ACT I.

YOu have serv'd me but two days, and are you weary al­ready?

Pray add the nights to the days; for I have not slept since I came into your service.

Love has ordain'd us for these Journeys; and will, I hope, bring us at last where we may rest quietly.

Yes, to the last Inn of all Travailers, where we shall meet Worms instead of Fleas; Lovers never rest quietly till they lodge at the sign of the Grave.

P [...]ithee be patient Laura.

If I had been waiting-woman to Will of the Wisp, I could not have wander'd with so much uncertainty as when I follow a Mi­stress led about by Love.

But, Laura, I follow you now.

You may with ease enough when I'm so tir'd that I can go no farther; this is the pretty Foot belonging to a Leg; which (though I say't) was fit to lead a Dance in Hymens Hall.

And does it limp now, and grow weary of the errands of two days.

You have little reason to blame that Leg which has been so nimble in your service; but the other will follow it no further. Me thinks it has got a shackle instead of a Garter

Take heed, Laura; I see light.

Why, what would you see, darkness? are not your eyes made for the light?

'Tis a Man; He seems to seek some body with a Lanthorn.

He seeks me here by appointment.

I'l retire to this Portico.

Doe, whilst I accost him.

What is he?

'Tis Sancho, Don Ferdinando's Steward; he was my sworn Brother over a Possit, he is by the length of his Beard and the heat of his Constitution, a very Goat.

For Heaven's sake lose no time.

You need not fear his loss of time; I use to call him my Bro­ther-Brevity; He is so thrifty of his speech, that his Tongue does sel­dom allow his thoughts above two words to express them.

Laura!

Are not you my Brother Sancho?

I am.

Have you contriv'd a way to conceal my Lady in your Ma­sters house?

Yes.

Can you admit her now?

No.

May it be to morrow?

It may.

I'l attend you in the morning.

Doe.

Pray name the hour.

Nine.

My Mistriss is very sensible of your care, and would know if I may have leave to give you this Gold?

You may.

I hope you hate not me, nor the present.

Neither.

Are we both acceptable?

Both. —

'Tis very Gold; and Signior Sancho you shall find me to be as true metal as it.

I'l try. —

Not so soon, good Signior Sancho, Bring me to the Wed­ding night, and then try if, like Gold, I can endure the touch.

Humph! —

Lovers may pretend to have true Metal, but Mariage is the Touch-stone.

Of Fools.

Hands off, good Signior Sancho. You want sleep, Good night, Pray let me go. —

Passe. —

Come, Madam, we may hasten home, Nine is the appointed hour when you shall have admittance.

After I have sought opportunity, I am afraid to find it.

Madam, I do not yet understand your intrigues of Love. You are afraid to find the opportunity you seek, and I, poor wretch, seek more opportunities than I fear I shall find.

Lord help thee,! thou dost want a great deal of sorrow to make thee a little wise.

Sir, by your favour, you are either mad, or the Devil is ma­licious to bring you to Madrid, at so unseasonable an hour, after ri­ding post, or rather flying, without meat or drink, as empty as wild Hawks, and as uncertain of your Quarry.

I confess thou maist be tir'd all over, all but thy Tongue, and that can never be weary. The Street where we are now, is that which I have sought.

What will you do here, go see Don Ferdinand when 'tis past Midnight?

Yes, and this very night I'l visit Isabella.

'Tis ill to have an empty stomach, but worse to have an empty head.

Todelet, I know you are hungry, but hunger makes you fitter for watching, I'l not stirr out of this street till I see my Mi­stress.

Remember 'tis past One, a season when Don Ferdinand's Gates are always shut: we have ridden this morning from Burgos. I know no kind of Lovers but Owls would have chosen the night for a jour­ney.

To love nothing but sleep and eating is to be a Beast in the habit of a Serving-man.

How I hate raillery?

And I eating and sleep, in comparison of this Picture of Isabella.

You are one of those who are fill'd with wild-fire at sight of a cold Picture; and if Master Painter, has luckily drawn a Snout of Ivo­ry and a Mouth of Coral, which perhaps does inclose an ill Tongue and worse Teeth, then he makes you mad of a Mistress; Will a Pi­cture reveal whether her crooked body be arm'd with a Coat of Mail, or whether she be some Skeleton whose Beauties lie at night upon her dressing-cloth? you'l not be much pity'd if men find you ill provided of a Woman, since you'l be gull'd with one before you have seen her.

Thou art as froward at this time o'th night as a wak'd Child.

Wou'd any Man keep patience about him when he must run in the dark from Street to Street, and grope out his way like a blind Man without a Dog? or stand so long under a Balcone (lifting him­self upon one leg to stare higher about him) till he shift his feet as often as a Stork?

Todelet!

Don John.!

My Picture was rarely drawn: and sure it could not chuse but please my Mistriss.

I know the contrary.

What sayst thou?

I tell you it has rather displeas'd her.

How the Devil canst thou know that!

Alas, I know it too well.

Hah! tell me how?

Good Sir, have patience! instead of your Picture she re­ceived mine.

Traitor, 'tis well thou dost not use to speak truth, for else I should search for thy life in the very bottom of thy Bowels.

You may, Sir, and begin as my Throat: But in piercing my body, I pray spare my Doublet for I made it new at Burgos.

Pox of your Railery, Tell me what thou hast done?

Sir, put your anger up first.

I never had so much cause to let it out, But speak, and let not Fear fright Truth from thee.

Sir, when we left Flanders —

Well proceed.

You having your Brother ki [...]l'd, and a Sister carried away by stealth (not knowing where, nor how, nor wherefore, nor by whom) you rode so fast that you left all your judgement a great way behind you.

To what purpose, Villain, dost thou open these two wounds? proceed apace to thy Picture.

Sir, I go as fast as I can; but your anger interrupts me so, that I'm fain sometimes to go back to recover my Tongue, though I have nothing within me but what is much to the purpose.

Why dost thou not render it in few words?

I cannot, Sir, for I always speak things in order, but for your Picture which I had e'n forgot —

Was ever Man so tir'd with the tedious length of nothing?

We were but newly return'd to Castille when Don Ferdinand de Rochas propos'd his Daughter to you in Marriage: her Picture was made a Present to you, and the offer of Twenty thousand Crowns in portion, and then you (t'inchant her with your own Picture as much as you were charm'd by hers) made haste to send her it: and so, as the Proverb says, put an old Cat to an old Rat. It was a Lo­vers stratagem, and villanously subtle. But Heav'n (not always a Friend to Lovers) ordain'd a success in spite of expectation.

Art thou about the History of the World; and wilt thou not finish it till the World ends?

Yes, Sir, but I must refresh my memory, for it is almost weary.

I would thy Tongue were so too.

You remember that your Painter (in thankfulness for the great [Page 6] reward you gave him) wou'd after he had drawn your Picture, take a little pains about mine.

I know that: but proceed.

Then you likewise know it cost me nothing, Well, that Flem­ming's a brave man. None of your Jan Van Lievens, nor your Elsha­mers, nor your Brauwers, nor your Joes Van Winghens ever drew like him. Then give him but a Rummer, over a Pickell'd Herring, and he will drink so kindly, as if he had the Heart of a Whale.

Wilt thou never conclude? hast thou sold, burnt, eat, or drank my Picture? Have I it yet, or was it sent to Isabella? speak and be quick!

If you have not patience to stay awhile rather than hear ill news, but will needs ride Post to overtake the Devil, I will leave Flanders and goe the nearest way to the purpose.

Still wilt thou be tedious?

Nay, Sir, since you love unwelcome brevity, know when I was to send away the last Packet, I would (being a little curious) compare the workmanship of my Picture with yours. I set them op­posite to one another, turning my Eies often from this to that, and be­ing call'd for in haste by the Post-Boy, I put my little Picture in the Packet instead of yours!

How? yours instead of mine?

Sir, your Picture had the happy laziness to stay here; but mine was destin'd to ride Post with the Devil to your Mistress.

Canst thou live, or I either, after I have heard this?

Good Sir, make use of patience as I did. Time, which wears out sorrows as well as joys, has since th' unhappy accident given me a few quiet nights, and I have ceas'd to grieve for fear of being sick.

Dog! what will she say of thy horn-face, and of thy Badgers Nose?

Alas, Sir, she will not think you very handsome, I mean in my Picture; but if we were both our own Painters we should not want Beauty.

Peace, there comes one who perhaps knows Don Fer­dinand's house, Goe, ask him.

But Sir —

Well, speak low.

Perhaps he [...]l expect a reward if he tells us. In Madrid you must hold out your Money if you do but ask what's a clock?

Unlucky Rogue, wou'd he would cudgel thee.

He has not leisure to do it; he seems in haste.

Who goes there?

Not to displease you, Sir, where dwells Don Ferdinand?

This is his house.

Are we in the right already? for this bout my Master has rea­son, the Father-in-law is found; and the Son-in-law-elect has nothing to do but to knock.

I begin to find my self a Fool for having shew'd them where my Master is secretly enter'd, and whence I expect he'l presently come forth; I must find some expedient.

Does he dwell here?

Yes, but he is sick, and does not love noise, what are you?

We, Sir, are Night-walkers; or rather men of Norway, a Norhern-Countrey where he is curs'd, who does not sleep continual­ly, for my part I never sleep; and that's my Master, Sir, the greatest waker in the World.

Or rather the greatest Robber. He shall give me satisfaction for what he lately took from me; I know him well enough, and you were with him.

You are very chollerick, and I think somewhat mad. If I were so too, you would have little safety but in flying. Sir, as sober as I am, I can scarce keep my hand from my hilt.

Sir! Sir! advance a little, I begin to grow soft, and were it not dark, I should appear somewhat pale too.

Approach Sir, come on towards me. I'l make you civil.

How! Don of the dark? are you so brisk? but I shall take the pains to drive you a mile hence: for though you are Two (wou'd I were rid of 'em) if you dare follow me as fast as I'l lead the way, ye shall come to a better place for fighting.

Say you so, Sir? I'l follow you, stay! I hear a noise. It seems to be above us.

Pox on this chollerick Curr! if his barking had not frighted [Page 8] me, I had, perhaps, without any danger, broke his very bones: but whence the Devil comes that other Devil?

Stephano!

They are going.

Sure that's his Man whom he calls: he who gets way before us.

Either I am much cousen'd, or I am watch'd. But the noise of a quarrel will fright Isabella. In care of her I must neglect my honour. Let's steal away, since it must be so.

Stay, or thou art dead. Stay but one thrust.

My Master has mettal, but I'm no Touch-stone to try it on.

Give me thy name, or I'll take thy life.

I am Don Todelet of Segovia.

Three curses on thee, and a thousand on him that leapt from the Balcone. What's become of him.

He flew through the dark like Lightning, and I like a furi­ous Fool, follow'd him like Thunder, till the invisible Rogue thread­ed a Lane as narrow as a Needles Eye. Well, I'm the Hercules whom you alwayes expose against Two. You are a little prompt, but, by your leave, Master; is it the Custome of Madrid to scape thus out of a Windore?

Did'st thou perfectly discern him?

Yes.

I am amaz'd.

And I, if it were possible, am quite confounded.

I must not here take up a quarrel at the first bound.

Methinks your mind is a little troubled.

It is; and I have much cause, but let's consult upon't.

That's well said; I never found my self so much inclin'd to reasoning, and, if you please, let's consult soundly.

I was born at Burgos; left poor, but of a long race ex­empted even as far as my self, from all disgraces.

Very well.

At my return from the Warr to Burgos, I found my self attacqu'd with two different Evils. I had a Brother murder'd and was [Page 9] rob'd of a Sister; though she was bred with all the cares of honour. And this makes me exceeding chollerick.

That's ill, very ill, exceeding ill.

D. Ferdinand chose me for a Husband to Isabella; and she has receiv'd thy Picture instead of mine.

That's not very ill.

We treated of this bus [...]ness in secret; and I took horse for Madrid, where I now arrive late at night.

That's a little ill.

Without seeking out a Lodging my love leads me di­rectly hither.

That's a little too soon.

I met before Don Ferdinands House a Serving-man who thrusts me, by design, upon an Almain-quarrel.

That's very true, but somewhat unwillingly, like a Coward as he is.

Perhaps 'twas for fear of scandal; for he did not ap­proach us like a Coward.

How did the unlucky Thief come then?

He came on like the Lover of Isabella.

That's very ill.

'Tis that which will wound my head more than his sword.

Let's fall to reasoning agen.

Ah! no more reasoning, when reason grows superfluous. But prithee mark the counsel which Love suggests to me. My hope lies in thee. To morrow, my dear Todelet, thou must pass for my Master, and I for the Man. Thy Picture is to work Miracles. What ayl'st thou? dost thou shake thy ears?

These kind of disguises smell too much of the Cudgel. I'ld rather proceed to reasoning agen. For what will the world say? Don John is grown the Man, and Todelet the Master, and by ill for­tune too; for perhaps, at last, your Mistress may love me, and I her.

Fear not that; for then the mischief will be mine: but I, being Tod'let, may get acquainted with my Rivals man. I'll be a Lover from the Kitchin to the Garret; and my Presents shall open the Locks of every bosome: whilst thou (eating like a Shanker, and [Page 10] drinking like a Hole) shalt shine in gold Chains like the King of Peru, without having any share of my sorrows.

I begin to like the Invention.

Thou shalt be feasted and cramm'd at Don Ferdinands; whilst I am choak'd with my jealousies.

But may I not (to represent Don John the better) give your shoulders now and then a tast of the Cudgel?

Yes, when we are alone, without Witnesses.

ACT. II.

BEttris, make up your Packet, without thinking to re­concile me by long rattle; I'll have no more of you.

Truly, Mistress, I'm ignorant of the cause of your anger.

You know it not?

If I do, may I never be haunted agen by men of Honour.

'Tis no matter, I dismiss you.

Well my conscience is clear. If I have ever fail'd to serve you may I burst like a boy'ld Pudding for want of pricking. But let Flatterers goe fine while Truth must be shut out o'dores and walk naked.

Yes, Dame Betteris, you are innocent: You have not open'd my Balcone to night, nor have walkt bare-footed to make less noise?

Alas! is that it? I left your lac'd linnen drying on a Line, and went into the Garden for fear some body should steal it.

Yes, and you discourst with my Linnen: My ears deceiv'd me, I did not hear you talk.

Perhaps I was at prayers.

What, so loud?

Yes, that heav'n might hear me.

And 'twas no man, but my linnen, that leapt down from my Balcone.

Pray do not believe it.

I saw it, Bettris.

Ah, my dear Mistress, it is true. But Don Lewis —

O Heav'n! how that name hurts me? was it Don Lewis?

Yes, Madam, your fair Cousen.

My fair Cousen! Thou black wretch! for what design had he admittance?

If 'tis a great sin to be charitable you have cause to be angry. But if you will but hear me speak —

You may speak long enough before I believe you.

'Twas last night when that delicate Don Lewis came to see you, and because it rain'd I let him into the Hall; and, much against my will; for I am tender of scandal: but the poor man, being impa­tient, went up; and presently after I heard your Father Don Ferdi­nand spit aloud (for he alwayes coughs when he spits) and will be heard farr enough. I'll warrant him as sound as any man of Madrid.

Well, proceed to the ill purpose.

At this noise Don Lewis sav'd himself in your Balcone, which he found half open, and I lockt him in till you arriv'd with the old man; with whom you discourst too long, and made Don Lewis im­patient agen.

Troth we were very uncivil to him.

I stay'd till you were a bed; and then (being in my nature alwayes inclin'd to charitable deeds) I went to free him from his im­prisonment.

Good heart!

He said he must needs speak with you one moment, but I warrant you, I was sharp enough; and told him plainly that your Curtains were drawn.

That was severe indeed.

I saw tears fall from his eyes, and at the same time felt a few [Page 12] Pistols drop into my hand. He conjur'd me with such sweet words; calling me, my Heart, my dear Bettris, and then put on my finger a Diamond-Ring; which did so vex me that I was ready to fly in's face.

That had been too cruel.

Nay, [...] but that his suff [...]rings wrought me agen into pitty; for truly I cannot hate the man. But in your int'rest I know no body.

I thank you, good Mistress Bettris.

But when he saw I was so much in earnest that my face was all fire —

He saw the flushing of your anger though it were dark; but indeed all kind of fire is most visible at night.

He leapt from the Balcone into the Street; where I heard them cry, kill! kill! and this is the notable cause of your putting me away.

Well, you'll forgive me if I must needs be too blame.

I built my happiness upon your Marriage. But if my zeal to serve you were known to Don John (who they say is come to Town) I should hope for as ill success as I have now.

How? Don John, too? the man I fear and most abhorre. After my rage against Don Lewis do you think to asswage me with the mention of Don John? Fare you well, Maid of Honour, let me see you no more.

Let the Devill take Don Lewis who is the cause of this.

What's the matter Bettris, are you weeping?

Your Daughter, Sir, has dismist me from her service, and for nothing, Sir, but for wishing her favorable opinion of Don John, because he deserves it, and you desire it.

That's a small cause for your dismission; but I'll ende­vor to reconcile you. Bid your Mistress come hither.

They have often little quarrels; sometimes for a Curle disorder'd, or a black-Patch mis-plac'd; and more often they differ in expounding of Dreams: but this is no time for expulsion of servants. If Don John D' Alverad come, (who is expected to night) I'll throw away [Page 13] my Staff, which is my Third Leg, and with my other Two lead 'em a Dance.

Sir, you are perhaps, contriving my Marriage with Don John; but I hope you'll ordain me a death less cruel.

Minion, you are for some unexperienc'd Gallant, that ne­ver travail'd but Northward, and that was to observe the variety of Flaxen Hair, and to bring home Perewigs for Presents at Court; who spends the morning in tyring good men with the repetition of ill Verses, and in the afternoon lies stretcht out at length, in his open Gilt Coach, like the Image of Laziness drawn in Triumph through the City. — The Baggage laughs when I would have her weep.

Sir, you have reason to be angry; but I've as much cause to laugh when I behold this Picture of a Suitor so deform'd that he seems ridiculous.

You judge of a Man by his Picture; let me see it.— How the Devill have I baited my Hook at Court, that I have been six Months a fishing for this Cods-head? yet many have told me that D. John d' Alverad was a person highly esteem'd.

If he had been tollerably handsome your command might be obey'd,

Well, however you shall promise me to use him civilly, and I'll then find a remedy for your grief.

But here comes a Lady that will not shew her self, I wonder who let her in, and would not first ask, whether we would be visible? Madam, without seeing your face, or inquiring your name, you may freely command me.

Don Ferdinand, I expect no less from your civil reputation. I come to you for refuge, and beseech you without any witness I may tell you my misfortunes.

You may Daughter retire.

I would I could so express my griefs that you might find some excuse for my faults. But if you could number my tears per­haps you would confess that my eyes have been sufficiently punisht by my Crimes.

This Stranger has no ill behaviour.

Sir, let me imbrace your knees, and not rise from mine till I obtain that succour which I hope you will afford me.

This stile is somewhat Romantick. My foolish Daughter never read Romances, but, for my part, I esteem Amadis and all such antient and discreet Records of Love and Honour. Madam you seem not a person to whom a Gentleman should refuse any thing.

Sir, I must then give you the trouble of knowing my Race, and of hearing my misfortunes. My Race you will easily know, for my dead Father often told me, that he had made a friendship wi [...]h you at Rome, and that you are a person both obliging and brave.

I owe him much for that Character, and shall be ready to pay the debt to you.

Sir, Burgos is the Town where I receiv'd my first being, and unfortunately the flames of Love. My Mother dy'd at my birth, and my Father deceas'd soon after her when he perceiv'd the misfortune of my love. His name was Diego d' Alverad. He bred me with great care and bounty, and he had much hope of my Infancy; but alas! it was a false hope. My Two Brothers were no less cherisht by him, and I as much by them; with whom I happily liv'd. But oh, how love did change my destiny!

A thousand curses take that Devil Love, it imbroyles us all.

A Stranger who came to see the Triumphs at Burgos did in those Turnements appear to have no equal. We first saw one an­other in an Assembly; I was courted by him, and did endure his Courtship, or rather I was charm'd by him. He pretended to love me; and I lov'd him, but now, Sir, let my tears speak for me.

Sure all Lovers were born in April: they never mention Sun-shine without a showr after it. This may teach me to marry my Daughter to some Gentleman whom she does not love. But, Madam, pray proceed.

The rest is fatal, Sir, and full of shame. Alas my fault de­priv'd me of a Brother, and my afflicted Father soon dy'd after him. My passion had so overmaster'd my reason, that I still ador'd my unfaithfull Lover, whose return to Burgos I did two years vain­ly expect, and at last found that I was cruelly forsaken: and then I forsook my Kinred, and, cursing fatal Love, am hither guided by [Page 15] madness to seek that false man whom more than justly I ought to hate.

Is not this sufficient to teach Parents to marry their Daugh­ters without any least mention of love. Madam, how the Devil could you be cousen'd with love?

Alas, Sir, he told me he would be faithful. But Women shou'd never believe that beauty can sufficiently oblige the hearts of men, especially if men be so handsome as to prevail on women.

I am glad Don John's Picture renders him ugly.

Oh Don Ferdinand! I am a fearful example for having too much believ'd a cruel Tyger, who triumphs over me, disguising his name as falsely as his faith: a name which no man seems to know, yet I am certain he lurks hereabouts. To you I address my self as my last remedy, and I demand your ayd to find him out. I know the quality you bear about this place may apprehend him, and force him to do me reason.

I shall be one of Cupids Baylies, and watch to arrest a man for debts of love.

I'll not alledge my Father nor his memory, but by your own glory will conjure you, and not oblige you by any phrase of flat­tery.

Madam, to be short, I am your humble servant; and such I have been ever to your Father, who did me the honour to call me Brother. Dispose of all my power; my Daughter shall endeavour to asswage your griefs.

Your Nephew, Sir, desires your ear for something of impor­tance.

Madam, my return shall be sodain. Bettris lead her to my appartment, and admit my Nephew presently.

The chance is odd that this Lady proves the Sister of my elected Son-in-Law. I must present her to him if he will see her. My Ne­phew and I will joyn our powers to seek her Lover, and to do her Ju­stice.

O dear Don Lewis, my brave Nephew, what brings you hither, how may I serve you?

Sir, a friend of mine has lately advertis'd me of a quar­rel coming towards me, and I am come for your advice, who are a perfect Judge of Combats of Honour.

If you can imploy no other whom you love more than me, nor that loves you more than I do, I'm at your service. What is that Paper in your hand?

I'll read it to you.

Do, for I have lost my spectacles.

reads.

The younger Brother of him whom you kill'd upon some love-accompts, departs from this place to day to goe where you are. I know not perfectly the occasion, but am certain that to give you notice of it is not ill done by your Servant Don Pedro Ossorio.

Where did you incounter him who is slain?

In Burgos.

Was he a Cavalier?

Yes, and my great Friend.

In single Combat?

No, by mistake, in the darkness of the night.

Tell me the manner of it.

You remember the Triumphs at Burgos for the first Infante. A Friend of mine invited me thither to shew me the common valour of our Nation in the Joco de Toros. The night after the Tri­umph he led me to see the Ladies at a Ball, where I was conquer'd by a Beauty, and she by me; but this great happiness soon turn'd into a great misfortune.

Well, Sir, proceed:

I was allow'd the honour the next day to give her a vi­sit, lov d her sincerely, and being one night together I heard an at­tempt to break open the dore. I saw her tremble and drew my sword for her safety. She took the Candle and blew it out. The dore was open'd, and I was attacqu'd, and in the incounter, not having the use of my Eyes, there sell at my Feet one mortally wounded; the dark­ness made my escape easie. But in the morning I was overwhelm'd with grief, being inform'd that the person slaine was Brother to my Mistress, and the same intimate Friend, who invited me to Burgos.

These are the effects of love, and yet my foolish Daughter will needs be in love before she marry.

My escape from Burgos was easie, because I was not known in publick. You see the intelligence which is given me, and of what use your counsel may be in the affair. A Gent [...]eman is in search of me, who is led hither by revenge. It were loss of honour to avoid him, and it were cruelty to kill him. But some body knocks at your Gate.

And rudely too. Who dares be thus insolent?

O, Sir, give me a hundred Crowns for my good news.

Pray stay till they are told out, and give me the news first.

Where is my Mistress? Her Suitor is below all over pow­der'd, and perfum'd. He seems a merry and innocent man, for he laughs at every thing as if he had no more cares than a Capuchin.

Sir, it seems you have a design to marry my Cousin, and secretly.

Yes.

How am I wounded with this news!

Bid my Daughter come down. Make haste.

You need not doubt my speed when I'm to bring Lovers to­gether.

How shall I bear this persecution?

I shall have use of all my understanding to get clear from the perplexity of my divided int'rest. My Nephew has kill'd the Brother of him who is to marry my Daughter.

I shall grow mad.

Come Isabella, we must prepare to meet your Suitor.

Or rather to meet death.

I told you my Masters name.

You did.

And does your Master know that he is here?

He doth.

Sure Don Ferdinand's detain'd by some important bu­siness.

He is.

I hope when that's dispatcht, Don John shall have the honour to kiss his hands.

He shall.

This Laconick Fool makes brevity ridiculous.

An Ass for brevity sake should have cropt Ears and a bob'd Tail.

My Master is arriv'd upon design of Allyance with yours, and I hope we, who are their Servants, may become a kin to one an­other by friendship.

'Tis fit.

Your hand —

Take it —

Your name?

Sancho.

'Tis well.

Your name?

Todelet.

Good.

Friend, you are a man of brevity. I would your Master were so too. Shall I not see him?

You shall.

But (by your favour) in what quantity of time?

A trice.

I'm satisfiy'd: but have not yet satisfy'd for your diligence— I'm sorry 'tis the fashion for Gallants to carry no mony about 'em.

That's ill.

But my Trunks are coming.

That's good.

If my Sumpter proves lame I shall borrow of your Master ra­ther than be in debt to his man.

He means to represent me first by shewing his bounty.

I grow impatient, and must be diverted. Friend, what is there here to see?

The House.

I use to spend my time in things of more importance.

Sir.

Inquire if his Master be learned.

He's so so.

Let's visit his Library. Yet, now I think on't, I have had my head twice crackt with reaching down great Books from high Shelves. Well, 'tis strange how since my childhood I ever lov'd huge great Books, and could read in 'em as easily as if they were but little.

This is to shew he is a man of learning.

Next to great Books I love intollerable long Letters in short hand. If I had one here, you should see me begin at Loving kind Friend, and in a moment, end at Yours as his own.

This shews him a man of business and of dispatch too.

This (I take it) is your Ante-chamber. The Floor is smooth, but somewhat bare: my Rooms at home are all matted.

How like a dull Rogue he boasts of his rich furniture.

We use no Mats.

Why Friend?

For fear —

Of what?

Of Fleas.

Alas, poor things! they do no harm, we never use to kill 'em.

Now he shews himself a man of mercy.

In this Country —

Well, speak your mind.

Fleas use —

What?

To bite.

We have abundance of 'em, but not a man of mine does e­ver feel 'em.

That's strange.

My Family feeds well, and then they sleep so soundly that Puneses cannot wake 'em. Lord, how I love to hear my servants snore after dinner.

Now he shews his Hospitality.

We shall all grow fat when your Master keeps house here: yet you, me-thinks, are somewhat lean.

I thought this fellows Tongue had been wound up like a Clock to regular stops, but now it struck above Twelve words. Sir I may trust you, who are hereafter to be my faithfull Friend. The chief reason why I am not fat is, most especially, because I am in love with Three of our Neighbours Maids.

Three?

I confess I am unfortunate in it.

You are.

My Grandmother was a Poetess, and a great observer of love, and was wont to put her thoughts into Verse, which were very pithy.

And short.

She wrot according to her own Cyze, for she was a very short Woman. Shall I repeat?

Pronounce.

Don John, first for your Fathers sake, then for your own I must embrace; nay let me bind you close to my heart.

Sir, you may clasp me as hard as you please, for I'll assure you I am very sound both Spring and Fall.

Sound? that's an odd assurance from a Son in Law.

Sir, you are welcome.

I knew that before, Sir; which may give y [...]u a small taste of my understanding; pray speak only things that are necessary; for I love few words.

This Son in Law will prove wise.

The Painter has done him no wrong.

Her Beauty exceeds all that any Pencil can describe.

My Father in Law looks as gravely as an Owl at Noon pearcht over a Church-Porch.

I fear my Son in Law is not very eloquent, he speaks in private between the Teeth.

Was ever deformity copy'd with more exact propor­tion to the Original.

I can see you through my Fingers and know you at first sight by the Picture you sent me.

He's one of those subtle Spies who peeps through the Key­hole when the dore is open.

You think me a very desperate man.

Why so, Sir?

For coming near so bright a Sun as you a [...]e without a Parasol, Umbrellia, or a Bondgrace.

You intend to be very witty, Sir.

I tell you agen, my bright Sun, not one among a thousand would venture his complexion so near you as I do. But what care I for being tann'd▪

' [...]is, but fleaing the old skin, and when your cheeks are raw the crimson will appear presently.

That Damsel is too pert. Dear Chuck of my Cheeks, you should keep these Paraqueeto's in a Cage. How many of 'em have you? Slight, I think I'm left alone Todelet! where are all my People? Todelet?

Sir.

My heart beats too much at sight of my Mistress. If I faint with love be sure to hold me up.

I shall, Sir.

Lady, you say nothing: but I'm glad you are silent, for if you should shew as much w [...]t as you do beauty, I were a dead man. Todelet.

Sir.

To drive away the sorrows of love I prithee break a Jeast or two, or tell my Mistress some of mine to cure her melancholy.

My Father has made a rare choice. This extraordinary Fool is only fit for Christmas.

Don Ferdinand, doe you alwayes serve for a Skreen to your Daughter?

Unlucky Rogue! what Devil taught thee to ask that?

That question is not very civil.

Those that are angry may shew their teeth; but let them be sure that they be sharp.

Sir, no man will doubt yours.

Those who dare doubt mine may meet me — at dinner; and after dinner may walk a turn in the Field. It may be wholsome for some, but for others it may prove dang'rous.

He grows angry.

May not a man see a snip of her face? I pray, Lady of my lips, blink on me a little with one eye. Don Ferdinand, let some body bring her near me; or at least shew me her Hand, or her Arme, or a little of her Leg.

This course Villain has been bred in a Bu [...]cher-Row.

My Daughter had reason. My Son in Law is a Coxcomb.

Lord, how nice they are of their Brides in this Country! any where else I might e'r this have had a dozen kisses.

How I am vext at his want of breeding!

Father in Law you must pardon me. I am a little boystrous, but I am very loving. My dainty Duckling may I know what gust you take in having the honour to see me?

That's civilly askt.

O impertinent Son in Law.

They laugh. I shall be loth to marry in so foolish a Kinred as have no more wit than to laugh at me. Don Ferdinand, pray call for a Chair: you are ill serv'd; but I will vouchsafe to reach one my self.

I say agen my Son in law is a very Coxcomb.

Sweet Syrrop of my Soul, pray tell me, do you wear Cho­peens? in truth if you do not, you are of a reasonable good stature, and worthy of me.

An excellent good Complement.

That young man is given to prating. Tell me, my bright Sun, do you shine on him?

He is my Cousin Germain.

I pronounce the third time that my Son-in law is a Cox­comb.

This Cousin Germain revives my jealousie.

Lady, have you never an Ear-picker about you; there's something tickles me within, and I broke mine with picking my teeth. What all laughing agen? Lady, you laugh scurvily! you laugh like a Munky that has stoln cher [...]ies; he, he, he, he!

Cousin you do not satisfie the Gentleman, he askt you e'n now how you did relish the honour of seeing him.

I must confess I never saw his Equal both in body and mind.

Madam, every one says as much of me. But the twenty thousand Crowns, are they ready? Let's dispatch the Marriage.

How, D. John? you are mercenary.

Those who believe it are very desperate. But would I could meet 'em in Alverad.

In Alverad! Had you not a Brother, Sir?

Yes, whom a base Murderer kill'd in the dark.

If Don John could find the Murderer he would eat his heart; but the Coward hides himself.

This Groom is very impudent. But, Friend, I have been told —

What have you been told, Sir?

That it was meerly by mischance.

He ly'd that told you so; it was treachery.

Do you observe his sawciness?

Methinks his anger has something gracefull in it.

Then you allow his insolence?

He shews no meanness in his courage.

I shall find you.

You may, for I shall never avoid you.

O pitty hide thine eyes! how canst thou see such Gallan­try in such a low condition?

Wer't not in this place, I should make you silent.

My man is almost as valiant as my self, but a little rash.

Uncle, shall I indure this from that Groom?

I charge you be discreet. Her's a fair beginning of a marriage.

My dear Dumpling let 'em quarrel; and let us talk and be witty and sell Bargains.

Sir, you ha' not yet seen the House.

Bettris make haste, open the Gallery. Nephew, I conjure you to make use of your discretion. Come Gentlemen, what do you stay for?

I love the down-right familiarity of Alverad, and hate Com­plement.

That's for saving of time.

We often (out of heartiness and haste) salute Ladies with our hats on.

Do you so, Sir?

Yes, and take 'em by the hand without the tedious Ceremo­ny of pulling off our Gloves.

'Tis true, time is a precious thing and ought to be sav'd. Son-in-law it becomes you.

Retire to the Garret over that Chamber where I must hide your Master, and there you must lie close.

I should lie closer if you were with me.

Certainly you men are very cold Creatures: you are alwaies wishing for something to keep you warme.

Ah Bettris, a Garret without a Chimney is a cold habitati­on. But if you were near me —

I [...]now but one Hoop in the world can bind us close to­gether.

What do you mean?

A Wedding-Ring.

That's a strong Hoop indeed, and will hold out long. I have no Land nor House; and though there are many Houses in Town, yet those Tenants never get much furniture who begin with a Cradle. I am not rich enough to marry.

That's ill news, but I will tell you better.

I prithee do.

At night when the Masters are abed the Men shall have a Sack-Posset.

And shall they be very merry with the Maids?

Yes, unless the Men be in love, for then, alas, they'll do no­thing but sigh.

What Lady is that whom your Mistress does conceal?

I know her not. Sancho does mannage that design; her Maid is his Sweet-heart.

Shall she be with us?

He has invited her.

You wish my Company and inquire after her. None but a cold Bed­fellow would have two Warming-Pans.

Signior Sancho, there is nothing more Medc'nal against the Consumption of Love than a Sack-Posset. But shall I be at it?

You shall.

I am much oblig'd to you for the Invitation.

You are.

I hope I may have leave to seal an acquaintance on this fair Gentlewomans hand?

You may.

You are pleas'd to make use of your authority.

I am.

I Pray give me leave to salute Mistress Betteris.

Doe.

The favour ought to go round. I hope I shall not be a stran­ger to your Mistriss.

No.

Your authority extends so far as to make me likewise known to Mistress Betteris.

It doth.

Well, we shall be all happy when our Lords and Ladies are asleep. There is nothing so sweet as Midnight and Sack-Posset. Is there Signior Sancho?

Yes.

What can be sweeter in this bitter World?

Buss and Posset.

Bettris.

My Lady calls me. Let every one hasten to their appointed stations.

The next time when our Masters go to bed early we must be contented to sit up late.

Alas! we Servants are miserable. We must be fain to watch when they sleep.

Pray let us meet chearfully, and with short ceremonies.

And long spoons.

ACT. III.

URge me no more; the lot is cast.

In troth Don John is much beholding to you. You have forsaken his Sister, kill'd his Bro­ther, and now pretend to his Wife.

My hope relies on my perseverance, and on Betteris, and on thee; on my Uncle, on Isabella, and on my self: I rely much too on the rudeness of Don John's behaviour, but most of all on the civility of my Goddess Fortune.

O, Sir, is it you?

None but a Maid, who loves to meet men in the dark would ask that question with her eyes open.

You are still drawing the Fools weapon: I pray put up your Tongue. I come not to you, but to your Master.

Dear Bettris, tell me a little of the Son-in-law.

Would y [...]u have but a little when much may be spoken? He din'd, and did eat till his doublet grew so narrow that 'twas dan­gerous to sit near him; for his buttons flew about like a volley of shot, and after dinner he retir'd to a dirty Entry, where he slept on a Bench and snor'd in consort, like three fat Carriers in one Bed. But I'll tell you what pass'd besides.

My poor Bettris!

My poor D. Lewis!

My fortune I expect from thee.

And I mine from you: but you have yet proceeded no further than promise: yet that's sufficient to one who abhorres interest.

I prithee ask my Man if I have not left my Gold un­der my Bolster; and whether I am not to morrow to receive four hundred Duckets?

Well, well! he [...]r me in few words. Don Ferdinand your Uncle has chaff'd himself into a Fevor: he would fain be disingag'd. Your dear Isabella is more vext than he. Now is the time or never: you must endeavour to see her, and give her as many promises as those m [...]ke who intend to keep none. Write her Poetical Letters, and be sure not to leave out her Lillies nor her Roses: you must weep, sigh, and pull off your Periwig, that you may tear your own hair: tell her you'l cut your own throat, or at least that you know an easie way to hang your self.

Concerning that, Betteris, you may safely pass your word for me.

If the insolence of passion will not prevail you must resume your modesty, whine civily, and only wish your self dead; and be not amaz'd when she grows impatient. What, you smile at this good counsel?

No, but it seems a little new.

The p [...]actice of it is as antient as the Love-Tricks in Troy. But I have stayd too long. Beshrew my heart for my kindness to you. Goe, Sir, steal through the Garden dore. Farewel, Sir, and I pray give your Man leave to shift your Trenchers before they are empty. He looks leaner than Lent.

Farewell false money.

Remember that I clipt your beard by Moon-shine with the Gard'ners great Sheers when you lay a sleep like a dead Perdu in the Arbour. O, y'are a proper Watchman to attend Lovers.

My Beard Mistress Marmalad.

Yes, when my Ladies little Dog smelt you out, by the bro­ken meat in your Pocket.

Well, I'll marry thee for a Month, that I may get autho­rity to swadle thee for having no Portion..

I'll rather die of naked poverty than break my word.

Dear Father!

You are a Fool, and all that you can hope, is that I may de­ferr your Marriage a few dayes. But was ever any business so incum­ber'd? My Son-in law is offended, and my Nephew being the cause of it, I ought to be so too. Shall I abandon one and joyn with the o­ther? I owe my self to one by blood, and to the other by honor.

It seems, Sir, 'twas Don Lewis that kill'd his Brother.

Yes, and to increase the perplexity, the Sister of Don John implores me against him: how can I, in honour, refuse to assist her? and to day my Nephew tells me, he has need of my advice against a man whom he has doubly offended, and that man must be my Son-in-law. Head hold out one day, and split not during this storme of bus'ness. Farewell, I'll go taste my Son-in-Law.

And I'll go weep. O Heav'n! to what a Brute am I con­demn'd? Was not my aversion a sufficient torment without giving me a new affliction by another passion? Was't not enough to be un­happy by the address of the Master, but I must love his Man? Ah, my starres hate mee too much, when they make me love one whom I dare not name to my own ear. Must I adore him who never can be [Page 29] mine, and at the same time abhorre the Person for whom I am decreed? A third Evil is joyn'd to t'other two. Don Lewis, whom I hate, loves me. At once I hate, and fear, and am in love. O who can deliver me from this entangled destiny?

'Tis I, O charming Isabella! that will deliver you, and disingage you f [...]om Don John: for since Don Lewis, whom you have despis'd, is now admitted to your favour, your breath contains my Rivals destiny. Proscribe him with one word, and, with this sword I am his Executioner.

Oh Heav'ns! dare you propose a mischief of this bloody shape? Be gon, unhappy Wretch: thou art unworthy of that pity, which, to the injury of Justice, thy name and blood being mine, makes me afford thee. How canst thou love me if thou thinkst me capable even but to hear thy black design? Fly, fly to Burgos with thy per­fidiousness, and there go act thy Tragedies. Go and deceive the Sister of the Brother thou hast slain.

Hah! if ever —

Peace, peace, thou blackest of ill-spirits, or I will fill the House with exclamations.

Pray speak low; Don Ferdinand and the Son-in-law are upon the stairs, they may hear you. How shall we shift Don Lewis away, for Don John's man is in the next Chamber. I would he would shew his extraordinary discretion and good meen some where else.

What shall we do?

If I durst appear —

Keep your expedients, for your own use; 'tis I that am con­cern'd now.

If his angry Man —

Hold, Sir, he seems not one whose anger may be tam'd with threatning. Bettris!

Madam, I tremble a [...]l over. What think you if I awhile con­ceal Don Lewis in your Chamber?

Dispose of him any where, provided he be far from my sight.

Madam, be froward then a while; and raise your voice, and call me bold, and impud [...]nt.

We hear you Daughter. You are angry.

'Tis only for a trifle which my Maid has lost.

Humph. This will not pass; for, though I'm stuft in the head, yet I can blow my Nose as well as another to smell things out. No, no, I see I may make love long enough before you smicker at me. You may e'en keep your Portion, I shall find my Land in the old Place.

How, Sir, will you be gone?

When two or three have sufficiently forsworn themselves to you, then you'll tuck up your Petticoats and follow me to Al­verad.

This dull Rogue, for fear he should not be unlucky e­nough to do me mischief, makes it up with inundations of folly.

Son-in-law, me-thinks your behaviour is a little out of fa­shion, and, in plain terms, you want wisdom.

Father-in-law, this is but a trick of mine to try her love. I'll sound her heart though it lies as deep as her belly.

Nay they are pollitick in your Province. But if my Daugh­ter be thoroughly anger'd—

These are a kind of witty f [...]umps of mine like selling of Bar­gains; I'll come off well enough. Let's walk into the Gallery.

For fear this extraordinary Brute should find out his Si­ster, I'll leave him in the hands of his Mistress. Stay here a while, Sir, with my Daughter [...]. I must part from you one moment upon a pressing occasion.

My dainty Dears your Father being gone, and here being none but Friends left, you may swear to me in private how much you [Page 31] love me. I'll say nothing to any body. I can keep decrets; for when I'm askt what a clock 'tis, I never tell for fear men should take me for a blab.

Sir, I'll deal f [...]eely with you. I was never in love till to day: I had formerly an aversion to it, disdain was all my passion. Believe me, Sir, the flame of love is only known to me since your arrival. But since my love can meet none equal to it, should it rejoyce when it incounters yours? No, Sir, to the contrary; I'm in extreme pain to see you love me, and that I must likewise love.

Humph! if I had not a great deal of wit [...] I should hardly understand you.

Hah! what belongs to me, and is with me, you adore, and what is in me, you abhorre. Lady to such dark sayings as these, the antient Philosophers of Alverad make answer in a subtle question; which is, Ridle my Ridle what's this?

She has wit prevailing as her beauty, but 'tis mystical.

If men swear they are bewitcht when they are in love, then I, being in love, may say you are a Witch, especial [...]y because you speak things as hard to be understood as Charms.

O Love, why art thou born with the disease of jealou­sie. All curses meet upon Don Lewis.

You, my Serving man, come nearer and make love for me, and afterwards we'll do it by turns.

But Sir —

How Coxcomb! perhaps you would give me counsel. Am not I your Master? does any man know so much as you the love I bear her, and who then can better tell her of it? That's fine y'faith; belike I want understanding to direct what's fit to be done.

Madam, I must obey since I am commanded.

The Fellow is afraid! Madam, he wants a little breeding, yet I have been a Pattern to him above seven years.

Sure he has been an ill observer then.

Sirrah, I say advance! and court her handsomly, whilst I go to the Gate, and consult with the Porter how to scatter a little Gold amongst the Servants to shew my bounty and make Friends.

How shall I then get Don Lewis out: curse on this Fool. Sir you must needs stay: for if th'Original be gone you'll have an ill ac­count of the Copy: 'tis a hard thing to draw Love well.

If she should be now really in love with me,

then I were in a fine case. My Master wants no Cudgels; and I should be the most beaten Bridegroom that ever med­led with more than his match. Let me consider. Hah, Master Valet de Chambre. Have I put you there to do nothing. You talk in her ear, Sirrah, either speak out, or keep farther off.

Sir, I'm asham'd to speak loud, your Worship will but laugh at me.

This language has more mystery than mine.

A real Rival. That's I, or Don Lewis. A pox o'these intoxi­cating [Page 33] Riddles; can any man stand still when charms make his head turn round? I'll hear no more of 'em. Avant Todelet! thou art a fool­ish Conjurer! Presto, be gon!

Is your Worship in earnest?

I've a thought in my head worth the weight of it in gold. Hah! now I have lost it. Sweet Nosegay of my Nose, when I re­member you I alwaies forget my self: or else 'tis that Baggage, Bet­tris, which transports me; for, to say truth, she runs in my mind too. My Serving-man be gone.

I must obey you Sir.

How, Sir, alone? What will the Servants say?

what can they say when I think fit to be private?

I'm sure Bettris will take notice of it.

That's true, for Bettris likes me so well, that if she see us making love it may cost her half her life. But that's all one, I love you only.

Yes and Bettris also.

Faith Lady I am free of making my best parts known. What, I have made you jealous of me? That's another of my Politick Love-tricks. I'm grown so subtle that the Devil will be afraid of me But let him shun me then: for take one time with another, he does me more hurt than good.

But, Sir, what mean you? why must we be alone?

to shew my confidence: for let 'em say what they will, I dare trust my self with you. I have not seen the Balconee yet. Let's goe take the Air.

There is no wind stirring.

What new fi [...]k of folly has enter'd into the Rascals head? I must observe him.

Come along sweet heart.

You shall excuse me, Sir. I'll not stir from hence.

How, not stir? my Dear, you must know I'm very chol­lerick —

What drawn by force? y'are insolent.

My Duck you are squeamish. Lord, what diff'rence there is in People? you see I am not so —

Rude wretch forbear! wer't not for that patience which is ordain'd me by my Father, I'ld tear your eyes out with these hands.

With those hands? you'ld please me more, if you would let me kiss 'em.

Sir, you are mad, and would make me so too. Is this the bruitish Courtship of your Province?

O Villain! you would presume to kiss her hand.

Sir, why Master, Pray Sir?

Pattern of Rogues! thou Gallows climber!

Nay pray, Sir, do not punish behind; all that I said to her, was face to face.

'Tis anger, and grows loud. Pray heav'n they have not found the mischievous Don Lewis.

Dogg! you may be glad that my respect to her presence stops my fury.

Now she's here, If I should strike him he dares not discover himself.

Ill teach you to speak ill of Isabella. Is she but reasonable hand­some? Hah! —

Ah do not strike him Sir. Be not cruel to your Servant.

Sir, I must counterfeit your person to the life, you use to kick too. I have a great mind to give you a t [...]ste of my foot, that I may resemble you thoroughly.

Be less in earnest when you counterfeit, or I'll cut your throat.

Rude man! what has he done to you?

These are chollerick heats which pass away, Lady. If I should kick him I could not hurt him; he's all oak behind, meer Wanscote-board. We who have tender toes are ill provided for tough Bumms.

Sirrah! were not she here—

He sits too much on bare Benches and Joynt-stools. I must buy Cushions for him to make him softer.

But how has he deserv'd this usage?

He said your beauty could not kill a man a mile off.

Was that all, Sir? If he hates me, alas! he knows not yet he is ingrateful.

I can no longer deferre it. I must discover my self—

Sirrah, begon. Expect nothing from me but a Cudgel to measure your bones. Lady, may I not strip him naked, and keep his clothes now I turn him away?

O no, Sir, If I have any credit with you, turn him not away.

Did ever Rogue use his Master thus, or Master so foolishly trust the discretion of his Man?

My Lilly white Lamb! you are too mercifull. I cannot stay near you upon such cowardly termes. I'll into the Garden a while. We men of mettal use to walk a turn to cool our courage.

Don John, your Country-Lover, is gone into the Town to learn civility. He needs not stay long, for he may be taught it in the street by every Mule he meets.

Did you see him go out?

Madam, he is not found about the House; and I may now release Don Lewis from his confinement.

Be sure you do it presently; and then make haste to find me in the Garden.

I saw just now the weeping Lady. She's unluckily broke loose too. I would we were well rid of these foolish Lovers. Sure common understanding has left the World. Young people cannot meet privately but they must needs fall in love.

'Tis strange Don Ferdinand should use me thus. Is this protection when he strait abandons me? He told me, he would re­turn in a moment; and then (as if grown weary of civility, and of lending me his Chamber for shelter) he went perhaps to divert him­self in the Town. I heard just now a noise like the confusion of a quarrel. This is an ill sign of my secure retreat. I must proceed in order to my safety; and yet I ought t'advertise them before I go. Sure this is Isabella's Chamber; the Dore is open; I'll in, and take my leave of her.

Hah! I discern a man, and I cann't avoid him.

I hope my friend Bettris (whom I have bound to me w [...]th the strings of my Purse) does mean to make this Chamber my Lodging. O dear Isabella! whither would you run so fast?

How, will you not vouchsafe to hear me? Alas! allow me but one [Page 37] word. You have reproacht my love as ctiminal; thinking some o­ther Beauty has possest my heart. Have I not sworn, that she who does pretend to it had but the promises of my pitty? and since I saw her at Burgos, I never did retain her in my thought?

O Heav'ns! I have not patience to hear more.

False man! behold her now: For I am she who too much has lov'd thee, and whom thou never lov'dst. She, whose fatal and unexperienc'd heart too soon believ'd thy many Oaths. She, who does hate thee now, and will proclaim thy perjuries. She, whom thou call'dst thy Soul and Queen, is now without a Brother, without her honour, and is less provided for than Birds blown off to Sea by Tem­pests.

Hear me but speak!

No Traitor, no. Thy former perjuries have stopt my ears so much that I can hear no more. Help ho! help!

Ah, Madam, give me then leave to swear, and you shall soon be satisfy'd.

Soul without faith! Canst thou agen expect belief? Help ho! help!

This grief is loud, and 'tis a womans voice.

O Heav'ns! whom do I see?

Hah! Is not that my Sister?

I call for help, and Heav'n has sent destruction in a Brother.

I ought to do it.

You shall know all. I enter'd in this Chamber to see Isa­bella, where I found this man; but cannot tell for what intent he there did hide himself. I then cry'd out at the surprise, and tremble still —

My fear will kill me to prevent your cruelty.

Don Lewis I shall give you cause to shew your valour—

I think it honour'd when 'tis us'd in her defence, but it deserves a nobler tryal than your hand can make—

The People of the House will force the Dore.

No matter, Sir. Let us dispatch —

Let's force our passage, and break thorough.

I'm counsell'd both by fear and love to open it.

Stir not to let them in; for if by thee I am dis­cover'd —

Ah! Don Ferdinand! call all your Servants to your ayd.

Hear me, and you shall strait know all.

The one and th'other too is true.

That cannot be deny'd.

Don Lewis, stay! Art thou mad? Stay Todelet! I pri­thee hold! This is the most perplext encounter that I ever saw.

Madam, for your sake I will prescribe the means how [Page 40] To deferre this quarrel; which is, that each engage his promise to me. You, Don Ferdinand, to render Lucilla in her Brothers power when he requires it. And you, Don Lewis, to make a tryall of your va­lour with Don John when he invites you to the Field.

I cannot without some torment, make promises of ho­nour to one of thy low condition.

Well, Sir; your pleasure is my Law; and here I give my promise.

And I mine, that Don John shall justifie this quarrel.

Your journey, Sir, will not be farre to find him.

I'll be the foremost in the search.

You'll give me leave to follow you.

That will be needfull, and without delay.

This Room standing in the Garden, at distance from the House, seems built for our purpose. Our happy hour is near. Dear Signior Sancho, shall we be merry?

As Maids?

Is there any Creature, except Man, that has the wit to be merry at Midnight?

The Owle.

Y'are in the right. But what shall we have to make us re­joyce besides a Sack-Posset?

Fiddles.

Your words are seldome many, but alwaies pithy. Heark! there's something stirring behind the Hanging.

A Rat.

If it be a Rat, then it has shooes on, for it treads hard, I rather fear 'tis the old Rat catcher your Master, that has caught us here in a Trap. Who's there?

A Friend.

'Tis a Mans voice, but he speaks so low, that he seems more afraid than we are. Who is it?

'Tis I.

That were some answer to the question, if we knew him that made it.

Who are you?

To testifie that our being here is not for any harm you may know that we —

Are we.

Well said Signior Sancho; that's a valuable return of in­telligence from us for what he gave of himself.

Our sport is prevented. We may e'n hang up our Fiddles and our selves by 'em. Who sent him hither?

The Devil.

Pray, Sir, what occasion brought you behind the Hanging?

I was led thither by Conscience.

Conscience is a good Guide, Sir.

Don Ferdinands house is so full of quarrels as makes it very wearisome to one that has been already too much tir'd in the Field with wicked entertainments of honour.

Sir, you shew both your valour and your reason.

My Man Todelet is honest: but the Cuttlers of Toledo are not able to make swords enough to furnish his Duels.

Say you so, Sir?

If the old Roarer, Sathan, were young agen, my Man were fit to serve him.

The Man of blood which he mentions is your Guest to night, Signior Sancho, but not fit to be treated with a tame Sack-Posset. What shall we provide for him?

Raw Puddings.

Friends, to deal intirely with you, I stole hither to hide my self partly out of Conscience, but more out of discretion: for 'tis not fit a Gentleman of my Possessions, and near marriage, should up­on every peevish humour of his Servant venture his Estate and Body—

Politick.

But, Sir, Your Man is coming hither. We expect him in a moment.

I'll not see him till his foolish quarrels are ended.

Then, Sir, you must please to retire agen behind the Hang­ing.

Agreed. My Friends, no words where I am.

Fy, no, Sir. But we shall stay here long. I hope you can have patience.

Lord Friends, you do not yet understand my disposition, for 'tis my patience which makes me steal from quarrels.

You must be as little heard as seen. I hope you are not troubled with a Cold, nor apt to fall asleep?

What mean you?

Why, Sir, I would not have you cough.

Nor snore.

Friends, I say agen you know me not thoroughly. Tell not me of snoring: I dare snore with any man in Spain, and (hap what hap may) I'll venture agen behind the Hanging to hide my self.

Nay, Sir, we know you are valiant.

And wise.

Sancho, our entertainment is provided, are your stomachs ready?

They are.

Then help to bring it to the Table.

In state.

Signior Todelet you make good your promise, for yo [...] come in the very nick.

In Posset time.

Who are these?

Two young marry'd Neighbours that long'd for Sack-Posset.

Are your Ladies asleep!

They went to bed as early as Brides, and I hope will lye as long as Bridegrooms.

Then the Maids may be as merry as the Men.

And incounter a whole Pail of Posset.

I'll meet as many quarrels as there be Drunkards in Dutch­land rather than miss a Sack-Posset.

Ha! how comes he here?

Beshrew your heart Signior Don John for starting forth so so­dainly. 'Tis well we we [...]e all awake.

If we had not been us'd to meet men in the dark it might have frighted us.

Ladies, without sans ceremony, I'll sit down first.

And I.

Villain be gone to my Chamber; you'll still discover your course breeding.

Prithee forbear thy good manners to thy Master, sit down, sit down; I say sit down. There are seasons when Masters may be familiar with their Men.

Sirrah, I'll cut your throat.

I had rather you should cut my throat than cou­sen my belly.

Villain, hast thou the impudence to stay?

Lord what adoe here is with civilities out of season: once more I charge thee to sit down, and I give thee leave to be familiar.

Rogue! to morrow will come.

Still over-mannerly! Ladies pray take your spoons. This Coxcomb my Man is so troublesome with his untimely respects.

You will not stir then?

Prithee put thy hat on. Ladies, when I am at home and a little in drink, I often sit with my servants.

Ladies and Gentlemen, having my Masters leave I will presume on yours.

You may.

I suppose the Posset is very hot, but Coragio is the word. 'Tis but the spoiling of a few good teeth. I'll venture at it.

And I.

Hold, I will first taste—'Tis as hot as if they had strew'd it with parcht Pepper instead of Cinnamon.

Stay! stay!

Why Signior Sancho?

Stirr it —

Ladies you eat too fast.

Dog! Shew more civility, and do not disgrace the person whom you counterfeit.

I tell thee 'twill not make me sick. I have been us'd to abun­dance of Posset. This good natur'd Fool takes such care of my health.

Signior Todelet pray sit down agen and take care of your own health; Possets are very wholsome.

Pray do, Sir, The Cinnamon is good against wind.

Mistress Bettris, here's to your good health, and to yours Mistress Laura.

To both.

Signior Sancho, that spunge your Beard, soaks up too much of the Posset.

It doth.

I only civily suppose it doth.

All stay—

Who will pledge the Founders health?

Let it come. I am your Man.

You are so; but a very sawcy one: you use to talk and give counsell over your liquor.

Your Noble Worship may say your pleasure. I know you love men that ply their Posset.

I am for men of few words. Let such a one answer to Masa­quedit. Here's the Founders health.

Tope.

Signior Sancho, you made a promise of Fiddles. I pray forbear your spoon while that you may call for 'em.

I shall.

Servant I pray do.

Signior Sancho, let us have fair play. Did you invite your Beard to half the Posset?

Few words are best.

In what sence Signior Sancho?

In Posset.

Come, Sir, dispatch; for brevity is as convenient in Posset as it is in Speech. I'll give you a Song if you will call for Musick.

Firk your Fidles.

Well, my Man were an incomparable Varlet if he would forbear to give me counsel in whispers. Todelet.

Sir.

Lead 'em a Dance. I'll have a Dance.

My feet are at your service, Sir.

As you shall feel to morrow by a score of kicks which I reserve for you.

Heark, he's giving me counsel agen. I say lead 'em a Dance.

My Ladies little Dog has wak'd her. Alas! now the sweet of the Night is coming we must all part.

Sirrah, follow me to my Chamber.

ACT. IIII.

YOu are very inquisitive.

And you are very secret.

Do you intend me that as commendation?

Yes, and yet I do not thank you for it.

You may take your praise back agen, for I will not be com­mended for keeping that secret which I do not know.

Can you be ignorant of the Lady whom you serve?

I told you I had not serv'd her above three dayes. But still you are inquisitive and why I pray?

The endeavour of knowing things shews diligence of the Mind, and you should praise me for it.

Those may praise Spies who employ 'em.

You take me then for a Spy?

So impertinent a Spy that I wonder you do not walk with a dark Lanthorn when the Sun shines.

What to seek chaste women as Diogenes sought honest men. Come, I confess you have wit.

I thank you, Sir.

I would you would thank me for being in love with your beauty.

Love! Is that Fooles-Bauble in fashion still?

'Tis the only fashion which never changes.

Mistress Bettris will hardly believe you.

No, she believes in nothing but Marriage.

O, cry you mercy, for indeed Marriage is grown as dange­rous as love is foolish.

I'll retire to make that Coxcomb j [...]alous.

How! hah!

O Signior Sancho, 'tis well you are come.

Too well.

Your Friend Stephano would fain be your Rival, but you are the man for whom I mean to sigh.

Yes, much!

I'll lay my life you are jealous.

Who, I?

Pray come from behind your Beard and shew your bare face if you are angry.

I am.

If you are, I can endure it.

You can?

Yes.

Who cares?

You do.

Not this —

'Tis well.

'Tis ill.

'Tis not.

You ly.

Hey day!

Hey too!

Farewell.—

Goe.—

How now Mistress Laura?

This Steward, though he be exceeding dull, is very sharp at reparties.

Why, what has he said?

He gave me the ly.

'Tis impossible.

If he did not I'm an E'vnuch.

None but a E'vnuch would have don't.

Don Ferdinand has been gallant in his youth: he shall re­pair my honour.

I'll tell him how often this Tarquin-Steward would have kist me by force.

Kiss you! fy, that's a paw-word.

No, no, he's a cleanly man, and would only have brusht your lips with his Beard.

May be so, for they grow somewhat dusty for want of use.

Don Ferdinand shall not wake his sleeping sword in this quar­rel; t [...]ust me for your revenge.

Why, what will you do?

I'll render Sancho up to your correction, and he shall be then as blind as Cupid.

But how?

He shall feel our persecution and not see it.

You have some designe, but 'tis very dark.

You know the Ladies and our Masters are lately much re­tir'd with thoughtfull intanglements of love and anger: which will give me opportunity to invite solemn Sancho this Evening to our Room of Revels in the Garden.

Well, what then?

You likewise know, he passionately loves a Sack-Posset.

Most longingly.

Then you apprehend my Baite; but instead of that for his entertainment he shall entertain us with sport sufficiently ridiculous, though it be more out of fashion than himself or a Morrice.

I long to see it but —

No more questions. Let's presently go in and consult.

You must not think of your escape from hence.

Some heav'nly power contrives these accidents; they have a secret Method in them, and more than Fortune makes me still unhappy.

I am amaz'd that you by chance should court her whom you forsook, and meet the Mistress here from whom you fled so ma­ny Miles.

Hast thou discourst with her Maid?

Yes, but she is newly come into her service, and is either a stranger to her Ladies designes, or else so secret that no man but a Husband can see her bosom bare.

Heav'n takes Lucilla's part against me, for I have done her wrong.

O, have you so? you Lovers are very diligent Spies and bold, but very incredulous; you alwayes are scouting abroad, yet never see or believe mischief till you feel it.

I think she loves me and with true passion.

But you love another, and that's a rare remedy for her disease.

I am perplext beyond the help of reason. I know there are Laws against irregular Love, but Nature never made 'em. I would thou wert valiant.

So would not I. I'm content to have no holes in my skin rather than pay a Surgeon to sow 'em up.

Well, however I would thou had'st courage.

Then I should be an Ass in spight of my understanding, and fight for Fame, the Fools Mistress.

Don John's man is saucily insolent, and his condition is below the revenge of my sword; but if thou hadst courage to under­take him —

Sir, I never question'd my own courage, and I wish no man may, for I, and others too may be mistaken.

I am going now where I shall meet D. Ferdinand, who will bring me an account of Don John.

Sir, I told you my infirmity when you first receiv'd me un­der your Roof. I'll serve you faithfully, but I must obey the King, who does injoyn peace amongst his Subjects.

Well, though thou hast no courage, yet I am satisfy'd with thy diligence. I stole hither chiefly to make thee increase thy ac­quaintance with Laura, Lucilla's Maid: and whatsoever shall suc­ceed upon this engagement of my honour, be sure to endeavour that she may give good impressions of me to her Mistress.

This, Sir, is a work of peace, and I dare go through with it; but as for matters of strife if you would take my advice —

No more words. I'll take no counsel from men that are afraid.

Well, Sir, Fortune be your Friend. But I humbly conceive that men of discretion seldom depend upon her curtesie.

I will assure you, Sir, you have been sought, and for my part, I was so concern'd in your absence that I offer'd to employ the Town-Cryer.

It had been to no purpose, for that publick voice cannot be heard. Alas, he's grown hoarse with crying for lost Maidenheads.

Sir, you are sometimes merry, but alwayes wise.

Alas! not I! yet it seems I am of some importance, since I have been so much sought. But who were the searchers?

Your Father-in-law, and Don Lewis. Your Ma [...] too was so sad, as if he had not only lost his Master, but his wages.

I owe him nothing but a Cudgel for being so saucy as to miss me without my order. May not a Master steal out to seek a Mistress unless he ask leave of his Man?

But where were you, Sir.

I was invited by a Friend to a dish of stew'd Tripes with Garlick. What Key is that?

It belongs to your Camber. Don Ferdinand has appointed you another lodging near the Garden.

I had rather it had been near the Kitchin. I esteem his Cook above his Gardener. The steam of Beef to me, who am not over­curious, is better than the odour of violets. But why am I remov'd?

The old Gentleman is afraid of scandall. And, to say truth, it might do some harm to you (I mean to your modest reputation) if, before the Marriage Night, you should be lodg'd too near his Daughter.

Nay, let her look to that; I care not what People say, when I am innocent. But, dear Bettris, thou dost not know how much I love thee.

How should I know it? you take me to be old; I'm none of those who pretend to knowledge.

I ever lov'd one of thy complexion; ever: and since I saw thee first I have been as hot as any Pepper.

Why truly Sir (though I blush when I say it) I ever lov'd all the Don Johns in the world; and when you first came hither my foolish heart — but I'll say no more.

Nay we must be secret: for if the least notice be taken of it, I shall strait have flushings in my face; and blush like a rose.

I'm sure you make me hide mine. I pray stand farther off.

Poor little Fool. Well, innocence is a strange thing; it makes us strange to one another, but a little of that which ancient People call wickedness will make us familiar. I prythee shew me the way down to my Chamber.

Hey down a down! in troth y'are an odd man. You make me sigh e'n when I sing. Here take the Key: I'll be gone.

Pretty Thief! I could find in my heart to weep when I think thou wilt be hang'd for stealing mens hearts. Dear slut — I am Maudlin-kind, would I had one of thy Hoods to cover my face; I shall be so asham'd if I'm seen thus whineing for thee. But 'tis no matter; go, lead the way to my Chamber. I'll sneak after thee.

You must follow me apace then; for I'm a very light Hus­wife.

The Bunting is flown. Now I could e'n weep indeed. I must for very shame over-take her.

Stay, Don John! what, are you coursing my Maid?

We are only at Childrens play. Are you so old that you have forgot it? 'Tis hide-and-seek, and when Maids run away, then the Boys make haste to catch 'em.

Is't nothing else? But however, I did not think you had been so wanton.

The tricks of youth are left when we grow old.

But you'l beget an ill opinion of your Chastity; and give me cause to doubt your affection.

Our future Spouse, you may go spin! Madam-Nature is a greater Lady than you, and I was alwayes her humble servant; and those who speak against it may stop their mouths with a Fig.

It seems you are displeas'd. I'll leave you, Sir.

Most wise Lady, and also most beautiful, you cannot do better.

I'll take your opinion. Fare you well, Sir.

Humph! Are you so proud because of your portion: this is only her want of breeding. Methinks I counterfeit a Don John rarely; for Husbands of quality must be sometime discontented with their Wives, and often pleas'd with their Maids.

Don John, I am glad (after some affection and care in seeking you) that you are not lost.

Most carefull Sir, I also am glad, and for the seekers sake, because the loss would be his. I think that was spoken agen like a Don John. But what are your commands?

Have you heard nothing of your Man Jodelet? nothing from any of his acquaintance?

I use not to converse with my Mans Companions.

But something, Sir, will be propos'd to you, which in a season before Marriage, may be, perhaps, a little unpleasant.

How? what is it?

You must absolutely; but, Sir, excuse me, for I speak with some regret.—

What, must I, Sir? Pray speak the worst, and let it out for your own ease, if you are troubled with keeping it in.

You are invited to the Field; and it imports you much.

Is that all? A turn or Two in the Field is wholesome after a full stomach.

But, Sir, it is to fight.

That may import me much indeed. I do not like the phrase of being invited to the Field to be kill'd. Men are very simple when they go into a Grave to take the Air.

It is the fashion, Sir, and men of honour have allow'd it.

The fashion? But, Sir, if, without resistance, I am contented to go peaceably into the Field, why should any man who meets me there be angry? especially when, perhaps, his being pleas'd would at that time better agree with my disposition?

I know not what you mean.

I am sorry for't: I held you to be an old Gentleman of a long understanding: but to speak plainly, why should a man take the pains to walk a mile to meet another who is of a different humour?

Have you been bred to ask that question?

Don Ferdinand, you seem sometimes not very wise. I doubt that in your youth y'have been inclin'd to this foolish way of invita­tions to the Field, and have been hurt in the head. I say your reason at present is not exceeding sound.

Come, Courage Don John; and first let me know, why you inferr I am not wise?

Because you come to tell me of a quarrel which I knew not, nor perhaps did not desire to know.

Sir, in this I have done my duty, and you'l do well t'acquit your self of yours, without being serv'd by the valour of another. To day you ought t'encounter him who kill'd your Brother. And I am sorry, Sir, to tell you, that he kill'd him in the night.

Hay! was it at night?

I, Sir, at night.

Then for my part, let the Devil fight with his own match; for if he be able to kill a man without seeing him, he will be sure to kill me when he sees me.

This sounds strangely.

Besides, Sir, this dangerous Enemy fights by advantage, for having found the way how to kill one of my kindred, he knows by that, the fashion how to kill me.

Sir, you ought to consider—

Sir, I have well consider'd it, and must tell you, as a great secret, that all the family of the Alverads do ever fight one and the same way.

Don John! do you think that you have courage?

A plague on it; I have but too much. Alas, 'tis not for that, Sir, do not ask me whether I have courage, but rather tell me where he lives? Is't far from hence? Must I stay for him? or do you know his Lodging? Or may I inquire it out? and, in the mean time, tell me but his name.

It is Don Lewis de Rochas.

A pox on him. I knew he would scape my hand. Don Lewis de Rochas? why that's your Nephew. Sir, you must know I reve­rence all men of your name.

I partly thank you, Sir.

Any man of the Family of the Rochas is so considerable to me that I will lay my head at his feet. And particularly, as for Don Lewis, if you please, I am very well pleas'd to love him.

But, Sir, I have not told you all; for he has done a second injury, which should more provoke you to revenge. Your Sister has too much reason to complain of him.

Sir, as for my Sister, truly he may be asham'd to wrong her; but I have made a vow, and the Ladies must pardon me for it—

What was your vow?

Never to draw my sword in a Womans quarrel.

Sir, I am much deceiv'd if you are not a Coward.

Ah Father-in-law! if that could possibly be, yet your dis­cretion should not meddle in nice things, which (by the care I ought to take) should never concern you.

But you shall know that it concerns me much.

Blesse me! what a strange Father-in-law would you be? Has the Devil sent you hither to tempt me? not only to homicide, but also to kill my new allyance, your Nephew; nay and before con­summation, which, for ought I know, may likewise kill your Daughter.

I would thou wert valiant but one minute, that, without loss of my honour, I might kill thee befo [...]e thou grow'st a Coward agen.

O fie, Don Ferdinand, I have found your disposition; you would fain be too cruel; but I'm resolv'd to be mercifull; and will not tell you how valiant I am.

But I am now resolv'd to tell you, that your man has given his word to fight for you.

His word? The jealous Coxcomb needs not keep it; for I did never doubt his courage.

Is that all?

Why then, Sir, if he will needs fight for me, let him know I shall not be jealous that my own valour is less than his.

And yet you will not fight, either for your Brother or your Sister.

A man must be in humour when he fights, and let me dy like a Dog (which I would not say falsely to get the whole world) if, to my remembrance, I ever had a less disposition to fighting than now. Mistake me not, I speak but according to my remembrance.

Well, I thought you valiant, but I am cousen'd.

Sir, I confess I have taken too much pleasure in deceiving the world, for I have couzen'd many who thought me valiant, and many who thought me a Coward.

You have given your self a rare recreation.

But, Sir, let's leave the pleasant part of our discourse, and be a little serious.

Do so, but with as much brevity as you can.

I pray tell me, Sir, Suppose that with a Sahagun, or with a Rapier of Toledo, I were pierc'd like a Cullender, or suppose that with a Syrian Scemiter, or a Backsword-blade of Houndslough, I were minc'd into a Py; how would my Brother, or my Sister be the better for it?

Well, for your Fathers sake my antient Friend, I'll leave you whole, without being either pierc'd or minc'd.

For his sake, Sir, I will with patience endure your curtesie.

You shall do well in doing so; but for my own sake, you must, instead of my Daughter, seek another Wife in Madrid.

What, you would have a Cid to your Son-in-law, that should kill you first, then marry Chimena?

Expect nothing from me but scorn and hatred. O incom­parable Coward!

I am (O Don Ferdinand!) despite of your cruelty, and of your black Teeth, your most humble and most faithful Servant; and I am as much, or more, to the Lady Isabella.

I am not yours; and when you are out of my house (which [Page 58] must be sodainly, and without noise) I shall do my self the dishonor to force you to another kind of account.

Don Ferdinand! I pray, Sir, what puts you into chol­ler?

My ill choice of a cursed Son-in-law.

Don Ferdinand, I'll be gon, that you may speak better of a Friend behind his back.

Let him go Jodelet. He disavows you in all, and has told me plainly, he was not of opinion that he ought to take notice of injuries; and that he was never inclin'd to revenge. Nay he has al­most profest that he has lost his courage.

'Tis strange that he took no more care to keep it having so little.

Pray call him back to save his honour. Tell him what he ought to do, being doubly affronted by Don Lewis. Dear Jodelet, shew the friendship of a Servant by perswading a Master to courage.

Sir, I am sure he has a kind of Country-courage.

What do you mean?

I mean, he's very obstinate, and will seldome yield to perswasion.

I'm sorry for his Fathers sake; especially since I have pro­ceeded so farr towards an allyance. If I were doubly injur'd as he is, I should not behave my self like him. His enemy stays for me at the end of the Street: I'll go to him.

Do, Sir, for my Master is come back, though I fear I shall find him too haughty to be councell'd into courage.

Is he gone, Sir?

Yes, but tell me Jodelet, what new affront have we to revenge?

I am the Son of a Sow if he has not remov'd my patience so farr from me that I can hardly reach it agen: yet I'm as unwilling to be angry as another. Sir you must disguise your self no longer. [Page 59] These false habits may grow to be Fools Coats, and Don Lewis will turn all into laughter. But you did challenge him for me?

Yes, and without telling him that I was Don John. And in troth I did suspect that the young Gallant had courted Isabella. In short I found him hidden in her Chamber; and (but for an acci­dent which I must conceal from thee) we should have met in the Field.

That is to say, you had invited him to take the Air in a Grave.

I have deferr'd the bus ness till I see one thing more e­vident, which is yet but the subject of my suspicion: for, perhaps, I may find it but a false-Game which Bettris plays to get mony.

That Baggage carries her Purse in her Bosom; and accord­ing to the Northern Proverb) is as liquorish at a Penny as at a Posset.

I have some reasons to believe that Isabella is very ig­norant of the Artefice.

Sir, there may be more in't than you suspect. I'm loth to say it, but (if I could speak without making any words) I would tell you that I think Don Lewis offends you in private.

Ah, say no more: I guess too much. All my past mis­fortunes and the present concurre against me: but I have some com­fort yet, for no body takes notice of it.

None know it (for ought I know) unless it be the People.

Thou mak'st me mad. I will consider nothing but re­venge.

Is Don Ferdinand our Friend or Enemy?

Don Lewis is of his blood; but for the honour of yours, he does th [...]t which no man ever did for another. He would have Don Lewis give you sati [...]faction, and Don Lewis stays for me near this house [...] who still believes me to be Don John.

I must kill him: but men of action are often parted in the street. The warr which Honour makes in streets does quickly end in peace, and I grow doubtful where to fight.

'Tis great pity there is not some Amphitheatre; built at the publick charge of Butchers, for the honorable exercise of cutting mens throats.

Revenge is often interrupted in the Field, because now [Page 60] even all peculiar Fields are turn'd to common Roads about this popu­lous Town. If I could find some House, though 'tis against the fa­shion us'd in Duels —

Stay, Sir. I'll fit you with a place. I have the Key of a low Apartment where we are to lodge. There you may conveniently be reveng'd, almost in the sight of your Mistress, and yet neither she nor her Father can see it.

Thou hast made an excellent choice my dear Jodelet.

My dear Don John.

Go and appoint him a meeting in the Evening.

But rather, Sir, do you go. 'Tis now high time that men should know who you are. How can you think to continue your fury and pass for Jodelet? Go, go, Sir, discover your self, and fight soundly. Revenge is a hearty food for those who have a stomach to't.

How Jodelet? because for a meer provocation of jea­lousie, for a simple suspicion, I have disguis'd my Name, wilt thou therefore have me discover my self before the injury be evident? No, thou shalt remain Don John a while, and invite him to the low Chamber, to measure Weapons there, and to consult about contri­ving the privacy of the Duell.

Then you command me to be still Don John?

I do rather conjure thee.

Well I obey you, Sir. But if by chance (as men are often im­patient) he should draw his sword before he enters this House, what shall Jodelet do? who has no inclination to warr, and is, perhaps, contented to sojourn in this foolish world.

Make signes to him farr off. He's prompt, and will not fail to follow thee till he comes where I will stay to kill him.

There's another scruple, which lies in the very bottom of my Bowels.

What's that?

He may be short sighted, and thinking my sword drawn, may run at me.

Fy, fy! thy imagination is too subtil. He has an Eye like an Eagle and will distinguish, at a miles distance, any little Fly from a Flea. Thou shalt becken him far off, then lead him to me.

These appointments are somewhat hard. But, Sir, pray be [Page 61] sure that you likewise take heed of mistakes. Mens eyes are often dazled with choller. If I (without thinking of you) should enter be­fore Don Lewis; and you (without thinking of me) should run a tilt at my Belly—

Thou hast a Jesuitical way of making impossible scruples.

ACT. V.

MAdam Bettris, what do you here?

I am preparing a warm Chamber for your be­num'd Lover; and, I beseech you, from whence come you, and Ma­dam Lucilla.

We have been sighing in a shade.

Madam, I must tell you agen, if fortune should bring the whole Sex of Men before you, and give you leave to make your own election, you could not chuse a more worthy Husband than Don John; and when you know him better, you will confess my belief is guided by reason.

And I must needs declare (since your opinion is so confident against mine) that one of us is very ignorant.

You make me wonder, Madam; but if all wonder did not proceed from ignorance, I should not quickly yield in this debate.

Alas you are his Sister; and that may well excuse your par­tiality, you may allow me liberty to tell you this because we have contracted a friendship.

Were I my Mistress, if there were no more men in the world, I would marry Don John, because I would have children, and because all children are not like the Father.

Bettris, I cannot be angry when you please to be merry.

Madam, what ever your griefs be, I wonder you are not mer­ry too, for Don John makes all the world laugh.

Bettris, you are too rude.

Madam, you are too grave. If I were to be Bride; like you, I would not carry my self like a Nun.

I am unhappy above the help of Fortune; ordain'd to be possest of what I hate, and by unnatural custome I am made a­sham'd of what I love.

Madam, let us hasten up stairs, some

body opens the Dore and will surprise us. 'Tis Laura, who (as I appointed) makes a noise about the Lock to fright these Love-sick Ladies and make them retire to take their Med'cine of sighs. Madam, I hear't agen.

You are scar'd.

If you had been as often privately in love as I have been, youl'd soon be afraid at the opening of a Dore.

So, let them feed on sorrows of Love; which is commonly at Court the ill second Course at the promising Feasts of Lovers, whilst we, poor Wenches, are contented with Country sports.

The ly, Signior Sancho, is hard of digestion; but, having first swallow'd the gilded Pill of Love, it prepares the stomach for any thing.

And I have said so much, to cure your jealousie, as would make an old Italian trust his Wife with a young Painter, and leave her with him to draw her naked.

Not naked.

You shall, besides the materials of our last Collation, have an innundation of Olio, where you may bathe your knuckles till you cure 'em of the Gout.

But we must inable our appetites with exercise. We have appointed a Dance for Blind-man-Buff, in which you shall be hood­winkt, and appear all over, Cupid the second.

Bating Beard.

Come, Gentle Love, let me blind you; and then—

Collation.

'Tis prepar'd within.

Mighty Olio's?

A Sea of Olio, and in it Hams of Baijon lying at Hull with Sailes furl'd up of Cabbidge-leaves.

Then Bisks.

Imbroyder'd with Pistachoes.

And Mussels?

Broyl'd; and then (to make you corpulent) roasted Chest­nuts stew'd in Gravy.

And Chitterings.

I, I, to fill up Chinks.

And Ragous?

Strew'd over with Salt-peter and Jamaica-Pepper, to make you thirst for whole Flagons of Scargos and Ravidavio; and you shall be a very —

Drunken Cupid.

Pray Love be humble and stoop a little —

I yield.

We have now both place and opportunity for mirth. The Ladies are retir'd, Don Ferdinand's abroad, the three Strangers are severally disperst, and gone, I think, in the quest of wandring Love.

We have a stayd old Cupid here who wears his Quiver in his Pocket, full of Tooth-picks instead of Arrows, in expectation of a Feast.

What, blinded already? Come then, let's begin.

Here stands a Maid, and there a Man.

We all are near; catch whom you can.

Here stands a Maid and there a Man.

We'll all start fair, Catch whom you can.

• That's a Man —
• That's no Maid —
• That's a Horse —
• Courage brave Bumme—

My Lady rings. She wants me. Let's away.

Where's Collation?

Signior Sancho, I took the ly from you, and now you must accept of one from me. I promist you a Collation, but there is none. You must e'n fast and pray for better manners.

We did this to save you a labour: for when no Crums can fall upon your Beard you need not brush it.

I could eat—

What?

Thee.

I hear 'em coming. I'll leave the Dore open, take away the Key, and conceal my self in the Alcove.

Now where's the evil Spirit my Master? Hah! vanisht! he's gone, quite gone! This Don Lewis is as famous as Cain for [Page 65] matters of killing, and, which is worse to me then no help, he shuts the Dore. Well, since I'm pent in I would I were but as valiant as an imprison'd Cat, that I might fly at his face. 'Tis very inconveni­ent to be a Man without Manhood, O that Traitor, my Master!

Now, Sir, we are inclos'd, and may fight without in­terruption.

I would he were hang'd that is not here to part us.

You mutter, Sir, you may express your anger with your Sword.

Who I, Sir? I scorn to mutter any thing against any man who will give me any reasonable satisfaction.

I was bravely invited and am ready to do you reason.

Sir, I shall alwayes report you are not only a very reasonable man, but are also willing to consider —

What mean you by consider?

That's well askt, Sir and I am apt to answer your questions, if you will spend a little time in discourse.

Is this a time to be spent in words?

Nay, Sir, I see you are hasty; but, perhaps, I may have pa­tience to hear you out.

To hear me out? Do you take me for a Talker when I come to be in action?

This 'tis to meet with brute Beasts that are not capable of discourse. I'm quite forsaken. My Master has, certainly, no kind of conscience—

What the Devil do you seek?

Two things, which I fear I shall not find, my valour and my Master.

This is a mystery! still you are muttering, but what look you for?

I hope you are alone.

How, Sir, do you bring me hither to ask that?

Lord you are so collerick that one cannot speak to you: may not a man ask a question for your good?

I have attended to see your sword out; and Honour taught me that patience: but now I'll trust you with no more time —

Bless me! what a long spit he draws? I have been a raw fellow at fighting, and now am like to be roasted.

Come, Sir. Are you ready? for I scorn to take advan­tage.

In t [...]oth I see you are a man of honour, and I could find in my heart to consider a while how I may requite your curtesie.

Curtesie? I disdain to receive it from you. Prepare your self —

Stay, stay a lit [...]le, Sir!

Let me advise you as a Friend to lay aside your passion when you fight, for in good faith you are too hasty.

Is this behaviour equal to your former heat? Methinks y [...]u grow cold. Your courage is an Ague, for it comes in fits. But I shall cure it.

Heav'n I thank thee heartily! for I spy my Master. Ah, Sir! come out! do you want courage?

Retire as thou art fighting that thou mayst amuse him.

Quick, Sir, draw; for I have told you that I scorn to take advantage.

Nay an'you grow so angry, Sir, then I say agen, stay! for I scorn all advantages as much as you do.

If you have any odds I cannot see't.

Lord! how your passion blinds you? do you think I'm so base as to fight with Rapier and Candle against single Rapier?

Lay down the light then.

Honour is a Fool in the Field when it wants stratagem.

I think he is madd; for still he mutters and looks back. D. John, I suspect the temper of your brain, as much as I doubt the c urage of your heart; you seem to have a great quantity of the Coward, but more of the Fool.

Not so much of the Fool as you suppose, Sir —

What art thou all Coward, and coverst thy self in darkness?

Did not you kill my Brother in the dark?

If that will more incense thee, know, I did.

Then try your Cats eyes once ag [...]n.

Say you so, Sir?

The Devil's in the Dice if you throw twice in and in, without any light.

Where are you, Sir?

What a fool were I if I should tell him?

You are bashful, and would not have your courage seen.

I'm a little valiant when I spy no naked Weapon. Now good speed to one push at hazard —

I think that toucht something. I hope I have not run my sword through one of the Caesars eyes in the Hanging —

The Wretch has drawn my bloud. I feel it, for it wets my hand. But now by this, more than before, he does deserve to be my Enemy.

I'm certain that's my Nephews voice. If I can feel no Key in the Lock, then mine will give me ent [...]ance.

Go forth from the Alcove or I'll strangle thee.

Hah! what's the business here my Friends?

I'm taking satisfaction for my injuries.

I have lost blood, and will be strait reveng'd.

I'st by Stoccado, or Stramason?

A thousand Sathans take all good luck. I shall pay soundly for having the honour to give the first wound.

Let me see, Nephew? your hand is hu [...]t.

'Tis but a slight prick.

Would I had two in my right hand that I might get an ex­cuse to let my sword fall.

Now my dear friends, fight freely! I come not here to make peace. The one (who suffers by a deep and double injury) is by promise to be my Son-in-law. The other is my Nephew, who must be satisfy'd for loss of blood. I'll look on each with the same eyes which in my youth did love to see the exercise of honour. Fight, and fight bravely; but first let me place the light conveniently for both.

Your counsel wlll be quickly follow'd, Sir, by men who know your courage.

Rare counsel indeed, which exhorts us to a Duel. This old man is heartily wicked, and may be held the very Father of the Hectors.

My anger makes me insolent and cruel. And that I now may dare you to do more than you durst do till darkness hid your fear, know, I've deceiv'd your Sister, and have kill'd your Brother.

Since I am thus confirm'd, Honour has leave of consci­ence to be bloody in revenge — Stay Sir!

O, are you come? In true Tragedies let every man act his own part.

You do not know Don John, Behold him here. You did deceive my S [...]ster, and have kill'd my Brother; and are now, against your self, th'audacious witness of such double wickedness as Justice cannot hear but with a double sence of anger and of shame. I wish you had more than a single life to answer both.

But is the Man become the Master?

Make haste to let me know, which of the two is more worthy than the other to be my Enemy: which is Don John?

That name is mine.

Then what is he?

I'm no Don John, I dare assure you, Sir; but yet am so well bred, that I can give way to my Betters in all quarrels.

Under a Servants name I have indur'd my injuries whilst I had got no more than a suspicion of th'offenders person to authorise my revenge; but since you proudly have declar'd you did those injuries, you cannot think that I should longer bear them. My thers blood incites me to revenge.

The cry of blood may cease when the revenge of it is near.

Know my revenge is heighten'd by that black dishonour which has stain'd my Sisters beauty, to whom you have ignobly shewn a want of such compassion as does use t'accompany true cou­rage.

Are you the true Don John, renown'd for valour, and yet strive, with softning pity, to allay that courage against which your honour does contest?

You ought to think my vengeance for my Brothers death allows not words to respite deeds: but, by degrees, I am pro­ceeding to the reason of this short delay.

This is such temper as I never knew.

That I may make my Sister feel my justice more than cruelty, let me be now oblig'd ev'n by an Enemy, with so much truth as men of noble Race can never want.

What would you ask?

Whether your many vows (broken as fast as sworn) did not seduce my Sister from her Father's house to seek you in dis­guise? and whether in those vows you did not make a sacred Con­tract of immediate Marriage?

This Son-in law is as prudent as he is valiant; though I did pronounce the other Son-in-law a Coxcomb.

That's I. But patience, for I've already shed blood enough.

Though when our swords are drawn 'tis then no season for confession, yet, in a just compassion, for her sake, I will declare a blushing truth. Your Sister owes her affliction to my repeated vowes of Marriage.

I swear — by the honour of all Mustachios, and of all the Beards in Spain, my Nephew is a Traitor.

Bless me! what a horrid Oath was that? no choler shall transport me to swear by more Beards than my own.

Hadst thou a heart so cruel as to o'rcome a Virgin by thy vowes, and then forsake her for her faith? Son-in-law I'm wholly now of your side, and will renounce my bloud in him; who does deserve to have it shed not by a single hand of Honour, but by confederacy of common force.

Now for the French mode of fighting!

I fear I shall, by a trick of honour, be made a Se­cond to the wrong side.

Stay, Uncle! shall the virtue of Confession make you my Enemy!

Yes, where Divines are not the Duellists —

Hold, Don Ferdinand. My honour will not suffer me to share in such advantages.

That's spoken like a true Don John.

Then I alone will fight with him. —

My honour will less yield that you, Sir, should deprive me of my Enemy, Sir, I beseech you, hold!

Then take him to your self; though such who Traitors are to Virgins deserve their punishment from every hand.

I have another question now, to which a civil Foe will give reply; and 'tis to cure my greatest pain, my jea­lousie; so great a torment as I could not wish to my most fatal Ene­my, no, not to you.

Sir, now you teach me to be civil. Proceed to tell me your disease if you will hasten to the remedy.

Know, I am jealous.

Of whom.

Of you.

Of me.

I saw you leap from the Balconee of this House.

Did you see it?

Yes, I saw it, and, since that, found you conceal'd in Isabella's Chamber.

Hah! Can I have patience to hear more?

If I in this shall new confession add to what I spoke be­fore, you cannot think 'tis from th'effect of fear, for honour does ob­lige me to't. If I have been your Rival than my l [...]ve did wrong your Sister rather than injure you because I did not know Don John: and Honour now does joyn with Truth to make me call on Heav'n to as­sist me wh [...]n I Isabella vindicate; who with disdain refused all love but what her Father should prefer.

That is some motive for my patience.

I further must declare that Bettris, to promote th'ad­dress I made for Marriage, did, unknown to her Lady, hide me then in the Balc [...]nee, and after that conceal'd me in her Ladies Chamber; for which she was in hazard of her service.

I remember my Daughter would have dismist her Service; which gives my patience another comfort.

All my disease of jealousie ends here, and I'll continue still to be a civill Enemy, for I will thank you for my cure.

But now —

Stay, stay Don John! The next Demand belongs to me. Why did you make your visit here in a disguise?

Sir, it is fit you should be satisfy'd. I chang'd my habit when I saw him scape from the Balconee, supposing in another shape, my jealousie might sooner be inform'd.

I hear enough. My honour now makes me forsake your cause, and leads me to the other side. You are my Enemy.

'Tis my misfortune then and not my choice.

You came into my House not as a Lover but a Spy; and with a stratagem (course, and below my dignity) advanc'd your man to wooe my Daughter. Prepare your self for my revenge —

Pray hold, Sir! hold! you punish me too much in ta­king from my Sword that Enemy who first made me his choice.

Don Ferdinand, you never can so much provoke me as to raise my anger 'gainst the Father of the Mistress whom I love.

You lov'd with too much insolence, and doubtfully, when you design'd your Man to court her in your shape.

I may, without dishonor, crave for that your pardon: and when you shall resent my change of shape, you then forget Love's antient Histories; for my disguise is not the first that love has worn. But I conjure you by my Fathers friendship, to forgive the foolish Arts of Jealousie.

Well, for his sake, I am appeas'd, and bury your of­fence; but 'tis on this condition that I may now restrain your Com­bat till I treat with each for both.

To this I yield.

To shew that you have taught me temper I consent by your example.

My Master taught Don Lewis discretion and I taught it him. 'Twas ever said of Don Jodelet, that he did much incline to peace.

I doubly am prepar'd. First, I will meet your Sister in the Temple to perform my former vows; and then [Page 72] I will return and meet you here, or in the Field, to pay the debt I owe you for your Brothers bloud.

D. John, none yet did ever celebrate the sacred Rites of Hymen with a Tragedy; and I'm oblig'd to tell you that my Ne­phew often has lamented your unhappy Brothers death, who in the dark was wounded by mistake, and I have heard my Nephew vow that he did wear your Brother in his bosome as his dearest Friend.

This truth which you affirm does more, perhaps, be­come your Tongue than mine whilst I continue in this posture 'gainst an Enemy.

Alive? Heaven is propitious in this wonder!

I am alike surpris'd with wonder and with joy!

Much bloud my Brother lost by that unlucky wound you gave him, which some hours depriv'd him of the chiefest signes of life; but, being to a Surgeons house remov'd, he was by his great Art, in a few dayes, made hopeful of his Cure. I did conceal the good success even from my servants, and in Madrid divulg'd that he was dead.

What could you mean by making that report?

I thought, Don Lewis, that the rumour of his death would make it harder for you to escape the rig'rous Law in order to my Sisters injuries, who then forsook my Fathers House in your pur­suit.

My dear Don John, since you perceive your Brother on­ly wounded by mistake, and that wound cur'd: Don Lewis and your Sister ready to be joyn'd by Hymens hand, and I prepar'd to make my Isabella yours; let me behold a knot of Friendship ty'd between two Enemies. Come both, and chearfully embrace.

Don Lewis, all offences past shall vanish like the dreams of Infancy.

And all that we hereafter to each

other do, shall last like the examplar deeds of men renown'd.

Peace is proclaim'd. I'll rest contented with honour gotten in the dark, and sheath my Sword as Gamesters put up false Dice, to hide 'em after they have won money.

Come Isabella, you shall now, and with your own con­sent, be given to Don John.

with my consent? Are there such Miracles when Lucilla saies all faith is lost; or else at least, that men have none.

Behold the true Don John.

This is a Miracle which I am willing to believe.

Give me your hand, which must be mine no more, for it is now your Nuptial Pledge.

Prophetick Love! thou taught'st me to believe it e're he said it.

Bettris, I will not chide you now. This day permits no anger.

Go, go, make haste; and call the Lady Lucilla.

Truly she was mistaken, Sir. Her eyes are much decay'd with watching late to prevent th'unlucky meeting of Lovers.

Come, Sister, you shall weep no more.

Don Lewis is your best Physitian and can cure your grief. He is my Present to you; take him, and forgive him.

Can you forgive me, Madam? The Priest will do it when he joyns our hands.

Bettris, you have a great mind to take my hand too.

Troth you must wash it first: for when your Gloves were off I still suspected that you were no more than an uncertain Don, called Jodelet.

Don Jodelet, I have a small mark of your favour, which I wear on my right hand: but I intend not to requite it till you are Don John agen.

Sir, you may deferr your requital as long as you please, you know I'm one of those who scorn to be too hasty in calling for satis­faction when men are any thing willing to give it.

Why should we stay list'ning here any longer? We have heard 'em talk of strange changes, and of wonders more fortunate than we could wish.

Don Ferdinand spoke of Feasts: we cannot have a better Cue for our entrance. We may safely step in, Signior Sancho.

We may.

Come happy Lovers, follow me.