ACT I.
SCENE I.

AT length I am blest with the sight of the Worlds wonder, the delight of Mankind, the incomparable Aesop. You had time to observe him last Night, Daughter, as he sat at Supper with me. Tell me how you like him, Child; is he not a charming Person?

Charming?

What say'st thee to him, Doris? Thou art a good Judge, a Wench of a nice Palate.

You wou'd not have me flatter, Sir?

No, speak thy thoughts boldly.

Boldly you say?

Boldly I say.

Why then, Sir, my opinion of the Gentleman is, That he's uglier than an old Beau.

How, Impudence?

Nay if you are angry, Sir, second thoughts are best; he's as proper as a Pike-man: Holds up his Head like a Dancing-Master: Has the shape of a Barb; the Face of an Angel, the Voice of a Che­rubin, the smell of a Civet-Cat—

In short, thou art fool enough not to be pleas'd with him.

Excuse me for that, Sir, I have Wit enough to make my self merry with him—

If his Body's deform'd, his Soul is beautiful: Wou'd to kind Heaven as he is, my Daughter cou'd but find the means to please him.

To what end, Dear Father?

That he might be your Husband, Dear Daughter.

My Husband: Shield me, kind Heaven—

Psha! He has a mind to make us laugh, that's all.

Aesop, then, is not worth her Care, in thy Opinion.

Why truly, Sir, I'm alway for making suitable Matches, and don't much approve of breeding Monsters. I wou'd have no­thing marry a Baboon, but what has been got by a Monkey.

How darest thou liken so incomparable a Man, to so con­temptible a Beast.

Ah, the inconstancy of this World: Out of sight out of mind. Your little Monkey is scarce cold in his Grave, and you have already forgot what you us'd so much to admire: Do but call him to Remem­brance, Sir, in his Red Coat, new Gloves, little Hat, and clean Linnen. Then discharge your Conscience, utter the truth from your Heart, and tell us whether he was not the prettier Gentleman of the two—By my Virginity, Sir, (though that's but a slippery Oath, you'll say) had they made Love to me together, Aesop should have worn the Willow.

Since nothing but an Animal will please thee, 'tis pitty my Monkey had not that Virginity thou hast Sworn by. But I, whom Wisdom charms, even in the homeliest dress, can never think the much deserving Aesop, unworthy of my Daughter.

Now in the Name of Wonder, what is't you so admire in him?

A very good Picture of a very ill Face.

Well. Daughter; what, not a word? Is it possible any thing that I am Father of, can be untouch'd with so much Merit?

My Duty may make all things possible: But Aesop is so ugly, Sir.

His Soul has so much beauty in't, your reason ought to blind your Eyes: Besides, my Interest is concern'd: His power alarms me. I know throughout the Kingdom he's the scourge of evil Magistrates. Turns out Governours, when they turn Tyrants. Breaks Officers for false Musters, excludes Judges from giving Sentence, when they have been absent during the Tryal: Hangs Lawyers when they take Fees on both sides: Forbids Physicians to take Money of those they don't Cure: 'Tis true, my Innocence ought to banish my fears. But my Government, Child, is too delicious a Morsel, not to set many a frail Mouth a watering: Who knows what accusations Envy may produce, but all wou'd be secure, if thou cou'dst touch the Heart of

Let me blow up thy Ambition, Girl; the fire of that, will make thy Eyes sparkle at him.

A young Husband, by my Conscience: Ah, Daughter, had'st thou a young Husband, he'd make thee sigh indeed. I'll tell thee what he's compos'd of. He has a Wigg full of Pulvilio; a Pocket full of Dice: A Heart full of Treason; a Mouth full of Lyes, a Belly full of Drink, a Carkass full of Plaisters, a Tayl full of Pox, and a Head full of— Nothing.

[Page 4] There's his Picture; wear it at thy Heart if thou can'st. But here comes one of greater worth.

Good morning to my Noble Lord; your Excellency—

Softly, good Governour: I'm a poor wanderer from place to place; too weak to train the weight of grandeur with me! The Name of Excellency's not for me.

My Noble Lord, 'tis due to your Employ; Your Predeces­sors all—

My Predecessors all deserv'd it, Sir; They were great Men, in Wisdom, Birth and Service: Whil'st I, a poor unknown decrepit Wretch, mounted aloft for Fortunes Pastime, expect each moment to conclude the Farce, by sinking to the Mud, from when I spru [...]g.

Great Croesus's Gratitude will still support you; His Coffers all are open to your Will, Your future Fortune's wholly in your power.

I'll tell you, Sir.

To the Application, Governour.

'Tis easy to be made, My Lord.

'Tis my Daughter, my good Lord: Fair too, if she appears such in the Eyes of the unerring Aesop.

I never saw so beautiful a Creature.

Now's the time; Kiss, soft Girl, and fire him.

How partial's Nature, 'twixt her form and mine.

Look, Look, Look, how he gazes at her—Cupid's hard at work, I see that already. Slap; there he hits him—If the Wench wou'd but do her part: But see, see, how the perverse Young Baggage stands biteing her Thumbs, and won't give him one kind glance—Ah the sullen Jade: Had it been a handsome strong Dog of Five and Twenty, she'd have fallen a Coquetting on't, with every Inch about her. But may be it's I that spoil sport, I'll make a pretence to leave 'em together. Will your Lordship please to drink any Coffee, this Morning?

With all my heart, Governour.

Your Lordship will give me leave to go and order it my self; for unless I am by, 'tis never perfect.

Provided you leave me this fair Maid in Hostage for your return, I consent.

—You can give your self Aires sometimes, You know you can: Do you remember what work you made with your self at Church t' o­ther day? Play your tricks over again once more for my pleasure, and let me have a good account of this States-man, or, d'ye hear?—You shall die a Maid, go chew upon that; go.

Here I am left, fair Damsel, too much expos'd to your Charms, not to fall your Victim.

Your fall will then be due to your own weakness, Sir; for Heaven's my Witness, I neither endeavour, nor wish to wound you.

I understand you, Lady; your Heart's already dispos'd of, 'tis seldom otherways at your Age.

My heart dispos'd of?

Nay, never mince the matter, Madam, The Gentleman looks like a Civil Gentleman, e'en confess the truth to him: he has a good Interest with your Father; and no doubt will employ it to break the Heathenish Match he proposes to you.

Yes, Sir, My young Lady has been in Love these two years; and that with as pretty a Fellow, as ever enter'd a Virgins Heart. Tall, Straight, Young, Vigorous, Good Cloaths, Long Periwigg, Clean Linnen: in brief, He has every thing that's ne­cessary, to set a young Lady a Longing, and to stay it when he has done: But her Father, whose Ambition makes him turn Fool in his old Age, comes with a back stroak upon us, and spoils all our sport. Wou'd you believe it, Sir? he has propos'd to her to day, the most confounded ugly Fellow: Look, if the very thoughts of him don't set the poor thing a crying? And you, Sir, have so much power with the old Gentleman, that one word from you, wou'd set us all right again. If he will have her a Wife; In the Name of Venus let him pro­vide her a handsome Husband, and not throw her into the pawes of a thing that Nature in a merry humour, has made half Man half Monkey.

Pray what's this Monster's Name, Lady?

No matter for his Name, Sir, my Father will know who you mean, at first word.

But you shou'd not always chuse by the outside alone; be­lieve me, fair Damsel, a fine Periwigg keeps many a Fool's Head from the weather, have a care of your young Gallant.

There's no danger; I have examin'd him: His inside's as good as his out: I say he has Wit, and I think I know.

Nay, she says true; he's even a Miracle of Wit and Beauty▪ Did you but see him, you'd be your self my Rival.

Then you are resolv'd against the Monster.

Fy, Sir, fy, I wonder you'll put her in mind of that foul frightful thing: We shall have her Dream of nothing all night, but Bats and Owls, and Toads and Hedghogs, and then shall we have such a squeeking and squaling with her, the whole House will be in an up­roar. Therefore pray, Sir, name him no more, but use your Interest with her Father, that she may never hear of him again.

But i [...] I should be so generous to save you from the old gal­lant, what sh [...]ll I say for your young one?

O, Sir, you may venture to enlarge upon his Perfections, you need not fear saying too much in his praise.

And pray, Sir, be as copious upon the Defects of t' other; you need not fear outrunning the Text there neither, say the worst you can.

You may say the first is the most graceful Man, that Asia ever brought forth.

And you may say the latter is the most deform'd Monster, that Copulation ever produc'd.

Tell him that Oronces (for that's his dear Name) has all the Virtues that compose a perfect Hero.

And tell him that Pigmy has all the Vices, that go to equip an Attorney.

That to one, I cou'd be true, to the last moment of my Life.

That for t' other; she'd Cuckold him the very day of her Marriage. This, Sir, in few words, is the Theme you are desir'd to preach upon.

I never yet had one, that furnisht me more matter.

My Lord, there's a Lady below desires to speak with your Honour.

What Lady?

It's my Lady—my Lady—

The Lady there, the Wise Lady, the great Scholar, that no body can understand.

O ho, is it she? Pray let's withdraw, and oblige her, Ma­dam; she's ready to swoon at the insipid sight of one of her own Sex.

You'll excuse us, Sir, we leave you to wiser Company.

The Deess, who from Atropos's Breast preserves the Names of Heros and their Actions, proclaims your Fame throughout this mighty Orb, and—

Shield me, my Stars, what have you sent me here? For Pity's sake, Good Lady, be more human: my Capacity is too heavy to mount to your stile: if you wou'd have me know what you mean, please to come down to my understanding.

Now by my Faith, Lady, I don't know what Intellect is; and methinks Categorical sounds as if you call'd me Names. Pray speak that you may be understood; Language was design'd for it; indeed it was.

No truly I am so [...]ething particular. Yet if I am not mi­staken, what I have extraordinary about me, may be describ'd in ve­ry homely Language. Here was a young Gentlewoman but just now pencill'd me out to a hair, I thought; and yet I vow to Gad the learn­ed'st word I heard her make use of was, Monster.

Pray, Lady, are you married?

Why that Question, Sir?

Only that I might wait upon your Husband to wish him Joy.

When People of my Composition wou'd marry, they first find something of their own species to join with; I never could resolve to take a thing of common Fabrick to my Bed, lest when his brutish Inclinations prompt him, he shou'd make me Mother to a Form like his own.

Methinks a Lady so extreamly nice, should be much at a Loss who to converse with.

Sir, I keep my Chamber, and converse with my self; 'tis better being alone, than to mis-ally ones Conversation,

Will you hear a Fable, Lady?

Willingly, Sir, the Apologue pleases me when the Applica­tion of it is just.

It is, I'll answer for't.

How grosly do's this poor World suffer it self to be impos'd upon— Aesop a Man of sence—Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. Alas poor Wretch: I shou'd not have known him but by his Deformity, His Soul's as nau­seous to my Understanding, as his odious Body to my sense of Feeling. Well;

ACT. II.

WHat in the Name of Iove's the matter with you? Speak for Heaven's sake.

Oh, What shall I do? Doris, I'm undone.

What, ravisht?

No, ten times worse! Unlace me, or I shall swoond.

Unlace you? Why you are not thereabouts, I hope?

No, no; worse still; worse than all that.

So; it's going over.

Courage, pluck up your Spirits: Well; now what's the mat­ter?

The matter? Thou sha't hear. Know that—that Cheat— Aesop—

Like enough; speak, What has he done? That ugly ill-boding Cyclops.

Why instead of keeping his Promise, and speaking for Oronces; he has not said one word, but what has been for himself. And by my Father's Order, before to Morrow Noon he's to marry me.

He marry you?—

Am I in the wrong to be in this despair? Tell me, Doris, if I am to blame?

To blame? No by my troth. That ugly, old-treacherous piece of Vermin: That Melancholy mixture of Impotence and De­sire; Do's his mouth stand to a young Partridge? Ah the old Goat. And your Father? He down right doats at last then?

Ah, Doris; What a Husband do's he give me; and what a Lover do's he rob me of. Thou know'st 'em both; Think of Oronces, and think of Aesop.

A Foul Monster. And yet now I think on't, I'm almost as angry at t' other too: Methinks he makes but a slow Voy­age on't, for a Man in Love. 'Tis now above two Months, since he went to Lesbos, to pack up the old Bones of his dead Father; Sure he might have made a little more hast:

Oh, my heart; What do I see?

Talk of the Devil, and he's at your Elbow.

My Dear Soul.

Why wou'd you stay so long From me?

'Twas not my Fault indeed; The Winds—

The Winds?—Will the Winds blow you your Mistress again? We have had Winds too, and Waves into the bargain, Storms and Tempests, Sea-Monsters, and the Devil an' all. She strugled as long as she cou'd; but a Woman can do no more than she can do; When her breath was gone, down she sunk.

What's the meaning of all this?

Meaning? There's meaning and mumping too; Your Mistress is married; that's all.

Death and Furies—

Don't you frighten him too much neither.

Condemn'd? to what? Speak! Quick.

To be married.

Married? When, how, where, to what, to whom?

Aesop, Aesop, Aesop, Aesop, Aesop.

Fiends and Spectres: What, that piece of Deformity, that Monster; that Crump?

You do me Justice, You shall find you do, For Wracks and Tortures, Crowns and Scepters join'd shall neither fright me from my truth, nor tempt me to be false. On this you may depend.

Wou'd to the Lord you wou'd find some other place to make your fine speeches in. Don't you know that our Dear Friend Aesop's coming to receive his Visits here.

In this great Downy Chair, your pretty Little Husband Elect, is to [Page] sit and hear all the Complaints in the Town: One of Wisdoms Chief Recompences, being to be constantly troub [...]ed with the business of Fools.

Pray, Madam, will you take the Gentleman by the hand, and lead him into your Chamber; and when you are there, Don't lie Whining and Crying and Sighing and Wishing—

If he had not been more Modest than Wise, he might have set such a mark upon the Goods before now, that ne'er a Merchant of 'em all, wou'd have bought 'em out of his hands. But young Fellows are always in the wrong: Either so impudent they are nau­seous, or so modest they are useless. Go, pray get you gone together.

But if my Father catch us, we are ruin'd.

By my Conscience, this Love will make us all turn Fools. Before your Father can open the Door, can't he slip down the Back­stairs? I'm sure he may, if you don't hold him; but that's the old Trade. Ah—Well, get you gone however—Hark—I hear the old Baboon cough; Away!

Here he comes, with his Ugly Beake before him. Ah—a Luscious Bed-fellow, by my troth.

Well, Doris; What news from my Daughter? is she prudent?

Yes, very prudent,

What says she? What do's she do.

Do? what shou'd she do? Tears her Cornet; Bites her Thumbs; Throws her Fan in the fire; Thinks it's dark Night at Noon day; Dreams of Monsters and Hobgoblins; Raves in her Sleep of forc'd Marriage and Cuckoldom; Cryes: Avant Deformity; then wakens of a sudden, with fifty Arguments at her Fingers ends, to prove the Lawfulness of Rebellion in a Child, when a Parent turns Tyrant.

Yes, and that's all he can do to her.

But I can't blame the Gentleman after all; He loves my Mistress, because she's [...]andsome; and she hates him, because he's ugly. I never saw two People more in the right in my Life.

You'll pardon me, Sir, I'm somewhat free.

Why, a Ceremony wou'd but take up time.

But, Governour, methinks I have an admirable Advocate about your Daughter.

Out of the Room Impudence: begone, I say.

So I will: but you'll be as much in the wrong, when I'm gone, as when I'm here. And your Conscience, I hope, will talk as pertly to you, as I can do.

If she treats me thus before my Face; I may conclude I'm finely handled behind my Back.

I say the truth here; and I can say no worse any where.

I hope your Lordship won't be concern'd at what this prat­ling Wench bleats out; my Daughter will be govern'd, she's bred up to Obedience. There may be some small difficulty, in weaning her from her Young Lover: But 'twon't be the first time she has been wean'd from a Breast, my Lord.

Do's she love him fondly, Sir?

Foolishly, my Lord.

And he her.

The same.

Is he Young.

Yes, and Vigorous.

Rich?

So, so.

Well born?

He has good blood in his Veins.

Has he Wit?

He had, before he was in Love.

And handsome with all this?

Or else we shou'd not have half so much trouble with him.

Why do you then make her quit him for me?

All the World knows, I am neither Young, NOble, nor Rich: And as for my Beuty—Look you, Governour. I'm honest: but when Children cry, they tell 'em, Aesop's a coming: Pray, Sir, what is it makes you so earnest to force your Daughter?

Am I then to count for nothing, the favour you are in at Court? Father-in-Law to the Great Aesop, what may I not [...]pire to? My Foolish Daughter perhaps may'n't be so well pleas'd with' t, but we Wise Parents usually weigh our Childrens happiness in the Scale of our own Inclinations.

Well, Governour; Let it be your care then to make her consent.

This moment, my Lord, I reduce her, either to Obedience, or to Dust and Ashes.

Adieu. Now let in the People.

[Page 14] Who come for Audience.

There he is, Neighbour: Do but look at him.

Ay; One may know him; he's well mark't.

But dos't hear me? What Title must we give him; for if we fail in that point, d' ye see me, we shall never get our business done. Cour­tiers love Titles, almost as well as they do Money, and that's a bold word now.

Why I think we had best call him, His Grandeur.

That will do; Thou hast hit on't. Hold still, let me speak. May it please your Grandeur—

There I interrupt you, Friend; I have a weak Body that will ne'er be able to bear that Title.

D' ye hear that, Neighbour? What shall we call him now?

Why, call him, call him, his Excellency: try what that will do.

May it please your Excellency—

Excellency's a long word, it takes up too much time in bu­siness: Tell me what you'd have, in few words.

Why e'en talk to him as we do to one another.

Shall I? Why so I will then. Hem. Neighbour, We want a new Governour, Neighbour.

A new Governour, Friend?

Ay, Friend.

Why what's the matter with your old one?

'Fore Gad, Neighbour, the little Gentleman's in the right on't.

What's that, Friend?

Why that's this: Our King Crcesus is a very good Prince, as a Man may say: But—a—but—Taxes are high, an't please you; And—a—poor Men want Money, d' ye see me: It's very hard, as we think, that the Poor shou'd work to maintain the Rich. If there were no Taxes, we shou'd do pretty well.

Taxes indeed are very burthensome.

What think you of this story; Friends, ha?

Come, you look like wise Men; I'm sure you understand what's for your good; in giving part of what you have, you secure all the rest; If the King had no money, there cou'd be no Army; and if there were no Army, your Enemies wou'd be amongst you: One Day's Pillage wou'd be worse than Twenty Years Taxes: What say you! is't not so?

Well, Honest Men; Is there any thing else that I can serve you in?

Why good feath, I think so too, for by all I can see, we are like to make no great hond on't. Besides; between thee and me, I begin to daubt, whether aur Grievances do us such a plaguy deal of Mischief, as we fancy.

Or put Ca [...]e they did, Humphrey; I'se afraid, he that go's to a Courtier, in hope to get fairly rid of 'em, may be said (in aur Country Dialect) to take the wrong Saw by the Ear. But here's Neighbour Roger, he's a Wit, let's leave him to him.

Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha: Did ever Mon behold the like— Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.

I live in a Village hard by, and I'se the Best Man in it, tho' I say it, that shou'd not say it. I have good Drink in my Sellar, and good Corn in my Barn; I have Cows and Oxen, Hogs and Sheep, Cocks and Hens, and Geese and Turkeys; but the truth will out, and so out let it. I'se e'en tyr'd of being call'd plain Roger. I has a Leathern Purse; and in that Purse, there's many a fair half Crown, with the King's Sweet Face upon it, God bless him: And with this Money I have a mind to bind my self Prentice to a Courtier: It's a good Trade, as I have heard say, there's Money stirring: Let a Lad be but diligent, and do what he's bid, he shall be let into the Secret, and share part of the Profits. I have not liv'd to these Years for nothing: Those that will swim, must go into deep Water: I's get our Wife Ione to be the Queens Chamber-maid; and then— Crack says me I; and forget all my Acquaintance.

But to come to the business. You who are the King's great Favou­rite, I desire you'll be pleas'd to sell me some of your Friendship, that I may get a Court Place. Come, you shall chuse me one your self; You look like a shrewd Man; by the Mass you do.

I chuse Thee a Place?

Yes: I would willingly have it such a sort of a Pleace, as wou'd cost little, and bring in a great deal; in a word, much Profit, and nothing to do.

But you must name what Post you think wou'd suit your humour.

Why I'se pratty indifferent as to that: Secretary of State, or Butler; Twenty Shillings more, Twenty Shillings less, is not the thing I stand upon. I'se no Hagler, Gadswookars, and he that says I am—'Zbud he lies: There's my humour now.

But hark you, Friend, you say you are well as you are, Why then do you desire to change?

Why what a Question now is there, for a Man of your parts: I'm well, d'ye see me; and what of all that? I desire to be better: There's an Answer for you.

Let Roger alone with him.

Very well: this is reasoning; And I love a Man should reason with me: But let us enquire a little whether your Reasons are good or not. You say at home you want for nothing.

Nothing 'fore George.

You have good drink?

'Zbud the best i' th' Parish. (Singing) And dawne it merrily goes, my Lad, and dawne it merrily goes.

You eat heartily?

I have a noble Stomach.

You sleep well?

Just as I drink: till I can sleep no longer.

You have some honest Neighbours?

Honest? 'Zbud we are all so, the Tawne raund, we live like Breether; when one can sarve another, he does it with all his Heart and Guts; when we have any thing that's good, we eat it together, Holydays and Sundays we play at Nine-pins, tumble upon the Grass with wholsome young Maids, laugh till we split, Daunce 'till we are weary, eat 'till we burst, drink 'till we are sleepy, then swap into Bed, and snore 'till we rise to Breastfast.

And all this thou woud'st leave, to go to Court. I'll tell thee what once happen'd.

Amen, I pray the Lord. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. Now the Deel Cuckold me, if this Story be not worth a Sermon. Give me your hond, Sir.

—If it had na' been for your Friendly Advice, I was going to be Fool enough, to be Secretary of State.

Well, go thy ways home, and be wiser for the Future.

And so I will: For that same Mause, your Friend, was a witty Person, Gadsbudlikins; and so our Wife Ioan shall know: For between you and I, 'tis she has put me upon going to Court. Sir, she has been so praud, so saucy, so rampant, ever since I brought her home a Lac'd Pinner, and a Pink-colour pair of Shooe-strings, from Tickledawne Fair, the Parson o'th' Parish can't rule her; and that you'll say's much. But so much for that. Naw, I thank you for your good Caunsel, honest little Gentleman; and to shew you, that I'se not ungrateful—Give me your hand once more If you'll take the Pains, but to walk dawne to our Towne,—a Word in your Ear,—I'st [Page 21] send you so drunk whom again, you shall remember friendly Roger, as long as you have breath in your Body.

ACT. III.

WHo waits there?

If there be any Body that has Business with me, let 'em in.

Yes, Sir.

Well, Friend, who are you?

My Name's Quaint, Sir, the profoundest of all your Ho­nour's humble Servants.

And what may your Business be with me, Sir.

My Business, Sir, with every Man, is first of all to do him Service.

And your next is, I suppose, to be paid for't twice as much as 'tis worth.

Your Honours most Obedient, Humble Servant.

Well, Sir, but upon what Account am I going to be obli­ged to you?

Sir, I'm a Geneologist.

A Geneologist!

At your Service, Sir.

So, Sir.

Sir, I am inform'd from common Fame, as well as from some little private familiar Intelligence, That your Wisdom is entring into Treaty with the Primum Mobile of all Good and Evil, a fine Lady. I have Travell'd, Sir, I have Read, Sir, I have Consider'd, Sir, and I [Page 22] find, Sir, that the Nature of a fine Lady, is to be—a fine Lady, Sir; a fine Lady's a fine Lady, Sir, all the World over; she loves a fine House, fine Furniture, fine Coaches, fine Liveries, fine Petticoats, fine Smocks; and if she stops there—she's a fine Lady indeed, Sir. But to come to my Point.

It being the Lydian Custom, That the fair Bride should be present­ed on her Wedding-Day, with something that may signify the Merit and the Worth of her dread Lord and Master, I thought the Noble Aesop's Pedigree, might be the welcom'st Gift that he could offer. If his Honour be of the same Opinion,—I'll speak a bold Word; There's ne'er a Herald in all Asia, shall put better Blood in his Veins, than, —Sir, your humble Servant, Iacob Quaint.

Dost thou then know my Father, Friend? for I protest to thee, I am a Stranger to him.

Your Father, Sir, ha, ha; I know every Man's Father, Sir, and every Man's Grand-Father, and every Man's Great Grand-Fa­ther. Why, Sir, I'm a Herald by Nature, my Mother was a Welch.-Woman.

A Welch-Woman? Prithee of what Country's that?

That, Sir, is a Country in the World's back-side, where every Man is born a Gentleman, and a Geneologist. Sir, I cou'd tell my Mothers Pedigree before I cou'd speak plain: which, to shew you the depth of my Art, and the strength of my Memory, I'll trun­dle you down in an instant.

Noah had three Sons, Shem, Ham, and Iaphet; Shem—

Hold, I conjure thee, in the Name of all thy Ancestors.

Sir, I cou'd take it higher, but I begin at Noah for bre­vity's sake.

No more on't, I intreat thee.

Your Honour's impatient perhaps, to hear your own De­scent. A Word to the Wise is enough. Hem, hem: Solomon, the wise King of Iudea—

Hold once more.

Ha, ha; your Honour's modest, but—Solomon the wise King of Iudea—

Was my Ancestor, was he not?

He was, my Lord, which no one sure can doubt, who observes how much of Prince there hangs about you.

What? Is't in my Mien?

You have something—wondrous Noble in your Air.

Personable too: view me well.

N—not Tall; but Majestick.

My Shape?

A World of Symmetry in it.

The Lump upon my Back?

N—not regular; but agreeable.

Now by my Honesty, thou art a Villain, Herald. But Flat­tery's a Thrust I never fail to Parry. 'Tis a Pass thou shoud'st reserve for young Fencers; with Feints like those, they're to be hit: I do not doubt but thou hast found it so: hast not?

I must confess, Sir, I have sometimes made 'em bleed by't. But I hope your Honour will please to excuse me, since, to speak the Truth, I get my Bread by't, and maintain my Wife and Children: And industry, you know, Sir, is a commendable thing. Besides, Sir, I have debated the business a little with my Conscience; for I'm like the rest of my Neighbours, I'd willingly get Money, and be sav'd too, if the thing may be done upon any reasonable Terms: And so Sir, I say, to quiet my Conscience, I have found out at last, That Flattery is a Duty.

A Duty?

Ay, Sir; a Duty: For the Duty of all Men is to make one another pass their time as pleasantly as they can. Now, Sir, here's a young Lord, who has a great deal of Land, a great deal of Title, a great deal of Meat, a great deal of Noise, a great many Servants, and a great many Diseases. I find him very dull, very restless, tyr'd with Ease, cloy'd with Plenty, a Burthen to himself, and a Plague to his Family. I begin to flatter: He springs off of the Couch; turns him­self round in the Glass; finds all I say true; Cuts a Caper a Yard high? his Blood trickles round in his Veins; his Heart's as light as his Heels; and before I leave him—his Purse is as empty as his head. So we both are content; for we part much happier than we met.

Admirable Rogue; what dost thou think of Murder and of Rape, are not they Duties too? Wer't not for such vile fawning Things as thou art, young Nobles wou'd not long be what they are: They'd grow asham'd of Luxury and Ease, and roufe up the old Spi­rit of their Fathers; leave the pursuit of a poor frightned Hare, and make their Foes to tremble in her stead; Furnish their Heads with Sciences and Arts, and fill their Hearts with Honour, Truth and Friendship; be Generous to some, and Just to all; drive home their Creditors with Bags of Gold, instead of Chasing 'em with Swords and Staves; Be faithful to their King and Country both, and St [...]b the Offerer of a Bribe from either; blush even at a wandring [Page 24] thought of Vice, and boldly own they durst be Friends to Virtue; tremble at nothing but the frowns of Heaven, and be no more asham'd of him that made 'em.

If I stand to hear this Crump Preach a little longer, I shall be Fool enough perhaps to be bubled out of my Livelihood, and so lose a Bird in the Hand for two in the Bush.

Sir, Since, I have not been able to bring you to a good Opinion of your self, 'tis very probable I shall scarce prevail with you to have one of me. But if you please to do me the favour to forget me, I shall ever acknowledge my self,—Sir, your most obedient, faithful, humble Servant.

Hold; If I let thee go, and give thee nothing, thou'lt be apt to grumble at me; and therefore—who waits there?

I don't like his Looks, by Gad.

I'll present thee with a Token of my Love.

A—another time, Sir, will do as well.

No; I love to be out of Debt, though 'tis being out of the fashion. So d'ye hear? Give this honest Gentleman half a Score good Stroaks on the Back with a Cudgel.

By no means in the World, Sir.

Indeed, Sir, you shall take 'em.

Sir, I don't merit half your Bounty.

O 'tis but a Trifle.

Your Generosity makes me blush.

That's your Modesty, Sir.

Sir, you are pleased to compliment. But a—twenty Pedigrees for a clear Coast.

Wait upon him down Stairs Fellow,

I'd do't my self, were I but nimble enough, but he makes hast to avoid Ceremony.

Sir, Here's a Lady in great hast, desires to speak with you.

Let her come in.

O Sir, If you don't help me, I'm undone.

What, what's the Matter, Lady.

My Daughter, Sir, my Daughter's run away with a filthy Fellow.

A slippery Trick indeed.

For Heaven's sake, Sir, send immediately to pursue 'em, and seize 'em: but 'tis in vain, 'twill be too late, 'twill be too late; I'll warrant at this very Moment they are got together in a Room with a Couch in't; all's gone, all's gone; tho' 'twere made of Gold, 'tis lost: Oh! my Honour, my Honour. A forward Girl she was al­ways; I saw it in her Eyes the very Day of her birth.

That indeed was early; but how do you know she's gone with a Fellow?

I have e'en her own insolent Hand-writing for't, Sir, take but the pains to read what a Letter she has left me.

I Love, and belov'd; and that's the reason I run away.

Short, but Significant.

—I'm sure there's no Body knows better than your Ladyship, what Allow­ances are to be made to Flesh and Blood; I therefore hope this from your Iustice, that what you have done three times your self, you'll pardon once in your Daughter.

The Dickins.

Now, Sir, what do you think of the business?

Why truly, Lady, I think it one of the most Natural Busi­nesses I have met with a great while. I'll tell you a Story.

Sir, I took you to be a Man better bred, than to liken a La­dy to a Crab-fish.

What I want in good Breeding, Lady, I have in Truth and Honesty: As what you have wanted in Virtue, you have had in a good Face.

Have had, Sir? What I have had, I have still, and shall have a great while, I hope. I'm no Grand-mother, Sir.

But in a fair way for't, Madam.

Thanks to my Daughter's forwardness then; not my Years. I'd have you to know, Sir, I have never a wrinkle in my Face. A young pert Slut! who'd think she shou'd know so much at her Age.

Good Masters make quick Scholars, Lady; she hasl earn'd her Exercise from you.

But where's the Remedy, Sir?

In trying if a good Example will reclaim her, as an ill one has debauch't her. Live Private, and avoid Scandal.

Never speak it; I can no more Retire, than I can go to Church twice of a Sunday.

What? your Youthful Blood boils in your Veins, I'll warrant.

I have warmth enough to endure the Air, old Gentleman. I need not shut my self up in a House these twenty Years.

She takes a long Lease of Lewdness; she'll be an ad­mirable Tenant to Lust.

People think when a Woman is turn'd Forty, she's old enough to turn out of the World: but I say, when a Woman is turn'd Forty, she's old enough to have more Wit. The most can be said is, her Face is the worse for wearing: I'll an­swer for all the rest of her Fabrick. The Men wou'd be to be pity'd, by my Troth, wou'd they; if we shou'd quit the Stage, and leave 'em nothing but a parcel of young pert Sluts, that neither know how to speak Sense, nor keep themselves clean.

But don't let 'em fear, we a'n't going yet.

—How now? what? left alone. An unmannerly Piece of Deformity. Me­thinks he might have had Sense enough to have made Love to me. But I have found Men strangely dull, for these last Ten or Twelve Years: Sure they'll mend in time, or the World won't be worth living in.

I must tell you, Mistress, I'm too mild with you, Parents shou'd never intreat their Children, nor will I hereafter. Therefore, in a word, let Oronces be lov'd, let Aesop be hated; let one be a Peacock, let t'other be a Bat. I'm Father, you are Daughter, I command, and you shall obey.

I never yet did otherwise; nor shall I now, Sir; but pray let Reason guide you.

So it does: But 'tis my own, not yours, Hussey.

Ah—Well, I'll say no more; but were I in her place, by the Mass, I'd have a tug for't.

Daemon; born to distract me. Whence art thou in the Name of Fire and Brimstone? Have I not satisfy'd thee? Have I not paid thee what's thy due? And have not I turn'd thee out of Doors, with Orders never more to stride my Threshold, ha? Answer, abominable Spirit; what is't that makes thee haunt me?

A foolish Passion, to do you good in spight of your Teeth: Pox on me for my Zeal, I say.

And Pox on thee, and thy Zeal too, I say.

Now if it were not for her sake, more than for yours, I'd leave all to your own management, to be reveng'd of you. But rather than I'll see that sweet thing sacrificed,—I'll play the De­vil in your House.

Patience; I summon thee to my Aid.

Passion; I defie thee; to the last drop of my Blood I'll maintain my ground. What have you to charge me with? Speak: I love your Child better than you do, and you can't bare that; ha? Is't not so? Nay, it's well y'are asham'd on't; there's some Sign of Grace still.

Look you, Sir, in few Words, you'll make me mad; and 'twere enough to make any Body mad (who has Brains enough to be so) to see so much Vertue ship-wreck'd at the very Port. The World never saw a Virgin better qualify'd; so witty, so discreet, so modest, so chast; in a word, I brought her up my self; and 'twou'd be the death of me, to see so vertuous a Maid become a leud Wife; which is the usual Effect of Parents Pride and Covetousness.

How Strumpet; wou'd any thing be able to debauch my Daughter?

Your Daughter? Yes, your Daughter, and my self into the Bargain: A Woman's but a Woman: And I'll lay a hundred [Page 28] pound on Nature's side. Come, Sir, few Words dispatch Business. Let who will be the Wise of Aesop; she's a Fool, or he's a Cuckold. But you'll never have a true Notion of this Matter, 'till you suppose your self in your Daughter's place. As thus:

You are pretty, soft, warm, wishing young Lady: I'm a strait, proper, handsome, vigorous, young Fellow.

You have a peevish, positive, covetous, old Father, and he forces you to marry a little lean, crooked, dry, sapless Husband. This Husband's gone abroad, you are left at home. I make you a Visit; find you all alone; The Servant pulls to the Door; the Devil comes in at the Window. I begin to wheedle, you begin to melt; you like my Person; and therefore believe all I say; so first I make you an Atheist, and then I make you a Whore. Thus the World goes, Sir.

Pernicious Pestilence: has thy Eternal Tongue run down its Laram yet?

Yes.

Then go out of my House, Abomination.

I'll not stir a Foot.

Who waits there? Bring me my great Stick.

Bring you a Stick; bring you a Head-piece, that you'd call for, if you knew your own wants.

Death and Furies, the Devil, and so forth: I shall run di­stracted.

'Pray, Sir, don't be so angry at her, I'm sure she means well, tho' she may have an odd way of expressing her self.

What, you like her meaning? Who doubts it, Off-spring of Venus. But I'll make you stay you Stomach with Meat of my chusing, you liquorish young Baggage you. In a word, Aesop the Man; and to Morrow he shall be your Lord and Master.

But since he can't be satisfy'd unless he has you Heart, as well as all the rest of your Trumpery, let me see you receive him in such a manner, that he may think himself your Choice, as well as mine, 'twill make him esteem your Judgment: For we usually guess at other People's Understandings, by their approving our Actions, and liking our Faces: See here the Great Man comes;

Follow me, Insolence; and leave 'em to express their Passion to each other.

Remember my last Word to you is, Obey.

And remember my last Advice to you is, [Page 29] Rebel.

Alas, I'm good natur'd; the last thing that's said to me, usually leaves the deepest Impression.

—They say, That Lovets, for want of Words, have Eyes to speak with. I'm afraid you do not understand the Lan­guage of mine, since yours, I find, will make no Answer to 'em. But I must tell you, Lady, There is a numerous Train of Youthful Virgins, that are endow'd with Wealth and Beauty too, who yet have thought it worth their Pains and Care, to point their Darts at Aesop's homely Breast; whilst you so much contemn, what they pursue, that a young Senseless Fop's preferr'd before me.

Did you but know that Fop you dare to term so, his very Looks wou'd fright you into nothing.

A very Bawble.

How?

A Butterfly.

I can't bear it.

A Paraquet, can prattle and look gawdy.

It may be so; but let me paint him and you, in your pro­per Colours, I'll do it exactly, and you shall judge which I ought to chuse.

No, hold; I'm naturally not over-curious; besides, 'tis Pride makes People have their Pictures drawn.

Upon my word, Sir, you may have yours taken a hun­dred times, before any Body will believe 'tis done upon that Account.

How severe she is upon me.

You are resolv'd then to persist, and be fond of your Feather; sigh for a Periwig, and die for a Cravat-string?

Methinks, Sir, you might treat with more respect, what I've thought fit to own I value; your Affronts to him, are doubly such to me; if you continue your provoking Language, you must expect my Tongue will sally too; and if you are as wise, as some would make you, you can't but know, I shou'd have Theme enough.

But is it possible you can love so much as you pretend?

Why do you question it?

Because no Body loves so much as they pretend to: But hark you, young Lady, Marriage is to last a long, long time; and where one Couple bless the Sacred Knot, a Train of Wretches [Page 30] curse the Institution. You are in an Age, where Hearts are young and tender, a pleasing Object gets Admittance soon. But since to Marriage there's annext this dreadful Word, For Ever; the following Example ought to move you.

Behold young Lady here, The Cookow of the Fable: I am deform'd, 'tis true▪ yet I have found the means to make a Figure amongst [Page 31] Men, that well has recompenc'd the wrongs of Nature; my Rival's Beauty promises you much; perhaps my homely Form might yield you more; at least consider on't, 'tis worth your Thought.

How Wise, how Witty, and how Cleanly young Women grow, as soon as ever they are in Love?

How Foppish, how Impertinent, and how Nauseous are Old Men, when they pretend to be so too?

How Pert is Youth?

How dull is Age?

Why so sharp, young Lady?

Why so blunt, old Gentleman?

'Tis enough; I'll to your Father, I know how to deal with him, tho' I don't know how to deal with you. Before to Mor­row Noon, Damsel, Wife shall be written on your Brow.

Then before to Morrow Night, Statesman, Husband shall be stampt upon your Forehead.

ACT IV.

PAtience, I beseech you.

Patience? What, and see that lovely Creature thrown into the Arms of that Ped [...]ntick Monster; 'Sdeath, I'd rather see the World reduc'd to Atoms, Mankind turn'd into Craw­fish, and my self an Old Woman.

So you think an Old Woman a very unfortunate thing, I find, but you are mistaken Sir; she may plague other Folks, but she's as Entertaining to her self, as any one part of the Creation.

She's the De [...]il—And I'm one of the Damn'd, I think. But I'll make some Body howl [...]or't, I will so.

You'll e'en do as all the young Fellows in the Town do, spoil your own Sport; ah—had young Mens Shoulders, but old Courtiers heads upon 'em, what a delicious Time wou'd they have on't. For shame be wise; for your Mistress's sake, at least, use some Caution.

For her sake I'll respect, even like a Deity, her Father. He shall strike me; he shall tread upon me, and find me humbler, even than a crawling Worm; for I'll not turn again; but for Ae­sop, that unfinish'd Lump; that Chaos of Humanity, I'll use him,—nay expect it, for I'll do't—the first Moment that I see him, I'll—

Not Challenge him, I hope;—'Twou'd be a pretty fight truly, to see Aesop drawn up in Battalia: Fie for shame, be wise once in your Life, think of gaining time, by putting off the Mar­riage for a Day or two, and not of waging War with Pigmy. Yonder's the Old Gentleman walking by himself in the Gallery; go and wheedle him, you know his weak side; he's good natur'd in the bottom. Stir up his old Fatherly Bowels a little, I'll war­rant you'll move him at last, ho get you gone, and play your Part discreetly.

Well; I'll try; but if Words won't do with one, Blows shall with t'other, by Heavens they shall.

Nay, I reckon we shall have rare work on't, by and by. Shield us kind Heaven; what things are Men in Love? Now they are Stocks and Stones; then they are Fire and Quick­silver; first whining and crying, then Swearing and Damning; this Moment they are in Love, and next Moment they are out of Love; ah—cou'd we but live without 'em—but it's in vain to think on't.

Sir, I am your most devoted Servant: what I say is no Complement, I do assure you.

Madam, as far as you are really mine, I believe I may ven­ture to assure you, I am yours.

I suppose, Sir, you know that I'm a Widow?

Madam, I don't so much as know you are a Woman.

O surprising! why, I thought the whole Town had known it. Sir, I have been a Widow this Twelve-Month.

If a Body may guess at your Heart by your Petticoat, La­dy, you don't design to be so a Twelve-Month more.

O bless me, not a Twelve-Month? why, my Husband has left me four squaling Brats. Besides, Sir, I'm undone.

You seem as chearful an undone Lady, as I have met with.

Alas, Sir, I have too great a Spirit ever to let Afflictions spoil my Face. Sir, I'll tell you my Condition; and that will lead me to my Business with you. Sir, my Husband was a Scri­vener.

The Deux he was? I thought he had been a Count at least.

Sir, 'Tis not the first time I have been taken for a Coun­tess, my Mother us'd to say, as I lay in my Cradle, I had the Air of a Woman of Quality; and truly, I have always liv'd like such. My Husband, indeed, had something Sneaking in him (as most Husbands have, you know Sir) but from the Moment▪ I set foot in his House, bless me, what a Change was there! His Pewter was turn'd into Silver; his Goloshoes into a Glass Coach, and his little Travelling Mare into a pair of Flanders Horses. Instead of a greasie Cook-Maid to wait at Table, I had four tall Foot-men, in clean Linen; all things became new and fashionable, and no­thing look'd aukward in my Family. My Furniture was the won­der of my Neighbourhood, and my Cloaths the admiration of the whole Town; I had a Necklace that was envy'd by the Queen, and a pair of Pendants that set a Dutchess a crying. In a word, [Page 34] I saw nothing I lik'd, but I bought it; and my Husband, good Man, durst ne'er refuse paying for't. Thus I liv'd, and I flou­rish'd, till he sickned, and dy'd; but e'er he was cold in his Grave, his Creditors plunder'd my House. But what pity it was to see Fellows with dirty Shoes, come into my best Rooms, and touch my Hangings with their filthy Fingers. You won't blame me, Sir, if with all my Courage, I weep at this sensible part of my Misfortune.

A very sad Story, truly.

But now, Sir, to my Business. Having been inform'd this Morning, That the King has appointed a great Sum of Mo­ney, for the Marriage of young Women who have liv'd well, and are fallen to decay: I am come to acquaint you, I have two strap­ping Daughters just fit for the Matter; and to desire you'll help. 'em to Portions out of the King's Bounty, that they mayn't whine and pine, and be eaten up with the Green Sickness, as half the young Women in the Town are, or wou'd be, if there were not more helps for a Disease than one. This, Sir, is my Business.

And this, Madam, is my Answer.

[Page 35] This, Widow, I take to be your Case, and that of a great many others; for this is an Age, where most People get falls, by clam­bering too high, to reach at what they should not do. The Shoe­maker's Wife reduces her Husband to a Cobler, by endeavouring to be as Spruce as the Taylors: The Taylor's brings hers to a Botcher, by going as fine as the Mercers; The Mercer's lowers hers to a Foreman, by perking up to the Merchants; The Mer­chant's wears hers to a Broaker, by strutting up to Quality; and Quality brings theirs to nothing, by striving to out-do one ano­ther. If Women were humbler, Men wou'd be honester. Pride brings Want, Want makes Rogues, Rogues come to be hang'd, and the Devil alone's the Gainer. Go your ways hone, Woman; and as your Husband maintain'd you by his Pen, maintain your self by your Needle; put your great Girls to Service; Employ­ment will keep 'em honest; much Work, and plain Diet, will cure the Green sickness as well as a Husband.

Why, you pitiful Pigmy, preaching, canting, Pickthank; you little, sorry, crooked, dry, wither'd Eunuch; do you know that—

I know that I am so deform'd you han't Wit enough to de­scribe me; but I have this good quality, That a foolish Woman can never make me Angry.

Can't she so; I'll try that I will.

Help, help, help.

Nay, e'en let her go—let her go—don't bring her back again—I'm for making a Bridge of Gold for my Enemy to re­treat upon—I'm quite out of Breath,—a terrible Woman, I protest.

Haux, haux, haux, haux, haux: Joular, there Boy, Joular, Joular, Tinker, Pedlar, Miss, Miss, Miss, Miss, Miss,—Blood and Oons—O there he is; that must be he, I have seen his Picture. [Page 36]

—Sir—if your Name's Aesop—I'm your humble Servant.

Sir, My Name is Aesop, at your Service.

Why then Sir—Complements being past on both sides with your leave—we'll proceed to Business.

Sir, I am by Profession—a Gentleman of—Three Thousand Pounds a Year—Sir, I keep a good Pack of Hounds, and a good Stable of Horses.

How many Horses have I, Sirrah?—Sir, this is my Groom.

Your Worship has six Coach-Horses, (Cut and Long-Tail) two Runners, half a dozen Hunters, four breeding Mares, and two blind Stallions, besides Pads, Routs, and Dog-Horses.

Look you there Sir, I scorn to tell a Lye. He that que­stions my Honour—He's a Son of a Whore. But to Business —Having heard, Sir, that you were come to this Town; I have taken the Pains to come hither too, tho' I had a great deal of Bu­siness upon my hands, for I had appointed three Iustices of the Peace to Hunt with 'em this Morning—and be Drunk with 'em in the Afternoon. But the main Chance, must be lookt to and that's this—I desire, Sir, you'll tell the King from me— I don't like these Taxes—in one word, as well as in Twenty— I don't like these Taxes.

Pray, Sir, how high may you be Tax'd.

How high may I be Tax't Sir,—Why, I may be Tax'd Sir—four Shillings in the Pound, Sir, one half I pay in Money— and t'other half I pay in Perjury, Sir. Hey, Joular, Joular, Jou­lar Haux, haux, haux, haux, haux. Whoo, hoo—Here's the best Hound Bitch in Europe, Zoons is she. And I had rather kiss her, than kiss my Wife—Rot me if I had not—But, Sir, I don't like these Taxes.

Why how wou'd you have the War carry'd on?

War carry'd on Sir?—VVhy I had rather have no VVar carry'd on at all, Sir, than pay Taxes. I don't desire to be ruin'd Sir.

VVhy you say you have Three Thousand Pounds a Year.

And so I have, Sir—Lett-Acre. Sir, this is my Stew­ard. How much Land have I, Lett-Acre?

Your VVorship has Three Thausand Paunds a Year, as good Lond as anys i'th' Caunty; and two Thausand Paunds [Page 37] worth of VVood, to cut dawne at your VVorship's pleasure, and put the Money in your Pocket.

Look you there, Sir, what have you to say to that?

I have to say, Sir, that you may pay your Taxes in Mo­ney; instead of Perjury, and still have a better Revenue than I'm afraid you deserve. VVhat Service do you do your King, Sir?

None at all Sir—I'm above it.

VVhat Service may you do your Country, pray?

I'm Justice of the Peace—and Captain of the Militia.

Of what use are you to your Kindred?

I'm the Head of the Family, and have all the Estate.

VVhat Good do you do your Neighbours?

I give 'em their Bellies full of Beef, every time they come to see me; and make 'em so drunk they Spew it up again, before they go away.

How do you use your Tenants?

VVhy I skrew up their Rents 'till they break and run away, and if I catch 'em again; I let 'em Rot in a Goal.

How do you Treat your VVise?

I treat her all Day with ill Nature and Tobacco; and all Night with Snoring, and a dirty Shirt.

How do you Breed your Children?

I breed my Eldest Son—a Fool; my Youngest breed themselves, and my Daughters—have no Breeding at all.

'Tis very well, Sir, I shall be sure to speak to the King of you; or if you think sit to Remonstrate to him, by way of Peti­tion or Address, how reasonable it may be to let Men of your Importance go Scot-free, in the time of a necessary VVar, I'll de­liver it in Council, and speak to it as I ought.

Why, Sir, I don't disapprove your Advice, but my Clerk is not here, and I can't Spell well.

You may get it writ at your Leisure, and send it me. But because you are not much us'd to draw up Addresses, perhaps; I'll tell you in general, what kind of one this ought to be.

May it please Your Majesty—

You'll excuse me if I don't know your Name and Title.

Sir Polidorus Hogstye, of Beast-Hall, in Swine County.

Very well.

[Page 38] May it please your Majesty; Polidorus Hogstye, of Beast-Hall, in Swine County, most humbly represents, That he hates to Pay Taxes, the dreadful Consequences of 'em being inevitably these; That he must retrench two Dishes in Ten, where not above six of 'em are design'd for Gluttony.

Four Bottles out of Twenty; where not above fifteen of 'em are for Drunkenness.

Six Horses out of Thirty; of which not above Twenty are kept for State.

And four Servants out of a Score; where one half do nothing but make Work for t'other.

To this deplorable Condition must your Important Subject be re­duc'd, or forc'd to cut down his Timber, which he wou'd willingly preserve, against an ill run at Dice.

And as to the necessity of the War, for the Security of the King­dom; he neither knows, nor cares, whether it be necessary, or not.

He concludes, with his Prayers for Your Majesty's Life, upon condition, you will Protect him and his Fox-hounds, at Beast-Hall, without e'er a Penny of Money.

This, Sir, I suppose, is much what you wou'd be at.

Exactly, Sir, I'll be sure to have one drawn up, to the self same purpose; and next Fox-Hunting I'll engage half the Company shall set their Hands to't.

Sir, I am your—most devoted Servant; and if you please to let me see you at Beast-Hall, here's my Huntsman Houndsfoot will shew you a Fox, shall lead you through so many Hedges and Bry­ars, you shall have no more Cloaths on your Back in half an Hours time—than you had—in the VVomb of your Mo­ther. Haux, haux, haux, &c.

O Tempora, O Mores!

Heavens preserve the Noble Aesop; grant him long Life and happy Days.

And send him a fruitful VVise, with a hopeful Issue.

And what is it I'm to do for you, good People, to make you amends for all these friendly wishes?

Sir, here's my self and my Wife—

Sir, here's I and my Husband—

Let me speak in my turn, Goodman Forward.

Sir, here's I and my Husband, I say, think we have as good Pretensions to the King's Favour, as ever a Lord in the Land.

If you have no better than some Lords in the Land, I hope you won't expect much for your Service.

An't please you, you shall be Judge your self.

That's as he gives Sentence, Mr. Little-wit; who gave you power to come to a Reference. If he does not do us Right, the King himself shall; what's to be done here?

Sir, I'm forc'd to Correct my Husband a little; poor Man, he is not us'd to Court Business; but to give him his due, he's ready enough at some things: Sir, I have had twenty fine Children by him; fifteen of-em are alive, and alive like to be; five tall Daughters are wedded and bedded, and ten proper Sons serve their King and their Country.

A goodly Company upon my word.

Would all Men take as much pains for the Peopling the Kingdom, we might tuck up our Aprons, and cry a Fig for our Enemies; but we have such a parcel of Drones amongst us— Hold up your Head, Husband—He's a little out of Counte­nance, Sir, because I chid him; but the Man's a very good Man at the bottom. But to come to my Business, Sir; I hope His Ma­jesty will think it reasonable to allow me something for the Ser­vice I have done him; 'tis pity but Labour shou'd be encourag'd, especially when what one has done, one has don't with a good will.

What Profession are you of, good People?

My Husband's an Inn-keeper, Sir; he bares the Name, but I govern the House.

And what Posts are your Sons in, in the Service?

Sir, there are four Monks.

Three Attorneys.

Two Scriveners.

And an Excise-man.

The deux o' the Service; why, I thought they had been all in the Army.

Not one, Sir.

No, so it seems, by my Troth: Ten Sons that serve their Country, quoth a, Monks, Attorneys, Scriveners and Excise men, serve their Country with a Vengeance; you deserve to be rewarded, truly; you deserve to be hang'd, you wicked People you. Get you gone out of my sight: I never was so angry in my Life.

So; who's in the right now; you or I; I told you what wou'd come on't; you must be always a Breeding, and Breeding, and the King wou'd take care of 'em, and the Queen wou'd take care of 'em. And always some pretence or other there was. But now we have got a great Kennel of Whelps, and the Devil will take care of 'em, for ought I see. For your Sons are all Rogues, and your Daughters are all Whores, you know they are.

What, you are a grudging of your Pains now, you Lazy, Sluggish, Flegmatick Drone. You have a mind to die of a Lethargy, have you? but I'll raise [...]our Spirits for you, I will so. Get you gone home, go; go [...]ome you Idle Sot, you, I'll raise your Spirits for you.

Monks, Attorneys, Scriveners, and Excise-men.

O here he is: Sir, I have been searching you, to say two Words to you.

And now you have found me, Sir, what are they?

They are, Sir—that my Name's Oronces; you compre­hend me.

I comprehend your Name.

And not my Business?

Not I, by my Troth.

Then I shall endeavour to teach it you, Monsieur Aesop.

And I to learn it, Monsieur Oronces.

Know, Sir—that I admire Euphronia.

Know, Sir—that you are in the right on't.

But I pretend, Sir, that no Body else shall admire her.

Then I pretend, Sir, she won't admire you.

Why so, Sir?

Because, Sir,

What, Sir?

She's a Woman, Sir.

What then, Sir?

Why then, Sir, she desires to be admir'd by every Man she meets.

Sir, You are too familiar.

Sir, you are too haughty; I must soften that harsh tone of yours: It don't become you, Sir; it makes a Gentleman appear a Porter, Sir: And that you may know the use of good Language, I'll tell you what once happenn'd.

Once on a Time

I'll have none of your old Wives Fables, Sir: I have no Time to lose; therefore, in a word—

In a word, be mild: For nothing else will do you Ser­vice. Good Manners and soft Words have brought many a diffi­cult thing to pass. Therefore hear me patiently.

Now, Sir, what say you? Will you be the Swan, or the Goose?

Your Euphronia Sir—

—So am not I you'll say? But y'are mistaken, Sir; I'm made to Love, tho' not to be belov'd. I have a Heart like yours; I've folly too: I've every Instrument of Love like others.

The older 'tis, the easier to be govern'd,

Were mine of as long a standing, 'twere possible I might get the better on't. Old Passions are like Old Men; Weak, and soon jostled into the Channel.

Yet Age sometimes is strong, even to the Verge of Life.

Ay, but there our Comparison don't hold.

You are too merry to be much in Love.

And you too sad to be so long.

My Grief may end my days, so quench my Flame; but nothing else can e'er extinguish it.

Don't be discourag'd Sir; I have seen many a Man out­live his Passion Twenty Years.

But I have Sworn, to dye Euphronia's Slave.

A decay'd Face always absolves a Lovers Oath.

Lovers whose Oaths are made to Faces then: But 'tis Eu­phronia's Soul that I adore, which never can decay.

I wou'd fain see a young Fellow in Love with a Soul of Threescore.

Had this young Fellow but studied Anatomy, he'd have found the Source of his Passion lay far from his Mistress's Soul.

ACT V.

HEavens, what is't you make me do, Doris? Apply my self to the Man I loath; beg Favours from him I hate; seek a Reprieve from him I abhor? 'Tis low, 'tis mean, 'tis base in me.

VVhy, you hate the Devil as much as you do Aesop, (or within a small matter) and shou'd you think it a scandal to pray him to let you alone a day or two, if he were a going to run a­way with you; ha?

I don't know what I think, nor what I say, nor what I do: But sure, th'art not my Friend, thus to advise me.

I advise? I advise nothing; e'en follow your own way, marry him and make much of him. I have a mind to see some of his Breed; if you like it, I like it: He shan't breed out of me only; that's all I have to take care of.

Prithee don't distract me.

VVhy, to morrow's the day, fix'd and firm, you know it; Much Meat, little Order, great many Relations, few Friends, Horse-play, Noise, and bawdy Stories; all's ready for a compleat VVedding.

Oh, what shall I do?

Nay, I know this makes you tremble; and yet your ten­der Conscience scruples to drop one Hypocritical Cursy, and say, 'pray, Mr. Aesop, be so kind to defer it a few days longer.

Thou know'st I cannot dissemble.

I know you can dissemble well enough, when you shou'd not do't. Do you remember how you us'd to plague your poor Oronces; make him believe you loath'd him, when you cou'd have kiss'd the ground he went on; affront him in all publick [Page 45] Places; ridicule him in all Company; abuse him where-ever you went; and when you had reduc'd him within Ams Ace of hang­ing or drowning, then come home with Tears in your Eyes, and cry, now, Doris, let's go lock our selves up, and talk of my dear Oronces. Is not this true?

Yes, yes, yes. But, prithee, have some Compassion on me. Come, I'll do any thing thou bidd'st me—What shall I say to this Monster? Tell me, and I'll obey thee.

Nay, then there's some hopes of you.

Why, you must tell him—'Tis natural to you to dislike Folks at first sight: That since you have consider'd him better, you find your Aversion abated: That though perhaps it may be a hard matter for you ever to think him a Beau, you don't despair in time of finding out his Iene scai quoy. And that on t'other side; tho' you have hitherto thought (as most young Women do) that nothing cou'd remove your first Affection, yet you have very great hopes in the natural Inconstancy of your Sex.

Tell him, 'tis not impossible a change may happen, provided he gives you time: But that if he goes to force you, there's ano­ther piece of Nature peculiar to Woman, which may chance to spoil all, and that's Contradiction: Ring that Argument well in his Ears: He's a Philosopher, he knows it has weight in't.

In short, Wheedle, whine, flatter, lye, weep, spare nothing, it's a moist Age, Women have Tears enough; and when you have melted him down, and gain'd more time, we'll employ it in Closet-Debates how to cheat him to the end of the Chapter.

But you don't consider, Doris, that by this means I engage my self to him; and can't afterwards with Honour retreat.

Madam, I know the World— [...]onour' a Jest, when Jilting's useful.

Besides, he that wou'd have you break your Oath with Oronces, can never have the Impudence to blame you for cracking your Word with himself. But who knows what may happen between the Cup and the Lip. Let either of the Old Gentlemen dye, and we ride triumphant. Wou'd I cou'd but see the Statesman sick a little, I'd recommend a Doctor to him, a Cousin of mine, a Man of Conscience, a wise Physician; tip but the Wink, he under­stands you.

Thou wicked Wench, woud'st poison him?

I don't know what I wou'd do, I think, I study, I invent, and some how I will get rid of him. I do more for you, I'm sure, than you and your Knight Errant do together for your selves.

Alas, both he and I do all we can; thou know'st we do.

Nay, I know y'are willing enough to get together; but y'are a couple of helpless Things, Heaven knows.

Our Stars, thou see'st, are bent to Opposition.

Stars!—I'd fain see the Stars hinder me from running away with a Man I lik'd.

Ay, But thou know'st, shou'd I disoblige my Father, he'd give my Portion to my younger Sister.

Ay, there the Shooe pinches, there's the Love of the Age; Ah!—to what an Ebb of Passion are Lovers sunk in these days. Give me a Woman that runs away with a Man, when his whole Estate's pack'd up in his Snap-sack. That tucks up her Coats to her Knees; and through thick and through thin, from Quarters to Camp trudges heartily on, with a Child at her Back, another in her Arms, and a brace in her Belly: There's Flame with a Witness, where this is the Effects on't. But we must have Love in a Feather-bed, Forsooth, a Coach and Six Horses, Clean Linen, and a Cawdle; Fie, for shame.

O ho, here comes our Man. Now shew your self a Woman, if you are one.

I'm told, fair Virgin, you desire to speak with me. Lo­vers are apt to flatter themselves: I take your Message for a Fa­vour. I hope 'twas meant so.

Favours from Women are so cheap of late, Men may ex­pect 'em truly without Vanity.

If the Women are so liberal, I think the Men are gene­rous too on their side: 'Tis a well-bred Age, thank Heaven; and a deal of Civility there passes between the two Sexes. What Ser­vice is't that I can do you, Lady?

Sir, I have a small Favour to intreat you.

What is't? I don't believe I shall refuse you.

What, if you shou'd promise me you won't.

Why, then I shou'd make a Divorce between my good Breeding and my Sence, which ought to be as sacred a Knot as that of Wedlock.

Dare you not trust then, Sir, the thing you love?

Not when the thing I love don't love me; never.

Trust is sometimes the way to be belov'd.

Ay, but 'tis oftner the way to be cheated.

Pray promise me you'll grant my suit.

'Tis a reasonable one, I give you my word for't.

If it be so, I do promise to grant it.

That's still leaving your self Judge.

Why, who's more concern'd in the Tryal?

But no body ought to be Judge in their own Cause.

Yet he that is so, is sure to have no wrong done him.

But if he does wrong to others, that's worse.

Worse for them, but not for him.

True Politician, by my troth!

Men must be so, when they have to do with Sharpers.

If I should tell you then, there were a possibility, I might be brought to love you, you'd scarce believe me?

I shou'd hope as a Lover, and suspect as a Statesman.

Love and Wisdom! There's the Passion of the Age again.

You have liv'd long, Sir, and observ'd much: Did you never see Time produce strange Changes?

Amongst Women I must confess I have.

Why, I'm a Woman, Sir.

Why, truly that gives me some hopes.

I'll encrease 'em, Sir; I have already been in love two years.

And Time, you know, wears all things to tatters.

Well observ'd.

What if you shou'd allow me some, to try what I can do?

Why, truly, I wou'd have patience a day or two, if there were as much probability of my being your new Gallant, as per­haps there may be of changing your old one.

She shall give you fair play for't, Sir; Opportunity and leave to prattle, and that's what carries most Women in our days. Nay, she shall do more for you. You shall play with her Fan; squeese her little Finger; buckle her Shooe; read a Romance to her in the Arbour; and saunter in the Woods, on a Moon­shiny Night. If this don't melt her, she's no Woman; or you no Man—

I'm not a Man to melt a Woman that way: I know my self, and know what they require. 'Tis through a Woman's Eye you pierce her Heart. And, I've no Darts can make their entrance there.

You are a great Statesman, Sir; but I find you know little of our Matters. A womans heart's to be enter'd forty ways. Every Sence she has about her, keeps a door to't. With a Smock-face, and a Feather, you get in at her Eyes. With powerful Non­sence, in soft words, you creep in at her Ears. An Essenc'd Pe­ruke, and a Sweet Handkerchief, lets you in at her Nose. With a Treat, and a Box full of Sweet-meats, you slip in at her Mouth: And if you would enter by her Sense of Feeling, 'tis as beaten a Road as the rest. What think you now, Sir? There are more ways to the Wood than one, you see.

Why, y'are an admirable Pilot: I don't doubt but you have fleer'd many a Ship safe to Harbour: But I'm an old stubborn Sea-man; I must sail by my own Compass still.

And, by your Obstinacy, lose your Vessel.

No: I'm just entring into Port; we'll be married to­morrow.

For Heavens sake, deferr it some days longer: I cannot love you yet, indeed I cannot.

Nor never will, I dare swear.

Why then will you marry me?

Because I love you.

If you lov'd me, you wou'd never make me miserable.

Not if I lov'd you for your sake; but I love you for my own.

Theres an old Rogue for you.

Is there no way left? Must I be wretched?

'Tis but resolving to be pleas'd. You can't imagine the strength of Resolution. I have seen a Woman resolve to be in the wrong, all the days of her life; And by the help of her Resolu­tion, she has kept her word to a tittle.

Methinks, the Subject we're upon, shou'd be of weight enough to make you serious.

Right: To morrow morning pray be ready: You'll find me so: I'm serious: Now I hope you are pleas'd.

Break Heart! For if thou hold'st, I'm miserable.

Now my the Extravagance of a lewd Wife, with the Insolence of a Vertuous one, join hand in hand to bring thy Grey Hairs to the Grave.

My old Friend wishes me well to the last I see.

Pray hear me, Sir.

'Tis in vain: I'm resolv'd, I tell thee.

Most Noble Aesop, since you are pleas'd to accept of my poor Off-spring for your Consort, be so charitable to my Old Age, to deli­ver me from the Impertinence of Youth, by making her your Wife this Instant; for there's a Plot against my Life; they have resolv'd to teaze me to Death to night, that they may break the Match to morrow morning. Marry her this Instant, I intreat you.

This Instant, say you?

This Instant; this very Instant.

'Tis enough; get all things ready; I'll be with you in a moment.

Now, what say you, Mr. Flame-Fire? I shall have the whip-hand of you presently.

Defer it but till to morrow, Sir.

D'ye call, Sir?

Yes; I do, Minx. Go shift your self, and put on your best Cloaths. You are to be marry'd.

Marry'd Sir?

Yes, marry'd, Madam; and that this Instant too.

Dear Sir!

Not a word: Obedience and a clean-Smock. Dispatch.

Sir, your most Obedient Humble Servant.

Yet hear what I've to say.

And what have you to say, Sir.

Alas! I know not what I have to say!

Very like so. That's a sure sign he's in Love now.

Have you no Bowels?

Ha, ha! Bowels in a Parent! Here's a young Fellow for you. Hark thee, Stripling. Being in a very merry humour, I don't care if I discover some Paternal Secrets to thee.

Know then; that how humoursome, how whimsical soever we may appear, there's one fixt Principle that runs through almost the whole Race of us; and that's to please our selves. Why do'st think I got my Daughter? Why, there was something in't that pleas'd me. Why do'st think I marry my Daughter? Why, to please my self still. And what is't that pleases me? Why, my Interest, what do'st think it shou'd be? If Aesop's my Son-in-Law, he'll make me a Lord: If thou art my Son-in-Law thou'lt make me a Grand-father. Now I having more Mind to be a Lord than a Grand-father, give my Daughter to him, and not to thee.

Then shall her Happiness weigh nothing with you?

Not this: If it did, I'd give her to thee, and not to him.

Do you think forc'd Marriage the way to keep Women Vertuous?

No; nor I don't care whether Women are Vertuous or not.

You know your Daughter loves me.

I do so.

What if the Children that Aesop may happen to Father, shou'd chance to be begot by me?

Why, then Aesop wou'd be the Cuckold, not I.

Is that all you care?

Yes: I speak as a Father.

What think you of your Child's Concern in t'other world?

VVhy, I think it my Child's Concern, not mine. I speak as a Father.

Do you remember you once gave me your Consent to wed your Daughter?

I did.

VVhy did you so?

Because you were the best Match that offer'd at that time. I did like a Father.

Why then, Sir, I'll do like a Lover. I'll make you keep your Word, or cut your Throat.

Who waits there, Hey?

Seize me that Bully there. Carry him to Prison, and keep him safe.

Why, you won't use me thus?

Yes, but I will tho': Away with him. Sir, your most Humble Servant: I wish you a good Nights Rest; and as far as a merry Dream goes, my Daughter's at your Service.

Death and Furies!

How now? What have we got here?

Sir, we are a Troop of Trifling Fellows, Fidlers, and Dan­cers, come to celebrate the Wedding of your Fair Daughter: If your Honour pleases to give us leave.

With all my Heart: But who do you take me for, Sir; Ha?

I take your Honour for our Noble Governour of Sysicus.

Governour of Sysicus; Governour of a Cheese-Cake! I'm Father-in-law to the Great Aesop, Sirrah.

—I shall be a Great Man.

Come, Tune your Fiddles; Shake your Legs; Get all things rea­dy. My Son-in-Law will be here presently—I shall be a great Man.

A great Marriage, Brother: What do'st think will be the end on't?

Why, I believe we shall see three turns upon't. This Old Fellow here, will turn Fool; his Daughter will turn Strum­pet; and his Son-in-Law will turn 'em both out of doors. But that's nothing to thee nor me, as long as we are paid for our Fid­ling. So tune away, Gentlemen.

D'ye hear Trumpets? When the Bride appears, salute her with a melancholy Waft. 'Twill suit her humour; for I guess she mayn't be over-well pleas'd.

Gentlemen and Friends, y'are all welcome. I have sent to as many of you, as our short time wou'd give me leave, to desire you wou'd be VVitnesses of the Honour the Great Aesop▪ designs our self and Family. Hey; who attends there?

Go, let my Daughter know I wait for her.

—'Tis a vast Honour that is done me, Gentlemen.

It is indeed, my Lord.

Look you there; if they don't call me my Lord al­ready —I shall be a great Man.

How now? VVhat's here? All in deep Mourning? Here's a provoking Baggage for you.

Gad take my Soul, Mame, I hope I shall please you now.—Gentlemen all, I'm your Humble Servant. I'm going to be a very happy Man you see.

VVhen the Heat of the Ceremonies over, if your La­dyship pleases, Mame; I'll wait upon you to take the Air in the Park. Hey, Page; Let there be a Coach and six Horses ready instantly.

—I vow to Gad, Mame, I was so taken up with my good Fortune, I did not observe the extream Fancy of your Ladyship's VVedding-Cloaths—Infinitely pretty, as I hope to be sav'd: a VVorld of Variety, and not at all gawdy.

My Dear Father-in-Law. Embrace me.

Your Lordship does me too much Honour.

—I shall be a great Man.

Come, Gentlemen, Are all things ready? VVhere's the Priest?

Here, my Noble Lord.

Most Reverend—VVill you please to say Grace that I may fall to, for I'm very hungry, and here's very good Meat. But where's my Rival all this while? The least we can do, is to invite him to the Wedding.

My Lord, he's in Prison.

In Prison! how so?

He wou'd have murder'd me.

A bloody Fellow! But let's see him however. Send for him quickly.

Ha, Governor—that handsome Daughter of yours, I will so mumble her—

I shall be a great Man.

O ho: Here's my Rival: Then we have all we want. Advance, Sir, if you please. I desire you'll do me the Favour to be a Witness to my Marriage, lest one of these days you shou'd take a Fancy to dispute my Wife with me.

Do you then send for me to insult me: 'Tis base in you.

I have no time now to throw away upon Points of Gene­rosity; I have hotter Work upon my hands. Come, Priest, advance.

Pray hold him fast there; he has the Devil and all of Mis­chief in's Eye.

Will your Ladyship please, Mame, to give me your fair hand—hey-day.

I'll give it you, my Noble Lord, if she won't.

A stubborn, self-will'd, stiff-necked Strumpet.

Let my Rival stand next me: Of all Men I'd have him be satisfy'd.

Barbarous Inhumane Monster.

Now, Priest do thy Office.

O happy Change: Blessings on Blessings wait on the Gene­rous Aesop.

You'll pardon me, most Generous Man, if in the present Transports of my Soul, which you your self have by your Bounty caus'd, my willing Tongue is ty'd from uttering the Thoughts that flow from a most grateful Heart.

I shall be a great Man.

The Injury he wou'd have done to you, was great indeed: But 'twas a Blessing he design'd for me; if therefore you can par­don him, I may.

Your injur'd Daughter, Sir, has on her Knees intreated for her cruel, barbarous Father; and by her Goodness has obtain'd her Suit. If in the Remnant of your days, you can find out some [Page 55] way to recompence her, do it, That Men and Gods may pardon you, as she and I have done. But let me see, I have one Quarrel still to make up. Where's my old Friend, Doris.

She's here, Sir, at your Service; and as much your Friend as ever: True to her Principles, and firm to her Mistress. But she has a much better Opinion of you now than she had half an hour ago.

She has reason: For my Soul appear'd then as deform'd as my Body. But I hope now, one may so far mediate for t'other, that, provided I don't make Love, the Women won't quarrel with me; for they are worse Enemies even than they are Friends.

Come, Gentlemen, I'll humour my Dress a little longer, and share with you in the Diversions these Boon Companions have pre­par'd us. Let's take our Places, and see how they can divert us.

By this time, my young eager Couple, 'tis probable you wou'd be glad to be alone; perhaps you'll have a mind to go to Bed even without your Supper; for Brides and Bridegrooms eat little on their Wedding-night. But since, if Matrimony were worn as it ought to be, it wou'd perhaps sit easier about us than [Page 57] usually it does. I'll give you one Word of Council, and so I shall release you.

When one is out of Humour, let the other be dumb.

Let your Diversions be such, as both may have a share in 'em.

Never let Familiarity exclude Respect.

Be clean in your Cloaths, but nicely so in your Persons: Eat at one Table: Lye in one Room, but sleep in two Beds.

I'll tell the Ladies why.