[3]THE Amorous Widow: OR, THE WANTON WIFE.

ACT I. SCENE a Room.

I Should believe Mr. Cuningham very conſtant, if I had Faith enough to credit this Letter, Jeffry. What Complaints are here? But 'tis the Stile, that all young Lovers write.

Pray, Madam, believe me; you know I am a Man of Integrity: I cannot diſſemble. Let him write what he pleaſes, If he did not love you, do you think I'd tell you ſo?

When he has Opportunity, I muſt confeſs, he ſays kind things to me.

Take my Word, Madam, my Maſter is not like other Men—Unleſs he loves a Lady, and loves her paſſionately too, he never troubles himſelf to com⯑pliment her much.

Never? Yes, Jeffry; ſometimes, you know, he compliments my Aunt.

That's a convincing Proof of his Love to you; you cannot think him reduc'd to the Neceſſity of making Love to an antiquated Piece, with deſign to know her otherwiſe, than to obtain the Happineſs of ſeeing you? But I ſhall tell him, Madam—

Tell him I have receiv'd and read his Letter.

Is that all, Madam?

All! Yes. Are you not content with that?

Any indifferent Perſon, that had Hands, and could but read, would have done, as much, as that.

Well; Tell him then, in time perhaps I may—

My Maſter, Madam, can't endure to depend on a perhaps.

Quick, quick, up to your Chamber, Madam.

What's the Matter? Is my Aunt coming hi⯑ther?

She's at your Heels. Go up the Back-Stairs quickly.

Farewel, Jeffry; Commend me to thy Ma⯑ſter.

For what, I beſeech you? Is not my Maſter bewitc'd, to court a Lady a whole Year, and ſhe hard⯑ly tell him ſhe loves him yet?

Alas! She's but a Novice. Let me alone with her; I'll order the Buſineſs ſo, that if thy Maſter be diſcreet and paſſionate enough in his Expreſſions, he wins her Heart I'll warrant you.

He can ſay nothing to her, but that damn'd Aunt of hers is harkning to't ſtill. What Pleaſure can ſhe find in Love at Fifty?

Fie, Jeffry, you muſt ſay Five and twenty.

I wonder any Woman can have the Impu⯑dence to live, and trouble Mankind after that Age.

There never was a Woman ſo old, but ſhe re⯑tain'd a good Opinion of her ſelf.

Then ſhe dreſſes her ſelf ſo fantaſtically, that all may ſee ſhe ſtrives to appear Young in defiance of Nature. She is more gawdy in that ſhe calls Half-Mourning, than a young Bride is on her Wedding-Night. The Devil's in her if ſhe believes any one can love her: 'Tis jeering her, but to be commonly ci⯑vil to her.

A little Flattery fires her. She believes all, that is ſaid to her: And he that does not make love to her, and compliment her, ſhall not be twice admit⯑ted to her Houſe.

O reverend Beauty! on my Conſcience, if I would greaſe her Chops with a few Compliments, ſhe'd mump and ſmile upon me.

No doubt on't.

When ſhall my Maſter have an Opportunity to ſpeak freely to Philadelphia?

Mr. Lovemore is thy Maſter's Friend, and is better belov'd here, than he imagines You muſt per⯑ſuade him to amuſe the Aunt, that Mr. Cuningham may have Convenience to court the Niece.

Mr. Lovemore's tir'd with playing that part ſo often; he is cloy'd with the Aunt, and ſwears he'll have no more of her.

I'm ſure her Niece and I endure much more. Tell him, 'twill be Charity in him to relieve us.

'Twill be hard to perſuade him to it.

This old Lady of mine has languiſh'd for a young Husband ever ſince Sir Oliver Laycock dy'd: She cares not what Eſtate he has, or what Religion he's of, ſo he be but young and luſty. Where is the great Viſcount Sans Terre, thy Maſter told her of? Methinks he's long a coming.

Some croſs unlucky Buſineſs hinders him.

She has lately receiv'd ſome Letters, that have given a full Account of him.

So much the worſe. What is it?

They ſay his Fortune is not very much, but he is greatly born, and very pleaſant; and that he is ſo great a Lover of Muſick, he has not a Servant but can Sing or Dance, or Play upon ſome Inſtrument. You may know when he's come by the Noiſe; the Fiddlers will welcome him to Town; for all from Weſtminſter to Wapping pay him Homage.

Wou'd he were but marry'd to her, Pru⯑dence.

Whether he marries her or not, is not our Buſineſs, Jeffry. Let him but fool with us till thy Maſter has gain'd her Niece, and then our Work is done.

Well, we have had enough of thy old Lady Laycock. Let us now talk of our own Affairs; ſpeak, doſt thou love me, Prudence?

A pleaſant Queſtion! Do you doubt it now?

If you would have me credit you, ſwear it.

Sure you are jealous Jeffry?

You're ſomewhat near the Matter. I know your Humour well enough; you love a bold audaci⯑ous Fellow, that will ſay any thing, and ſuch a one we have come to Town, one Merryman our Falconer; I fear you'll like him better than you do me.

Oh Fool! why ſhould you think ſo?

I have ſome Honour in me; but he's a Fellow that has eaten Shame, and drank after it. He is more impudent than a Court Page, and will take no De⯑nial.

Hold your Tongue, here's my Lady.

What Buſineſs has Jeffry with you?

His Maſter ſent him to know, whether he might have leave to wait upon your Ladyſhip this Morning.

Yes; Tell him, I expect him.

He durſt not come, becauſe Mr. Lovemore's with him.

Go tell 'em, if they pleaſe to come, they ſhall be welcome both.

I ſhall, Madam.

You ſee what Power your Beauty has. Nei⯑ther can live a Moment without ſeeing you.

No, they have other Buſineſs with me, Pru⯑dence; they came from Paris lately, and brought me a Letter from my Brother; and I believe they come for my Anſwer now.

But does not one of 'em love you, Madam?

I have ſome Reaſon to believe he does; Mr. Lovemore has ſpar'd no Pains to perſuade me to quit my Widow-hood.

I have been told, Madam, that Widow-hood is a Gift, Heaven ſeldom beſtows but on its Favou⯑rites; you are rich, and know how troubleſome Mar⯑riage is. For my part, I believe the faireſt Hair, the beautiful'ſt Curls do not become your Fore-head ſo well as Bando did; but every one, Madam, knows their own Neceſſities.

I confeſs, Widow-hood has its Conveniencies; but if Marriage be a Trouble to ſome, 'tis a Pleaſure to others, Prudence.

You had the Experience of it thirty Years, how did you like it, Madam? They ſay, Sir Oliver Laycock lov'd your Ladyſhip.

For all that he was jealous; and, what's worſe, was Old.

Very well; therefore you reſolve to have a young One now, Madam?

You cannot blame me for that? Can you, Prudence?

Oh no, 'tis well known Youth is comforta⯑ble. But, methinks, you ſhould take one a little near⯑er your own Age, Madam. A very young Man may be too treacherous for you, Madam.

Why, is my Age ſo viſible?

No, Madam; with a little Help of Art you have ſome Remains of Beauty ſtill. You have ſome⯑thing about your Eyes as pleaſant now, as others have at Twenty.

'Tis a very malicious World we live in, Pru⯑dence; they are ſo apt to cenſure, and ſpeak of any ſingle Woman, that one ought to marry to avoid that Scandal.

Some that are young are forc'd to marry, to avoid Detraction; others wou'd rather all that's Ill ſhould be ſaid of them, than to have no Notice ta⯑ken of 'em. I knew a young Lady that pin'd to a Conſumption, becauſe ſhe liv'd three Years about the Court, and never had the Honour to be lampoon'd. The Truth is, none that are Beautiful and Young can avoid Envy, but few are ſo malicious, to ſpeak againſt the Old.

There is no Age exempt from Scandal, Pru⯑dence. When we are Young, they ſay we ſell our ſelves; when Old, we are forc'd to hire, to buy our Lovers.

You know what they ſay, Madam, of the old Marchioneſs, your Friend, that was ſo admir'd, ſo courted in her Youth; who, when ſhe found ſhe was forſook by all, was forc'd to hire a Player by the Quarter: How ſoon rhe poor Fellow was tir'd too! How like a Sheep-biter he look'd after the firſt two Months!

This London is a very wicked Place, 'tis im⯑poſſible to live without Scandal here.

I'm afraid they'll ſay as much of you, Madam, if you bargain for a Husband. To covet one, that is both Young and Rich, is too much in Conſcience, Madam.

Thou know'ſt, Prudence, Wealth is not the thing I ſeek.

Then, Madam, the Buſineſs is done; the Viſcount Sans-Terre ſhall be your Husband, Ma⯑dam.

Ah Prudence! if he were but as handſome as—

Ah Madam, that's too much.

Why may not I wiſh for it?

Conſider his Quality, Madam, and 'bate him ſomething for that. One thing I muſt adviſe you; be not too prodigal of your Gold at firſt; to be li⯑beral ſometimes will be convenient, and make him kinder to you.

For all this, I ſhould think my ſelf very happy, if I were certain of Mr. Cuningham or Mr. Lovemore.

A little Jealouſy will inflame 'em. They'll be more preſſing when the Viſcount comes.

But yet methinks, Cuningham and my Neice—

What, Madam?

Are always whiſpering.

He only compliments her, Madam. She's too young to make Love ſeriouſly.

With your Favour, there's no truſting to that. To my Knowledge, there are thoſe younger, than ſhe, that underſtand what Love is but too well.

That's true, Madam; but Philadelphia is ſo innocent, that no Man can make Love to her, but to divert himſelf. Here ſhe is, Madam.

What does ſhe come for? I'll ſend her pack⯑ing quickly.

Conſider what you do, Madam. How can Mr. Lovemore entertain your Ladyſhip, unleſs his Friend may divert himſelf the while with rallying with your Niece.

For all that I could wiſh—

Pray trouble not your ſelf. Truſt me, I'll watch her, Madam.

Will your Ladyſhip go to Eaton's? The Coach is at the Door.

No, I'll not go yet.

If you ſtay long, Madam, the beſt Poynt will be ſold before you come.

No matter. Ha! what ails the Girl! How ſtrangely ſhe looks! Her Eyes are hardly open yet!

How, Madam?

Then her Head's dreſs'd awry. How it diſ⯑guiſes her! Lord! how frightfully it looks!

Truly, Aunt, 'tis dreſs'd juſt as the Faſhion is.

Fetch her Hood, Prudence; I'll have her put it on till it be mended.

I dreſs'd it to pleaſe no body but my ſelf, Madam.

I'll have you dreſs your ſelf now to pleaſe me: Come, put it on.

My Lady's in the Right. Never was a⯑ny thing more ridiculous. Here, put on the Hood, I am ſure this is much handſomer.

Why don't you put it on?

I can't endure it, Madam—

Do, I ſay.

So; Now it is as it ſhould be; all modeſt Maids ſhould be dreſs'd ſo: But here's Mr. Cuningham and Mr. Lovemore.

Your Servant, Madam; you ſee how we love your Company, by giving you this Trouble in a Morning.

'Tis a Happineſs we are much envy'd for.

You are welcome, Gentlemen. Pray com⯑mand this Houſe as freely as your own.

Why does this Lady hide her Face? Pray, Madam, let us ſee you.

Forbear, Sir, I beſeech you: She has had the Tooth-Ach lately. If ſhe takes off her Hood, ſhe'll catch cold, and bring the Pain again.

I thank your Ladyſhip for your Care of me. But the Pain has been gone ſo long, I don't fear it now.

Nay then, we muſt have it off.

What ſay you, Madam, Shall I pull it off?

Yes, Impertinence; I ſee you have a Mind to ſhew your ſelf.

'Tis the Nature of all young Girls to do what they are forbidden.

I come not to trouble your Ladyſhip for your Letter to my Lawyer; your countenancing my Buſineſs will be of great Advantage to me.

This, Sir, is what my Brother commands me: You ſhall ſee I take delight to ſerve his Friends.

Madam, You promis'd me that Honourable Title.

Do you pretend to it?

Yes, Madam, more, than any one.

I have not much Beauty to boaſt of; but Virtue, Sir, makes ſome amends for the Defects of the other.

Defects?

Pray, Madam, wrong not your ſelf ſo much.

There are few but know a little their own Value: And tho a Woman be not fam'd for a great Beauty, yet if ſhe be agreeable, there are thoſe, will like her well enough.

You have that in Perfection, Madam.

In that, Sir, I know you do not flater.

—

Madam.

Then, Madam, you like my Choice of this Suit.

Extremely well: Was it your own Fancy, Sir.

I am not aſham'd to own it, ſince you ask it, Madam.

I'll liſten to 'em—

He talks to her of nothing but new Faſhions.

You may, Madam, venture to diſcourſe without diſturbance.

Pray, Sir, tell me freely; how old do you think I am?

Faith, Madam, if you were not a Widow, I ſhould think you a Girl ſcarce Twenty.

Now, Sir, you flater me: You might have ſaid Thirty. I do not love to diſguiſe my Age.

How! Thirty, Madam! and look ſo youth⯑ful: I'll not believe it, 'tis impoſſible!

You do not know what Miſery I endur'd whilſt my old Husband liv'd. The Griefs I had upon me would have diſtracted another Woman. Alas! Sir, 'tis not Age but Sorrow has broke me.

It makes me ſad to hear you tell it, Madam, and vexes me to think, an old Man ſhould enjoy ſuch Happineſs.

You do not know how many Tears I have ſhed.

'Tis ſome Comfort, Madam, to remember he did not live long with you.

Truly, Sir, Fifteen Years.

Yes, and Fifteen to that.

Having been ſo unfortunate in a Husband, you may believe I have but little Encouragement to ven⯑ture, Sir, again. For I am very happy now I am a⯑lone.

You do wiſely, Madam; for ſhe deſerves not to be pity'd, that raſhly runs into the ſame Mis⯑fortune; and therefore you have, Madam—

Nay, Sir, I have not forſworn Marrying yet.

Pray, Madam, where do you uſe to walk in the Evening? Into St. James's Park?

Not very often, Sir.

Or into the Mulberry Garden?

Is not the Wilderneſs very pleaſant?

If I like my Company, Sir, I never miſlike the Place.

Have you ſeen the new Paradiſe, Madam? 'Tis much ſuperiour to the former.

I have heard as much: But, Sir—

Let me have the Honour to wait upon you thither preſently.

Not yet, Sir; After Dinner, if you pleaſe. But tell me, Sir, do you think me ſuch an Enemy to Marriage, that were I ſure a young Gentleman lov'd [14] me, and lov'd me truly, I would be ſo uncivil to re⯑fuſe him?

When I conſider what you endur'd in Sir O⯑liver Laycock's time, I think you ought to do it, Ma⯑dam; and that Man's unjuſt, that urges you to break your Reſolution.

Pray do not miſtake me, Sir; I have made no ſuch Reſolution yet.

Nay, Madam, ſince you are diſpleas'd at what I ſaid, we'll change the Diſcourſe. Pray, Ma⯑dam, do you think the young Lord Lucky has that In⯑tereſt at Court, that Fame reports he has?

Lord, Sir, this is a ſtrange wild Anſwer to my Queſtion. Let me tell you, Sir, if I have any Merit, Wealth or Beauty, there's one in the World deſerves 'em all.

Good! How ſhe teazes him!

But has that one no Fault, Madam?

You know him very well, Sir.

I know him, Madam!

Yes, you, Sir. 'Tis your ſelf.

'Sdeath! What will become of me now?

Madam—

What now?

The Marchioneſs is come to viſit you.

Troubleſome Creature. Go one of you and entertain her quickly.

Which of us, Madam?

Go you, Philadelphia, and keep her Compa⯑ny till I come.

I ſhall, Madam.

Pray, Madam, what is this Marchioneſs?

Oh, Sir! a moſt eternal Talker: Her Tongue goes like the Larum of a Clock, as faſt, and to the [15] ſame Tune ſtill. She's almoſt Sixty, and yet pretends to Beauty, and loves Courtſhip moſt unreaſonably. Say but a kind thing to her, and you win her Heart. The Truth is, ſhe has not much Reputation; but the Reſpect I give her is to her Quality and to her Perſon. But ſhe's an Original in her kind, Sir.

Oh blind, blind Creature! ſhe draws her own Picture, and laughs at it.

Sure, Madam, her Converſation muſt be very pleaſant?

She has been much courted in her Youth; but 'twould make one die to hear her boaſt of her Lovers now. How this Knight ſighs, and that Lord dies for her; when all the while I know what Neceſſity the poor Creature is reduc'd to. I would have brought her hither, but I know we never ſhould have been rid of her. Excuſe me a Moment, I'll ſend her away, and return preſently. Your Servant, Gen⯑tlemen,

How now, Friend—What's the Matter? Why doſt look ſo ſullenly?

I play the Aſs here any longer! No; if I do, may I turn Pudding to a Rope-Dancer, and ſhew Tricks next Bartholomew Fair.

Nay, but Friend, Dear Friend—

Tell not me of Friendſhip. What Man would endure to be ſo plagued as I have been. I have parry'd with my beſt Skill the dangerous Thruſts that ever were made at me. To tug at an Oar, or dig in a Mine in Peru, is Recreation to it. But the firſt time to offer Marriage to me! I ſweat to think on it. It made me tremble twice, for fear ſhe ſhould have forc'd my Neck into her muddy Nooſe of Ma⯑trimony.

We have no other way to blind her.

'Tis all one to me.

If thou lov'ſt my Life, Friend, do not forſake me now.

Pray live, if you pleaſe, and give me leave to do ſo too. Should I again be left alone with her, the beſt I can hope for is Diſtraction.

How do you like the Niece?

She's all Perfection.

How do you thrive? Do you find her kind, Mr. Cuningham?

She has promis'd me a Meeting this After⯑noon, if thou canſt but remove the Aunt from us.

I'll try what I can do, but Mr. Lovemore is the only Man in her Favour.

Dear Friend, try but this one.

I'll be hang'd, drawn, and quarter'd for a Traitor firſt, and have my Limbs hung up for the Birds to feed upon. No, no, I have my Belly full, I thank you, and ſome to ſpare.

But now I think on't, where's this Viſcount all this while? His Arrival wou'd be of great uſe in this Affair.

Prudence adviſes well: Methinks he's long a coming.

Why, you muſt know, there is one Merryman juſt come up out of the Country-He is my Falconer upon occaſion, the Fellow is bold, and very apt, and has not been ſeen much in Town. What think you of him to act awhile, till ſome more lucky Occaſion preſent it ſelf?

'Tis a lucky Thought, and may be of uſe. Where is he?

In the Pantry, a ramming down a Wedge of Roaſt-Beef to keep out the Town Air, and making Sport with a ſimple Country Fellow he has brought out of the Country with him to ſee the Town; one Clodpole, he calls him.

'Twould not be amiſs to examine him, and inſtruct him how to behave himſelf, before he is too much known.

No body of the Family has ſeen him▪ yet, but the Butler; and he, I know, will be ſecret.

I'll ſtep and call him to you, Sir, if you pleaſe?

Do ſo.

In the mean time, Prudence, there's ſomething to buy thee a Pair of Gloves.

Oh, dear Sir! how long have I deſerved this? Pleaſe to command me any thing within my Power, and conclude it done.

Sir, I found him juſt paſſing by the Door, and have told him part of the Buſineſs.

Well, Friend, doſt think thou can'ſt act the Part of a Viſcount for a little while?

What ſort of a Lord is he to be?

Oh! An Amorous Reſolute ſort of a Perſon, that's much given to love Muſick. You ſhall have all things that's ſitting for a Man of ſuch Quality.

Well, Sir, let me be once ſet out with a good Equipage, and leave the reſt to me.

Come with us, Friend, and we'll inſtruct thee fully in thy Part.

Well, give me but my Cue of Entrance, and let me alone to act my Part.

Let's about it then.

Prudence—

What's your Will?

One Kiſs.

'Pſhaw! Is that all?

All! I ſay no more, but—

Ah Prudence, Prudence!

What damnable whining Tone haſt thou got, ha?

I am afraid of this Viſcount, Prudence.

Away, you Fool; I have other things to trou⯑ble my Head withal—Farewel.

Adieu.

ACT II.

WHy, Madam, are you ſo unwilling to credit what my conſtant Paſſion, ſo long in vain, has urg'd? Do you not believe I love you? Oh! Did you but know what I endure, when you refuſe to hear me, you would in Charity have ſome Compaſſion on my wounded Soul.

I dare not hear this Language from you, Sir.

What are you afraid of, Madam?

All Men ſay the ſame things, Sir, till they have won our eaſy Hearts to pity and believe you; then ſtraight you ſlight your Conqueſt, and leave us to purſue our Ruin.

Be not ſo cruel to cenſure all for thoſe Faults, which ſome few commit; for all, I muſt confeſs, do not ſtand excus'd. But, Madam, you cannot be ſo great a Stranger to my Love, as not to think it real; or ſo great an Enemy to your own Worth, to believe it has not Power to enſlave a Heart, that's guarded more ſecurely than mine—But no more—Your Aunt—

So Niece, I ſee your ſqueamiſh Stomach can digeſt all ſorts of Diet, tho ne'er ſo ſtrictly charg'd to the contrary. Mr. Cuningham, What Buſineſs have you with her? I wonder you are not aſham'd to be always following of her at this rate, and endeavouring to take Advantage of her fooliſh Youth; for ſhe is but a Girl yet, and not fit for the Converſation of a Man, nay, or indeed to be truſted with her ſelf.

Madam—

Go, go, indeed you are much to blame▪ What will the World judge, think you? Or what Excuſe can I make, for ſuffering ſuch Doings in my Houſe? And you, Huſwife! how dare you diſobey my Commands? Is this the Reſpect you pay to me, and to my Quality! I believe, in a little time I muſt make it my whole Imploy to invite home young Gal⯑lants, forſooth, to pleaſure you, whilſt I, as if I were your Slave, muſt retire, and wait till you are ſerv'd firſt. 'Tis come to a fine paſs indeed; but I'll put an End to it all, and keep you always lock'd up in your Chamber, I will ſo.

I told you▪ Sir, what would be the Event of your Projects, but you would not be ſaid nay. I muſt be an Inſtrument to make your Paſſion known, and none ſo fit to be truſted with ſuch an Affair as I; but henceforward if you can't ſpeak for your ſelf, you may hang or drown, as you pretend, for me, for I'll no more get Anger for you.

What does ſhe mean?

What's that you ſay?

Mr. Cuningham here, Madam, is always urging me to tell your Ladyſhip the Paſſion he has for you.

Saucy Slut!

As if he could not ſpeak for himſelf, but muſt be ſtill plaguing me, and ſwearing how long, how well, and how tenderly he loves you; then ſighs and cries, Oh Philadelphia! Can I live without her? But ſhe, cruel as ſhe is▪ has vow'd to die unmarried.

Oh the Devil! What will become of me now?

Then raves worſe, than any one in Bedlam, crying, And muſt I then loſe her ſo? Oh! Death to all my Hopes! I muſt not, cannot, will not! and a thouſand ſuch like things, which I'm reſolv'd never to hear again. So, Sir, don't trouble me any more, but e'en ſpeak what you have to ſay to her your ſelf.

Is this true, Mr. Cuningham? I did not think there was a Man living, which cou'd love at that rate, and with ſuch Conſtancy.

Oh! Madam! what ſhall I ſay, ſince all is ſtill in vain! Your Vow, your cruel Vow, has van⯑quiſh'd all my Hopes; then where ſhould I ſeek for Peace, but in my laſt Retreat, the Grave. Fare⯑well; I cannot bear to ſtay, for every Look adds new Poiſons to my Soul.

Stay, Sir—I have made no ſuch Vow. If your Paſſion—

Oh, Madam! forbear. I know your Good⯑neſs to be ſuch, that rather, than be the Inſtrument of what may happen, you would ſeemingly comply with any thing I can ask. Pardon me, Madam, I have been too much deceiv'd already.

Pray ſtay, Sir, do not miſtake—

Oh, Madam, here's the fineſt Piece of Poynt I ever ſaw, and the cheapeſt; pray, Madam, look at it.

Saucy Intruſion. How durſt you come with⯑out being call'd? How often have I told you this, you Minx: Be gone, and leave it in the next Room, till I pleaſe to come and look on't.

Madam, the Woman, that brought it is in haſte, ſhe bid me tell your Ladyſhip.

Let her go about her Buſineſs, if ſhe can't wait, for I'll not come yet.

How horribly unlucky was this to diſturb me, juſt as I was going to tell him of my Intentions, and of my Concern for his Paſſion.

I believe I am troubleſome, Madam.

Farewel.

No, pray ſtay, Sir, I have ſomething to ſay to you, but that young Slut interrupted me.

Oh the Devil!

But as I was going to ſay, I did indeed reſolve not to marry any more; and when you have heard me out, you'll ſay I had Reaſon.

You muſt know, in my Husband Sir Oliver's Days, I had not that Liberty, perhaps, as other Ladies of Quality took; for, to ſay Truth, my airy Tem⯑per and my Youth, at that time, made my Hus⯑band grows jealous, tho' without Cauſe, Heaven knows.

That I dare ſwear, if all were of my Mind.

Which made him lead me a very uneaſy Life: So that it made me reſolve on many things at that time, and one was this, That if ever Sir Oliver ſhould die, I never would marry again; but I don't remem⯑ber that I ſwore to it: Or if I had, you have ſuch a way with you, 'twould be very hard to deny you any thing, Mr. Cuningham.

Oh, Madam!—Your Charity comes now too late: I am paſt all Hope.

Oh, dear Sir, ſay not ſo! for ſince you ſay your Diſeaſe is grown to that Extremity, that unleſs your Love meet Reward—

Talk not of Impoſſibilities. I know how much you prize your Honour: And ſince you have vow'd never to marry, I have nothing left to hope for elſe.

'Tis true, Mr. Cuningham, I would not have my Honour ſuffer; but what remains beſide that I can do, to ſave you from what may be dangerous, ſhall not be wanting.

Oh, Madam! Madam! the rareſt News—The Viſcount Sans Terre, whom you have ſo long expected, is juſt arriv'd, and is coming hither with a huge fine Equipage, Fiddles, and other Inſtru⯑ments.

Oh dear! how I'm ſurpriz'd! I would not have him ſee me thus for all the World. Prudence, Ser my Curls right, and alter my Knots: Quickly, don't ſtand ſumbling—

Look if the Paint be ſirm.

'Tis pretty well, Madam; There's here and there a ſmall Crack, but 'twill not be diſcern'd at diſtance.

Quickly, good Prudence: Put me a little better in Order. You'll pardon me, Sir: You ſee what a Fright I'm in.

Pardon, quotha! the Devil take me, if any thing could be more freely granted.

Oh! are theſe the Ladies?

By your Favour, Sweet Lady.

A delicate Morſel, by this Hand.

Madam, I ſee that Fame has juſtly ſpoke your Praiſe. You are indeed the Wonder of all your Sex.

How fair ſhe is!

What does he mean?

Pray, Madam, what young Gentlewoman is that, whoſe matchleſs Beauty ſeems to ſill the Place with more, than common Brightneſs? Sure 'tis ſome Goddeſs, dropt from Heaven for Men to worſhip!

Fair Angel, pardon this rude Attempt:

The Honour only of your fair Hand.

For till I touch it, I cannot think you mortal.

Oh, dear Sir! You make me bluſh.

Pray, Lady, is this pretty young Gentlewoman your Niece?

This Fellow muſt be a Fool, or he could ne'er miſtake ſo groſly.

Now we ſhall have rare Sport. Sure he's blind to miſtake you for your Aunt.

Pray have a little Patience, Ma⯑dam, and you'll ſee the Event.

Lady; I bleſs thoſe Stars that have directed me to ſo happy a Choice; therefore few Words are beſt. If you like me as well as I do like you, e'en ſend for a Parſon—

Hold, Sir, ſure you miſtake!

Now—Now it works.

What ſay you, Lady? Shall we—

I can hold no longer.

Pray, Sir, are not you the Viſcount Sans Terre?

Pretty Creature, I am.

And come with an Intention—

To make this Lady, your Aunt, happy in a Husband, if ſhe pleaſes.

I tell you, Sir, I am that Lady you ſpeak of; and that is, my Niece Philadelphia.

Ha, ha, ha; Your Niece, quotha!

Why ſure you think to put ſome Trick upon me.

This motherly grave Lady your Niece!

No, No; I thank you, Madam, I am not to be perſwaded out of my Reaſon.

He makes me almoſt mad.

I ſay again, that I am call'd the Lady Laycock;

And that pert Minx my Niece; who was left in Charge with me till ſhe be of Age.

'Sdheart, 'tis impoſſible! You look Twenty Years younger than that Lady you call your Niece.

Oh, dear Sir! That indeed may well be: A great many do allow, I appear to be ſomething youn⯑ger than I altogether am.

How could I be ſo much miſtaken!

Sure, Madam, you but jeſt with me.

Indeed, Sir, theſe Gentlemen know I ſpeak Truth.

'Tis very true indeed, my Lord.

Well, ſince it happens ſo, I like it the better; for to ſay Truth, I had fix'd my Eye on you at my firſt Entrance.

Ah! wou'd 'twere over once.

Methinks I long to have thee in my Arms.

Oh! How I would employ my Faculties,

And ſurfeit with delight.

What ſay you, Lady? Never ſtand to conſider on't, but ſend for a Parſon to ſay Grace, that I may fall to. Odds ſo, I'm very hungry—Very ſharp ſet;

I long to be doing.

Pray, my Lord, walk in, and refreſh your ſelf after your Journey. I was unmannerly not to ask you before.

Prudence, Come hither. See that all things are in readineſs. Oh, Prudence! I am impatient to be alone with him.

My Lord, you will excuſe the Diſorder you have found me in.

Never trouble your ſelf about it. Join but your Forces with mine, and we'll beget a Race of People, that ſhall be immortal. A Race, that ſhall create a ſecond War with Jove, and raiſe Olympus top equal with the Seat of him, that hurls the Thunder.

No more, my Lord. Pray walk in.

All your Commands are abſolute.

Was there ever ſuch a Piece of Fly-Fleſh?

The Rogue acted it to the Life, and came very ſeaſonably to my Reſcue.

Had he ſtaid a Moment longer, I had been forc'd to have given up the Ghoſt.

That ever Nature ſhould ſuffer ſuch a Lump of Rubbiſh in the World for Men to ſtumble over.

Pox on her old mouldy Chops:

She's for engroiſing all to her ſelf.

How ſhe thruſt her Niece in before her!

I'll in, and try to beckon her into the Garden, if you'll interpoſe, ſhou'd the Aunt miſs her, and fol⯑low us.

'Sdeath! Would'ſt have me run into the Lion's Den, juſt when I have ſcap'd his Paw!

No, I have hazarded too much already to venture more, I thank you. I now have better Game in Chace.

You know pretty Mrs. Brittle, Sir Peter Pride's Daughter?

What of her?

Oh, 'tis the ſweeteſt little Creature!

So Fair, ſo Witty, ſo Kind, and ſo Promiſing!

I'm juſt now ſending this Letter, in order to appoint a Meeting with her. But her Husband is ſo jealous (as indeed I hope to give him Cauſe for't) his Eye is hardly ever off her. I am thinking what way it can be deliver'd without Suſpicion. Let me ſee—

I'll take my Leave; for I find I interrupt your Meditations.

Farewel, my Friend; and may both our Wiſhes proſper.

Jeffrey.

Sir.

Can'ſt thou contrive to carry this Letter to a young Gentlewoman, and bring an Anſwer, without being ſuſpected? If thou doſt, Jeffrey, thou ſhalt be well rewarded for thy Pains.

Is ſhe Widow, Wife, or Maid, pray Sir?

Why doſt thou ask?

For a private Reaſon I have.

Well then, to ſatisfy thy Curioſity, Jeffrey, know ſhe's a Wife; a Young, a Handſome, and a Melting one!

I am all Ecſtaſy, and impatient till I poſſeſs her.

Good Jeffrey, look on the Superſcription, and about it with all Speed.

I dare not touch it:

Don't truſt me with it.

Why ſo, good Jeffrey?

I ſay again, do not truſt me.

Your Reaſon, Jeffrey?

I don't care to meddle in a Cauſe, where there's a Proceſs of Cuckoldom going forward.

Prithee, why ſo?

Why, Sir, I'll tell you. You muſt know, Sir, I love Prudence, my Lady Laycock's Woman, and I believe there's no Love loſt between us; nor do I know how ſoon we may exchange our Perſons for better and for worſe. Now, Sir, if I ſhould be the Inſtrument (by carrying this Letter) of your making this honeſt Man a Cuckold, who knows but, in return of ſuch a monſtrous Deed, it may be my own Caſe next; therefore, Sir, I don't care to meddle in't.

Give me the Letter again; I did but try thee. Thy Maſter, indeed, has often told me, how ſcrupu⯑lous thou wert about theſe Matters, but I ne'er be⯑liev'd it till now. Stick to thy Principles, and be what thou deſerv'ſt, thou mayſt come to Good at laſt. I have no farther Service at preſent. Prithee leave me, I have Buſineſs of Moment.

I had been finely ſerv'd if I had ſent this conſcientious Rogue. What ſhall I do? The Viſcount brought an ignorant Country Fellow up with him, that won't be ſuſpected in the leaſt. 'Tis well thought of; I'll entruſt him, and ſend it immediately. Soft—Who comes here?—Oh! 'tis the Husband.

Your Servant, Mr. Brittle; is the Lady Laycock at home, can you tell?

Yes, yes, I believe ſhe is.

I have a little Buſineſs, and muſt needs ſpeak with her. Sir, your Servant.

A little Buſineſs, quotha!

A fine Trade this doating old Widow drives; my Houſe is become as common for all Commers and Goers, as the Mall or Spring-Garden: But I ſhall put a ſtop to it in a little time, I believe.

How now—Whither away in ſuch haſte?

I'm going abroad, Husband. Good bye.

Hold, hold, by your Leave, I'll know for what, and whither your ſweet Ladyſhip is going?

Why, to the Play, ſweet Husband.

Hum! to the Play.

Well, Good bye, Husband—I ſhall be too late, and then there'll be ſuch crowding, I ſhan't get the firſt Row in the Box, for 'tis a new Play; and I had as lief not go, as ſit behind.

Hold, hold, pray ſtay, if you pleaſe.

Indeed but I can't.

Indeed but you muſt not go, Wife.

Indeed, Husband, but I ſhall.

I ſay again, you muſt not.

Muſt not! Who ſhall hinder me?

Why, that will I.

I ſay, No.

But I ſay, Yes.

Don't you pretend to't.

Don't you provoke me, I ſay. Is this the Trade you always intend to drive?

Yes indeed is it.

I ſay, No.

But I ſay, Yes. Do you think you ſhall keep me always ſtifling within Doors, where there's no body to be ſeen but your old fuſty ſelf? No, I'll to the Play, where there's all ſorts of Com⯑pany and Diverſion; where the Actors repreſent all the Briskneſs and Gaiety of Life and Pleaſure; where one is entertain'd with airy Beaux, and fine Gallants, which ogle, ſigh, and talk the prettieſt things in the World. Methinks 'tis rare to hear a young brisk Fellow court a handſome young Laſs, and ſhe all the while making ſuch pretty dumb Signs: firſt turns aſide to ſee who obſerves, then ſpreads her Fan before her Face, heaves up her Breaſts, and ſighs—at which he ſtill ſwears he loves her above all the World—and preſſes hard his Suit; tells her, what Force her Beauty, her Wit, her Shape, her Mien, all join'd in one, are of. At which ſhe bluſhing curteſies low, and to her ſelf replies, What charming Words he ſpeaks! his Perſon's Heavenly, and his Voice Divine. By your Leave, Husband, you make me ſtay long.

Not in the leaſt—there will be no great miſs of you, if you don't go. And now you talk of Gallants, bleſs us!—What a Dreſs is there! Do you think that fit for a Tradeſman's Wife?

No;—but I think it fit for Sir Peter Pride's Daughter, ſuch as I am. I warrant you'd have me go abroad like one, thar ſells Butter and Eggs—Or like one that cries, Come buy my dainty fine pickled Cucumbers: No, no, I'm re⯑ſolv'd to dreſs—put on all the Airs I can—go [30] abroad—ſee and be ſeen—take my Fill of Pleaſure, and not be ſhut up in a Nunnery, to pine and ſigh, and waſte my youthful Days in fruitleſs Wiſhes: No, I'm not ſo weary of my Life yet, tho▪ you do all you can to make me ſo. And I would have you to know, tho you have forc'd me to wed my ſelf with old Age and ill Humours, I am not wed⯑ded to my Grave!—'tis time enough forty Years hence to think of that, and I have a great deal to do before that time comes; therefore I muſt, and I will go abroad.

Stir one Step if you dare

If you go to that, I'll try who wears the Breeches, you or I. You ſhall ſtay at home, and keep me Company; I'll ſpoil your going to Plays, your Ap⯑pointments, and your Intriegues—I'll make you know, that I am your Husband, and that you ſhall do what I pleaſe. Slife, What's here to do! What, have you forgot your Marriage Vows already? Pray, who am I? Am I not your Husband? Are you not married to me?

No—You forc'd me; I never gave you my Conſent in Word or in Deed. Could you think I was in Love with Avarice, with Age and Im⯑potence?

Give me Patience! How! How!

No, you baſely bought me of my Fa⯑ther and Mother.

Would I could ſell thee again.

Like a Slave you bought me, and ſo you intend to uſe me, were I Fool enough, but I'll ſee you hang'd firſt.

Why, what will your ſweet Ladyſhip do? I bought you, you ſay?

Yes; Had you my Conſent? or did you once ask it? Or if you had, my Affections were plac'd elſewhere, and ſo they ſhall remain.

[31] In ſpight of all your Threats and boaſted Power! I'll not be us'd at this Rate!

Good lack!

I that am a Gentlewoman, deſcended from the worſhipful Family of the Pride's by the Fa⯑ther's ſide—

Ay, ſo 'tis a ſign by your Dreſs. Pride's, quotha!

And a Gentlewoman deſcended from the Honourable Family of the Laycock's by the Mo⯑ther's ſide.

And to be us'd at this Rate by an old naſty Shop⯑keeper!

I might have married a Merchant, and have kept my Glaſs Coach, my tall Footmen in fine Liveries, have gone abroad when I pleas'd without Controul, viſited Quality, nay, took Place of em at the Play-houſe, and met with Reſpect from the beſt; and is it come to this? But I'll to my honourable Father and Mo⯑ther, and tell 'em all, who, I'm ſure, won't ſuffer their Daughter to be thus abus'd.

I cannot, nor will not endure it any longer.

This 'tis for a Tradeſman to marry a Gen⯑tlewoman. A Curſe on ſuch Gentility! What ſhall I do? I ſhall be damnably plagu'd with her Father and Mother. Well, next Month I muſt take up in Bed⯑lam; a Judgment, which every Citizen deſerves, that marries above his Quality.

ACT III.

WEll! What a Plague 'tis to be married!

I muſt incorporate with one above my Quali⯑ty too, and not be content with ſomething in my own Sphere, like one that had a Mind to live in Peace and Quietneſs, but nothing would ſerve me but a Gentlewoman, altho I took her with never a Tatter to her Back, forſooth; and now, I think, I'm fitted with a Vengeance. Would I were but fairly rid of her, and her Gentility once, the Devil ſhould take all ſuch Gentility before I'd ever concern my ſelf with it again. But who have we here?

Huſh!—Softly!—Mum—No body ſees—Ha, ha, ha—No body ſees! Softly!—Ods my Life, who's that?—Mum!—Not a Word.—

Friend, hiſt—Friend—Pray ſtay a lit⯑tle; What Buſineſs might you have in that Houſe?

Wou'd you know now? Softly!—Not a Word. Ha, ha, ha, you underſtand me.

But you muſt know—

Yes, yes, I do know already, but am not ſuch a Fool to tell you. You ſhan't get a Word out of me. You underſtand me.

Yes, very well, but—

Softly!—not a Word.

I know that; but who was you to ſpeak with in that Houſe?

Softly!—Can no body hear? For you muſt know, the old Cuckold of that Houſe, they ſay, is damnably given to be jealous; I would not for ne'er ſo much he ſhould ſee me.

No, no, I'll warrant you.

You muſt not ſay any thing—

No, no, not a Word.

His Wife's a main pretty ſmirking Rogue, as a Man would wiſh to lay his Leg o'er.

Softly!—Is no body coming?

I'll warrant thee—Prithee go on.

What? you want to know all, do you? But I'll not truſt you. Mum! not a Word. You under⯑ſtand me.

Yes, yes, I underſtand you well enough—but you may truſt me, I ſhan't ſay a Word.

Why luck now!—Ha, ha, ha, Wou'd you, would you? But you ſhall get nothing out of me.

I'll warrant you'd have me tell you now, that I brought a Letter to the Gentlewoman of that Houſe—

Hum!

And that I deliver'd it to none but her ſelf—as I was order'd—

So.

You underſtand me?

Yes, yes, perfectly well.

And that I ſtay'd for an Anſwer—

Well, and I hope you got one?

Mum! not a Syllable! no body muſt know!—If it ſhould come to the Knowledge of the Cuckold her Husband, 'twill ſpoil all.

Oh never fear.

You'll ſay nothing of what I have told you?

No, no, not a Word.

For you muſt know, Mr. Lovemore charg'd me, when he ſent me, to ſay never a Word.

Is the Gentleman's Name Lovemore, ſay you?

Why, do you know him?

Oh, very well; a tall, proper, handſome Man, and always very generous.

The ſame, the ſame.

And lives juſt—

At the lower end of this Street on t'other ſide of the way, over againſt the Golden Ball.

I find you do know him.

Know him! Why he's my very good Friend.

A Pox of all ſuch Friendſhip.

Odd, he's a fine Gentleman as ever I met with in all my Life.

Yes, yes, he's a very fine Gentleman indeed.

I wou'd the Devil had him.

He gave me this Piece of Gold to carry a Letter for him, which I deliver'd to the Gentlewo⯑man of that Houſe but now.

Oh, he's a very civil Gentleman; I have been long acquainted with him.

Well, and what Anſwer did you get

A very pleaſing one, I'll warrant you.

Softly, you muſt not tell a Syllable of this to the Husband, nor that ſhe'll ſend my Maſter an Anſwer, as ſoon as ever ſhe can get the Cuckold out of the way. But no body muſt know. You under⯑ſtand me.

Oh, I'll keep your Counſel, never fear.

She bad me tell him, ſhe'd meet him this Eve⯑ning, if ſhe can.

Ay.

And that ſhe's very ſenſibly ob—ob—obliged to him, for his Kindneſs to her.

Ay, no doubt on't.

And takes it mighty kind of him.

She does.

Odd, ſhe's a pretty Bit; and then there's a handſome Maid that waits upon her, and is Aſſiſtant to her in theſe Matters, one Dam—Damaris, I think they call her.

Ay, like enough.

And you muſt know I like her hugely. She gave me Two or Three ſuch loving Looks, that I am half perſuaded ſhe likes me. So that if my Maſter gets acquainted with the Miſtreſs, I intend to ſtrike in with her Maid.

Oh, all but Reaſon.

But no body muſt know of it.

You underſtand me.

Well, good bye to you. My Maſter will wonder I ſtay ſo long. Be ſure you ſay nothing now.

You underſtand me.

Yes, yes, I do ſo; farewel.

Well, Barnaby Brittle, now thou ſee'ſt what comes of marrying of a Gentlewoman. I believe thou wilt be married to ſomething elſe in a little time, if thou art not ſo already.

You ſeem diſorder'd, Son-in-law.

And I have Reaſon to be ſo, if ever any Man had.

Good lack! And why ſo ſhort, Son-in-law?

I ſhall grow taller in a little time, Good Mother-in-law, if this Trade holds.

Explain your Meaning, Son-in-law.

'Twill explain it ſelf ſhortly.

What, is that Hat of yours nail'd on? Do you know who we are? And the Reſpect due to Perſons of our Quality, good Son-in-law?

Ah! wou'd I did not; but now I know to my Sorrow, ſince you will have me ſpeak, good Mo⯑ther-in-law.

Will you never leave that ſaucy Word, of calling me Mother-in-law?

Good Lord! Why what muſt I call you then?

You ought to ſay, Madam and Sir, when you ſpeak to us; or when you ſpeak of us, you ſhould ſay, Sir Peter, and her Ladyſhip: For tho' you have married our Daughter, yet there is a great deal of diſtinction betwixt you and Perſons of our Rank and Quality.

Go to, it is enough for me to let him know his Duty, without your Inſtructions. Sure, I beſt know my ſelf what to do. Son-in-law, you are an impudent Fellow to uſe us at this rate. How of⯑ten muſt we put you in mind of your Duty and Re⯑ſpect, e'er you'll know it? Hence-forward learn to behave your ſelf as you ought, or you ſhall hear on't in other ſort of Terms. You muſt not think becauſe you've married our Daughter, that we will be ſatis⯑fied with ſuch indifferent Ceremonies and Duty you might have paid, had you married one equal with your ſelf; nor ought you indeed to ſay, your Wife, when you ſpeak of our Daughter.

Good lack!—Is not your Daughter my Wife?

She is.—But you ought not to call her ſo.

I know that too well, now 'tis too late. I'd give a thouſand Pounds ſhe were not my Wife.

At it again? I tell you, tho' you have married her, yet as ſhe is our Daughter, you muſt not treat her after that familiar way.

You make me mad—Is not my Wife my Wife?

I tell you, tho' ſhe be your Wife, you muſt not call her ſo. When you ſpeak of her, as be⯑ing our Daughter, you muſt ſay, Madam.

Well, Madam, then ſince it muſt be Madam, I did not care if ſhe were a Dutcheſs, ſo I were but fairly rid of her.

Here's ſuch a ſtir about your Gentility, and your Ho⯑nour: But I believe if I had not married your Daugh⯑ter, and with my good Money redeem'd your Eſtate, your Gentility had been left in the Mud—for all your great Families, and your nice Honour.

Then do you think it no Honour to be ally'd to the Worſhipful Family of the Pride's.

And to the Honourable Family of the Lay⯑cock's? Go, Clown. 'Tis a Shame our Daughter ſhould be wedded to ſuch a Brute. We have been told at what a rate you treat her. What is the Rea⯑ſon of it, Son-in-law?

Why, you ſhall know, good Mother-in-law.

Again at that affronting way!

How often have you been told to ſay, Madam?

Well, Madam, then: I always forget theſe fine Words. But, Madam, if you wou'd pleaſe, Ma⯑dam, to hear me ſpeak, you ſhall know, Madam, whether I have not Cauſe to wiſh, I never had ſeen my Wi—your Daughter, Madam, if I muſt call her nothing elſe.

Well, Sir, proceed.

Why, in the firſt Place, I am in a fair way to be made a Cuckold, if I am not one already.

How, Son-in-law? Have a Care what you ſay.

Believe me, what I ſay, I can make appear.

Do it then preſently.

Why, ſhe has juſt now receiv'd a Letter from her Gallant, and made an Appointment to meet him this Evening; and judge how ſmall a time a Pair of Horns are a grafting.

How came you to know this, Son-in-law?

Why, juſt now—I caught the Fellow, that brought her the Letter, coming out of my Houſe, and not knowing who I was, I got out of him all the Buſineſs; and that his Maſter, Mr. Lovemore—

Is that the Gentleman's Name?

Yes, ſo his Man told me. I have often ſeen him taking a View about my Houſe, and looking up to the Windows; and 'tis plain what his Deſigns were.

If this be true, I'll tear her Eyes out.

Nay, if it be, this good Sword (never yet drawn in vain) ſhall do you Right.

Where is ſhe, Son-in-law.

Within, I'll warrant, ſtudying what Excuſe to make, to get abroad, and meet her Gallant.

I'll call her to anſwer for her ſelf.

Be ſure you wrong her not, Son-in-law.

Nay, nay, I make no doubt but ſhe is to be believ'd before me; and ſhe ne'er wants Cunning to bring her ſelf off, I'll ſay that for her, tho' the Caſe be ne'er ſo plain.

By this good Light, if ſhe dares be falſe to her Marriage Vows, ſhe dies; and that baſe Rifler of her Fame ſhall bear her Company.

Oh! Here he comes; that Spoiler of my Honour; that's he.

Do you know who I am, Sir?

I don't well remember I ever had much Ac⯑quaintance with you.

I am call'd Sir Peter Pride.

It may be ſo: I've heard of you, Sir.

My Family, Sir, has ſtood theſe many Years with unblemiſh'd Fame and Honour.

Very likely, Sir.

How far you have endeavour'd to ſtain that ſpotleſs Fame, be judge your ſelf.

Pray, Sir, explain this Riddle.

I have a Daughter young, fair, well-bred, has Senſe; ſhe is indeed the Wonder of her Sex, and this Man, whom you ſee here, has the Honour to be married to her.

Ah! 'Tis an Honour, that I cou'd have ſpar'd.

Now, Sir, I'm told, that you endeavour to corrupt her Honour, and defile her Marriage-Bed. Sir, I have had the Honour to command abroad, and with Succeſs, both to my King and my Country—As have alſo the Chief Part of all our great Race; even from William the Conqueror, to this preſent Reign, have our unqueſtion'd Glories ſtood a Pattern to our yet riſing Fame: And he who dares preſume to rob us of that precious Jewel, Honour, muſt not think to ſcape unpuniſh'd, tho' with the Hazard o'th' laſt Drop of Blood, that is leſt, to waſh off the Stain. My Daughter's Honour, Sir, is as dear to me, as this vital Air, by which I breath and live.

Pray Sir, who told you this?

Believe me, Sir, whate'er I ſay, I can quote my Author for it.

Then who-ever told you is a Raſcal; and were he here, I'd ram the Lie down his Throat, or make him eat a Piece of my Sword.

Why he told me—This Man—Her Husband here juſtified it to my Face, and ſaid he had Proof.

How, Sir! Did you frame this abominable Falſhood? 'Tis well you have the Honour to be al⯑ly'd to this worthy Knight, Sir Peter Pride, here; or you ſhould know what it is to father ſuch a Lie upon a Man of my Reputation.

Oh! Here comes my Daughter.

Did you, Madam, tell your Husband a ſtrange Story, that I ſhould make Love to you, and endeavour'd to corrupt your Honour?

I tell him! Why, when did you make Love to me, Sir? I aſſure you, had you let me know of your Paſſion, it ſhou'd not have gone unrewarded. Pray, next time you ſend, let it be one that knows how to take more Care. However, you have no great Reaſon to deſpair; for ſince he complains with⯑out any manner of Reaſon, I am reſolv'd he ſhall have Cauſe. Therefore if you do love me, Sir, pray let me know it, and I do aſſure you, you ſhall not want Encouragement. He ſhall not uſe me at this rate for nothing.

Madam, believe me, 'tis all a Riddle to me; for, till this Hour, I never heard any thing mention'd like it: I am an abſolute Stranger to it.

Do you hear that, you Clown? Are you not aſham'd to abuſe a Gentlewoman continually, without any Cauſe?

What is the Meaning of this, Son-in-law?

Pray, do but hear me.

Troth, Son-in-law, you are a very im⯑pudent Fellow.

Hear me but ſpeak?

You ſhall not ſpeak.

We have heard too much already.

I am ſure Damaris knows, I never have any body comes near me, but ſuch as himſelf; nor ever receiv'd any Meſſage, either by Letter, or other⯑wiſe—

I never committed any Crime againſt him, that I know of, unleſs ſitting by my ſelf all Day, and poring over two or three good Books be an Offence. Speak, Damaris, did I ever give him any Cauſe for theſe Suſ⯑picions, and this Uſage? Thou know'ſt all I ſay or do.

Madam, I know no Reaſon; nor can I bear to ſee the Hardſhip you endure! Like a barba⯑rous Man as he is—To abuſe ſo good a Lady! ſo Virtuous, ſo Innocent, and ſo Pious a Lady! I am ſure it makes me weep to think on't—I am afraid he'll break her Heart in a little time, if—

Hold your Tongue, you Jade, or I'll make you feel my double Fiſt. You are not a Gentle⯑woman—

I may do what I pleaſe with you.

Oh, my dear Father!

I am not able to endure this any longer.

Never was any Woman abus'd as I am.

I beg you will do me Juſtice, for I can bear it no longer.

Damaris, let's follow her, and endeavour to comfort her. Oh, thou Clown, to uſe a Gentlewoman with ſo much Cruelty!

I fear he'll be the Death of her at one time or another.

What do you think of all this, Sir?

Are not you a very pretty Fellow?

Come hither, Son-in-law, ask this Gentleman Pardon, for the Affront you have put upon him in belying of him.

How! ask his Pardon, that would have made me a Cuckold?

Sir Peter, pray—

I ſay no more Words: He has wrong'd a Gentleman; and the leaſt he can do, is begging Pardon.

'Tis very well! He offends, and I muſt ask Pardon.

No matter for that, you hear he denies it; and 'tis enough, if a Gentleman unſays what he has ſaid.

So that if I catch him making me a Cuc⯑kold, and he denies it, I muſt not believe it, becauſe a Gentleman ſaid it.

I ſay, you ſhall ask Pardon: Therefore no more Words, but do't.

I ſhall run mad.

Well, what muſt I do?

Come hither: Take your Hat off— Kneel down, and ſay after me.

Well, ſince it muſt be ſo—

This 'tis to be marry'd to a Gentlewoman, forſooth.

Sir, I ask your Pardon.

Sir, I ask your Pardon.

For the Affront I have put upon you.

For the Affront I have put upon you.

By falſly accuſing you—

How! falſely accuſing him!

I ſay no more Words. Say after me.

Say after me.

Accuſing you, of having a Deſign to corrupt my Wife's Honour.

Accuſing you of Truth—And having a Deſign to corrupt my Wife's Honour.

For which, knowing my ſelf in the wrong, I do ask your Pardon.

For which, knowing my ſelf not in the wrong, I'm forc'd to ask your Pardon.

Well, Sir, upon Sir Peter Pride's Account▪ I am content to paſs it by this time: But let me hear no more Complaints.

Sir, now all is well, I humbly take my Leave.

Was there ever ſuch a lucky Rogue as I? For her to encourage me to make Love to her before her Husband's Face!

Nay, and before her Father and Mother too!

Oh, I am all on Fire till I have her in my Arms!

But ſoft! who comes here?

Well, my little Scout, what News? How fares my Friend? Is Philadelphia kind? Where's thy Lady?

Where▪e'er her Perſon is, I'm ſure her beſt Thoughts are ſtill employ'd on you. And however ſhe may pretend a Paſſion for Mr. Cuningham, ſhe loves none but you. Pray, Sir, do but try her.

Oh racking Thought! I'd rather make Love to a Convocation of Cats at a Witch's Up-ſitting, than but ſpeak to her. Where's my Friend? Oh! here he comes, and his fair Conſort.

Be not ſo cruel to ſay, you want the Power: If we neglect this Opportunity, which kindly pre⯑ſents it ſelf, the next perhaps may not be ours.

Would you then have me diſpoſe of my ſelf without my Aunt's Conſent? Do not urge me to that, ſince I have promiſed not to wed without it.

I ask not her Conſent, but yours: Grant me but that, and leave the reſt to Time and Chance.

Madam, how can you deny him that, ſince I know you love him?

Ha! Oh, the charming Sound!

And will you not conſent to make me happy?

Or do you not believe I love you?

By all thoſe Fires that burn within my Soul, I ſwear—

Hold! Hold, Sir! You have ſworn enough already to corrupt a whole Nunnery of Sighing, Praying and Wiſhing young Votaries. Why don't you give him your Hand, ſince he has your Heart. I be⯑lieve you love to hear him ſwear and—Give him your Hand, or, I'll diſcover all.

Well, there 'tis then;

But I promiſe nothing elſe. I fear I have given too much already.

Oh, never! never! I'll pay thee back ſo vaſt a ſtore of Love and Conſtancy, as ſhall weary thee with ſtill receiving.

Madam, Madam, your Aunt's behind you.

Ha! My Aunt! What ſhall I do?

Fear nothing, Madam, but give me your Hand.

I'll bring all off.

This Line ſeems to Point out ſome unexpected Croſs: And this Line thwarting the Line of Life, ſignifies a retir'd Life; and this joining with it, ſhews you'll be in Danger of ending the latter part of your Days in a Nunnery.

How, Mr. Cuningham! Can you tell For⯑tunes?

I underſtand a little Palmiſtry, Madam, and can give a Gheſs at Phyſiognomy.

'Tis very well.

When I enter'd firſt, I thought you had been making [45] Love to my Neice: I am glad to find it otherwiſe. But where's the Viſcount?

In the next Room, Madam.

I'll wait upon him: I'd feign try whether his Inſide be anſwerable to his outward Appearance.

Nay, prithee ſtay; I can aſſure you, he is not to be equall'd either in Perſon or Diſcourſe.

He is indeed a fine proper Man, as one would wiſh to ſee.

Why, really his Lordſhip has Parts.

You and Prudence go find him out, and bear him Company awhile; I'll wait on him imme⯑diately, tell him. You, Sir, may go with 'em, if you pleaſe.

Madam, moſt willingly.

'Sdeath! You won't leave me?

Faith, but I will; doſt think I'll ſtay to en⯑dure a ſecond Hell? For if there be one upon Earth, 'tis being left alone with her.

Madam, Your Ladyſhip ſhall ever command me.

Come, Lady, if you pleaſe, the Honour of your fair Hand.

What will become of me now?

Well, Mr. Cuningham, I have long'd for ſome time to be alone with you, that I might ſpeak more freely to you.

Madam, 'tis too great an Honour.

I wonder, Sir, you never think of Mar⯑rying?

Madam, as yet I dare not think on't.

Oh, dear Sir! Pray, why ſo?

Becauſe I have not well conſider'd it; and I have been told, 'tis a dangerous Undertaking, without having well thought before-hand.

Pray, Sir, why ſhould you think ſo?

I'll vow 'tis an odd Thought, Sir, for one of your Un⯑derſtanding: Why, Sir, I'll tell you.

I have had Three Husbands, and yet I have no great Reaſon to complain: Tho' in my laſt Husband's time, I had not altogether that real Satisfaction, as I had with the other Two; for to deal freely with you, Sir, my Husband Sir Oliver Laycock, though he was a very well-bred Man, yet he had his Humours ſome⯑times, and would be a little given to Jealouſy, ſo that I ſeldom led a quiet Hour when the Fit was upon him. But in my firſt Husband's Days, ſure never Woman liv'd ſo happy! I would not a-been unmarried to have had all the Riches of the Earth laid at my Feet: But when I married with Sir Oliver, and had once ſeen his Temper, nothing I had in the World but what I would a given to a been free a⯑gain; and indeed in my Paſſion I often vow'd never (if pleaſe Heav'n Sir Oliver died) to marry any more.

'Twas raſhly done.

But no doubt, were there that Man fitting to merit your Favour, and equally deſerving your Perſon and your Eſtate, and one whom your Ladyſhip could like, you might perhaps be perſuaded to break your Vow, and venture once again.

I'll ſwear I hardly think it, and yet one don't know how one may be tempted; tho' if I were to be perſuaded, (and I will not forſwear any thing) I know not any one, that can ſo ſoon perſuade me to it as you, Mr. Cuningham.

Death and the Devil! What have I brought upon my ſelf!

Oh Madam! You make me bluſh.

But Madam! How cou'd you with Honour put off the Viſcount, who you know loves you, and is come on purpoſe to marry you?

Why, I intend him for my Niece you muſt know, who no doubt will be much better pleas'd with the Change. For, to ſay Truth, Mr. Cuningham, I have always had more, than a common Eſteem for you, and for your Behaviour; and have long ſince reſolv'd, that if I do alter my Condition, you are the Man alone I have plac'd my Thoughts upon.

You make me bluſh, Madam.

Wou'd I were a League under-ground, or in any Hell but this.

You cannot ſure.

I vow 'tis true, and yet—

Hear me but ſpeak, Madam?

'Tis odd, that Love ſhou'd over-power Peo⯑ple at ſo ſtrange a rate.

But I ſhould be unjuſt to my Friend, who I know loves you dearer, than his Life.

Oh dear! Who's that I beſeech you, Sir?

Mr. Lovemore, Madam.

Mr. Lovemore! I'll ſwear I don't believe it.

Oh Madam! 'tis but too true, as will appear I'm afraid, when he knows you place your Affections on any other Man.

I'll vow you much ſurprize me, Mr. Cu⯑ningham; but how came you to know it?

Oft has he begg'd me to bear him Company in ſome lonely Place, where he wou'd ſigh, and tell ſuch things of his diſtreſſed Paſſion, as wou'd have mov'd the moſt obdurate Heart; and when I ask'd him, why he did not acquaint your Ladyſhip with his Love, he would ſigh, with Arms a-croſs, as if his Heart would force its way through his Breaſt, and cry, Oh that's my Grief, my Friend, I cannot—dare not tell her! for ſhould I attempt it once, and meet her ſcorn, (for oh! thou know'ſt her Vow) I ſhou'd be for ever loſt.

[48] Then ran o'er a thouſand Tales of Love, ſo ſoft, ſo moving, and how he priz'd you, that cannot be ex⯑preſs'd by any, except one, who loves like him.

Truly, Sir, if it be ſo—

If it be ſo! were your Ladyſhip to obſerve his diſtracted Throes, you'd pity him.

But why ſhould he not declare it to me?

That's what I tell him, Madam;

Urging that your Ladyſhip—But mum! who have we here?

Ha! Whiſpering! And ſo cloſe!

I like it not.

The Viſcount! this is unlucky.

He looks diſturb'd! Good Sir, ſome other time we'll end this Diſcourſe.

Ha! What are you, Sir? that thus dares to encroach upon my Territories, and invade my Right?

Nay, pray my Lord, be not diſpleas'd. This Gentleman, you muſt know, has a Law ſuit de⯑pending, and is come to entreat a Line of Commenda⯑tion from me to my Lawyer.

Enough; I do believe all you can ſay. Ah! thoſe Eyes of yours! What Looks are there! they enflame my very Soul.

Ah, Prudence, how I long to be alone with him.

I am impatient of this Delay, when ſhall we be married?

Pray moderate your Paſſion, Sir.

What, you are afraid of that melancholy Gentleman, that ſtands ſo ſilently there.

Speak ſoftly, I am afraid he hears you▪ Sir.

What care I if he does.

My Lord, the Dancers you ſpoke for, wait without.

Let 'em enter. Will you pleaſe to ſit, La⯑dies?

Prudence, go tell Mr. Lovemore, I'd ſpeak with him this Evening.

—you may take a Turn in the Garden. And, Sir, if you think it no Trouble, you may bear her Company.

Madam, moſt willingly.

Why are you ſo melancholy, my Lord?

Nothing that's worth the naming. But if you'll walk into the next Room, I'll tell you.

My Lord, you are a Man of Honour, and I dare truſt my ſelf with you.

Madam, if I deſerve it not, may you always keep a Whip and a Bell, to ſcourge me from you like a Cur.

ACT IV.

YOU are a fine Spark, are you not, to diſco⯑ver all the Buſineſs, and let it come to my Maſter's Hearing?

Why ay, that's true, as you ſay; but who wou'd have thought that he could have known it! But now to our own Buſineſs, Damaris—

[50] Doſt thou not love me, Damaris?

Thou know'ſt I love thee with all my Heart.

Good lack! How it beats!—Odd, you may hear it thump all over the Houſe.

Damaris—How can'ſt thou be ſo hard-hearted?

Pſhaw! Prithee leave fooling.

One Kiſs, Damaris, to revive me.

Pray, Clodpole, be civil.

Damaris!—Canſt thou not ſpare a little Bit afore-hand?

Of what, Fool?

Why, of—Odd, you know well enough▪ What, I need not name it to thee.

I know nothing of the Matter.

Ay, but you do. Why, I ask but a little tiney, tiney Bit. Do, prithee now do.

I'll ſee you at the Devil firſt.

Do, Damaris—Spare but a Bit now; and bate me as much on the Wedding-Night.

No, I thank you, good Clodpole: I have too often been ſnapt that way already.

But ſee—yonder comes my Lady and my Maſter— Step with me into the next Room, he muſt not ſee you.

Ay, any where, any where: Quickly, good Damaris.

I tell you again, that Marriage is a very ſacred Thing, and ought not to be profan'd at this Rate.

What do you tell me of Marriage, I have other things to mind.

Truly, I do believe as much; that's the trueſt Word you ever ſpoke: But I think you ought to mind what I ſay. Am I not your Husband? And [51] are not you bound in Duty by that Tye, to be obedient and juſt in all your Ways?

What's that for? What, do you banter me?

Keep your Inſtructions for thoſe that want 'em, my Thoughts are other ways employ'd.

What, you are practiſing your Airs againſt you meet your Gallant, are you? And trying how to behave your ſelf to him? But I ſhall ſpoil your De⯑ſign, I ſhall.

Leave off your Tricks with a Vengeance, and mind what I ſay to you.

Again, don't provoke me; I ſay, don't; if you do, you may chance to repent it. I ſay, that Mar⯑riage—

I know it, Dear; you need ſay no more.

You know I love you dearly, by this I do.

Why will you not be ſatisfied? Had I the World to give, it cou'd not make me more happy than this Minute.

Ah diſſembling Crocodile?

What, now you think to wheedle me.

Be ſatisfied with this: Hence forward, if you deſerve it, I give you my Heart for ever, which, till this Minute, I did not think to do.

Ah, would 'twere in your Power to keep your Word.

Indeed I will, let that content you▪ and learn to merit that rich Jewel, which this Mo⯑ment I put within your Power.

If thou would'ſt be thus kind always, how happy ſhould I be! But that's impoſſible! Would you but think ſometimes upon the Vow you made in Church, that ſolemn Vow of Marriage, 'twould put you in Mind of your Duty.

How can I think of any thing, when you will not give me leave ſo much as to peep abroad for Air? Do you think a Woman can ever be in a good Humour, that is lock'd up, and kept from what ſhe likes? But I'm reſolv'd to bear it no longer.

Good lack! What's your Mind chang'd al⯑ready? I thought 'twas too good to laſt long.

But hence-forward you ſhan't think to make a Fool of me at this rate. I'll find a way to get out, for all your Spies; and then look to't—I'll uſe you as you deſerve.

Tempt me no farther, I beſeech you; if you do, I ſhall uſe you as you deſerve. Patience! and I have need enough of it at this time.

I'm reſolv'd to encourage every Man, that makes Love to me. I'll kiſs and be wanton, ſince you provoke me to't. Love, and be belov'd—and not be ſubject to the naſty Humours of an old Jealous—I can't find a Name bad enough for thee.

Odd, I've a great Mind to ſpoil that hand⯑ſome Face. The Devil tempts me ſtrangely: I muſt be gone; for if I ſtay, I ſhall certainly be provok'd to do her a Miſchief.

I waited till my Maſter was gone, to deliver you this Letter; Madam, Mr. Lovemore's Man is within, and waits for an Anſwer.

Give it me, Damaris, quickly.

I need not bid you read it, ſince you know from whom it comes.

Oh! 'tis extremely pretty, Damaris. I'll in, and write an Anſwer preſently.

So ſhe has ſnapt the Bait at the firſt Angling; how ſhe'll get clear of the Hook, I know not. Ha! he's here himſelf!

Pretty Mrs. Damaris, I'm glad to ſee you. Is your Lady within?

Yes, Sir, writing an Anſwer to your Letter, I ſuppoſe. You ſee, I deliver'd it with Care.

Oh, I underſtand you; there's for thy Pains.

Oh, dear Sir, by no means. But ſince you will have it ſo, pray command me.

Can'ſt thou contrive to let me ſpeak with thy Miſtreſs?

If you pleaſe, Sir, I'll ſhew you to her.

Thou wilt oblige me for ever.

Hiſt! Damaris!—Odd, I ſhall have a rare Wife of her, if ſhe gets Money ſo faſt. Here's a piece of Gold got without the leaſt Trouble, as they ſay. But ſoftly!—Who have we here?

Oh! are you there, Mr. Babbler? You are a pretty Fellow indeed; you have made fine Work! You can⯑not be told a Secret, but you muſt tell the Husband preſently. You underſtand me.

Who, I tell the Husband, Friend!

Yes, you; but I'll ſee you hang'd before you ſhall get any thing more out of me. You have made fine Work! All's diſcover'd!—The Cuckold, her Husband, knows all the Buſineſs.

Well, but—

You may as well hold your Tongue, for you ſhan't get a Word out of me.

No, no, I have found you out, I'faith.

This Fellow may be uſeful to affirm it to her Father and Mother. I'll try to bribe him.

Why look you, Friend, I'm ſorry this Matter is—

Mum! You underſtand me.

I know what you'd ſay now, but 'twill not do. You'd have me to tell you what I know, but Mum!—Softly!—Not a Word. I'll warrant, you'd have me tell you what Anſwer ſhe gave to the Letter.

No, no, Friend; but—

Softly!—You ſhall get nothing out of me. You think I'll tell you now, that the Wife pro⯑mis'd to meet him, and that they are together now in that Room; but I'm not ſuch a Fool. No, no, you'll tell the Husband again; you cannot be ſecret, and ſo good bye to you. You ſhall get nothing out of me. You underſtand me.

I'm ſorry I can't make that uſe of him as I intended; but however, he has diſcover'd ſomething to me, that may do as well. He ſaid her Gallant is with her now; I'll liſten.

[55] Oh Sadneſs! 'tis but too true. Here's fine Doings. But I'll ſend for her Parents. Now they ſhall ſee who's in the wrong, and who's in the right. She can't ſcape me now, unleſs the Devil aſſiſt her; and ſee where they come in a lucky Hour.

Father-in-law, you're welcome; and you, Madam. I'm glad you are come, I was juſt going to ſend for you.

Why, what's the Matter, Son-in-law?

Now you ſee what a fine Daughter you have.

What! more Complaints! What is the Reaſon of all this?

Do but hear me, and you ſhall know.

Here has been her Gallant, and—

Son-in-law, I'll not believe it. Will you never leave this fooling? We'll hear no more.

No, no; I knew you wou'd never believe a Word I ſay; but ſhe can be credited, becauſe ſhe's a Gentlewoman, forſooth. Now you ſhall ſee what a Gentlewoman I have got for a Wife. I have her faſt now, faſt in that Room with her Gallant, and that I hope will convince you.

'Tis falſe, thou baſe Villain. I know ſhe ſcorns to do ſo baſe a thing.

Pray now don't believe me, but walk in: If you find it not true, never mind any thing I ſay, as long as I live.

Lead, Son-in law. If I find 'em together, by this good Sword they both ſhall die.

But if 'tis not ſo, which I do believe 'tis only your Jealouſy again, look to your ſelf, Son-in-law, I'll ſuffer theſe Affronts no longer.

If they are not there now, I am a very Villain.

Come along—Softly—

You queſtion your own Power, when you miſtruſt my Honour, Madam. Such Charms can ne⯑ver want Force to allay all Thoughts of wronging ſo much Goodneſs.

Well, Sir, I do believe you to be a Man of Honour, and hope you will not wrong my good Opinion.

Therefore meet me this Evening at the Garden-Door about Nine, and there we'll diſcourſe farther: If I find what you ſay be real, perhaps I may be prevail'd upon to venture farther.

Madam, you bleſs me!

Have a little Patience—

Let's draw nearer, and hear what they ſay.

Oh Madam! Madam! my Maſter, Sir Peter, and my Lady, are juſt behind you.

Ha! undone for ever!

What will become of me then?

Let me alone to bring it off.

Be not you ſurpriz'd at any thing I ſay, but ſeem to humour it.

[57] I'll hear no more.

What do you tell me of your being amaz'd! Did you ever ſee any thing in me, that cou'd encourage you to believe I was that Woman you took me for? I'll warrant you thought, becauſe I ſeem'd to give you Encouragement before my Husband Yeſterday, when he had enrag'd me, that I was in earneſt?

What mean you, Madam?

But you will find your ſelf deceiv'd: For tho' my Husband gives me Provocations to uſe him at any rate, yet, Sir, I'd have you to know, I ſcorn Revenge; and will not be brib'd to ſtain my Honour, tho' all the Wealth of the whole World were laid at my Feet.

Do you hear that, Son-in-law?

No, Sir, my honourable Parents brought me up with the ſtricteſt Care; taught me the nice Paths that lead to Everlaſting Fame and Glory: And he, who dares attempt to make me loſe my Way, de⯑ſerves to be us'd thus, thus, and thus, Sir.

Oh, Hold! Hold! What, will you murder me?

Troth, Son-in-law, ſhe ſerv'd you right.

You have not half what you deſerve;

And I cou'd find in my Heart to—

Let him alone: I'll correct him.

Son-in-law, You are a very impudent Fellow to uſe your Wife thus. What can you ſay for your ſelf?

Say for my ſelf! Why, I ſay, 'tis all a Trick—And a Contrivance to blind the Matter.

Is it not plain, you have wrong'd her? Do you not ſee ſhe is a virtuous and a good Wife?

Too good for him, a Clown.

Well, well, I am over-reach'd, I ſee.

Son-in-law, I charge you let me hear no more of this. And inſtantly ask your Wife's Pardon.

How, Sir!

Oh! let him alone; 'twill be to no purpoſe.

I'm a little out of Order.

Damaris, Lead me to my Chamber.

I ſay follow her, and ask her Pardon.

If I do, the Curſe of Cuckoldom fall upon me.

Ah, graceleſs Clown.

Come, Sir Peter, let's follow, and ſee how ſhe does.

Madam, my Lady preſents her Service to your Ladyſhip and Sir Peter; and would deſire your good Company at a Ball the Viſcount treats her with.

Our humble Thanks to her Ladyſhip.

We will not fail to wait upon her.

Oh, Mr. Lovemore! I have expected you; I am glad you're come.

Madam, Your Ladyſhip does me too much Honour.

Pray, Madam, when ſaw you Mr. Cuningham?

Oh, Sir! He has told me all.

And now you talk of Mr. Cuningham—Prudence, [59] go find out my Niece, and have an Eye over her.

Well, Sir, I am ſorry you ſhou'd make your ſelf ſo great a Stranger to me. In ſuch Caſes I am not un⯑grateful. And where Love is real, there's a double Obligation.

Ha! What does ſhe mean by Love and dou⯑ble Obligations?

I ſee indeed you ſeem to be in ſome Diſor⯑der, that I ſhould know it; but had you let me known it ſooner, I ſhou'd perhaps have ſav'd you a great many Sighs and Heart-Akings, which you Baſhful⯑neſs has caus'd.

Sure ſhe's mad!

Madam—

And yet 'tis never too late to ſerve a Friend, and one that loves ſo dearly: Nor am I yet ſo far engag'd, but I can pity, nay make Return, when Love is ſincere, and ſo conſtant.

Madam, you much amaze me!

Nor can I gheſs what you drive at!

Ah, dear Sir! I know you are unwilling to let me know it: But ſhall I be ſincere in asking you one Queſtion?

Moſt freely; ſo it be not any thing that leads me farther into the dark.

Do you not love me, Sir?

Love you, Madam! Why truly I hate no body.

Well, but love me ſo, that it much diſturbs you, and that you fear I am engag'd to another.

The Devil take me if I ever lov'd you, or can think what you wou'd be at.

Nay, I was told you would deny it,

But pray, Sir, tell me truly; for indeed, Sir, I am ſorry you ſhould ſuffer for my Sake. And ſhould you do otherwiſe than well, I vow it would be a Means of giving me diſquiet as long as I live.

Pray, Madam, who told you this?

Your Friend Mr. Cuningham, who is much concern'd for you, Sir. And ſince you find it is diſ⯑cover'd, you need not be aſham'd to own the Truth.

Faith, Madam, to deal freely with you, yov're abus'd; for hang me if ever I had a thought that way, nor do I love you, or ever can.

You're pleas'd to be merry, Sir; but I muſt tell you, I have obſerv'd it in your Looks; and ſince it is ſo, own it boldly to the World, and I promiſe you, I'll not be aſham'd, nor diſown mine. Come, come, Mr. Lovemore, you muſt not deny me that; for ſince I dare own it, why ſhould you think it ſtill amiſs?

Well! Since all muſt out, prepare to hear me.

Mr. Cuningham has begun, and I muſt make an End. You muſt know, Madam, Mr. Cuningham loves you to that degree himſelf, that he's aſham'd, knowing how near a-kin he is to you, to let you know it, and ſo has form'd this Story upon me, the better to make for him.

Mr. Cuningham a-kin to me, Sir!

Ay, Madam, your Nephew, your Brother's Son, whom he had in Paris by Madam D'Olone, but for ſome Reaſon he ſince has chang'd his Name.

Truly, Sir, you ſurprize me much! My Brother in Paris I heard had a Son, but what became of him I know not.

Madam, this Cuningham, my Friend, has the Misfortune (Misfortune I think it, and he thinks ſo too, becauſe he loves ſo dearly) to be related to you.

I'm ſorry, if he does love ſo well, that he ſhou'd be ſo near a-kin.

Madam, Mr. Cuningham is juſt come in.

I'll leave you, Madam, for I have a little Buſineſs that I muſt diſpatch—Beſides, 'twou'd not be convenient for me to interrupt what Diſputes you two may have.

Sir, your Servant.

Had you no body to put your Tricks on, but me?

But I think I have been even with you.

What can he mean?

Mr. Cuningham, you do not deal like a Friend by me; you might have truſted me with a Secret of greater weight.

I do not underſtand you, Madam!

What has he been ſaying to her?

You knew one Mrs. D'Olone, I ſuppoſe?

What ſhall I ſay now?

Was your Brother then Mrs. D'Olone's Hus⯑band, Madam, and Mr. Cuningham's Father?

Who bid you ſpeak? Yes he was. What then?

Oh, I begin to ſmoke it.

Nothing, Madam, but then Mr. Cuningham is your Nephew.

Indeed, I wiſh he were not; but ſince it is ſo, we muſt be ſatisfied with our Fate, Mr. Cu⯑ningham: Tho' you are much to blame, Sir, you did not let me know it ſooner before Matters went ſo far.

Madam, I confeſs my Fault, and do ask your Ladyſhip's Forgiveneſs.

Well, Mr. Cuningham, ſince you are my Nephew, we may venture to embrace without a Bluſh.

Is Mr. Cuningam your Nephew, Madam?

Yes, Miſtreſs Pert, what then?

Then he's my Couſin, and I may embrace him too.

Ay, my dear, dear Couſin.

Why how now ſaucy, impertinent Slut. How dare you take this Liberty?

Why, is there any Harm in embracing one's own Couſin?

Get you in, Huſſy, and dare not to come but when I call you.

He's none of your Couſin, Madam.

I know it. I met Mr. Lovemore laughing by the way, who told me all. Adieu, my dear Couſin

My charming Couſin, farewel.

I'll ſwear, Mr. Cuningham, you'll ſpoil that Girl.

Methinks you embrac'd her ſomething of the hardeſt.

I call her Girl, and yet ſhe's near five and twenty—But as I was going to tell you, Sir, You muſt know, this Brother was not indeed my own Brother, but ſomething a kin afar off: He was my firſt Husband's firſt Wife's Brother, and no kin to me. But becauſe my Husband us'd to call him Brother, I would ſome⯑times do ſo too; and by this Means was thought, by thoſe that knew no other, to be my Brother.

Then he is not ſo near a-kin, but he may marry your Ladyſhip?

Oh!—

Why, truly, Mr. Cuningham—

Sir, your Lawyer bid me tell you, your Cauſe is juſt now coming on; and if you do not appear, you'll be non-ſuited.

Dear Sir, do not neglect your Buſineſs, nor let your being a-kin trouble you.

When next I ſee you.

Oh, Madam! Wou'd I had never ſeen you, then I'd been happy; but where the Tye of Blood bars our Hopes, there's nothing but Deſpair in view. Madam, farewel.

Find ſome way to excuſe me, you Dog, or I'll cut your Throat.

What ſhall I ſay?

My Maſter has begun a Lie, and I muſt end it.

Come hither, Jeffrey. Doſt think thy Ma⯑ſter loves me ſo well as he ſays?

Faith, Madam, I believe he loves your La⯑dyſhip but too well! But Mr. Lovemore dies, unleſs you take pity on him.

Doſt think he loves me better, than thy Maſter?

Oh, Madam! They ought not to be nam'd together. Mr. Lovemore, poor Gentleman, is perfect⯑ly beſide himſelf about it.

Didſt ever hear 'em talk about me?

A thouſand times. Mr. Lovemore can talk of nothing elſe.

'Tis ſtrange he ſhould deny it to me.

You muſt know, Madam, my Maſter was in Love elſe-where.

How Jeffrey.

If your Ladyſhip will have Patience to hear me out, you ſhall know the whole Story.

With all my Heart, Jeffrey.

Why, you muſt know, Madam, my Maſter had the Misfortune to quarrel with a Gentleman, who urg'd him to fight; my Maſter kill'd him: Upon which he was forc'd to change his Habit and his Name—From Cuningham to Boutefeu. But think⯑ing it not ſafe to ſtay here, fled; and in his Journey happen'd into a Viſcount's Caſtle, but the Viſcount was gone a Journey. However, this Viſcount had a very beautiful Siſter, that had the Command in her Brother's Abſence; ſhe entertain'd my Maſter very ſplendidly: At laſt he fell in love with her, and ſhe with him.

Methinks ſhe was very forward, Jeffrey.

She was ſo indeed, Madam; for before my Maſter left her, ſhe prov'd with Child.

How! with Child, and not married, Jef⯑frey!

My Maſter had promis'd her Marriage, Madam.

Oh, the impudent Creature! And thy Maſter was to blame, not to keep his Word, Jeffrey.

Not at all, Madam, when you have heard all. You muſt know, my Maſter grew jealous of one of the Servants, as indeed he had Reaſon: And one Day pretended to ride out, and he ſhou'd not return that Night, but left me to let him in, when the Ser⯑vants were all a-bed, which I did. Going up to this Lady's Bed-Chamber, and not being expected that Night, found the Servant in Bed with her.

Unheard of Impudence!

At firſt I was going to condemn thy Maſter, for de⯑ceiving a young Creature; but 'tis likely he was not the firſt, that had to do with her.

Very likely ſo, Madam. Next Day my Ma⯑ſter was for packing up his Awls, and for going; ſhe cry'd, and urg'd his ſtay, and his Vows to marry her.

He had been more to blame to have done that.

In the mean time the Viſcount return'd, found his Siſter in Tears, wou'd know the Reaſon, was told all. He ſwore, if ever he could get hold of him, he'd hang him at his Caſtle Gate, but my Maſter was got off ſafe. What it will come to, it they ſhould ever meet, I know not, but fear the Event.

A well invented Lye the Rogue has told.

What was this Viſcount's Name?

The Viſcount Sans▪Terre, I think he was call'd.

The Viſcount Sans-Terre!

Why, he's in this Houſe.

What, in this very Houſe?

In this very Houſe; in the next Room.

Ah, my poor Maſter! he's but a dead Man, if he's found; for he'll certainly be hang'd.

Here he comes. Hold your Peace!

My Lord, your Servant. I have a Queſtion to ask of you.

What ſhall I do to make him underſtand?

Humour her in all ſhe ſays, my Lord.

Ask what thou wilt, I'll deny thee nothing.

You had a Siſter.

I had ſo. Go on.

And ſhe was unfortunately wrong'd by a baſe Fellow.

What muſt I ſay next?

'Twas not well done to debauch her, and then to leave her; but Woe be to him, if your Lordſhip catch him.

If ever I do find the Son of a Whore, I'll hang him at my Caſtle Gate.

He was very much to blame indeed; but yet, all things conſider'd, he was not in all the Blame neither, counting what a Trick ſhe play'd him. He had reaſon to queſtion, whether the Child was his, or not.

I'm quite at a Loſs. Oh! tell me what I muſt ſay next?

Take it in your Ear, my Lord.

Help, Prudence, my Lord faints.

Pray, Madam, don't come too near, but give him Air.

Oh! he recovers.

Give me a little Air. I beg your Pardon, I never hear my Siſter's Wrongs mention'd, but it puts me in Diſorder; but if ever I do light upon the Vil⯑lain, Woe be to him.

I'll try to get his Pardon.

My Lord, methinks her Crime being the greateſt, you might pardon him.

What! Pardon him, that has deflower'd my Siſter, got her with Child of a Baſtard, and ſtain'd the Honour of our great Family! No, tho' all the World ſhould plead for him, I'll not forgive it; he dies.

Good, my Lord, for my Sake.

'Tis all in vain, Lady. I'm told he's now in this Houſe, and has chang'd his Name. But if I find him—

Oh hold, my Lord, I muſt ſave him.

My Lord, I have but one Requeſt more.

'Twill be in vain: I'll have Revenge.

Tell him you'll marry him, Madam, and try what that will do.

Give me this Gentleman's Life, and I am content to be your Wife; otherwiſe—

'Tis a hard Requeſt; but to ſhew how much I love you, upon that Condition I grant it.

Or, if you think ſit, you ſhall have my Niece Philadelphia, and with her I'll give you ten thouſand Pounds.

Do you think my Love ſo poor, that 'twill be brib'd? Nay, then I recal my Promiſe. He dies this Hour.

Oh, pray my Lord, forbear; my Lady did it but to try you! See, you fright her.

Well, my Lord, ſince it muſt be ſo, my Chaplain is within, I'm contented he ſhou'd make us one, make good but your Promiſe.

I confirm it here.

My Lord, the Dancers are ready to begin, and all the Company ſtay for you.

Let 'em enter, and begin when they pleaſe.

Well, Madam, I rely upon your Promiſe.

Come, Gentlemen and Ladies, pray ſit.

Here's fine Doings! But I'll ſpoil your Sport. What! my Houſe is become a Muſic-houſe, is it? But, Gentlewoman, I have ſomething to ſay to you within.

How now! What's the Meaning of this?

I ſay, my Wife—

What of your Wife?

Shall keep me Company, if you pleaſe.

You Company!

What's the matter with the Fellow? ha!

Come along, I ſay. What's here to do! Is not a Man's Wife his Wife? And may he not do what he will with her?

He's at his old Tricks again.

Come, let's in, and endeavour to appeaſe him, and then end our Mirth with a Banquet.

We attend your Ladyſhip.

Pray, my Lord, do me the favour to lead my Siſter in.

Come, Gentlemen.

Hold there, I will not part with you; I have two Hands, Madam, and can lead you both.

ACT V.

FEar nothing; by what I could learn, by this time the old Lady is gone to her Chamber, or near being a▪bed.

Then we may have Time to talk more freely.

All is not ſo ſafe as you imagine. I fear another Storm before we yet can land. I know not by what means, but the Viſcount is diſcover'd to be a Counterfeit, which I have all along ſuſpected; but whether 'tis come to the Knowledge of my Aunt yet, I know not.

Therefore let's loſe no time, but tye that Knot, which joins our Hearts and Hands for ever: That once over, we have no farther need of the Viſ⯑count.

Never perſuade me; I'll not ſtay to be fool'd at this rate any longer.—Go lead, Sirrah.

What's the Matter now?

Matter! Why there's Matter enough in hand. We are all undone; the Match is broke off again, and you are like to loſe your Miſtreſs. The Widow will not conſent you ſhall marry her Niece; upon which, the Viſcount enrag'd, (as indeed he has Cauſe) is reſolv'd to ſtay no longer.

What 'twill come to, I know not.

This is moſt unlucky. What's to be thought on next?

I left Prudence reaſoning the Caſe with her; what will be the Concluſion, is moſt uncertain. Oh! here ſhe comes.

Oh, Madam! the ſaddeſt News!

Why? What's the Matter?

All the Buſineſs is over. Poor Mr. Cuning⯑ham—

Ha! What of him? Speak.

After a thouſand Arguments, which I us'd to perſuade her, ſhe has at laſt reſolv'd—I can't ſpeak it.

On what? Prithee out with it.

Why, to marry the Viſcount her ſelf, and give you and your ten thouſand Pounds to Mr. Cuning⯑ham.

Oh the bleſs'd News! What ſay you now, Madam?

I'll ſwear I was in a Fright at firſt.

But art thou ſure ſhe'll hold in this Mind?

For fear of the worſt, get all things ready, and let it be done this Moment.

Here ſhe comes. Seem concern'd to part with her, Sir, and try how ſhe ſtands reſolv'd.

And muſt I then loſe her, Prudence!

Oh, the racking Thought! Hard! Hard! Decree of Fate! To part with all I hold moſt dear! I cannot bear it.

Yes, Mr. Cuningham, our Stars will have it ſo.

[71] Tis hard indeed to part: But ſince there is no way left to ſave your Life, (which more than all the World I prize) but this only, I have at laſt reſolv'd (tho' much againſt my Will) to give my ſelf to the Viſcount.

Oh! do not name it, Madam, the very Thought is worſe, than Death.

I'm ſorry we are ſo near a kin, but that's not the chief Reaſon; your Vow to marry another, and yet when I conſider ſhe was falſe, and had to do with more, than one, and that the Child might as well not be yours, I think you were in the right to part: So I am content (ſince my Hopes are loſt) that you ſhou'd marry with my Niece. But believe me, you do not know how much I'm troubled▪ to ſee an⯑other take what I ſo much deſir'd. But we muſt en⯑deavour to be ſatisfied.

Never! Never! for ſince I loſe you, farewel to Love and Joy: The reſt of Life I'll waſte in Sor⯑row.

Softly! Damaris bad me tell you, that her Miſtreſs ſtays for you at the Garden Door.

Oh, very well. I'll go this Moment.

But what will you do to recal the Viſcount, Madam, who left the Houſe in Anger, nor told any one what his Deſigns were?

I heard him bid the Link-boy lead to the Devil Tavern. If you pleaſe, thither we'll go, and conclude upon the Matter. A Glaſs or two of Wine may fetch him about again.

Truly, Mr. Lovemore, I'm much oblig'd to you, and ſhall endeavour to return your friendly Advice. I hope we ſhall live as loving Neigh⯑bours ought, but now we loſe time. The Viſcount may perhaps be gone, ſhould we ſtay longer.

I'll but give ſome Directions to my Man, and [...]e there almoſt as ſoon as you.

You will oblige us, Sir.

'Tis main dark, nothing to be ſeen but the Sky and Stars. What can this Darkneſs portend! The Almanicks this Year ſay, That many things will be huddled in the dark.

Why, thou art an Aſtrologer, Clodpole, thou talk'ſt ſo learnedly.

Why, truly I am but a Piece of one; but had I been a great Schollard, I believe I ſhou'd have thought on things, that never had been thought on before.

Very likely, truly. But hark! What Noiſe is that? There's Brittle's Houſe; may be ſhe is co⯑ming out.

Softly Damaris, juſt ſhut the Door, we'll not be far from it.

Is your Husband faſt, Madam?

I would not ſtir till I ſaw him aſleep; he's ſnoring like one that's drunk.

That's her Voice. Madam, where are you?

There they are, Madam.

You find, Sir, I am as good as my Word. I hope you are a Man of Honour, as you ſay; yet were it to do again, I ſhould hardly venture ſuch another bold Attempt.

Fear nothing, Madam. Your Perſon and your Honour both are ſafe, whilſt I am your Guard. Can none over hear us?

All the Family, but Damaris and I, are gone to Bed; nor dare we be long from thence, leſt my Husband ſhould wake, and miſs me.

Talk not of parting e'er we well are met; that were unkind, Madam.

If you pleaſe, Madam, to walk a little farther this way, here's a Place more private, than the reſt, and will beſt befit our Diſcourſe.

Well, Sir, I'll not queſtion your Ho⯑nour any more, but truſt my ſelf with you; as you behave your ſelf now, expect a greater Liberty ano⯑ther time.

I'll warrant you: This way, my Charmer.

Damaris!

I'm here, Madam.

Damaris!—Softly!—Damaris!—Damaris!

Where can ſhe be gone at this time of Night? I heard her ſteal down; I'll liſten.

Damaris, Where art thou, Damaris!—Odd, 'tis main dark.

Who have we here? Here's ſomething more than ordinary. But I'll draw nearer.

Damaris, Where art thou?

Here.

Oh! art thou there?

Well, Damaris, muſt not thee and I follow the Ex⯑ample of thy Miſtreſs, and my Maſter? I'll warrant they'll be hugeous kind to one another; for my Ma⯑ſter, you muſt know, has a mighty Love for her, and ſo belike ſhe has for him; or elſe ſhe wou'd ne'er a left her Husband a bed to a come to him.

Oh horrid! 'tis ſo.

How he ſnores now, if a Body were to hear him! Poor Cuckold! He little dreams what his Wife and my Maſter are doing. Ha, ha, ha.

Oh! this is my Country Chap again.

Poor Cuckold, 'tis good enough for him. For as they ſay, he uſes her mighty ill. But, Damaris, muſt thee and I part thus? One little Bit to ſtay my Stomach, Damaris: 'Tis fit, we ſhou'd follow our Leaders.

I can hold no longer. Who goes there?

Odd ſo! Oh! Oh! Who's that? Oh!

So—He's gone. Here's a Diſcovery at laſt! Here's a fine Virtuous Wife for you! But now all will out in ſpite of her. I'll ſend inſtantly for her Parents; they ſhall ſee now who's in the right. Oh bleſs us! What, make her Husband a Cuckold! Oh! Monſtrous!

Jeremy! the Varlet's a▪ſleep, I'll warrant. Jeremy, I ſay.

Do you call, Sir?

Yes, I do call. Come down quickly, I muſt ſend you to my Father-in-law's.

I come, Sir.

Make haſte, Sirrah. How long you are co⯑ming. Ah! Villain!

You have trod upon my Corns, and lam'd me.

Come hither, and be hang'd.

I dare not, Sir; you'll beat me.

Ah! 'tis well I ſtand in need of thee.

Run to my Father and Mother-in-Law, and tell 'em, I intreat to ſpeak with 'em this Moment; tell 'em I'll [75] never trouble 'em again as long as I live; beg 'em by all means to come.

Yes, Sir.

Now they ſhall ſee what a Daughter they have.

Now I ſhall ſure convince 'em of their Error!

But I hear ſome body coming!

May be I ſhall make a farther Diſcovery.

Nay, Sir, I've ſtay'd long enough for one time: Should my Husband wake, and miſs me, I were undone.

I muſt be gone.

Stay one Minute longer, I beſeech you, Madam.

I have not told you yet—

No more, Sir, if you love me. Fare⯑wel.

Oh, ſtay! How can you go, and leave me ſo ſoon?

You will have time enough to lie by that dull, ſtupid Clod, your Husband, e'er the Morning: Me⯑thinks I grudge him the leaſt Look of you, ſince he knows not how to value ſo rich a Jewel. Let him live, and pore o'er his Bags, his Droſs, and worldly Gains, whilſt we know better how to waſte our youthful Hours in ſofteſt Kiſſes, and everlaſting Joys.

Oh, blaſting Sound! But I have heard e⯑nough.

Now to my Poſt.

Good Night, Sir: Now I muſt be gone.

When ſhall I be thus bleſs'd again?

To Morrow I'll ſend for you; and, if poſſible, appoint another Meeting.

Till then, ten thouſand Angels wait on thee. One Kiſs e'er we part.

Oh, I could dwell for ever on thy Lips!

Sure, there's Enchantment on 'em.

Farewel!

Adieu, my lovely Charmer.

Now, Damaris, let's ſteal in: Softly! Softly!

O Lord, Madam! We are undone!

The Door is faſt ſince we have been out.

What ſhall we do now, Damaris?

I wiſh my Maſter has not been down.

Let's call Jeremy ſoftly.

Jeremy! Jeremy!

Jeremy! Jeremy!

Oh, Madam, my Maſter!

Loſt! Undone for ever!

Ah! Ha! my ſweet Lady! Have I caught you at laſt!

Jeremy! Jeremy!

Where has your ſweet Ladyſhip been, I pray, that you are ſo afraid of being diſcover'd? Come, I know you have a Lie in readineſs: Let's have it.

No where but juſt with Damaris, to take a little of the freſh Air; that's all, indeed, ſweet Husband.

To take the freſh Air, quotha!

Ah, I rather believe 'twas to take a Heat, you Witch you.

Pray, Husband, let the Door be o⯑pen'd?

No: You ſhall ſtay there till your Parents come.

I have ſent for them: They ſhall ſee what Hours you keep. And know of your Gallant you juſt parted from, your vigorous Lover.

Madam, he over-heard all,

And we are undone.

What, have you no Excuſe ready?

No Invention? You and your wicked Inſtrument there, that ſtands like the Serpent at Eve's Elbow, to tempt her to Sin.

What, is your Prompter to Wickedneſs dumb?

I'd fain hear how you intend to excuſe it.

I don't go about to excuſe it, Hus⯑band—

No; That's becauſe you don't know how.

I do confeſs, I have been to meet a Gentleman, but not alone; Damaris was with me. And ſure there was no Crime in a little harmleſs Chat.

No, no, not in the leaſt; making me a Cuc⯑kold is no harm at all.

Pray, Husband, let me in, and I'll ne⯑ver do the like again, as long as I live; but you ſhall hence-forward find me the moſt dutiful Wife, that you could wiſh for. Pray, Husband, truſt me but this once.

No.

Do not diſgrace me to my Parents, by expoſing me at this unſeaſonable Hour, in which I do confeſs I am much to blame—

Oh! Do you ſo?

But forgive me now, I'll never do it again.

Hang them that believes you, I ſay.

I am ſure I never injur'd you in all my Life; but am as innocent as the Child unborn, from doing the Ill, which you ſuſpect.

It may be ſo: 'Twas not your Fault then.

Pray, dear Husband, believe me, and let me in.

No.

On my Knees I ask your Pardon, do but open the Door.

No.

If you let me in this time, 'twill work upon me more, than all the Liberty in the World cou'd do beſide.

I care not.

Indeed, Husband, I love you dearly, and love you only: How can you then be ſo cruel to refuſe me?

Ah, cunning Crocodile?

Now you are caught, 'tis dear Husband, ſweet Hus⯑band, 'tis only you I love: But at another time, 'tis good for nothing old Fool. No, no, I know you well enough, and ſo ſhall your Parents now.

Pray, Husband, let the Door be open'd▪

No.

Try me but this once.

I tell you, no.

Not once more?

No.

If you provoke me, I may deſpair, grow deſperate, and do a Deed, which you may re⯑pent.

Good lack! What will your ſweet Ladyſhip do?

I'll kill my ſelf with this Knife here.

Oh, very well!

Nay, 'twill not be ſo well as you ima⯑gine neither. Every body knows how ill we have liv'd, and when I'm dead, People will think you mur⯑der'd me.

Ay!

Therefore I'll kill my ſelf, to have my Death reveng'd upon you.

Odd, I'll truſt to that.

Beſides, killing ones ſelf has been a great while out of faſhion. But why don't you diſpatch? Methinks you are long about it.

You may believe me, for I'll certainly do it, if you perſiſt.

Odd, I'll venture it.

Beſides, when I am dead, my Ghoſt ſhall haunt you.

Ah, if I cou'd but once get rid of your Per⯑ſon here, I ſhould not fear your Ghoſt hereafter.

Have you no Pity left?

I am juſt going to do it.

And yet you are long about it.

Since nothing but my Death can ſatisfy you—

There and there!

Oh, ſhe has don't! She has don't!

Oh cruel, barbarous Monſter, to make her kill her ſelf!

Now, Damaris, you find too late I did not jeſt—

I know thou'lt ſee my Death reveng'd upon my cruel Husband, who has accus'd me falſly; for I af⯑firm with my dying Breath, I never wrong'd him. Farewel!

Death beckons me into a dark and gloomy Vale, where I muſt follow.

She's gone! She's gone!

Oh, thou worſe than Savage! To murder ſo ſweet a Lady, ſo innocent and ſo good: Nay, I'll ſwear you did it.

I hear no Noiſe!

Is't poſſible the Devil ſhou'd be ſo great with her, that ſhe cou'd kill her ſelf to be reveng'd on me!

But I'll light a Candle, and go ſee.

Now, Damaris, ſtand cloſe in this Corner:

Cloſe, Cloſe.

Ha, ha, ha! I thought indeed how well ſhe'd do it: Here's none of her! She made me believe ſhe kill'd her ſelf, and the mean while ran away. Well, e'en let her go; I ſhall have this Satisfaction, her Pa⯑rents ſhall be Witneſs of her Hours. I'll in, and wait their coming.

Away, you idle Sot; is this a time of Night for an honeſt Man to come home in?

Go, go, you may be aſham'd!

Why, have you the Impudence—

How many Nights am I forc'd to ſit up to wait for his coming in? And he tells the World, 'tis I am to blame. But now it ſhall be ſeen who's to blame, and who not. My Father and Mo⯑ther are coming, they ſhall ſee what Hours you keep—

I confeſs, I ſtand amaz'd at this Impudence.

They ſhall know all.

Why, have you the Face to deny—

Go, go, I'll hear none of your impu⯑dent Excuſes; you are drunk, you Sot, you Swine. But here comes my honourable Father and Mother.

I'm glad you are come to be Witneſs of what I ſtill ſuffer, by this ungrateful Uſage of a cruel Husband. You ſee what Hours he keeps; every Night at the Tavern roaring with his Companions, whilſt I am forc'd to ſit at home alone, waiting for his coming; and when he does come, he ſtrait raves and abuſes me at ſuch a rate, that I am not able to endure it.

Why, was there ever ſuch Impudence!

I wiſh this Candle were in my Belly, if—

I know what he'll ſay now, if you'll believe him; he'll tell you, that I am ſtill in the wrong, and 'tis I that have been out at this late Hour, and as for his part, he has been within all this Eve⯑ning, and knows nothing of all this Matter, not he: But I'll leave your ſelves to judge, if this is an Hour for an honeſt Husband to come home at.

Why then may I never—

You ſee he's ſo drunk, he can hardly ſtand.

Faugh!—I ſmell him hither.

He ſtinks of Liquors and Tobacco like a Tarpaulin, that has not been ſober whilſt his Twelve-Months Pay wou'd laſt.

I tell you, that I am not drunk, nor have I been out of my Houſe.

Stand farther off, I cannot bear the Scent of a Drunkard.

I told you he wou'd deny it.

I ſay, that 'tis ſhe that has been out juſt now, and with her Gallant, and therefore I ſent for you; and that I have not been out of my Doors.

Do you hear him? But Damaris can juſtify, I have not ſet my Foot over the Threſhold ſince Day-light.

If ſhe has, never believe me more.

I can aſſure your Honours 'tis true; for I have not been out of her Company ſince he went out to the Tavern.

Therefore I do beſeech you, good Fa⯑ther and Mother, to revenge my Cauſe, for I am not able to endure it any longer: If I do, you'll never ſee me alive another Week.

'Tis a ſtrange thing, that ſhe muſt be belie⯑ved, and I not.

I tell you—

Stand farther off.

Faugh! What a Smell there's about him.

Well then; I'll ſtand farther off, if you will but hear me ſpeak.

I ſhall ſay nothing but the Truth, and what I can prove.

Again at your Proofs, and your idle Jea⯑louſies!

Be dumb, Coxcomb; it were a good deed to break your Head, for ſending thus for us out of our Beds, and making Fools of us ſtill. If you ever dare to do the like again, we'll find a Means to handle you—

If there be no Law (but cutting of Throats) to re⯑venge theſe Affronts—I ſay no more—But re⯑member you are warn'd.

If you wou'd but let me tell why I ſent for you—

We have heard and ſeen too much al⯑ready.

Therefore dare not to ſpeak a Word more.

And is this all his Puniſhment?

No; Come down, and he ſhall ask your Pardon. 'Tis the leaſt he can do.

'Twill be to no purpoſe; when your Backs are turn'd, he'll be as bad again.

I ſay no more Diſputes, but do as I com⯑mand.

Now, Son-in-law, kneel down, and ask your Wife Forgiveneſs.

Shall I forgive him; no, I deſire to be divorc'd.

Come, Daughter, I ſay you muſt pardon him.

Well, Madam, I'll endeavour to obey you.

Why don't you kneel, and do as I com⯑mand?

Well, I find there's no Remedy, ſhe has o⯑ver-reach'd me again, and I muſt ſubmit: But I am reſolv'd I'll get rid of this Nooze, tho' I tuck my ſelf up in another.

Come, ſay after me. Madam, I ask your Pardon.

Madam, I ask your Pardon.

For the Folly I have committed—

For the Folly I have committed in marrying you.

In my wild Suſpicions.

In my wild Suſpicions.

Which I do declare were utterly falſe.

Which I do declare were utterly falſe.

And that I ſwear never to do the like again.

And that I ſwear never to do the like again, if I were once unmarried.

Here—Kiſs the Book.

But if ever you do't again—

You ſee 'tis to no purpoſe to turn Hagard; if you do, I'll tame you.

Look if the Noiſe has not brought all the Company hither.

Your Servant, Sir Peter. Sir, I hope you will not take it ill; we ſaw a Light in your Houſe, and ſo made bold: We are reſolv'd to ſpend an Hour or two in Mirth, and hope you will all join with us.

Your Ladyſhip I know will pardon it upon this Occaſion.

Is your Ladyſhip marry'd? May we give you Joy?

My Niece and Mr. Cuningham are.

Give you Joy then.

We thank you, Madam.

Now, Sir, ſince our Hands are join'd, and all is reconcil'd, I have a Boon to ask.

Whate'er it be, conclude it done.

I have obſerv'd ſome Sparks of Love between Jeffrey and Prudence; and I believe they wou'd be glad to follow our Example.

What ſay'ſt thou, Jeffrey? If thou haſt a Mind to marry, ſpeak freely.

Sir, I have debated much about the Matter, and am at laſt reſolv'd to venture.

Then if you, Madam, give your Conſent, and Prudence be willing, we'll put 'em together.

With all my Heart; Prudence has been always a good Servant, I'll ſay that for her.

There's my Hand then; the reſt of my Body ſhall be forth coming.

A Match.

Then let me ſpeak. Clodpole loves Damaris, and I believe wou'd be glad to make up the Cho⯑rus; now if Mrs. Brittle pleaſe to part with her—

You ſhall have my Conſent with all my Heart; and I'll give a Sum of Money to be rid of her.

And I'll give Clodpole ſomething to ſet him up in a little Farm in the Country.

Damaris!—Doſt hear that?

What ſay you, Damaris?

If I thought he'd make a good Husband, and not be jealous—

That I dare anſwer for him.

Well, then 'tis agreed, and there's my Hand.

For better for worſe.

To have and to hold; a Tenement for Life.

And now all things being thus happily con⯑cluded—

No, Mr. Cuningham, not while your Friend is unprovided. Methinks 'twere pity he ſhou'd be no Actor in this Comedy.

Oh, Madam, my Thoughts are not yet fix'd ſo much upon any Object, but the next I encounter can retrieve the paſt.

My Friend never wants a Miſtreſs (I'll ſay that for him) in any Place, if he has but an Oppor⯑tunity, which he ſeldom wants. I have often won⯑der'd at his Luck.

Say you ſo? I find he makes it his Bu⯑ſineſs to enſnare and deceive Women at this rate.

I'm glad I know it in time, whilſt I have Power to make my Retreat. I had like to have been finely caught. Well, Husband, ſeeing ſo many join'd in Happineſs, if you'll promiſe never to be jealous, I'll promiſe from this Moment never to give you Cauſe, and endeavour to make you as happy as I can.

Wou'd you'd give me Cauſe once to believe you.

Well then, if you are all agreed, the Parſon that marry'd Mr. Cuningham is but juſt by; e'en ſend for him, and let him end the Work he has begun.

For my part, I intend to put off mine for ſome time longer.

How! My Lord! Have you ſerv'd me thus? Did I forſake all for you, and do you pretend to—

No Words now, 'twill ſpoil Company; an⯑other time we'll diſcourſe it farther. Come, let's have a Dance, and then to Bed.

With all our Hearts.

'Tis well: So now, you that are ready to taſte the Sweets of Matrimony, fall to; for my part, I have no great Stomach to it yet.