than I know.
Faith and troth now, what I ſaid, was only to play the Rogue with you.
And what I do, is to play the Fool with you. You muſt ſtrip Sir.
O, but this is carrying the Jeſt too far.
Look you, you may keep your Worſhip and Wit for your own wear
At any other time, and welcom; I ſhould be pleas'd with the Humour on't; but this is my firſt day of wearing 'em; beſides, there's a Mi
As long as you live, prefer a Friend to a Miſtreſs, Sir Gentle; Come Sir, a little of your Aſſiſtance.
But I am to ſee her this Evening; and one wou'd be well dreſt you know, the firſt time.
If you muſt ſee your Miſtreſs, Viſit her in Maſquerade; 'tis a faſhio
That is my Buſineſs indeed: But if I loſe my time—
Don't make a noiſe, nor follow me; If you wou'd ſee her, or little England again, know your Friends, and give thanks Sir—
Sir, I have accepted theſe Bills already.
I know you have: But my Occaſions falling out more Extraordinary than I expected, I am forc'd to preſs you for this Bill of 100 Piſtols, before the Day.
I have ſo often ſuffer'd, for thoſe Complemental Payments, that I have reſolv'd againſt 'em: But my Correſpondent gives me an account of Sir Gentle Golding; you ſhall have what Credit you pleaſe with me.
A hundred Piſtols I have preſent uſe for.
If my Caſhier were at home, you ſhou'd have 'em along with you; but in the Morning, as ſoon as you pleaſe—
I'll ſend my Servant to you— pray Sir, what news have you in the City?
The neweſt Sir, is of a Pilgrim, that is ſuſpected of ſomething; I am Imperfect in the Particulars; but there are Warrants out to apprehend him, that I know.
There's no believing Out-ſides; Sir, your Servant.
So I think too; And therefore I will be better Inform'd, whether you are Sir Gentle Golding or no, before I leave you.
The hundred Piſtols, if I had receiv'd 'em, had carry'd me off cleAntony about my Jewels— However, I make a pretty good Figure ſtill; Here's a good Suit of Cloats to begin the World with again—
Bleſs your Worſhip, Sir Gentle, long may you live to wear 'em; How do your Cloaths fit you, Sir?
Very well Friend, very well.
Have you forgot me, Maſter?
No, no, I han't forgot thee; for I never ſaw thee before.
I am poor Courtaut, your Taylor's Finiſher; I brought your Ho
Did you ſo, did you ſo?
By the ſame token, you ſaid, you wou'd give me ſomething to drink you health; but you were pleas'd to forget it.
I remember I gave thee nothing indeed; but the next time—
Aye, an't like your Honour, I am contented to ſtay, if my Maſter wou'd: But he has beaten me black and blew for leaving the Cloaths behind me, without Money.
Gad forgive me; that I ſhou'd forget that too! But come to my Lodging an Hour hence—
Pleaſe you, I'll wait upon you now to your Lodging—
How ſhall I ſhake him off?
For I dare not go home without the Money, or ſome part on't?
Here, take this Purſe, 'tis more than the Debt, but take the reſt for thy ſelf, now I remember thee—
The Elizabeth broad Gold has deliver'd me.
Yes, Maſter Monſieur, that is my Maſter, Sir Gentle Golding. You ſhall ſee me ſpeak to him—
Young Man, a word with you.
More Debts to pay! I ſhall fall like an Executor without Aſſets.
Sir, I have been about your Buſineſs, with the Meſſenger, as you or
This is one of my Engliſh Servants it ſeems; I'll anſwer him in French to get rid of him.
If you were at leiſure—
How's this? I durſt ha' ſworn it had been my Maſter; but I am ſure he has no more Languages than Tongues and that his Mother gave him: Beſides he's too good an Engliſhman, to learn any thing in another Country.
Je ne vous en tens pas, je ne parle pas Anglois.
It ſeems I was miſtaken, Sir, this is ſome out-landiſh man; he can't ſpeak Engliſh.
How, not ſpeak Engliſh!
I'm ſure he paid me for the Suit upon his back, but juſt now, in very good Engliſh—
And wou'd have borrow'd a hundred Piſtols of me, in as Civil Engliſh—
I can ſpeak Engliſh Gentlemen, I ſpoke French, only to try, if that Fellow had learn't any thing, ſince he came into the Country.
I'll have a tryal with you. This is ſome Rogue that has murder'd my Maſter—
And ſtole his Cloaths—
And robb'd him of his Bills of Exchange.
Murder, Murder; Roguery, Thievery, ſtop him.
Nay the Pilgrim was in the right, in getting off before your Evidence came upon him.
I never heard of ſo Extraordinary a Rogue, as he confeſſes himſelf to be in theſe Tablets.
But that our gentle Knight, ſhou'd neither hinder him from going, nor be forth-coming himſelf, makes me believe ſome Ridiculous Accident has light upon him.
Let it be but Ridiculous enough, and I may forgive him.
The Ports are ſhut, and for the Pilgrim, if he be in the City, we ſhall have him again.
What's that ſneaks by us ſo?
Our very, very Saint.
Good morrow Pilgrim!
Won't you know your Friends?
We were too late for your Levy.
Pray look up: You can do nothing ſure to caſt you down.
Ev'n the very ſame.
What do you in this Habit?
'Tis whimſical and odd; I had a mind to try if you cou'd know me in this Diſguiſe.
O yes, we know you in any Diſguiſe.
But there's a Warrant out againſt the Pilgrim; you'll be taken up for him.
Why? you don't take me for the Pilgrim.
But the Government will.
The Government then, will take me for as very Raſcal as lives unhang'd in it.
But what's become of him?
You were laſt with him—
You have convey'd him away.
Or murder'd him—
You muſt anſwer for him, for you have his Cloaths.
Nay if it be ſo, I'll tell you how I came by 'em—
The whole Truth, and nothing but the Truth.
I'll ſee him hang'd, before I tell a lye for a Rogue, that has us'd me ſo ſcurvily—
How ſcurvily, dear Knight?
Why, when you left me you know, alone with him, he took his time, when my Back was turn'd; and clapt a Piſtol to my Breaſt—
Bleſs the Mark! a Piſtol!
A Piſtol, Sir Gentle!
A double Barrel'd Piſtol.
A brace of Bullets in each, I warrant you.
I warrant you there were: for he ſwore he wou'd ſhoot me thro' the Head—
The Piſtol was at your Breaſt, Sir Gentle.
Breaſt, did I ſay— Did I ſay, at my Breaſt Gentlemen? But Breaſt or Head Sir— He ſwore he wou'd murder me, if I did not give him my Cloaths, to make his eſcape in.
And ſo, you gave him your Cloaths?
No I thank you; that were to make my ſelf Acceſſory; I put him to the trouble of taking 'em.
And very wiſely done, Sir.
So he ſtript you?
To my very Shirt, I'll make Oath on't, before a Magiſtrate.
You put on his Cloaths then, as one may ſay, in your own defence?
You may ſay ſo indeed.
Stick there Sir, Se defendendo will bring you off.
I muſt ha' gone home Naked elſe.
And cou'd you have paſs'd ſullenly by us, and conceal'd ſuch an occaſion of Laughing at you?
Prithee Sir Antony, no more on't.
Bring him along: Bring him along—
What Rabble have we here?
We are enow to hang one Rogue, or we deſerve to beat Hemp for one another.
Where are you haleing the Gentleman?
Sir Antony, I am in your Power; ſtand but my Friend in this Buſi
I'll ſwear point-blank my Maſter's Murder upon him.
Who is your Maſter, Friend
Sir Gentle Golding, and like you; and I am his Man.
Aye, 'tis my Man indeed, wou'd I were his Maſter again.
You my Maſter, you Raſcal! my Maſter's a Knight—
Now Abbe, I am even with you and your Pilgrim: But ſince I have brought him ſo far into his Buſineſs, 'tis matter of Conſcience to bring him out agen. I was provided for his Impertinence; and ſince I cou'd not make him drunk, I gave him an Opiate to expoſe him as if he were; for that purpoſe I remov'd him to your Houſe: But coming to himſelf before I expected, he ſcap'd that Deſign—
And finding the Diſgrace ready to fall on me, and in your Houſe, I made bold to change Cloaths with Sir Gentle Golding—
'Tis true indeed, Gentlemen.
But ſince Matters are brought to a clearing, I am ready to return 'em to the Gentleman.
As you had 'em, I hope?
Every thing but his Purſe; which I was forc'd to give his Taylor there to get rid of him.
Return the Purſe.
For Sir Gentle Golding, I only haſten'd you.
Why, how did you know I wanted ſuch a Sum?
It ſhall be pay'd to you, or your order.
Pray pay it to no body elſe.
You've done your Duty, Gentlemen; 'tis very well. Pilgrim, a word with you.—
How this fooling has run away with the time!
I'll be for you immediately.
Within a quarter of Ten already!
I ſhou'd ha' been glad to ha' made one, Valentine.
I thank you; but Numbers may diſcover us, and Sir Antony won't be out of the buſineſs.
Do me but this piece of Service, and I won't only pardon you, but reAntony.
I am at your Mercy, and you ſhall command me any thing.
Sir Gentle ſays, you drew a Piſtol upon him.
That was not according to the Law of Arms.
I can't tell how his Fear repreſented it, but it was an Inkhorn that diſarm'd him.
You won't fail, when I ſend for you?
I'll but change Cloaths with that Gentleman, and be ready as ſoon as you pleaſe.
Now Valentine have with you—
'Tis near upon your appointment with my Niece: I'll ſecure her Fa
I wiſh you well, Gentlemen.
Villains and Murderers, I hope you are not hurt.
Thank your Aſſiſtance, Sir.
If I am not a Man in this point, I'll never wear Breeches more.
I know 'twas Count Verole.
He has not rais'd himſelf in my Eſteem by this baſe Action—
What do you out of doors?
I cou'd not ſtay within, knowing your Danger.
'Tis over, now retire.
Pray pardon me; if I have done any undecent thing, my Duty caus'd it in my Fears for you.
I'm ſorry I have allarm'd your Family.
I dare ſwear for him he is
So far 'tis well, Sir: If you think your ſelf oblig'd for what is paſt, ſhew it in what's to come; forbear my Houſe, my Daughter is diſpos'd of: So good-night.
Very good Advice, Valentine: Since you can't make it a good Night with his Daughter, make it as good as you can with ſome body elſe.
Why Faith, the Expectation of her has rais'd me into a deſire of any thing in Petticoats.
What think you of my Engliſh Lady?
You owe me a Favour there, Sir Antony.
To Night I'll pay it then; I have an Appointment upon me now; but not being in ſo perfect a Condition to oblige her, you ſhall make an End of my Quarrel.
With all my Heart.
I'll ſend my Governor to conduct you.
He, like other wiſe men, makes no ſcruple of Pimping, when he gets by the Employment.
Then you are not one of thoſe fine Gentlemen, who becauſe they are in love with one Woman, can lie with no body elſe?
Not I, Faith Knight; I may be a Lover, but I muſt be a Man.
SIR Antony not being able to wait upon you in Perſon, as deſign'd, has deſir'd me his Friend—
Sir, your moſt humble Servant.
To ſhew you the way.
I'll ſhew my good Breeding, and follow you.
The Lady is at preſent in private; when ſhe has diſpatch'd her own Bu
Then ſhe's a Woman of Buſineſs.
And of Diſpatch too, Sir: If you love Pictures, there's a Gallery will take up your Thoughts till the Lady's at leiſure to employ 'em better. I'll let her know you're here.
How Ceremony diſguiſes any thing! I can't take this civil GentleAntony were here, to
Faith Madam, your Entertainment will keep you in Countenance; you may own the making of it.
You'll truſt your Stomach with a cover'd Diſh another time, Sir?
You may ſhew your Face after it, and expect the Thanks of the Com
And diſgrace the Reputation I have got with you in other things.
Nay, if you think ſo, I wou'd not have you ſhew it for the World.
That were to ruin the Complement you intend me.
But after all, if your Face ſhou'd be as delicate as your other Charms—
But if it ſhou'd not be as delicate—
Then keep it to your ſelf; but 'tis pity 'tis not: but be it what it is, I will pay ſome part of my Thanks in adviſing you.
You wou'd ſay Grace and be gone, my ſerious Sinner, wou'd you?
Only to make ſure of coming agen Child, that's all.
Some of that all, I beſeech you—
My Doctrine will turn to thy uſe. Child, and lead me often to thee, if thou haſt but the Grace to make the right Application.
Good Holder-forth, bate your damn'd Faces, and begin.
Why then, in the firſt place, about our Friend Sir Antony; He's a very pretty Fellow I grant you; but he's a Boy, a giddy-pated Boy—
A little too young indeed to be truſted—
In an Affair of this nature, by any Woman that has a Reputation to ſecure with her Pleaſure.
I have been afraid of his talking indeed a great-while.
You muſt expect it, Madam; he has not Experience enough to value you: All Women are alike to the young Fellows; as indeed all Fellows are alike to the young Women; neither Sex chuſes well, till they come to an Age of Diſcretion.
There I am with you indeed.
There is a maturity requir'd in Love, as in other Fruits, to recommend the true reliſh of it, to the diſtinguiſhing Palate of an Epicure. I am ſome
Then Sir Antony can be.
Sir Antony in Petticoats.
But are not you a Rogue, Valentine? Not to receive a Courteſie from a Lady by the favour of your Friend, but you muſt abuſe your Truſt, and ſupplant the very Intereſt that rais'd you to her?
I am confounded indeed! But are you Sir Antony Love?
All but my Petticoats.
And are you ſure you're a Woman?
Are not you ſure of that, Sir?
There are as many to come; you ſhall command 'em all.
Now I remember; you father'd a Baſtard for me, at Paris—
I had the reputation of it indeed; and ſhou'd have had the Cow with the Calf; for her Father purſu'd me to marry her, thro' all means of Accommodation, into the ſtrait at laſt of confeſſing my Sex to the Engliſh Embaſſador—
This you never told me before.
He had her puniſh'd, and ſecur'd me in his Family, as long as I ſtaid there; for you know, he was a Man of Honour—
And a Man of Gallantry too, Madam, that knew which way to im
As well as any body; and ſo he did Valentine: By his generoſity and good uſage, he preſs'd me ſo very far, that not being able to anſwer the Obligations I had to him, (having you in my head at that very time) I was forc'd to run away from him, to get rid of him.
How could you keep this from me ſo long?
Now 'tis more welcome to you?
Had I known it before, it had been in my power—
Not to marry me, I hope, Valentine! But if you cou'd be in that mind (which I neither deſire, nor deſerve) I know you too well, to think of ſecuring you that way.
But I wou'd not have engag'd my ſelf, any where elſe—
I know your engagements to Floriante; and you ſhall marry her. That will diſengage you, I warrant you.
You continue your Opinion of Marriage.
Floriante, I grant you, wou'd be a dangerous Rival in a Miſtreſs—
Nothing can Rival thee.
And you might linger out, a long liking of her, to my uneaſi
Well Governour, what think you of my Management?
Why, if you take but half the pains in your Profit, that you have ſpent in your Pleaſure, I think we may expect a very good account of the Knight—
Sir Gentle Golding! he's in your Debt indeed: I had not leiſure to re
We'll laugh at him at leaſure.
He's in the Gallery, expecting your pleaſure.
My pleaſure is to ſee him, bring him in.
I promis'd him a Miſtreſs, you muſt know: 'Twill be fooliſh enough to obſerve him, when he diſcovers me; pray ſtay, and laugh with me.
The Interview muſt needs be ridiculous.
My Office ends, where the Lady begins; I'll leave you to her.
Pray, Sir, a word with you—
The ſewer the better, till you have ſaluted her: You ſee ſhe expects it.
I ſhou'd have ſaluted her indeed: but the ſurprize of your Beauty, Madam, made me forget my Complement.
My Face has ſurpriz'd him, I believe.
Pray, did I never ſee this Gentlewoman before?
You beſt can tell that, Sir; but you are concern'd at ſomething.
A little concern'd, I am indeed, but 'tis only to know, whether I know her, or no.
In your Tour of France, you may have ſeen her; ſhe's of the Country.
A French Woman.
Of Languedock.
I durſt ha' ſworn ſhe was an Engliſh Woman!
Born and bred among us.
I'm glad on't, with all my heart. For I knew a little Woman, but a great Divel, ſo like her in England—
Very like, Sir.
That faith and troth, I was down-right confounded at the ſight of her.
Some Miſtreſs, that you have forſaken—
O fie, Sir, I never do thoſe things—
I warrant you, and the guilt of her ill uſage haunts you up and down, in her ſhape.
Nay, I deſerve it indeed; if it ſhou'd be ſo; for I was too bar
See, Sir, the Lady wou'd have you ſit down by her; I never ſaw her make ſuch Advances before; you are very much in favour.
Soft and fair. I muſt be more in your favour, before I have done with you.
She does not ſpeak Engliſh. But there's an univerſal Character in Love, which every Creature can comprehend; when ſhe has you alone, ſhe'll grope out your meaning, I warrant you.
So, ſince we have nothing to ſay to one another, we ſhall loſe no time in Complements; I like her exceedingly: tho' I never look upon her, but Lucia comes in my thoughts; ſhe's ſo very like that jilting Jade, I ſhall never love her heartily: A week will be the fartheſt, I ſhall be conſtant to her. What ſign ſhall I make, to put her in mind of her Bed-chamber? Mo
But how ſhall we do to underſtand one another? You ſpeak no
French, and I ſpeak no Engliſh; 'Tis impoſſible to underſtand one another.
Madam; you do ſpeak Engliſh—
I underſtand it a little; enough to know I reſemble one. What did you call her, Lucia, aye, Lucia, a jilting Jade; you don't like that, for that reaſon you can't love me heartily; nor be conſtant above a Week: I underſtand ſo much, without ſpeaking Engliſh; as you find to be underſtood.
I find I do underſtand you.
But I'll try to ſpeak plainer to you.
Nay, you ſpeak plain enough, Mrs. Lucy. Wou'd I were any where, to be rid of you.
You ſee, we were not to part ſo. Fortune will have me oblig'd to you: I have almoſt ſpent the 500
l.
I borrow'd of you.
I'm glad I had it for you, Madam.
And faith, 'tis very kind, in an old Acquaintance, to follow me inFrance, to ſupply me agen: I know you came a purpoſe—
Not quite a purpoſe.—
No, not quite a purpoſe, ſome little Buſineſs by the by of your own, you might have, I grant you: But this Purſe you never deſign'd for me.
I'll force nothing upon you Madam; you may give it me agen, if you don't like it.
Yes, yes; the Purſe is an amiable Purſe, and very well to be lik'd; only the Sum does not amount to my Occaſions: There's no retreating, Sir Gentle, you are in my Power, and without a Ranſome, muſt continue my Pri
Any Compoſition; but don't murder me; you know I hate a Piſtol.
What have you in your Pockets? Nothing but Papers?
You have got already, all the Mony I had about me.
About you! with a pox to you: muſt I be ſo anſwer'd? And why had not you more about you? Stay, here's a Bill of 100 Piſtols, at pre
'Tis very well it does.
Payable to you, or your Order? What's there?
Run, and receive this Bill for the Gentleman.
He ſhou'd Indorſe it firſt.
Come, Sir, you muſt lend me your Order.
No borrowing among Friends; I'll give it you, to Monſieur Traffique.
Why, that's well ſaid.
You live as it were by your Wits; 'tis better I ſhould looſe a little Money, then you ſhould forget your Trade, for want of employment.
A great deal better, Sir Gentle! But I muſt lock you up till the Money be paid.
Aye, aye, with all my heart; but he won't ſcruple the payment.
The next time I do you this ſavour, take care to be better pro
I'll take your Advice.
If I were not juſt upon my leaving the Town, and in a very great haſte, I can tell you, you ſhould not get off ſo eaſily.
I am beholding to you: But I am ſorry we looſe you ſo ſoon.
You may find me again, if Chriſtendom ſtands were it does a Twelve-month to an end; let not that trouble you.
I allow all you ſay: And laſt Night's Action has not declin'd the Count from my Eſteem, more than it raiſes Valentine.
He'll keep your Daughter more orderly then a Nunnery can: ev'n let him marry her.
You know, I'm out of my own Power and Choice.
Hang your Choice; you may be aſham'd on't.
Indeed I do repent it; but my word and reputation are engag'd to him.
Is that a man to make a Grandfather?
No other ſhall, by Floriante, make me one: And therefore ſhe ſhall be Religious, and take the Habit in her Siſter's room—
What, make a Nun of her, againſt her Will!
To cut off all Pretenders; but to prove how I regard your Friend, Charlot you know, inferiour in nothing but her Years, if Valantine likes her, ſhe has my leave, and ſhall receive his Viſits at the Grate: Let him but con
Let him get Floriante, and he conquers thee.
Ah my little Palmer! You lye as cloſe as a man in a Proclamation; but you are a Pilgrim of Honour, I find—
Where I am engag'd, Sir—
Sir Antony can never diſcover thee.
I warrant I do your buſineſs—
And your own buſineſs—
My own buſineſs to be ſure, and Sir Antony's too, or I ſhall looſe my Labour.
About it, about it inſtantly, and proſper, my little Palmer.
Valentine! I have ſome News for you:
But you amaze me, Sir Gentle—
It wou'd amaze one indeed, Sir Antony.
'Tis the oddeſt piece of Roguery and Impudence that I have heard of.
Aye, ſo 'tis, 'tis pretty odd, and impudent indeed.
A cheating Gypſie; I warrant ſhe has had her eye upon you, from your firſt coming to Town.
Nay, not unlikely.
I began to ſuſpect her my ſelf, ſhe preſt me ſo often to bring you.
Ah; if I had known that, Sir Antony!
Why, what if you had?
Why, I wou'd ha' ſtaid away; but if you had been with me, it had been the better for me.
Much at one for that, I believe. But is ſhe gone out of Town, do you ſay? You ſhou'd have apprehended her—
Pugh, pugh— ſhe's gone from her Lodging, ſhe muſt not ſtay long in a place.
'Tis very well ſhe's gone—
Aye, ſo it is: and I hope I ſhall never ſee her agen.
I dare ſwear for him, he ſpeaks his heart.
Well Sir— your buſineſs with me? If it be grave or wiſe, keep it for your own uſe; I never approve diſcretion in any man, but a Pimp.
Sir, you may ſay what you pleaſe, or call me what you pleaſe—
Nay Sir, I honour you, if you are one.
Then I am one, and one employ'd to you.
Begin your Employment, that I may go about mine.
Why then, Sir, in few words; there's a Lady dying for you—
I never viſit the Sick, let her die in peace: But don't let a Prieſt come near her; he'll ask her bawdy Queſtions, when ſhe has a mind to be ſerious.
She's only dying for you, Sir.
Were ſhe living for me, I cou'd ſay ſomething to her; if ſhe make a Will, as far as the Legacy goes, I may remember her.
Your Mirth becomes you, Sir; but the Lady's in very good health, and, in ſhort, only dying in love with you.
Short and ſweet.
And has a mind—
I know her mind; and what ſhe has a mind to.
You know the World enough, Sir; to excuſe a Lady in Love—
And abſolve her too.
Tho' ſhe ſhou'd have a Husband—
For making him a Cuckold—
Not to make a practice of it.
The oftner the better.
Very Caſuiſtically brought about, Sir. And I am ſo much of your Opinion, that I think the Lady cannot do her ſelf a better juſtice, nor me a greater favour, than allow me to wait upon her on ſuch an occaſion.
That ſhe does in this Billet: And if you think it worth your while to viſit her— will do you richer, and greater favours.
I am at preſent engag'd—But in the Evening—
The Evening wou'd do well: I am bad to ſay, her Husband's out of Town, the reſt, her Note will beſt inform you in.
Then this ſhall be my Guide.
I may cheat you out of your Cunning, before I ha' done with you.
Why, what the Devil am I engaging in agen! I ſhall draw all the Women in Town upon me, at this rate: Maids, Wives, and Widows, have one Curioſity or another always to be ſatisfi'd. I have a Reputation among 'em; and if I don't keep it up, by anſwering their Expectations—I ſhall fail of mine, in my Frollicks, and be diſcover'd; and that I have no mind to be yet a while! But how the Devil ſhall I anſwer their Expectations—Or this Lady's in particular, who has beſpoke me for her Evening Service? If I go, I ſhall diſappoint her more than if I ſtay away; and I know, good Soul, ſhe wou'd be as much concern'd for me, to find me no Man, as at anoValentine!
I wou'd as ſoon be a Lawyer as a Lover at this rate. Following a Miſtreſs to no purpoſe, is as bad as trudging a Foot to Weſtminſter for no Fee. Can you corrupt a Nunnery for me, my little Knight!
I will do any thing for you—but firſt you muſt lend me your Limbs, to carry on a Deſign—
Do what you pleaſe with me.
Thou art a moſt incomparable Fellow, Palmer; the Prince of Pimps and Pilgrims! But what! Sir Antony is a young ſmoaky Rogue I warrant you, he ſuſpected ſomething—
Not a bit of ſuſpicion.
He might ſcruple it at firſt, you know.
Firſt nor laſt, he made no ſcruple at all! But came into my Net, as faſt as I cou'd ſpread it for him!
But came into my Net, as faſt as I cou'd ſpread it for him! Prettily expreſt upon the occaſion! And I ſhall love a Setting-dog, as long as I live, for the ſake of the Simile.
I'm glad it pleaſes you.
Pleaſes me! Yes, yes; it pleaſes me! every thing pleaſes me. But ha! my Boy! he muſt not get from us, now we have him in the Net.
'Tis our fault, if he does.
Why Sir Antony has us'd thee but ſcurvily—
To my Coſt.
And Revenge is very natural—
And very ſweet.
Revenge is ſweet indeed; it muſt be ſweet; a ſweet Revenge, upon ſo ſweet a Boy: And take my Word; I'll do you that Juſtice upon him: For I'll tell you, what I intend to do with him—
Aye, pray Sir.
Why in the firſt place I intend — not to open my Lips, upon that Subject. But I mean—
I hope ſo, Sir.
If I can compaſs my deſign, I mean—
What do you mean?
Not to explain my ſelf, Palmer—Ah Rogue! But you know what I mean.
Why to tell you the truth, Ilford, there is a Woman in the caſe; I expect her every minute.
I fancy'd ſome ſuch thing.
She is a thing to be fancy'd; and you wou'd think ſo, if you ſaw her.
Do I know her, Sir Antony?
You have ſeen her.
What nothing more of her?
None of your peeviſh Queſtions.
'Tis not Volante?
If it were, you don't come to quarrel for her?
Not I faith, Knight: I come in abſolute good Nature to viſit you.
Why indeed, I could not expect the favour at your hands, as Matters ſtand between us.
Nothing ſhall ſtand between us: Nothing did, but a Woman; and I come to ſtrike up a Friendſhip, offenſive and defenſive with you, by making a ve
If you mean Volante, ſhe will diſpoſe of her ſelf.
I know ſhe wou'd diſpoſe of herſelf to you: But you won't marry her, Sir Antony: Now I am one of thoſe fooliſh Fellows, who don't apprehend a Danger, till they are in't. I never think of being a Cuckold: I love Volante, and wou'd marry her— Come, come, there are Women enow for the ill-natur'd purpoſe of your Love; quit her to me, do a generous thing to a Wo
Why Faith, Ilford, I wou'd do a great deal for you; but I muſt do ſomething for her.
Do me a Favour, and don't undo her Fame.
But there's the pleaſure on't—
To ruine the Woman that loves you—
Not ſo much out of ill Nature to her, as good Nature my ſelf: Reputation muſt be had: And we young Men generally raiſe ours out of the Ruine of the Womens.
But Volante is a Woman of Quality,
Wou'd ſhe had a Brother, to make a buſineſs on't: He cou'd not do her ſo much right, in fighting for her, as he wou'd do me reaſon, in ma
That wou'd ſet it about indeed.
If I ſhould ſay, I had lay'n with her; or endeavour to ſet it a
As an impotent Piece of Vanity, or Folly in a young Man.
But no body dares make a doubt of a Report, when a Relation has taken an honourable Care, by a Duel, to fix the Scandal in the Family.
Why, truly I think the Men of Honour are out in that buſineſs: Scandal does not fall into the hands of a Surgeon, like the Wounds of the Body for a Cure: Opening and Probing, makes the Malady but more invete
It heals beſt of it ſelf, without a Plaiſter.
And Time muſt finiſh the work. I have obſerv'd ſome Women live themſelves into a ſecond Reputation—
And other Women, who by a natural Negligence, never ſetting up for any, from the freedom of their behaviour, have paſs'd uncenſur'd in thoſe publick Places, and Pleaſures, which wou'd have undone Ladies of a ſprucer Converſation, but to have appear'd in.
So that 'tis not what they do, but not doing all of a Piece, that ruins their Character, and unders the Women—
And condemns the Men too: For 'tis not any Man's Opinion, but his ſhifting it to the Occaſion, that makes him a Raſcal; as let his Opinion be what it will, if he continues the ſame, and acts upon a Principle, he may be an honeſt Man: But 'tis no Character I wou'd adviſe a Friend to.
But this is from my buſineſs, Sir Antony! And, all things conſider'd, the difficulties of getting, and the danger of enjoying Volante; in my Opinion, her Woman wou'd be the better Intrigue.
Why indeed the Woman wou'd often be the better Intrigue, were ſhe as difficult to be compaſs'd as her Lady.
It ſeems the danger doubles your delight.
And we naturally covet, what we are forbid; for very often 'tis the bare pleaſure of breaking the Commandment, that makes another Man's Wife more deſirable than his own.
As at preſent, the bare pleaſure of oppoſing my Intereſt, has carry'd on yours with Volante, farther then otherwiſe you deſign'd.
Why faith, there's ſomething in that too, Ilſord: Not but I have a very good Opinion of the Lady.
Well Sir Antony, I wiſh you wou'd think it worth your while, to make a Friend of me—
I wou'd make a Friend of you.
Reſign your Title then: 'tis but giving me now, what in a little time you will decline of your ſelf: Make Volante mine, and make me yours.
I wou'd with all my heart; if I cou'd do it with Honour.
I warrant you with Honour.
But how can I diſengage my ſelf? Matters are gone a great way between us— ſhe's coming up to me. [Waitwell, whiſpers and goes out.] Step into that Cloſet, you will over-hear what we ſay; I won't pro
At leaſt, ſeeing her here, will do ſome good upon me
O Madam, you as are good as your word.
I can keep it, you ſee, at your coſt, when I like the occaſion.
We men are not more punctual to an appointment, upon the hopes of a new Miſtreſs, then you Women are, upon the firſt promiſe of a Husband.
And it ſtands us upon to be diligent in both Sexes. For neither the Men, nor the Women, continue long in the mind of allowing thoſe Favours.
Why faith, Child, the beſt Excuſe for fooliſh things— (As Marriage you allow to be one—
A convenient fooliſh thing.)
Is the doing 'em without thinking. But, what Madam, can't a Man ſport off a little innocent Gallantry with a Lady, without being ſerious a 'both ſides; You are in earneſt, I ſee.
Why there's the Jeſt.
And keep me to my word.
On my word will I
You take all Advantages.
I may be allowed to take what Advantage I can ill the beginning; I ſhall be ſure to be the looſer in the end.
In all Plays, one ſide muſt be the looſer; but Marriage is the only Game, where no body can be the winner.
That's making an ill Bett indeed, where we may looſe, and can't win; Yet I am reſolv'd to venture.
But Child, haſt thou no more mercy upon my Youth, my Dreſs, my Wit, and good Humour, then to make a Husband of me!
Since you could not have me on your own Terms, I know you'll take me on mine.
Well, there's nothing but cheating in Love: Very often indeed we are before-hand with the Women; but when we marry 'em, I'm ſure they cheat us.
And when do I cheat you, Sir Antony?
Have a care of cheating your ſelf, Madam?
Nay, one time or other, all Women are to be fool'd; and I had ra
And pleaſure too, I beſeech you. I am now going with Valentine to the Nunnery, to ſee his new Miſtreſs Charlot—
And by her Intereſt, to ſee his old Miſtreſs, Floriante; I know the ſtory, and what the Abbe deſigns in it.
I ſhall be back in an hour; by that time the Evening will con
To meet you, with a Prieſt for a Second.
I'll have a Father ready to bleſs our endeavours.
I warrant you, the firſt Night for an Heir.
O Sir, your Servant; I ſee I am beholden to you.
The moſt in the World I gad, when you know all.
Know all! I know enough to convince me, that you are not capable of a ſerious deſign of ſerving your Honour, or your Friend—
What's the matter now, man?
And I was a Coxcomb for thinking you cou'd.
Nay, you may be a Coxcomb however.
What's that you ſay?
No quarrelling I beſeech you, till you have Cauſe.
Till I have Cauſe; I think you have given me ſufficient Cauſe—
To thank me, I have; if you know how to be greateful.
O, I muſt needs be greateful; and always confeſs the Obligation you have laid upon me, in promoting my Intereſt ſo viſibly with Volante—
So oppoſite to my own with her.
With ſo much Diligence and good Nature—
Well remembred, I gad.
That in my hearing, and ſtill to advance my Intereſt—you have made an Appointment to marry her—
And put you to bed to her.
How, how, Sir Antony?
I knew there was no other way to do you a Service with her; therefore I reſolv'd to marry her for you, and put you to bed to her, for me.
Incomparable deſign!
A poor project of mine, Sir; if you had engag'd in't, it might ha' turn'd to account; but as 'tis, I go as I did.
But take me along with you.
I never impoſe a Curteſie upon any Man; nor quarrel, becauſe he is not ſenſible I am his Friend; when you come to your ſelf, you may re
I do repent, and confeſs my ſelf—
Well; what do you confeſs your ſelf to be?
A Fool, an Aſs, to pretend to vie with you in any thing.
And will you always keep in this humble Opinion of your ſelf, and allow me the Aſcendant?
I ſhall be an Aſs if I don't.
But you muſt confeſs your ſelf a Coxcomb—
Aye, any thing.
For pretending to cenſure, before you underſtood my deſign.
You told me I was a Coxcumb before; and now I begin to believe it my ſelf.
Well, upon your Penitence, I pardon, and take you into favour agen.
And into the deſign.
That you muſt be: And to convince you that what I do is per
With all my heart.
NOw you have done the Office of a Father to the Lady, you may do the Office of a Friend to me, and go to bed to her. I can do no more than give you an Opportunity; but if you don't employ it to her advantage, ſhe'll never rely upon you, to improve another to your own.
I never deſerve another, if I don't make uſe of this.
There's no Ceremony to make the Bride coy, in going to bed; ſhe came in an Undreſs, as looſe as her Wiſhes; and being under the impediment of but two Pins, I warrant ſhe's in Expectation already.
She ſhant expect long.
There ſhe is; kiſs my Wife and welcome. She won't cry out, for her own ſake, till 'tis too late to diſcover it for mine.
If ſhe ſhou'd, I think the Caſtle's our own.
I leave you to your Fortune; I am going to ſeek mine in another Adventure.
You have made my Fortune here.
Methinks my Knight begins to ſhew himſelf already, in a Husbands Indiffe
Sooner than you expected, I believe.
How! Ilford—
I ſee you are ſurpriz'd to ſee me here; and indeed the Occaſion, that brings me to you, is very ſurprizing.
What can you mean by this?
You have ſtol'n a Wedding, Madam, tho' you think to make it a ſeAntony ſhou'd bring his Vanity ſo low, not to make a Boaſt of the Favour he has done you.
By ſending you to me?
To wiſh you Joy.
A very likely ſtory.
And give you Joy, Madam.
Wou'd Sir Antony wou'd come, to thank you for your Complement.
He ſent me with the Complement—
He ſend you!
To ſupply his place to Night. Your Husband wo'not come.
Not come to me?
Be ſatisfied ſo far, you are abus'd; and to convince you, tho' too late, how unreaſonably you have have prefer'd that Creature to every Body, he has done what no body elſe cou'd ha' done to you.
What has he done?
Giv'n me a fuller Revenge upon your Folly and Scorn, than I cou'd ha' conceiv'd for my ſelf—
What has he done to me?
He has marry'd and undone you, left you—
Left me!
The firſt Night left you; left you to me: Not that I believe he deſign'd me a favour, more than he wou'd ha' done any Man elſe; but you had us'd me ſo very ill, he imagin'd, I was capable of any malicious Deſign of ex
Of expoſing me!
But that you need not apprehend from me.
I'm in your power; but pitty me. My Folly, and my Fortune are too plain.
Do you perceive it now?
I ſhou'd ha' ſeen it ſooner.
'Tis well you find it now. However you deſerve of me; I come to ſerve you: And ſince this opportunity (that favours, and was given me for baſer ends) encourages me to nothing, beyond the hope of your eſteem, you muſt give me leave to think, that, from my behaviour, I deſerve that Honour better than my trifling Rival does the Title of your Love.
You deſerve every thing.
I ſay enough to warn you of him; but you wou'd venture.
My ſhame confounds me!
You wou'd not credit me.
I can but wiſh I had.
Were it to do agen, you wou'd follow your Inclination, and do the ſame thing?
I hate the Villain.
In your Anger?
No, to death I hate him: And were I free from him—
You wou'd not marry him!
Never.
Then you are free from him.
How! free from him!
Not marry'd to him.
Wou'd you cou'd prove it too.
I'll make it plain, if you'll conſent to it—
More willingly, than I did e're conſent. Make that but plain to me; and what returns are in the poor power of one ſo loſt—
So ſav'd, I hope.
You ſhall command.
I may reſtore you to your liberty; but never can my ſelf.
This is the time, and place of appointment; what 'twill come to, Valentine, I can't tell.
'Tis a whimſical Undertaking methinks, to ſupport another Woman's Intrigue, at your Expence—
There's no buying ſuch a Frolick to dear.
And part with your Lover to oblige her!
So long, I can't part with you; to provide for your pleaſure as well as my own: Beſides, 'tis a diverting piece of Roguery; and will be a Jeſt as long as we know one another.
Who's there? Sir Antony!
The ſame; I am afore-hand with you.
The Lady, Sir, will thank you. Whom have you with you there?
Only a Servant.
You'll have no need of him; I come to ſerve you: Beſides he may be ſeen.
I'll ſend him away.
I'll but ſtep in, to make your way to the Lady, and will wait upon you agen.
By this Fellow's adviſing to ſend away your Servant, I fancy he may be a Rogue.
If he be a Rogue, I am reſlv'd to diſcover the bottom of him; but if there be a Woman in the caſe, I'll leave you to the Employment—
Sir.
Here.
Are you alone?
I am.
Follow me.
Follow me.
Your Pimp proceeds with Caution. But theſe dark Deeds may require our dark Lanthorn.
Give it me; I can manage this; you muſt manage the Lady, and for once, not to make a Cuſtom of it, I'll hold a Candle to you.
Where are you, Sir Antony?
Here.
I'm glad you are, and here I'll keep you—
Ha!
Have you forgot your Friend the Pilgrim? I am that Lady in love with you; and now I have you to my ſelf, I muſt come nearer to you.
The Devil you muſt—
Are you my Friend the Pilgrim, do you ſay?
Then I am loſt agen.
Why how came I to forget you ſo ſoon? and are you the Lady that was in love with me?
Riſe; and tell all you know of this buſineſs, or it ſhall be the laſt you ſhall ever engage in; I know enough of you to ſend you to the Galleys.
Why indeed Gentlemen, I won't ſtand Trial with you; I confeſs ſome deſign of my own upon Sir Antony; but your very good Friend, the Abbe, firſt ſet it on foot, by employing, and paying me well, to decoy you into his power: Now, Sir, knowing your Character, I thought nothing wou'd ſooner ſpirit you any where, than the hopes of a new Woman.
You ſee I am true to my Aſſignation.
But where's the Abbe all this while.
He's in the Houſe, expecting the good hour.
How ſhall we do with him?
To make my Peace with you, I'll contribute to any Deſign againſt him.
That muſt be your way.
Go then; and to keep up the Jeſt, ſay nothing of what is paſt, but bring him to me—
What do you deſign now?
To continue the Scene with him. For having, as I told you, diſVolante to our Friend Ilſord, I ſuppoſe they may have oc
That's well thought on; his Conſent will come the eaſier, for our ha
Get you gone then, like an Evidence, behind the Hangings.
Have I caught you, my little Mercury! have I caught you!
You're very nimble, Sir.
Aye, aye; I have it in my head.
And in your heels too.
Upon occaſion— Ah my little Man! I'm young again; when I like my Company.
But who cou'd expect to ſee you here?
Why any body wou'd have expected it: How cou'd you expect otherwiſe? How cou'd you think, I cou'd ſtay from you ſo long? What, you expected a Woman?
I did indeed.
Let the Women expect you, there's a plentiful Crop of Maiden
There's no Female-Famine, in this Year's Almanack; no fear of wanting Women.
No, no; no fear of wanting Women: But a good natur'd, old merry Fellow, as I may be, who can tittle tattle, and goſſip in their Families, upon an ancient Privilege with the Mothers, may do any thing with the Daugh
Such a Man wou'd be a Jewel indeed.
I know, you little Rogue, your buſineſs is to be wicked: I love to be wicked my ſelf too ſometimes, as often as I can decently bring it about, without ſcandal: And I will be as wicked— As wicked as I can be, for you, and with you.
You can do no more than you can do, good old Gentleman.
Old Gentleman! I won't be an old Gentleman; I'm never older than the Company I am in: What, Five and fifty does not make an old Man; 'tis want of Appetite, Infirmity, and Decay, not Five and fifty, that makes a Man old: Five and fifty has it's Pleaſures—
As good have none, Abbe; they are faint and feeble.
Delicate and dainty, my Dear; palatable and pleaſant, and thou art mine.
How ſhall I know that, Sir?
Why thou ſha't know, all in good time, Child; but an old Fellow, you ſay! [Unbuttons, and throws down his Cloak.] What ſhall I do now, to convince you, that I am not an old Fellow? Let me ſee; what ſhall I do for you?
What can you do for me!
What can I do for you?
To prove you are not an old Fellow.
What can I?—Why I can—I can part with my Money to thee.
That's one Argument indeed.
Beſides I can— I won't tell you what I can: But if you'll ſtep in
If I ſhou'd retire with you, you'll be diſappointed—
No, no, don't talk of diſappointment; I hate to be diſappointed.—We're very luckily alone, and ſhou'd make a good uſe of our time; no body will come to diſturb us.
But I may diſappoint you my ſelf—
You will exceedingly; if you don't go a long with me: Delays are dangerous, when Opportunities are ſcarce; and we elderly Fellows have 'em but ſeldom— I vow I'll teize you, and kiſs you into good humour; I ſwear I will; if you won't go.
But 'tis not in my power to oblige you.
I'll put it into your power, I warrant you.
But that I doubt, Sir. For very unhappily for your purpoſe; I am a—Woman.
Ha! how, a Woman!
A Woman!
What the Devil have I been doing all this while? A Woman! Are you ſure you're a Woman?
How ſhall I convince you?
Nay, nay; I am eaſily convinc'd; the very Name has convinc'd me.
But if you have a mind to be ſatisfied—
I thank you Madam, I am ſatisfied, more than I deſire to be ſatisfied; and as much ſatisfied as I can be, with a Woman.
I told you I ſhould diſappoint you.—
You did indeed; and you have kept your word with me, you have diſappointed me, plaguely diſappointed me. But I beg your pardon, Madam, I hope there's no offence in a little Waggery—
None at all, Sir.
I don't uſe to take the freedom of being ſo familiar with the Ladies—
I do believe you.
Indeed I don't; I pay a greater Reſpect to your Sex: And had I known you were a Woman before, I had kept my diſtance—
Fie, fie, Sir, Ceremony among Friends! Tho' you know me now to be a Woman, you need not keep a diſtance. What tho' I have diſappoint
So you may indeed, Madam—
You gueſs what I mean, Abbe?
If you wou'd be but ſo gracious.
How gracious wou'd you have me be?
Ah! you'll never grant me the favour—
What favour?
Why— to ſay nothing of this buſineſs.
Is that the favour?
That's all, Madam? the greateſt favour you can do me; and then you do my buſineſs.
Can you part with any Money now to me, now I'm a Woman?
Here are a hundred Luidores in this Purſe—
To muzzle the Scandal.
And I'll get you a Husband into the Bargain.
She'll keep your Council, Abbe.
Hem, hem, hem!
And in the ſcarcity of Men, you'll do her a mighty favour, I can tell her, to ſecure a Husband for her.
Hold you your Tongue, Sir. You ſhall have a Wife too, if Floriante will content you; that Rogue Palmer has betray'd me.
No body ſhall betray you; we are all Friends: But this Lady and I have a favour to beg of you.
A favour to beg of me! Any thing, any thing, as many favours as you pleaſe; 'tis but asking, and having, in the humour I am in, Gentlemen.
Our Friend, Ilford, has marry'd your Niece Volante, and you muſt give your Conſent to the Wedding.
Give my Conſent to the Wedding! Why, I'll dance at the Wedding. I'll have a Fiddle, and a young Fellow to tickle me, and teach me to Caper. Gads ſo; I don't know what Legs I ſtand upon at the news on't! I'll be as brisk as the Bridegroom the firſt Night. But we ſhall neither of us hold it; twon't laſt the Year round with us; I'm an old Fellow, that's the truth on't, 'tis done with me already; I'm upon my laſt Legs. But I have Floriante and Charlot to provide for ſtill; Poor Girls! while they are in a Nunnery, they lie upon my Conſcience: let me but bring them into the World agen, and I'll be contented to go out on't—
Not yet a great while, Abbe.
As ſoon as I can get my ſelf in the mind.
Wee'l keep you in another mind.
Nay, I am eaſily perſwaded; but I have done with you.
The Lady Abbeſs is conſenting to their Eſcape.
Being a Kinſwoman, ſhe was eaſily perſwaded to give 'em an Oppor
'Tis near the time now; wou'd I had Ilford here.
Why, I am here; I'll ſtand and fall by you.
I muſt not now expoſe you.
If you can but carry 'em off, the buſineſs is laid to your hands.
My buſineſs is over in this Town; and I had beſt get off while I can; for fear of bringing a worſe buſineſs upon me.
What Floriante means by this Invitation to me, I can't tell; 'tis a fa
I am as full of apprehenſion, as an old Soldier upon the Guard of a Counterſcarp; where his Fears cannot be more uneaſie, than my Hopes are now.
He ſhou'd be an Engliſhman, by the Similitude, to let his Friends know, from his own mouth, that he has made a Campagne.
This is the backſide of the Nunnery—
And the Garden Door— I think I hear it open—
O Floriante!
Floriante!
Stand faſt, we're ſet upon.
You muſt not meet the danger—
Fall on, and kill the Raviſher—
Come, my fair Fugitive, you muſt along with me.
What noiſe was that?
Some help, I hope.
How my Siſter Charlot has ſucceeded, under my Name, with her Count, to morrow will diſcover.
Ha! the Count then has the wrong Woman.
Wou'd Valentine were come.
O wou'd he were to help me!
Who's there? a Man wounded?
One of your Servants; if you are Floriante.
I am.
And wounded in your Cauſe.
I'm ſorry for't; do you belong to Valentine?
I do.
Where is he?
He got off ſafe; and if you'll lend me your charitable hand, I'll guide you to him.
Rogues, Sons of Whores, and Cowards!
Sir Antony.
Here am I.
Floriante!
Valentine!
I was afraid I had loſt you.
Here's an honeſt man was conducting me to you, one of your Friends.
One of my Friends! He's one I did not reckon upon, if he be— This is one of Count Verole's Bravo's.
I am; and had not you interrupted me, I had done my Maſter ſer
What a Miſchief have I ſcap'd—
Thou art a gallant Fellow, and doſt deſerve a better Maſter; but thou haſt done thy duty, and I will do mine; carry him home, and get a Surgeon to him—
Well; I run a mighty venture.
Of looſing a Maiden-head, I grant you.
I may Repent—
The keeping of it ſo long.
I may repent at leiſure.
You may indeed, if you don't make haſte; for we muſt expect to be purſu'd.
You and I, Madam, are much about a ſize; what if we change Cloaths; it may favour your Eſcape, if you come to be follow'd.
Admirably thought on! Madam, you need not make a ſcruple of ſhiftAntony; whom, from this time, you may know to be a Wo
A Woman!
Now for my Petticoats agen—
Sir, I muſt thank you for the care you have ſhewn of my Family; tho' I believe it has carry'd you farther then you are aware off: This is my Daughter Charlot.
Charlot!
Charlot!
The very ſame. But Floriante is oblig'd to you; you meant this fa
Diſhonourable Girl!
If it be poſſible, I'll recover her, and yet revenge my Love.
But Charlot, how came you to think of running away with Valentine, when you know I deſign'd you to marry him?
Why, I thank you, Sir, you deſign'd very well for me; But I was too well acquainted with Valentine, and my Siſter's thoughts, to depend over
Very well.
Very well Brother!
Let her go on.
I began to apprehend the danger of ſtaying behind in a place, and profeſſion, wholly diſagreeable to my humour.
And well you might.
I thought fit to provide for my ſelf.
In good time you did, Niece.
And accordingly, in my Siſter's name, I ſent to Count Verole; he came at the time appointed, expecting Floriante: But Valentine, by what acFloriante, upon which his Bravo's fell upon Valentine: But the Count in a more gentle-manly re
But methinks the Count, taking you for Floriante, his old Miſtreſs, might ha' made another uſe of his Victory, then to have brought you in tri
I expected he wou'd indeed; but by what he ſaid to me, I found he had little or no deſign in coming there; but to revenge himſelf upon my Siſter, and her ſcorn.
I'm glad he has no other deſign upon her.
And ſo am I indeed, Sir.
Why Charlot? You are not in Love with the Count?
Not ſo much in love with the Count, as I am out of love with a Nunnery: Any man had been as welcome.
Well, well; if Valentine be not hurt, this matter will clear of it ſelf—
And ſo it will, I warrant you.
Why, how a Man may be miſtaken in his Friends! I cou'd not ha' believ'd it; (had not one of their underling Rogues told me ſo himſelf) that any one cou'd ha' been ſo cheated, as I have been, by my own CountryValentine has ſtoll'n a Fortune, and entruſted me to bring a Father to marry em; now if I ſhould go wilfully, in a miſtake, to the Gentlewoman's own FaFloriante is a Woman of Quality—
Do you know her, Sir?
Yes. Sir, I think I do.
Then as you are a Gentleman, aſſiſt me; thus far I have News of her.
I am a Gentleman, Sir; you ſhall find me a Gentleman: And I'll tell you more News of her; I'll carry you to the very place, where ſhe
It is indeed, Sir, more then I expected; pray along with me.
Valentine with Floriante in Sir Antony's, and Sir Antony in her Cloaths.
So far we are ſafe, Ladies, and the ſhifting your Habits will ſecure us ſo: Wou'd Sir Gentle wou'd come agen; you're grave at the thought of him!
Men of your Converſation and Experience in the World, Valentine, ſeldom like the Women you marry.
Becauſe we ſeldom marry the Women we like.
Well, ſince Marriage at beſt is a Venture, I had as good make it my ſelf, as let another make it for me, at my Coſt.
To let a Father chooſe for you in Love, is as unlucky, as when you are in fancy at play, and puſhing at a Sum, to deſire another to throw out your hand.
I'll be hang'd if that fool Sir Gentle has not betray'd us.
Yonder he comes indeed, with a Rabble of Rogues at his heels.
There's no reſiſting 'em; provide for your ſelves as well as you can.
I have yet a Trick to cozen 'em.
See, ſee, upon ſight of us, they have quitted their Prize: Is this their Engliſh Gallantry? They're out of ſight already. Let 'em go; the Lady is our Game.
I'll make ſome of 'em know to their Coſt, that by uſing me ſo little like a Gentleman, they have taught me to do as I do, and uſe 'em as they deſerve.
Now Floriante, you find you have thrown your ſelf a way, upon a Fellow that has not the ſpirit to ſtand by you, or himſelf, to keep your Folly in countenance.
Pray Sir, a word with you—
Well Madam: What can you ſay to me?
Why, I ſay, you're an Aſs to run about to diſturb other People: I am Sir Antony Love, not Floriante; don't diſcover me for your own ſake; but get you gone about your buſineſs, and leave me to this Engliſh man.
I'll take his Advice, for fear of being laugh'd at: Sir, you have be
Yes, yes; I'll take care of her, I warrant you. Why, what a lucky Rogue am I! upon my firſt inclination to play the Knave, to have ſo good an occaſion of doing it.
And indeed, who wou'd take a truſt upon him, but for the privledge and be
You are a civil Gentleman, I know you.
You ſhall know me for a civil Gentleman, if you pleaſe; tho I am a Knight, where I am not familiar.
I know you are, Sir; you may have pity for me.
Alack a day! I have indeed, a heart brim-full for you.
You won't force me to marry that Monſter?
Not I, as I hope to be ſav'd, Madam; nothing againſt fancy.
To throw away my Youth, Beauty, and Fortune, which you know are not contemptible.
Incomparable, Madam; incomparable; your Youth and Beauty, without your Fortune.
Wou'd they were worth your asking.
Wou'd I might have 'em for asking.
Valantine I deſpair of; but if there be an Enliſh-man, as an Engliſh-man he muſt be—
Why, I am an Engliſh-man; and wou'd marry you.
The ſooner you ſecure me, the better then.
I think ſo too, Madam.
Why here's a Night of Action indeed; Ilford, you began the Dance with Volante; and Count, I hope you'll continue it, with my Niece Charlot: As for Valentine and Floriante, they have had their frisk in a corner by this time, or he is not the Man I take him for.
When you fell into my hands to Night; had I known my good For
You have my Bleſſing both—
You may appear, we're all of a Family now, Cozen Germans, and Friends— Come here's a Pair that wants your Bleſſing too.
I can't deny it now— Riſe and be happy.
I have a Bleſſing too for you, my Girls; Five thouſand Crowns a piece more than I deſign'd you; and a Thouſand extraordinary for her who brings me the firſt Boy; a ſmall Gratuity, Gentlemen, to keep up your Fancy, and encourage your pains, that you mayn't think it unprofitable Labour upon your Wives.
But why in Sir Antony's Cloaths, Floriante? Where is this mad Knight?
Somewhere in my Petticoats: But the Count can give you the beſt Tidings of him.
I left him with one Sir Gentle Golding; one whom you are beholden to; for familiarly, upon the firſt word, he betray'd you, and carry'd me to ſeize you.
Well, I don't doubt but ſhe will give us a handſom Revenge upon him.
She? Who?
Sir Antony, Sir; For this Sir Antony after all, is a Woman.
A Woman!
Aye, pox take her, ſhe is a Woman.
Then I am free indeed.
And I am happy.
At leiſure I'll tell you all her ſtory.
Now, I am ſufficiently reveng'd on Valentine and Sir Antony for
Floriante.
Floriante!
Come Father-in-Law, this buſineſs will out I ſee; if you'll give us your bleſſing, ſo; if not, I ſhall begin upon your Daughter without ſaying Grace.
Much good may do you, Sir, with your Bride.
Aye, aye; we muſt all wiſh you Joy, Sir; You have a Bleſſing ſuf
If you know when you're well.
O deliver me! What do I ſee!
Why you ſee your old Mrs. Lucy, in your new Lady-wife; we are all Witneſſes of your owning your marriage.
I do not own it— I'll hang like a Dog, drown like a blind Puppy, die and be damn'd, but I'll be divorc'd from her.
That's your neareſt way to Divorce.
And will ſave the trouble of Doctor's Commons.
Come, come, I'll put you in a better; There are old Scores between you and Mrs. Lucy— You have made her a Lady indeed, which ſhews a grateful Nature in you, and will ſound well in the Ears of the World. But to ſupport her Quality—
Her Qualities will ſupport that.
Out of your Two thouſand pounds a Year, give her a Rent-charge of Five hundred, and ſhe ſhall never trouble you more, not ſo much as to be a Godfather to another Man's Child upon her Body, which may otherwiſe in
Why there's the Devil on't agen, to Father another man's Chil
Come, come, we muſt have a Dance to all theſe Weddings.