Project Gutenberg's The Works of Aphra Behn, Vol. III, by Aphra Behn

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Title: The Works of Aphra Behn, Vol. III

Author: Aphra Behn

Release Date: November 10, 2003 [EBook #10039]

Language: English

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THE WORKS OF APHRA BEHN, VOL. III


EDITED BY MONTAGUE SUMMERS


MCMXV



CONTENTS:

THE TOWN-FOP; OR, SIR TIMOTHY TAWDREY
THE FALSE COUNT
THE LUCKY CHANCE; OR, AN ALDERMAN'S BARGAIN
THE FORC'D MARRIAGE; OR, THE JEALOUS BRIDEGROOM
THE EMPEROR OF THE MOON
NOTES






THE TOWN-FOP; OR, SIR TIMOTHY TAWDREY.



ARGUMENT.

Sir Timothy Tawdrey is by the wishes of his mother and the lady's father
designed for Celinda, who loves Bellmour, nephew to Lord Plotwell. A
coxcomb of the first water, Sir Timothy receives a sharp rebuff when he
opens his suit, and accordingly he challenges Bellmour, but fails to
appear at the place of meeting. Celinda's old nurse, at night, admits
Bellmour to her mistress' chamber, where they are surprized by
Friendlove, her brother, who is, however, favourable to the union, the
more so as he is a friend of Bellmour, and they have but newly returned
from travelling together in Italy. Lord Plotwell warmly welcomes his
nephew home, and proceeds to unfold his design of giving him his niece
Diana in marriage. When he demurs, the old lord threatens to deprive him
of his estate, and he is compelled eventually to acquiesce in the
matrimonial schemes of his guardian. Bellmour sends word to Celinda, who
replies in a heart-broken letter; and at the wedding feast Friendlove,
who himself is deeply enamoured of Diana, appears in disguise to observe
the traitor. He is followed by his sister disguised as a boy, and upon
Friendlove's drawing on Bellmour a scuffle ensues which, however, ends
without harm. In the nuptial chamber Bellmour informs Diana that he
cannot love her and she quits him maddened with rage and disappointment.
Sir Timothy serenades the newly-mated pair and is threatened by
Bellmour, whilst Celinda, who has been watching the house, attacks the
fop and his fiddlers. During the brawl Diana issuing forth meets
Celinda, and taking her for a boy leads her into the house and shortly
makes advances of love. They are interrupted by Friendlove, disguised,
and he receives Diana's commands to seek out and challenge Bellmour. At
the same time he reveals his love as though he told the tale of another,
but he is met with scorn and only bidden to fight the husband who has
repulsed her. Bellmour, meantime, in despair and rage at his misery
plunges into reckless debauchery, and in company with Sir Timothy visits
a bagnio, where they meet Betty Flauntit, the knight's kept mistress,
and other cyprians. Hither they are tracked by Charles, Bellmour's
younger brother, and Trusty, Lord Plotwell's old steward. Sharp words
pass, the brothers fight and Charles is slighted wounded. Their Uncle
hears of this with much indignation, and at the same time receiving a
letter from Diana begging for a divorce, he announces his intention to
further her purpose, and to abandon wholly Charles and Phillis, his
sister, in consequence of their elder brother's conduct. Sir Timothy,
induced by old Trusty, begins a warm courtship of Phillis, and arranges
with a parasite named Sham to deceive her by a mock marriage. Sham,
however, procures a real parson, and Sir Timothy is for the moment
afraid he has got a wife without a dowry or portion. Lord Plotwell
eventually promises to provide for her, and at Diana's request, now she
recognizes her mistake in trying to hold a man who does not love her,
Bellmour is forgiven and allowed to wed Celinda as soon as the divorce
has been pronounced, whilst Diana herself rewards Friendlove with
her hand.



SOURCE.

_The Town-Fop; or, Sir Timothy Tawdrey_ is materially founded upon
George Wilkins' popular play, _The Miseries of Enforced Marriage_ (4to,
1607, 1611, 1629, 1637), reprinted in Dodsley. Sir Timothy himself is
moulded to some extent upon Sir Francis Ilford, but, as Geneste aptly
remarks, he may be considered a new character. In the older drama,
Clare, the original of Celinda, dies tragically of a broken heart. It
cannot be denied that Mrs. Behn has greatly improved Wilkins' scenes.
The well-drawn character of Betty Flauntit is her own, and the
realistically vivacious bagnio episodes of Act iv replace a not very
interesting or lively tavern with a considerable accession to wit and
humour, although perhaps not to strict propriety.



THEATRICAL HISTORY.

_The Town-Fop; or, Sir Timothy Tawdrey_ was produced at the Duke's
Theatre, Dorset Garden, in September, 1676. There is no record of its
performance, and the actors' names are not given. It was a year of
considerable changes in the company, and any attempt to supply these
would be the merest surmise.




THE TOWN-FOP;
or, Sir _Timothy Tawdrey_.


PROLOGUE.

_As Country Squire, who yet had never known
The long-expected Joy of being in Town;
Whose careful Parents scarce permitted Heir
To ride from home, unless to neighbouring Fair;
At last by happy Chance is hither led,
To purchase Clap with loss of Maidenhead;
Turns wondrous gay, bedizen'd to Excess;
Till he is all Burlesque in Mode and Dress:
Learns to talk loud in Pit, grows wily too,
That is to say, makes mighty Noise and Show.

So a young Poet, who had never been
Dabling beyond the Height of Ballading;
Who, in his brisk Essays, durst ne'er excel
The lucky Flight of rhyming Doggerel,
Sets up with this sufficient Stock on Stage,
And has, perchance, the luck to please the Age.
He draws you in, like cozening Citizen;
Cares not how bad the Ware, so Shop be fine.

As tawdry Gown and Petticoat gain more
(Tho on a dull diseas'd ill-favour'd Whore)
Than prettier Frugal, tho on Holy-day,         |
When every City-Spark has leave to play_,      |
--Damn her, she must be sound, she is so gay;  |
_So let the Scenes be fine, you'll ne'er enquire
For Sense, but lofty Flights in nimble Wire.
--What we present to Day is none of these,
But we cou'd wish it were, for we wou'd please,
And that you'll swear we hardly meant to do:
Yet here's no Sense; Pox on't, but here's no Show;
But a plain Story, that will give a Taste
Of what your Grandsires lov'd i'th' Age that's past_.



DRAMATIS PERSONAE.


MEN.

Lord _Plotwell_.
_Bellmour_, Nephew to the Lord _Plotwell_, contracted to _Celinda_.
_Charles_, Brother to _Bellmour_.
_Friendlove_, Brother to _Celinda_, in love with _Diana_.
Sir _Timothy Tawdrey_, a Fop-Knight, design'd to marry _Celinda_.
_Sham_,   |  Hangers on to Sir _Timothy_.
_Sharp_,  |
_Trusty_, An old Steward to _Bellmour's_ Family.
Page to _Bellmour_.
Page to Lord _Plotwell_.
Sir _Timothy's_ Page.
Guests, Dancers, Fiddlers, and Servants.


WOMEN.

The Lady _Diana_, Niece to the Lord _Plotwell_.
_Celinda_, Sister to _Friendlove_, contracted to _Bellmour_.
_Phillis_, Sister to _Bellmour_.
_Betty Flauntit_, kept by Sir _Timothy_.
_Driver_, A Bawd.
_Jenny_,  |  Two Whores
_Doll_,   |
_Nurse_,
Ladies and Guests.

SCENE, _Covent-Garden_.




ACT I.

SCENE I. _The Street_.


    _Enter Sir_ Timothy Tawdrey, Sham, _and_ Sharp.

Sir _Tim_. Hereabouts is the House wherein dwells the Mistress of my
Heart; for she has Money, Boys, mind me, Money in abundance, or she were
not for me--The Wench her self is good-natur'd, and inclin'd to be
civil: but a Pox on't--she has a Brother, a conceited Fellow, whom the
World mistakes for a fine Gentleman; for he has travell'd, talks
Languages, bows with a _bonne mine_, and the rest; but, by Fortune, he
shall entertain you with nothing but Words--

_Sham_. Nothing else!--

Sir _Tim_. No--He's no Country-Squire, Gentlemen, will not game, whore;
nay, in my Conscience, you will hardly get your selves drunk in his
Company--He treats A-la-mode, half Wine, half Water, and the rest--But
to the Business, this Fellow loves his Sister dearly, and will not trust
her in this leud Town, as he calls it, without him; and hither he has
brought her to marry me.

_Sham_. A Pox upon him for his Pains--

Sir _Tim_. So say I--But my Comfort is, I shall be as weary of her, as
the best Husband of 'em all. But there's Conveniency in it; besides, the
Match being as good as made up by the old Folks in the Country, I must
submit--The Wench I never saw yet, but they say she's handsom--But no
matter for that, there's Money, my Boys.

_Sharp_. Well, Sir, we will follow you--but as dolefully as People do
their Friends to the Grave, from whence they're never to return, at
least not the same Substance; the thin airy Vision of a brave good
Fellow, we may see thee hereafter, but that's the most.

Sir _Tim_. Your Pardon, sweet _Sharp_, my whole Design in it is to be
Master of my self, and with part of her Portion to set up my Miss,
_Betty Flauntit_; which, by the way, is the main end of my marrying; the
rest you'll have your shares of--Now I am forc'd to take you up Suits at
treble Prizes, have damn'd Wine and Meat put upon us, 'cause the
Reckoning is to be book'd: But ready Money, ye Rogues! What Charms it
has! makes the Waiters fly, Boys, and the Master with Cap in
Hand--excuse what's amiss, Gentlemen--Your Worship shall command the
best--and the rest--How briskly the Box and Dice dance, and the ready
Money submits to the lucky Gamester, and the gay Wench consults with
every Beauty to make her self agreeable to the Man with ready Money! In
fine, dear Rogues, all things are sacrific'd to its Power; and no Mortal
conceives the Joy of Argent Content. 'Tis this powerful God that makes
me submit to the Devil, Matrimony; and then thou art assur'd of me, my
stout Lads of brisk Debauch.

_Sham_. And is it possible you can be ty'd up to a Wife? Whilst here in
_London_, and free, you have the whole World to range in, and like a
wanton Heifer, eat of every Pasture.

Sir _Tim_. Why, dost think I'll be confin'd to my own dull Enclosure?
No, I had rather feed coarsely upon the boundless Common; perhaps two or
three days I may be in love, and remain constant, but that's the most.

_Sharp_. And in three Weeks, should you wed a _Cynthia_, you'd be a
Monster.

Sir _Tim_. What, thou meanest a Cuckold, I warrant. God help thee! But a
Monster is only so from its Rarity, and a Cuckold is no such strange
thing in our Age.

    _Enter_ Bellmour _and_ Friendlove.

But who comes here? _Bellmour!_ Ah, my little dear Rogue! how dost thou?
--_Ned Friendlove_ too! Dear Lad, how dost thou too? Why, welcome to
Town, i'faith, and I'm glad to see you both.

_Friend_. Sir _Timothy Tawdrey!_--

Sir _Tim_. The same, by Fortune, dear _Ned_: And how, and how, Man, how
go Matters?

_Friend_. Between who, Sir?

Sir _Tim_. Why, any Body, Man; but, by Fortune, I'm overjoy'd to meet
thee: But where dost think I was going?

_Friend_. Is't possible one shou'd divine?

Sir _Tim_. Is't possible you shou'd not, and meet me so near your
Sister's Lodgings? Faith, I was coming to pay my Respects and Services,
and the rest--Thou know'st my meaning--The old Business of the
Silver-World, _Ned_; by Fortune, it's a mad Age we live in, _Ned_; and
here be so many--wicked Rogues, about this damn'd leud Town, that,
'faith, I am fain to speak in the vulgar modish Style, in my own
Defence, and railly Matrimony and the rest.

_Friend_. Matrimony!--I hope you are so exactly refin'd a Man of the
Town, that you will not offer once to think of so dull a thing: let that
alone for such cold Complexions as _Bellmour_ here, and I, that have not
attain'd to that most excellent faculty of Keeping yet, as you, Sir
_Timothy_, have done; much to your Glory, I assure you.

Sir _Tim_. Who, I, Sir? You do me much Honour: I must confess I do not
find the softer Sex cruel; I am received as well as another Man of
my Parts.

_Friend_. Of your Money you mean, Sir.

Sir _Tim_. Why, 'faith, _Ned_, thou art i'th' right; I love to buy my
Pleasure: for, by Fortune, there's as much pleasure in Vanity and
Variety, as any Sins I know; What think'st thou, _Ned?_

_Friend_. I am not of your Mind, I love to love upon the square; and
that I may be sure not to be cheated with false Ware, I present 'em
nothing but my Heart.

Sir _Tim_. Yes, and have the Consolation of seeing your frugal huswifery
Miss in the Pit, at a Play, in a long Scarf and Night-gown, for want of
Points, and Garniture.

_Friend_. If she be clean, and pretty, and drest in Love, I can excuse
the rest, and so will she.

Sir _Tim_. I vow to Fortune, _Ned_, thou must come to _London_, and be a
little manag'd: 'slife, Man, shouldst thou talk so aloud in good
Company, thou wouldst be counted a strange Fellow. Pretty--and drest
with Love--a fine Figure, by Fortune: No, _Ned_, the painted Chariot
gives a Lustre to every ordinary Face, and makes a Woman look like
Quality; Ay, so like, by Fortune, that you shall not know one from
t'other, till some scandalous, out-of-favour'd laid-aside Fellow of the
Town, cry--Damn her for a Bitch--how scornfully the Whore regards
me--She has forgot since _Jack_--such a one, and I, club'd for the
keeping of her, when both our Stocks well manag'd wou'd not amount to
above seven Shillings six Pence a week; besides now and then a Treat of
a Breast of Mutton from the next Cook's.--Then the other laughs, and
crys--Ay, rot her--and tells his Story too, and concludes with, Who
manages the Jilt now; Why, faith, some dismal Coxcomb or other, you may
be sure, replies the first. But, _Ned_, these are Rogues, and Rascals,
that value no Man's Reputation, because they despise their own. But
faith, I have laid aside all these Vanities, now I have thought of
Matrimony; but I desire my Reformation may be a Secret, because, as you
know, for a Man of my Address, and the rest--'tis not altogether
so Jantee.

_Friend_. Sir, I assure you, it shall be so great a Secret for me, that
I will never ask you who the happy Woman is, that's chosen for this
great Work of your Conversion.

Sir _Tim_. Ask me--No, you need not, because you know already.

_Friend_. Who, I? I protest, Sir _Timothy_--

Sir _Tim_. No Swearing, dear _Ned_, for 'tis not such a Secret, but I
will trust my Intimates: these are my Friends, _Ned_; pray know
them--This Mr. _Sham_, and this--by Fortune, a very honest Fellow
[_Bows to 'em_] Mr. _Sharp_, and may be trusted with a Bus'ness that
concerns you as well as me.

_Friend_. Me! What do you mean, Sir _Timothy_?

Sir _Tim_. Why, Sir, you know what I mean.

_Friend_. Not I, Sir.

Sir _Tim_. What, not that I am to marry your Sister _Celinda_?

_Friend_. Not at all.

_Bel_. O, this insufferable Sot!    [_Aside_.

_Friend_. My Sister, Sir, is very nice.

Sir _Tim_. That's all one, Sir, the old People have adjusted the matter,
and they are the most proper for a Negotiation of that kind, which saves
us the trouble of a tedious Courtship.

_Friend_. That the old People have agreed the matter, is more than
I know.

Sir _Tim_. Why, Lord, Sir, will you persuade me to that? Don't you know
that your Father (according to the Method in such Cases, being certain
of my Estate) came to me thus--Sir _Timothy Tawdrey_,--you are a young
Gentleman, and a Knight, I knew your Father well, and my right
worshipful Neighbour, our Estates lie together; therefore, Sir, I have a
desire to have a near Relation with you--At which, I interrupted him,
and cry'd--Oh Lord, Sir, I vow to Fortune, you do me the greatest
Honour, Sir, and the rest--

_Bel_. I can endure no more; he marry fair _Celinda_!

_Friend_. Prithee let him alone.    [_Aside_.

Sir _Tim_. To which he answer'd--I have a good Fortune--have but my Son
_Ned_, and this Girl, call'd _Celinda_, whom I will make a Fortune,
sutable to yours; your honoured Mother, the Lady _Tawdrey_, and I, have
as good as concluded the Match already. To which I (who, though I say
it, am well enough bred for a Knight) answered the Civility thus--I vow
to Fortune, Sir--I did not swear, but cry'd--I protest, Sir, _Celinda_,
deserves--no, no, I lye again, 'twas merits--Ay, _Celinda_--merits a
much better Husband than I.

_Friend_. You speak more Truth than you are aware of.    [_Aside_.]
Well, Sir, I'll bring you to my Sister; and if she likes you, as well as
My Father does, she's yours; otherwise, I have so much Tenderness for
her, as to leave her Choice free.

Sir _Tim_. Oh, Sir, you compliment. _Alons, Entrons.

                                                 [Exeunt_.



SCENE II. _A Chamber_.


    _Enter_ Celinda, _and_ Nurse.

_Cel_. I wonder my Brother stays so long: sure Mr. _Bellmour_ is not
yet arriv'd, yet he sent us word he would be here to day. Lord, how
impatient I grow!

_Nur_. Ay, so methinks; if I had the hopes of enjoying so sweet a
Gentleman as Mr. _Bellmour_, I shou'd be so too--But I am past it--Well,
I have had my Pantings, and Heavings, my Impatience, and Qualms, my
Heats, and my Colds, and my I know not whats--But I thank my Stars, I
have done with all those Fooleries.

_Cel_. Fooleries!--
Is there any thing in Life but Love?
Wou'dst thou praise Heaven for thy Being,
Without that grateful part of it?
For I confess I love.

_Nur_. You need not, your Sighs, and daily (nay, and nightly too)
Disorders, plainly enough betray the Truth.

_Cel_. Thou speak'st as if it were a Sin:
But if it be so, you your self help'd to make me wicked.
For e'er I saw Mr. _Bellmour_, you spoke the kindest things of him,
As would have mov'd the dullest Maid to love;
And e'er I saw him, I was quite undone.

_Nur_. Quite undone! Now God forbid it; what, for loving?
You said but now there was no Life without it.

_Cel_. But since my Brother came from _Italy_,
And brought young _Bellmour_ to our House,
How very little thou hadst said of him!
How much above thy Praise, I found the Youth!

_Nur_. Very pretty! You are grown a notable Proficient in Love--And you
are resolv'd (if he please) to marry him?

_Cel_. Or I must die.

_Nur_. Ay, but you know the Lord _Plotwell_ has the Possession of all
his Estate, and if he marry without his liking, has Power to take away
all his Fortune, and then I think it were not so good marrying him.

_Cel_. Not marrying him! Oh, canst thou think so poorly of me?
Yes, I would marry him, though our scanty Fortune
Cou'd only purchase us
A lonely Cottage, in some silent Place,
All cover'd o'er with Thatch,
Defended from the Outrages of Storms
By leafless Trees, in Winter; and from Heat,
With Shades, which their kind Boughs wou'd bear anew;
Under whose Covert we'd feed our gentle Flock,
That shou'd in gratitude repay us Food,
And mean and humble Clothing.

_Nur_. Very fine!

_Cel_. There we wou'd practise such degrees of Love,
Such lasting, innocent, unheard of Joys,
As all the busy World should wonder at,
And, amidst all their Glories, find none such.

_Nur_. Good lack! how prettily Love teaches his Scholars to prattle.--
But hear ye, fair Mrs. _Celinda_, you have forgot to what end and purpose
you came to Town; not to marry Mr. _Bellmour_, as I take it--but Sir
_Timothy Tawdrey_, that Spark of Men.

_Cel_. Oh, name him not--Let me not in one Moment
Descend from Heaven to Hell--
How came that wretched thing into thy Noddle?

_Nur_. Faith, Mistress, I took pity of thee, I saw you so elevated with
Thoughts of Mr. _Bellmour_, I found it necessary to take you down a
degree lower.

_Cel_. Why did not Heaven make all Men like lo _Bellmour_?
So strangely sweet and charming!

_Nur_. Marry come up, you speak well for your self;
Oh intolerable loving Creature!
But here comes the utmost of your Wishes.

_Cel_. My Brother, and _Bellmour_! with strange Men!

    _Enter_ Friendlove, Bellmour, _Sir_ Timothy, Sham, _and_ Sharp.

_Friend_. Sister, I've brought you here a Lover, this is the worthy
Person you have heard of, Sir _Timothy Tawdrey_.

Sir _Tim_. Yes, faith, Madam, I am Sir _Timothy Tawdrey_, at your
Service--Pray are not you Mrs. _Celinda Dresswell_?

_Cel_. The same, but cannot return your Compliment.

Sir _Tim_. Oh Lord, oh Lord, not return a Compliment. Faith, _Ned_, thy
Sister's quite spoil'd, for want of Town-Education; 'tis pity, for she's
devilish pretty.

_Friend_. She's modest, Sir, before Company; therefore these Gentlemen
and I will withdraw into the next Room.

_Cel_. Inhuman Brother! Will you leave me alone with this Sot?

_Friend_. Yes, and if you would be rid of the trouble of him, be not
coy, nor witty; two things he hates.

_Bel_. 'Sdeath! Must she be blown upon by that Fool?

_Friend_. Patience, dear _Frank_, a little while.

                     [_Exeunt_ Friend. Bell. Sham _and_ Sharp.

    [Sir Timothy _walks about the Room, expecting when_
    Celinda _should speak_.

_Cel_. Oh, dear Nurse, what shall I do?

_Nur_. I that ever help you at a dead Lift, will not fail you now.

Sir _Tim_. What a Pox, not a Word?

_Cel_. Sure this Fellow believes I'll begin.

Sir _Tim_. Not yet--sure she has spoke her last--

_Nur_. The Gentleman's good-natur'd, and has took pity on you, and will
not trouble you, I think.

Sir _Tim_.--Hey day, here's Wooing indeed--Will she never begin, trow?
--This some would call an excellent Quality in her Sex--But a pox on't,
I do not like it--Well, I see I must break Silence at last--Madam--not
answer me--'shaw, this is mere ill breeding--by Fortune--it can be
nothing else--O' my Conscience, if I should kiss her, she would bid me
stand off--I'll try--

_Nur_. Hold, Sir, you mistake your Mark.

Sir _Tim_. So I should, if I were to look in thy mouldy Chaps, good
Matron--Can your Lady speak?

_Nur_. Try, Sir.

Sir _Tim_. Which way?

_Nur_. Why, speak to her first.

Sir _Tim_. I never knew a Woman want a Cue for that; but all that I
Have met with were still before-hand with me in tittle tattle.

_Nur_. Likely those you have met with may, but this is no such
Creature, Sir.

Sir _Tim_. I must confess, I am unus'd to this kind of Dialogue; and
I am an Ass, if I know what to say to such a Creature.
--But come, will you answer me to one Question?

_Cel_. If I can, Sir.

Sir _Tim_. But first I should ask you if you can speak? For that's a
Question too.

_Cel_. And if I cannot, how will you be answer'd?

Sir _Tim_. Faith, that's right; why, then you must do't by signs.

_Cel_. But grant I can speak, what is't you'll ask me?

Sir _Tim_. Can you love?

_Cel_. Oh, yes, Sir, many things; I love my Meat, I love abundance of
Adorers, I love choice of new Clothes, new Plays; and, like a right
Woman, I love to have my Will.

Sir _Tim_. Spoke like a well-bred Person, by Fortune: I see there's
hopes of thee, Celinda; thou wilt in time learn to make a very
fashionable Wife, having so much Beauty too. I see Attracts, and
Allurements, wanton Eyes, the languishing turn of the Head, and all
That invites to Temptation.

_Cel_. Would that please you in a Wife?

Sir _Tim_. Please me! Why, Madam, what do you take me to be? a Sot?--
a Fool?--or a dull _Italian_ of the Humour of your Brother?--No, no,
I can assure you, she that marries me, shall have Franchise--But, my
pretty Miss, you must learn to talk a little more--

_Cel_. I have not Wit, and Sense enough, for that.

Sir _Tim_. Wit! Oh la, O la, Wit! as if there were any Wit requir'd
in a Woman when she talks; no, no matter for Wit, or Sense: talk but
loud, and a great deal to shew your white Teeth, and smile, and be very
confident, and 'tis enough--Lord, what a Sight 'tis to see a pretty
Woman Stand right up an end in the middle of a Room, playing with her
Fan, for want of something to keep her in Countenance. No, she that is
mine, I will teach to entertain at another rate.

_Nur_. How, Sir? Why, what do you take my young Mistress to be?

Sir _Tim_. A Woman--and a fine one, and so fine as she ought to permit
her self to be seen, and be ador'd.

_Nur_. Out upon you, would you expose your Wife? by my troth, and I
were she, I know what I wou'd do--

Sir _Tim_. Thou do--what thou wouldst have done sixty Years ago,
thou meanest.

_Nur_. Marry come up, for a stinking Knight; worse than I have gone
down with you, e'er now--Sixty Years ago, quoth ye--As old as I am--
I live without Surgeons, wear my own Hair, am not in Debt to my Taylor,
as thou art, and art fain to kiss his Wife, to persuade her Husband
to be merciful to thee--who wakes thee every Morning with his Clamour
and long Bills, at thy Chamber-door.

Sir _Tim_. Prithee, good Matron, Peace; I'll compound with thee.

_Nur_. 'Tis more than thou wilt do with thy Creditors, who, poor Souls,
despair of a Groat in the Pound for all thou ow'st them, for Points,
Lace, and Garniture--for all, in fine, that makes thee a complete Fop.

Sir _Tim_. Hold, hold thy eternal Clack.

_Nur_. And when none would trust thee farther, give Judgments for twice
the Money thou borrowest, and swear thy self at Age; and lastly--to
patch up your broken Fortune, you wou'd fain marry my sweet Mistress
_Celinda_ here--But, Faith, Sir, you're mistaken, her Fortune shall not
go to the Maintenance of your Misses; which being once sure of, she,
poor Soul, is sent down to the Country-house, to learn Housewifery, and
live without Mankind, unless she can serve her self with the handsom
Steward, or so--whilst you tear it away in Town, and live like Man and
Wife with your Jilt, and are every Day seen in the Glass Coach, whilst
your own natural Lady is hardly worth the Hire of a Hack.

Sir _Tim_. Why, thou damnable confounded Torment, wilt thou never cease?

_Nur_. No, not till you raise your Siege, and be gone; go march to your
Lady of Love, and Debauch--go--You get no _Celinda_ here.

Sir _Tim_. The Devil's in her Tongue.

_Cel_. Good gentle Nurse, have Mercy upon the poor Knight.

_Nur_. No more, Mistress, than he'll have on you, if Heaven had so
abandon'd you, to put you into his Power--Mercy--quoth ye--no--, no
more than his Mistress will have, when all his Money's gone.

Sir _Tim_. Will she never end?

_Cel_. Prithee forbear.

_Nur_. No more than the Usurer would, to whom he has mortgag'd the best
part of his Estate, would forbear a Day after the promis'd Payment of
the Money. Forbear!--

Sir _Tim_. Not yet end! Can I, Madam, give you a greater Proof of my
Passion for you, than to endure this for your sake?

_Nur_. This--thou art so sorry a Creature, thou wilt endure any thing
for the lucre of her Fortune; 'tis that thou hast a Passion for: not
that thou carest for Money, but to sacrifice to thy Leudness, to
purchase a Mistress, to purchase the Reputation of as errant a Fool as
ever arriv'd at the Honour of keeping; to purchase a little Grandeur,
as you call it; that is, to make every one look at thee, and consider
what a Fool thou art, who else might pass unregarded amongst the common
Croud.

Sir _Tim_. The Devil's in her Tongue, and so 'tis in most Women's of her
Age; for when it has quitted the Tail, it repairs to her upper Tire.

_Nur_. Do not persuade me, Madam, I am resolv'd to make him weary of his
Wooing.

Sir _Tim_. So, God be prais'd, the Storm is laid--And now, Mrs. _Celinda_,
give me leave to ask you, if it be with your leave, this Affront is put
on a Man of my Quality?

_Nur_. Thy Quality--

Sir _Tim_. Yes; I am a Gentleman, and a Knight.

_Nur_. Yes, Sir, Knight of the ill-favour'd Countenance is it?

Sir _Tim_. You are beholding to _Don Quixot_ for that, and 'tis so many
Ages since thou couldst see to read, I wonder thou hast not forgot all
that ever belong'd to Books.

_Nur_. My Eye-sight is good enough to see thee in all thy Colours, thou
Knight of the burning Pestle thou.

Sir _Tim_. Agen, that was out of a Play--Hark ye, Witch of _Endor_, hold
your prating Tongue, or I shall most well-favour'dly cudgel ye.

_Nur_. As your Friend the Hostess has it in a Play too, I take it, Ends
which you pick up behind the Scenes, when you go to be laught at even by
the Player-Women.

Sir _Tim_. Wilt thou have done? By Fortune, I'll endure no more--

_Nur_. Murder, Murder!

Cel. Hold, hold.

    _Enter_ Friendlove, Bellmour, Sham _and_ Sharp.

_Friend_. Read here the worst of News that can arrive,
                             [_Gives_ Bellm. _a Letter_.
--What's the matter here? Why, how now,
Sir _Timothy_, what, up in Arms with the Women?

Sir _Tim_. Oh, Ned, I'm glad thou'rt come--never was _Tom Dove_ baited
as I have been.

_Friend_. By whom? my Sister?

Sir _Tim_. No, no, that old Mastiff there--the young Whelp came not on,
thanks be prais'd.

_Bel_. How, her Father here to morrow, and here he says, that shall be
the last Moment, he will defer the Marriage of _Celinda_ to this Sot--
Oh God, I shall grow mad, and so undo 'em all--I'll kill the Villain at
the Altar--By my lost hopes, I will--And yet there is some left--Could I
but--speak to her--I must rely on _Dresswell's_ Friendship--Oh God, to
morrow--Can I endure that thought? Can I endure to see the Traytor there,
who must to morrow rob me of my Heaven?--I'll own my Flame--and boldly
tell this Fop, she must be mine--

_Friend_. I assure you, Sir _Timothy_, I am sorry, and will chastise her.

Sir _Tim_. Ay, Sir, I that am a Knight--a Man of Parts and Wit, and one
that is to be your Brother, and design'd to be the Glory of marrying
_Celinda_.

_Bel_. I can endure no more--How, Sir--You marry fair _Celinda!_

Sir _Tim_. Ay, _Frank_, ay--is she not a pretty little plump white
Rogue, hah?

_Bel_. Yes.

Sir _Tim_. Oh, I had forgot thou art a modest Rogue, and to thy eternal
Shame, hadst never the Reputation of a Mistress--Lord, Lord, that I
could see thee address thy self to a Lady--I fancy thee a very ridiculous
Figure in that Posture, by Fortune.

_Bel_. Why, Sir, I can court a Lady--

Sir _Tim_. No, no, thou'rt modest; that is to say, a Country Gentleman;
that is to say, ill-bred; that is to say, a Fool, by Fortune, as the
World goes.

_Bel_. Neither, Sir--I can love--and tell it too--and that you may
believe me--look on this Lady, Sir.

Sir _Tim_. Look on this Lady, Sir--Ha, ha, ha,--Well, Sir--Well, Sir--
And what then?

_Bel_. Nay, view her well, Sir--

Sir. _Tim_. Pleasant this--Well, _Frank_, I do--And what then?

_Bel_. Is she not charming fair--fair to a wonder!

Sir _Tim_. Well, Sir, 'tis granted--

_Bel_. And canst thou think this Beauty meant for thee, for thee, dull
common Man?

Sir _Tim_. Very well, what will he say next?

_Bel_. I say, let me no more see thee approach this Lady.

Sir _Tim_. How, Sir, how?

_Bel_. Not speak to her, not look on her--by Heaven--not think of her.

Sir _Tim_. How, _Frank_, art in earnest?

_Bel_. Try, if thou dar'st.

Sir _Tim_. Not think of her!--

_Bel_. No, not so much as in a Dream, could I divine it.

Sir _Tim_. Is he in earnest, Mr. _Friendlove_?

_Friend_. I doubt so, Sir _Timothy_.

Sir _Tim_. What, does he then pretend to your Sister?

_Bel_. Yes, and no Man else shall dare do so.

Sir _Tim_. Take notice I am affronted in your Lodgings--for you,
_Bellmour_--You take me for an Ass--therefore meet me to morrow Morning
about five, with your Sword in your Hand, behind _Southampton_ House.

_Bel_. 'Tis well--there we will dispute our Title to _Celinda_.
                                                   [_Exit Sir_ Tim.
_Dull Animal! The Gods cou'd ne'er decree
So bright a Maid shou'd be possest by thee_.

                                        [Exeunt.




ACT II.

SCENE I. _A Palace_.


    _Enter_ Nurse _with a Light_.

_Nur_. Well, 'tis an endless trouble to have the Tuition of a Maid in
love, here is such Wishing and Longing.--And yet one must force them to
what they most desire, before they will admit of it--Here am I sent out
a Scout of the Forlorn Hope, to discover the Approach of the Enemy--Well
--Mr. _Bellmour_, you are not to know, 'tis with the Consent of _Celinda_,
that you come--I must bear all the blame, what Mischief soever comes of
these Night-Works.

    _Enter_ Bellmour.

Oh, are you come--Your Hour was Twelve, and now 'tis almost Two.

_Bel_. I could not get from _Friendlove_--Thou hast not told _Celinda_
of my coming?

_Nur_. No, no, e'en make Peace for me, and your self too.

_Bel_. I warrant thee, Nurse--Oh, how I hope and fear this Night's
Success!

                                          [_Exeunt_.



SCENE II. _A Chamber_.


    Celinda _in her Night-Attire, leaning on a Table.
    Enter to her_ Bellmour _and_ Nurse.

_Cel_. Oh Heavens! Mr. _Bellmour_ at this late Hour in my Chamber!

_Bel_. Yes, Madam; but will approach no nearer till you permit me;
And sure you know my Soul too well to fear.

_Cel_. I do, Sir, and you may approach yet nearer,
And let me know your Business.

_Bel_. Love is my bus'ness, that of all the World;
Only my Flame as much surmounts the rest,
As is the Object's Beauty I adore.

_Cel_. If this be all, to tell me of your Love,
To morrow might have done as well.

_Bel_. Oh, no, to morrow would have been too late,
Too late to make returns to all my Pain.
--What disagreeing thing offends your Eyes?
I've no Deformity about my Person;
I'm young, and have a Fortune great as any
That do pretend to serve you;
And yet I find my Interest in your Heart,
Below those happy ones that are my Rivals.
Nay, every Fool that can but plead his Title,
And the poor Interest that a Parent gives him,
Can merit more than I.
--What else, my lovely Maid, can give a freedom
To that same talking, idle, knighted Fop?

_Cel_. Oh, if I am so wretched to be his,
Surely I cannot live;
For, Sir, I must confess I cannot love him.

_Bel_. But thou may'st do as bad, and marry him,
And that's a Sin I cannot over-live;
--No, hear my Vows--

_Cel_. But are you, Sir, in earnest?

_Bel_. In earnest? Yes, by all that's good, I am;
I love you more than I do Life, or Heaven!

_Cel_. Oh, what a pleasure 'tis to hear him say so!    [_Aside_.
--But pray, how long, Sir, have you lov'd me so?

_Bel_. From the first moment that I saw your Eyes,
Your charming killing Eyes, I did adore 'em;
And ever since have languisht Day and Night.

_Nur_. Come, come, ne'er stand asking of Questions,
But follow your Inclinations, and take him at his Word.

_Bel_. Celinda, take her Counsel,
Perhaps this is the last opportunity;
Nay, and, by Heaven, the last of all my Life,
If you refuse me now--
Say, will you never marry Man but me?

_Cel_. Pray give me till to morrow, Sir, to answer you;
For I have yet some Fears about my Soul,
That take away my Rest.

_Bel_. To morrow! You must then marry--Oh fatal Word!
Another! a Beast, a Fool, that knows not how to value you.

_Cel_. Is't possible my Fate shou'd be so near?

_Nur_. Nay, then dispose of your self, I say, and leave dissembling;
'tis high time.

_Bel_. This Night the Letter came, the dreadful News
Of thy being married, and to morrow too.
Oh, answer me, or I shall die with Fear.

_Cel_. I must confess it, Sir, without a blush,
(For 'tis no Sin to love) that I cou'd wish--
Heaven and my Father were inclin'd my way:
But I am all Obedience to their Wills.

_Bel_. That Sigh was kind,
But e'er to morrow this time,
You'll want this pitying Sense, and feel no Pantings,
But those which Joys and Pleasures do create.

_Cel_. Alas, Sir! what is't you'd have me do?

_Bel_. Why--I wou'd have you love, and after that
You need not be instructed what to do.
Give me your Faith, give me your solemn Vow
To be my Wife, and I shall be at Peace.

_Cel_. Have you consider'd, Sir, your own Condition?
'Tis in your Uncle's Power to take your Fortune,
If in your Choice you disobey his Will.
--And, Sir, you know that mine is much below you.

_Bel_. Oh, I shall calm his Rage,
By urging so much Reason as thy Beauty,
And my own Flame, on which my Life depends.
--He now has kindly sent for me to _London_,
I fear his Bus'ness--
Yet if you'll yield to marry me,
We'll keep it secret, till our kinder Stars
Have made provision for the blest Discovery.
Come, give me your Vows, or we must part for ever.

_Cel_. Part! Oh, 'tis a fatal Word!
I will do any thing to save that Life,
To which my own so nearly is ally'd.

    _Enter_ Friendlove.

_Friend_. So, forward Sister!

_Bel_. Ha, _Friendlove!_

_Friend_. Was it so kindly done, to gain my Sister
Without my knowledge?

_Bel_. Ah, Friend! 'Twas from her self alone
That I wou'd take the Blessing which I ask.

_Friend_. And I'll assist her, Sir, to give it you.
Here, take him as an Honour, and be thankful.

_Bel_. I as a Blessing sent from Heaven receive her,
And e'er I sleep will justify my Claim,
And make her mine.

_Friend_. Be not so hasty, Friend:
Endeavour first to reconcile your Uncle to't.

_Bel_. By such Delays we're lost: Hast thou forgot?
To morrow she's design'd another's Bride!

_Friend_. For that let me alone t'evade.

_Bel_. If you must yet delay me,
Give me leave not to interest such Wealth without Security.
And I, _Celinda_, will instruct you how to satisfy my Fears.
                           [_Kneels, and takes her by the Hand_.
Bear witness to my Vows--
May every Plague that Heaven inflicts on Sin,
Fall down in Thunder on my Head,
If e'er I marry any but _Celinda_
Or if I do not marry thee, fair Maid.

_Nur_. Heartily sworn, as I vow.

_Cel_. And here I wish as solemnly the same:
--May all arrive to me,
If e'er I marry any Man but _Bellmour_!

_Nur_. We are Witnesses, as good as a thousand.

_Friend_. But now, my Friend, I'd have you take your leave; the day
comes on apace, and you've not seen your Uncle since your Arrival.

_Bel_. 'Tis Death to part with thee, my fair Celinda;
But our hard Fates impose this Separation:
--Farewel--Remember thou'rt all mine.

_Cel_. What have I else of Joy to think upon?
--Go--go--depart.

_Bel_. I will--but 'tis as Misers part with Gold,
Or People full of Health depart from Life.

_Friend_. Go, Sister, to your Bed, and dream of him.

                                [_Ex_. Cel. _and_ Nurse.

_Bel_. Whilst I prepare to meet this Fop to fight him.

_Friend_. Hang him, he'll ne'er meet thee; to beat a Watch, or kick
a Drawer, or batter Windows, is the highest pitch of Valour he e'er
arriv'd to.

_Bel_. However, I'll expect him, lest he be fool-hardy enough to keep
his Word.

_Friend_. Shall I wait on thee?

_Bel_. No, no, there's no need of that--Good-morrow, my best Friend.

_Friend_. But e'er you go, my dearest Friend and Brother,
Now you are sure of all the Joys you wish
From Heaven, do not forgetful grow of that great Trust
I gave you of all mine; but, like a Friend,
Assist me in my great Concern of Love
With fair Diana, your lovely Cousin.
You know how long I have ador'd that Maid;
But still her haughty Pride repell'd my Flame,
And all its fierce Efforts.

_Bel_. She has a Spirit equal to her Beauty,
As mighty and tyrannick; yet she has Goodness,
And I believe enough inclin'd to Love,
When once her Pride's o'ercome. I have the Honour
To be the Confident of all her Thoughts:
And to augment thy Hopes, 'tis not long since
She did with Sighs confess to me, she lov'd
A Man, she said, scarce equal to her Fortune:
But all my Interest could not learn the Object;
But it must needs be you, by what she said.
This I'll improve, and so to your Advantage--

_Friend_. I neither doubt thy Industry, nor Love;
Go, and be careful of my Interest there,
Whilst I preserve thine as intirely here.

                                      [_Ex. severally_.



SCENE III. _Sir_ Timothy's _House_.


    _Enter Sir_ Timothy, Sham, Sharp, _and_ Boy.

_Sharp_. Good morrow, Sir _Timothy_; what, not yet ready, and to meet
Mr. _Bellmour_ at Five? the time's past.

Sir _Tim_.--Ay, Pox on't--I han't slept to Night for thinking on't.

_Sham_. Well, Sir _Timothy_, I have most excellent News for you, that
will do as well; I have found out--

Sir _Tim_. A new Wench, I warrant--But prithee, _Sham_, I have other
matters in hand; 'Sheart, I am so mortify'd with this same thought of
Fighting, that I shall hardly think of Womankind again.

_Sharp_. And you were so forward, Sir Timothy--

Sir _Tim_. Ay, _Sharp_, I am always so when I am angry; had I been but
A little more provok'd then, that we might have gone to't when the heat
was brisk, I had done well--but a Pox on't, this fighting in cool
Blood I hate.

_Sham_. 'Shaw, Sir, 'tis nothing, a Man wou'd do't for Exercise in a
Morning.

Sir _Tim_. Ay, if there were no more in't than Exercise; if a Man cou'd
take a Breathing without breathing a Vein--but, _Sham_, this Wounds, and
Blood, sounds terribly in my Ears; but since thou say'st 'tis nothing,
prithee do thou meet _Bellmour_ in my stead; thou art a poor Dog, and
'tis no matter if the World were well rid of thee.

_Sham_. I wou'd do't with all my Soul--but your Honour, Sir--

Sir _Tim_.--My Honour! 'tis but Custom that makes it honourable to fight
Duels--I warrant you the wise _Italian_ thinks himself a Man of Honour;
and yet when did you hear of an _Italian_, that ever fought a Duel? Is't
not enough, that I am affronted, have my Mistress taken away before my
Face, hear my self call'd, dull, common Man, dull Animal, and the
rest?--But I must after all give him leave to kill me too, if he
can--And this is your damn'd Honourable _English_ way of shewing a
Man's Courage.

_Sham_. I must confess I am of your mind, and therefore have been
studying a Revenge, sutable to the Affront: and if I can judge any
thing, I have hit it.

Sir _Tim_. Hast thou? dear _Sham_, out with it.

_Sham_. Why, Sir--what think you of debauching his Sister?

Sir _Tim_. Why, is there such a thing in Nature?

_Sham_. You know he has a Sister, Sir.

Sir _Tim_. Yes, rich, and fair.

_Sham_. Both, or she were not worthy of your Revenge.

Sir _Tim_. Oh, how I love Revenge, that has a double Pleasure in it--and
where--and where is this fine piece of Temptation?

_Sham_. In being, Sir--but _Sharp_ here, and I, have been at some cost
in finding her out.

Sir _Tim_. Ye shall be overpaid--there's Gold, my little _Maquere_--but
she's very handsom?

_Sharp_. As a Goddess, Sir.

Sir _Tim_. And art thou sure she will be leud?

_Sharp_. Are we sure she's a Woman, Sir?--Sure, she's in her Teens, has
Pride and Vanity--and two or three Sins more that I cou'd name, all
which never fail to assist a Woman in Debauchery--But, Sir, there are
certain People that belong to her, that must be consider'd too.

Sir _Tim_. Stay, Sir, e'er I part with more Money, I'll be certain what
returns 'twill make me--that is, I'll see the Wench, not to inform my
self, how well I like her, for that I shall do, because she is new, and
_Bellmour's_ Sister--but to find what possibility there is in gaining
her.--I am us'd to these things, and can guess from a Look, or a Kiss,
or a Touch of the Hand--but then I warrant, 'twill come to the knowledge
of _Betty Flauntit_.

_Sham_. What, Sir, then it seems you doubt us?

Sir _Tim_. How do you mean, your Honesty or Judgment? I can assure you,
I doubt both.

_Sharp_. How, Sir, doubt our Honesty!

Sir _Tim_. Yes--why, I hope neither of you pretend to either, do you?

_Sham_. Why, Sir, what, do you take us for Cheats?

Sir _Tim_. As errant, as any's in Christendom.

_Sharp_. How, Sir?

Sir _Tim_. Why, how now--what, fly in my Face? Are your Stomachs so
queasy, that Cheat won't down with you?

_Sham_. Why, Sir, we are Gentlemen; and though our ill Fortunes have
thrown us on your Bounty, we are not to be term'd--

Sir _Tim_. Why, you pair of Hectors--whence this Impudence?--Do ye know
me, ye Raggamuffins?

_Sham_. Yes, but we knew not that you were a Coward before. You talkt
big, and huft where-e'er you came, like an errant Bully; and so long we
reverenc'd you--but now we find you have need of our Courage, we'll
stand on our own Reputations.

Sir _Tim_. Courage and Reputation!--ha, ha, ha--why, you lousy
Tatterdemallions--dare ye talk of Courage and Reputation?

_Sharp_. Why, Sir, who dares question either?

Sir _Tim_. He that dares try it.    [Kicks 'em.

_Sharp_. Hold, Sir, hold.

_Sham_. Enough, enough, we are satisfy'd.

Sir _Tim_. So am not I, ye mangy Mungrels, till I have kickt Courage and
Reputation out of ye.

_Sham_. Hold there, Sir, 'tis enough, we are satisfy'd, that you have
Courage.

Sir _Tim_. Oh, are you so? then it seems I was not to be believ'd--I
told you I had Courage when I was angry.

_Sham_. Ay, Sir, we have prov'd it, and will now swear it.--But we had
an Inclination to try, Sir.

Sir _Tim_. And all you did, was but to try my Courage, hah!

_Sharp_. On our Honours, nothing else, Sir _Timothy_.

Sir _Tim_. Though I know ye to be cursed cowardly lying Rogues, yet
because I have use of ye, I must forgive ye.--Here, kiss my Hand, and
be forgiven.

_Sham_. 'Tis an Honour we are proud of, Sir.

Sir _Tim_. Oh, is it so, Rascallians? then I hope I am to see the Lady
without Indentures.

_Sharp_. Oh Lord, Sir, any thing we can serve you in.

_Sham_. And I have brib'd her Maid to bring her this Morning into the
_Mall_.

Sir _Tim_. Well, let's about it then; for I am for no fighting to
day--D'ye hear, Boy--Let the Coach be got ready whilst I get my
self drest.

_Boy_. The Coach, Sir! Why, you know Mr. _Shatter_ has pawn'd the
Horses.

Sir _Tim_. I had forgot it--A pox on't, this 'tis to have a Partner in
A Coach; by Fortune, I must marry and set up a whole one.

                                                    [Exeunt.



SCENE IV. Lord Plotwell's House.


    Enter Charles Bellmour, and Trusty.

_Trusty_. Mr. _Charles_, your Brother, my young Master _Bellmour_,
is come.

_Char_. I'm glad on't; my Uncle began to be impatient that he came not,
you saying you left him but a day's Journey behind you yesterday. My
Uncle has something of importance to say to him, I fancy it may be about
A Marriage between him and my Lady _Diana_--such a Whisper I heard--

_Trusty_. Ay, marry, Sir, that were a Match indeed, she being your
Uncle's only Heir.

_Char_. Ay, but they are Sisters Children, and too near a-kin to
be happy.

_Trusty_. 'Twere pity my young Master shou'd be unhappy in a Wife; for
he is the sweetest-natur'd Gentleman--But one Comfort is, Mr. _Charles_,
you, and your Sister Mrs. _Phillis_, will have your Portions assign'd
you if he marry.

_Char_. Yes, that he can't deny us the very Day after his Marriage.

_Trusty_. I shall be glad to see you all dispos'd of well; but I was
half afraid, your Brother would have married Mrs. _Celinda Friendlove_,
to whom he made notable Love in _Yorkshire_ I thought: not but she's a
fine Lady; but her Fortune is below that of my young Master's, as much
as my Lady _Diana's_ is above his--But see, they come; let us retire,
to give 'em leave to talk alone.

                             [_Exeunt_.

    _Enter_ _Lord_ Plotwell, _and_ Bellmour.

_Lord_. And well, _Frank_, how dost thou find thy self inclin'd? thou
should'st begin to think of something more than Books. Do'st thou not
wish to know the Joys that are to be found in a Woman, _Frank_? I well
remember at thy Age I fancy'd a thousand fine things of that kind.

_Bel_. Ay, my Lord, a thousand more perhaps than are to be found.

_Lord_. Not so; but I confess, _Frank_, unless the Lady be fair, and
there be some Love too, 'tis not altogether so well; therefore I, who
am still busy for thy good, have fix'd upon a Lady--

_Bel_. Ha!--

_Lord_. What, dost start? Nay, I'll warrant thee she'll please; A Lady
rich, and fair, and nobly born, and thou shalt marry her, _Frank_.

_Bel_. Marry her, my Lord--

_Lord_. Why, yes, marry her--I hope you are none of the fashionable
Fops, that are always in Mutiny against Marriage, who never think
themselves very witty, but when they rail against Heaven and a Wife--
But, _Frank_, I have found better Principles in thee, and thou hast the
Reputation of a sober young Gentleman; thou art, besides, a Man of great
Fortune, _Frank_.

_Bel_. And therefore, Sir, ought the less to be a Slave.

_Lord_. But, _Frank_, we are made for one another; and ought, by the
Laws of God, to communicate our Blessings.

_Bel_. Sir, there are Men enough, fitter much than I, to obey those
Laws; nor do I think them made for every one.

_Lord_. But, _Frank_, you do not know what a Wife I have provided
for you.

_Bel_. 'Tis enough I know she's a Woman, Sir.

_Lord_. A Woman! why, what should she be else?

_Bel_. An Angel, Sir, e'er she can be my Wife.

_Lord_. In good time: but this is a Mortal, Sir--and must serve your
turn--but, _Frank_, she is the finest Mortal--

_Bel_. I humbly beg your Pardon, if I tell you,
That had she Beauty such as Heav'n ne'er made,
Nor meant again t'inrich a Woman with,
It cou'd not take my Heart.

_Lord_. But, Sir, perhaps you do not guess the Lady.

_Bel_. Or cou'd I, Sir, it cou'd not change my Nature.

_Lord_. But, Sir, suppose it be my Niece _Diana_.

_Bel_. How, Sir, the fair _Diana_!

_Lord_. I thought thou'dst come about again;
What think you now of Woman-kind, and Wedlock?

_Bel_. As I did before, my Lord.

_Lord_. What, thou canst not think I am in earnest; I confess, _Frank_,
she is above thee in point of Fortune, she being my only Heir--but
suppose 'tis she.

_Bel_. Oh, I'm undone!--Sir, I dare not suppose so greatly in favour
of my self.

_Lord_. But, _Frank_, you must needs suppose--

_Bel_. Oh, I am ruin'd, lost, for ever lost.

_Lord_. What do you mean, Sir?

_Bel_. I mean, I cannot marry fair _Diana_.

_Lord_. Death! how's this?

_Bel_. She is a thing above my humble wishes--

_Lord_. Is that all? Take you no care for that; for she loves you
already, and I have resolv'd it, which is better yet.

_Bel_. Love me, Sir! I know she cannot,
And Heav'n forbid that I should injure her.

_Lord_. Sir, this is a Put-off: resolve quickly, or I'll compel you.

_Bel_. You wou'd not use Extremity;
What is the Forfeit of my Disobedience?

_Lord_. The loss of all your Fortune,
If you refuse the Wife I have provided--
Especially a handsom Lady, as she is, _Frank_.

_Bel_. Oh me, unhappy!
What cursed Laws provided this Severity?

_Lord_. Even those of your Father's Disposal, who seeing so many
Examples in this leud Age, of the ruin of whole Families by imprudent
Marriages, provided otherwise for you.

_Bel_. But, Sir, admit _Diana_ be inclin'd,
And I (by my unhappy Stars so curs'd)
Should be unable to accept the Honour.

_Lord_. How, Sir! admit!--I can no more admit,
Than you can suppose--therefore give me your final Answer.

_Bel_. Sir, can you think a Blessing e'er can fall
Upon that Pair, whom Interest joins, not Love?

_Lord_. Why, what's in _Diana_, that you shou'd not love her?

_Bel_. I must confess she has a thousand Virtues,
The least of which wou'd bless another Man;
But, Sir, I hope, if I am so unhappy
As not to love that Lady, you will pardon me.

_Lord_. Indeed, Sir, but I will not; love me this Lady, and marry me
this Lady, or I will teach you what it is to refuse such a Lady.

_Bel_. Sir, 'tis not in my power to obey you.

_Lord_. How! not in your pow'r?

_Bel_. No, Sir, I see my fatal Ruin in your Eyes,
And know too well your Force, and my own Misery.
--But, Sir--when I shall tell you who I've married--

_Lord_. Who you've married;--By all that's sacred, if that be true,
thou art undone for ever.

_Bel_. O hear me, Sir!
I came with Hopes to have found you merciful.

_Lord_. Expect none from me; no, thou shalt not have
So much of thy Estate, as will afford thee Bread:
By Heav'n, thou shalt not.

_Bel_. Oh, pity me, my Lord, pity my Youth;
It is no Beggar, nor one basely born,
That I have given my Heart to, but a Maid,
Whose Birth, whose Beauty, and whose Education
Merits the best of Men.

_Lord_. Very fine! where is the Priest that durst dispose of you without
my Order? Sirrah, you are my Slave--at least your whole Estate is at my
mercy--and besides, I'll charge you with an Action of 5000 pounds. For
your ten Years Maintenance: Do you know that this in my power too?

_Bel_. Yes, Sir, and dread your Anger worse than Death.

_Lord_. Oh Villain! thus to dash my Expectation!

_Bel_. Sir, on my bended Knees, thus low I fall
To beg your mercy.

_Lord_. Yes, Sir, I will have mercy;
I'll give you Lodging--but in a Dungeon, Sir,
Where you shall ask your Food of Passers by.

_Bel_. All this, I know, you have the Pow'r to do;
But, Sir, were I thus cruel, this hard Usage
Would give me Cause to execute it.
I wear a Sword, and I dare right my self;
And Heaven wou'd pardon it, if I should kill you:
But Heav'n forbid I shou'd correct that Law,
Which gives you Power, and orders me Obedience.

_Lord_. Very well, Sir, I shall tame that Courage, and punish that
Harlot, whoe'er she be, that has seduc'd ye.

_Bel_. How, Harlot, Sir!--Death, such another Word,
And through all Laws and Reason I will rush,
And reach thy Soul, if mortal like thy Body.
--No, Sir, she's chaste, as are the new-made Vows
I breath'd upon her Lips, when last we parted.

_Lord_. Who waits there?

    Enter Trusty and Servants.

--Shall I be murder'd in my own House?
'Tis time you were remov'd--
Go, get an Action of 5000 pounds, enter'd against him,
With Officers to arrest him.

_Trusty_. My Lord, 'tis my young Master _Bellmour_.

_Lord_. Ye all doat upon him, but he's not the Man you take him for.

_Trusty_. How, my Lord! not this Mr. _Bellmour_!

_Lord_. Dogs, obey me.
                          [_Offers to go_.

_Bel_. Stay, Sir--oh, stay--what will become of me?
'Twere better that my Life were lost, than Fortune--
For that being gone, _Celinda_ must not love me.
--But to die wretchedly--
Poorly in Prison--whilst I can manage this--
Is below him, that does adore _Celinda.    [Draws_.
I'll kill my self--but then--I kill _Celinda_.
Shou'd I obey this Tyrant--then too she dies.
Yes, Sir--You may be cruel--take the Law,
And kill me quickly, 'twill become your Justice.    [_Weeps_.

_Lord_. Was I call'd back for this? Yes, I shall take it, Sir;
do not fear.
                [_Offers to go_.

_Bel_. Yet, stay, Sir--Have you lost all Humanity?
Have you no Sense of Honour, nor of Horrors?

_Lord_. Away with him--go, be gone.

_Bel_. Stay, Sir. Oh, God! what is't you'd have me do?
--Here--I resign my self unto your Will--
But, Oh _Celinda_! what will become of thee?    [_Weeps_.
--Yes, I will marry--and _Diana_ too.

_Lord_. 'Tis well you will; had I not been good-natur'd now,
You had been undone, and miss'd _Diana_ too.

_Bel_. But must I marry--needs marry, Sir?
Or lose my Fortune, and my Liberty,
Whilst all my Vows are given to another?

_Lord_. By all means, Sir--

_Bel_. If I must marry any but _Celinda_,
I shall not, Sir, enjoy one moment's Bliss:
I shall be quite unman'd, cruel and brutal;
A Beast, unsafe for Woman to converse with.
Besides, Sir, I have given my Heart and Faith,
And my second Marriage is Adultery.

_Lord_. Heart and Faith, I am glad 'tis no worse; if the Ceremony of
the Church has not past, 'tis well enough.

_Bel_. All, Sir, that Heaven and Love requires, is past.

_Lord_. Thou art a Fool, _Frank_, come--dry thy Eyes. And receive
_Diana_--_Trusty_, call in my Niece.

_Bel_. Yet, Sir, relent, be kind, and save my Soul.

                                              [_Ex_. Trusty.

_Lord_. No more--by Heaven, if you resist my Will, I'll make a strange
Example of thee, and of that Woman, whoe'er she be, that drew you to
this Folly. Faith and Vows, quoth ye!

_Bel_. Then I obey.

    _Enter_ Trusty _and_ Diana.

_Lord_. Look ye here, _Frank_; Is this a Lady to be dislik'd? Come
hither, _Frank--Trusty_, haste for Dr. _Tickletext_, my Chaplain's not
in Town; I'll have them instantly married--Come hither, _Diana_--will
you marry your Cousin, _Frank Bellmour_?

_Dia_. Yes, if it be your pleasure;
Heaven cou'd not let fall a greater Blessing.    [_Aside_.

_Lord_. And you, _Frank_, will you marry my Niece _Diana_?

_Bel_. Since you will have it so.

_Lord_. Come, follow me then, and you shall be both pleas'd.

_Bel_. Oh my _Celinda_!--

    _To preserve thee, what is't I wou'd not do?
    Forfeit my Heaven, nay more, I forfeit you_.

                                             [_Exit_.



SCENE V. _The Street_.


    _Enter Sir_ Timothy Tawdrey, Sham _and_ Sharp.

Sir _Tim_. Now, _Sham_, art not thou a damn'd lying Rogue, to make me
saunter up and down the _Mall_ all this Morning, after a Woman that thou
know'st in thy Conscience was not likely to be there?

_Sham_. Why, Sir--if her Maid will be a jilting Whore, how can I help
it?--_Sharp_, thou know'st we presented her handsomly, and she protested
she'd do't.

_Sharp_. Ay, ay, Sir: But the Devil a Maid we saw.    [_Aside_.

_Sham_. Sir, it may be Things have so fallen out, that she could not
possibly come.

Sir _Tim_. Things! a Pox of your Tricks--Well, I see there's no trusting
a poor Devil--Well, what Device will your Rogueship find out to cheat
me next?

_Sham_. Prithee help me out at a dead lift, _Sharp_.    [_Aside_.

_Sharp_. Cheat you, Sir!--if I ben't reveng'd on this She-Counsellor of
the Patching and Painting, this Letter-in of Midnight Lovers, this
Receiver of Bribes for stol'n Pleasures; may I be condemn'd never to
make love to any thing of higher Quality.

Sir _Tim_. Nay, nay, no threatning, _Sharp_; it may be she's innocent
yet--Give her t'other Bribe, and try what that will do.
                                            [_Gives him Money_.

_Sham_. No, Sir, I'll have no more to do with frail Woman, in this Case;
I have a surer way to do your Business.

    _Enter_ Page _with a Letter_.

Sir _Tim_. Is not that _Bellmour's_ Page?

_Sharp_. It is, Sir.

Sir _Tim_. By Fortune, the Rogue's looking for me; he has a Challenge
in his hand too.

_Sham_. No matter, Sir, huff it out.

Sir _Tim_. Prithee do thee huff him, thou know'st the way on't.

_Sham_. What's your Bus'ness with Sir _Timothy_, Sir?

_Page_. Mine, Sir, I don't know the Gentleman; pray which is he?

Sir _Tim_. I, I, 'tis so--Pox on him.

_Sharp_. Well, Boy, I am he--What--Your Master.

_Page_. My Master, Sir--

_Sharp_. Are not you _Bellmour's_ Page?

_Page_. Yes, Sir.

_Sharp_. Well, your News.

_Page_. News, Sir? I know of none, but of my Master's being this
Morning--

Sir _Tim_. Ay, there it is--behind _Southampton_ House.

_Page_. Married this Morning.

Sir _Tim_. How! Married! 'Slife, has he serv'd me so?

_Sham_. The Boy is drunk--_Bellmour_ married!

_Page_. Yes, indeed, to the Lady _Diana_.

Sir _Tim_. _Diana!_ Mad, by Fortune; what _Diana_?

_Page_. Niece to the Lord _Plotwell_.

Sir _Tim_. Come hither, Boy--Art thou sure of this?

_Page_. Sir, I am sure of it; and I am going to bespeak Musick for the
Ball anon.

Sir _Tim_. What hast thou there--a Letter to the Divine _Celinda_?
A dainty Boy--there's Money for to buy thee Nickers.

_Page_. I humbly thank you.
                               [_Exit_.

_Sharp_. Well, Sir, if this be true, _Celinda_ will be glad of you again.

Sir. _Tim_. Ay, but I will have none of her--For, look you, _Sham_,
there is but two sorts of Love in this World--Now I am sure the Rogue
did love her; and since it was not to marry her, it was for the thing
you wot on, as appears by his writing to her now--But yet, I will not
believe what this Boy said, till I see it.

_Sham_. Faith, Sir, I have thought of a thing, that may both clear your
doubt, and give us a little Mirth.

Sir _Tim_. I conceive thee.

_Sham_. I know y'are quick of Apprehension, Sir _Timothy_.

Sir _Tim_. O, your Servant, dear _Sham_--But to let thee see, I am none
of the dullest, we are to Jig it in Masquerade this Evening, hah.

_Sham_. Faith, Sir, you have it, and there you may have an Opportunity
to court _Bellmour's_ Sister.

Sir _Tim_. 'Tis a good Motion, and we will follow it; send to the Duke's
House, and borrow some Habits presently.

_Sham_. I'll about it, Sir.

Sir _Tim_. Make haste to my Lodging--But hark ye--not a word of this to
_Betty Flauntit_, she'll be up in Arms these two Days, if she go not
with us; and though I think the fond Devil is true to me, yet it were
worse than Wedlock, if I should be so to her too.

    _Tho Whores in all things else the Mastery get,
    In this alone, like Wives, they must submit_.

                                               Exeunt.




ACT III.

SCENE I. _A Room in Lord_ Plotwell's _House_.


    _Enter Lord_ Plotwell, Bellmour _leading in_ Diana, _follow'd by
    _Charles Bellmour, Phillis, _and other Ladies and Gentlemen_.
    [_Musick plays, till they are all seated_.

_Lord_. Here, Nephew, I resign that Trust, which was repos'd in me by
your dead Father; which was, that on your Wedding-Day I should thus--
make you Master of your whole Fortune, you being married to my liking--
And now, _Charles_, and you, my Niece _Phillis_, you may demand your
Portions to morrow, if you please, for he is oblig'd to pay you the Day
after that of his Marriage.

_Phil_. There's time enough, my Lord.

_Lord_. Come, come, Ladies, in troth you must take but little Rest to
Night, in complaisance to the Bride and Bridegroom, who, I believe, will
take but little--_Frank_--why, _Frank_--what, hast thou chang'd thy
Humour with thy Condition? Thou wert not wont to hear the Musick play
in vain.

_Bel_. My Lord, I cannot dance.

_Dia_. Indeed, you're wondrous sad,
And I, methinks, do bear thee Company,
I know not why; and yet excess of Joy
Have had the same Effects with equal Grief.

_Bel_. 'Tis true, and I have now felt the Extremes of both.

_Lord_. Why, Nephew _Charles_--has your Breeding at the Academy
instructed your Heels in no Motion?

_Char_. My Lord, I'll make one.

_Phil_. And I another, for Joy that my Brother's made happy in so fair
a Bride.

_Bel_. Hell take your Ignorance, for thinking I am happy,--
Wou'd Heaven wou'd strike me dead,
That by the loss of a poor wretched Life
I might preserve my Soul--But Oh, my Error!
That has already damn'd it self, when it consented
To break a Sacred Vow, and Marry here.

_Lord_. Come, come, begin, begin, Musick to your Office.

                                                [_Soft Musick_.

_Bel_. Why does not this hard Heart, this stubborn Fugitive,
Break with this Load of Griefs? but like ill Spirits
It promis'd fair, till it had drawn me in,
And then betray'd me to Damnation.

_Dia_. There's something of disorder in his Soul,
Which I'm on fire to know the meaning of.

    _Enter Sir_ Timothy, Sham, _and_ Sharp, _in Masquerade_.

Sir _Tim_. The Rogue is married, and I am so pleas'd, I can forgive him
our last Night's Quarrel. Prithee, _Sharp_, if thou canst learn that
young Thing's Name, 'tis a pretty airy Rogue, whilst I go talk to her.

_Sharp_. I will, Sir, I will.

                                 [_One goes to take out a Lady_.

_Char_. Nay, Madam, you must dance.    [_Dance_.

_Bel_. I hope you will not call it Rudeness, Madam, if I refuse you here.

    [_The Lady that danced goes to take out the Bridegroom. After the
    Dance she takes out Sir_ Timothy, _they walk to a Courant_.

Am I still tame and patient with my Ills?
Gods! what is Man, that he can live and bear,
Yet know his Power to rid himself of Grief?
I will not live; or if my Destiny
Compel me to't, it shall be worse than dying.

    _Enter_ Page _with a Table-Book_.

_Bel_. What's this?

_Page_. The Answer of a Letter, Sir, you sent the divine _Celinda_;
for so it was directed.

_Bel_.--Hah--_Celinda_--in my Croud of Thoughts
I had forgot I sent--come nearer, Boy--
What did she say to thee?--Did she not smile?
And use thee with Contempt and Scorn?--tell me.

_Page_. How scorn, Sir!

_Bel_. Or she was angry--call'd me perjur'd Villain,
False, and forsworn--nay, tell me truth.

_Page_. How, Sir?

_Bel_. Thou dost delay me--say she did, and please me.

_Page_. Sir!

_Bel_. Again--tell me, what answer, Rascal, did she send me?

_Page_. You have it, Sir, there in the Table-Book.

_Bel_. Oh, I am mad, and know not what I do.
--Prithee forgive me, Boy--take breath, my Soul,
Before thou do'st begin; for this--perhaps, may be
So cruel kind,
To leave thee none when thou hast ended it.
                                   [_Opens it, and reads_.

  LETTER.

  _I have took in the Poison which you sent, in those few fatal
  Words, "Forgive me, my_ Celinda, _I am married"--'Twas
  thus you said--And I have only Life left to return, "Forgive
  me my sweet_ Bellmour, _I am dead_."          CELINDA.

Can I hear this, and live?--I am a Villian!
In my Creation destin'd for all Mischief,
--To commit Rapes, and Murders, to break Vows,
As fast as Fools do Jests.
Come hither, Boy--
And said the Lady nothing to thee?

_Page_. Yes, e'er she read the Letter, ask'd your Health,
And Joy dispers'd it self in Blushes through her Cheeks.

_Bel_. Her Beauty makes the very Boy adore it.

_Page_. And having read it,
She drew her Tablets from her Pocket,
And trembling, writ what I have brought you, Sir.

_Bel_. Though I before had loaded up my Soul
With Sins, that wou'd have weigh'd down any other,
Yet this one more it bears, this Sin of Murder;
And holds out still--What have I more to do,
But being plung'd in Blood, to wade it through?

    _Enter_ Friendlove _in Masquerade. A Jigg_.

_Friend_. There stands the Traitor, with a guilty Look,
That Traitor, who the easier to deceive me,
Betray'd my Sister; yet till I came and saw
The Perjury, I could not give a Faith to't.
By Heaven, _Diana_ loves him, nay, dotes on him,
I find it in her Eyes; all languishing,
They feed the Fire in his: arm'd with a double Rage,
I know I shall go through with my Revenge.

Sir _Tim_. Fair Maid--

_Phil_. How do you know that, Sir?

Sir _Tim_. I see y'are fair, and I guess you're a Maid.

_Phil_. Your Guess is better than your Eye-sight, Sir.

Sir _Tim_. Whate'er you are, by Fortune, I wish you would permit me to
love you with all your Faults.

_Phil_. You? Pray who are you?

Sir _Tim_. A Man, a Gentleman--and more, a Knight too, by Fortune.

_Phil_. Then 'twas not by Merit, Sir--But how shall I know you are
either of these?

Sir _Tim_. That I'm a Man, the Effects of my vigorous Flame shall prove
--a Gentleman, my Coat of Arms shall testify; and I have the King's
Patent for my Title.

_Phil_. For the first you may thank your Youth, for the next your Father,
and the last your Money.

Sir _Tim_. By Fortune, I love thee for thy Pertness.

_Phil_. Is it possible you can love at all?

Sir _Tim_. As much as I dare.

_Phil_. How do you mean?

Sir _Tim_. Not to be laught at; 'tis not the Mode to love much; A
Platonick Fop I have heard of, but this is an Age of sheer Enjoyment,
and little Love goes to that; we have found it incommode, and loss of
time, to make long Addresses.

    _Enter_ Celinda _like a Boy_.

_Phil_. I find, Sir, you and I shall never agree upon this matter;
But see, Sir, here's more Company.

_Cel_. Oh Heaven! 'tis true, these Eyes confirm my Fate.
Yonder he is--and that fair splendid Thing,
That gazes on him with such kind Desire,
Is my blest Rival--Oh, he is married!
--Gods! And yet you let him live;
Live too with all his Charms, as fine and gay,
As if you meant he shou'd undo all easy Maids,
And kill 'em for their Sin of loving him.
Wretched _Celinda_!
But I must turn my Eyes from looking on
The fatal Triumphs of my Death--Which of all these
Is my Brother? Oh, that is he: I know him
By the Habit he sent for to the Play-House.
                                  [Points to Sir Tim.
And hither he's come in Masquerade,
I know with some Design against my _Bellmour_,
Whom though he kill me, I must still preserve:
Whilst I, lost in despair, thus as a Boy
Will seek a Death from any welcome Hand,
Since I want Courage to perform the Sacrifice.

    _Enter one and dances an Entry, and a Jig at the end on't_.

_Lord_. Enough, enough at this time, let's see the Bride to bed, the
Bridegroom thinks it long.

_Friend_. Hell! Can I endure to hear all this with Patience?
Shall he depart with Life to enjoy my Right,
And to deprive my Sister of her due?
--Stay, stay, and resign
That Virgin.

_Bel_. Who art thou that dar'st lay a Claim to ought that's here?

_Friend_. This Sword shall answer ye.
                                         [_Draws_.

_Bel_. Though I could spare my Life, I'll not be robb'd of it.
                                                         [_Draws_.

_Dia_. Oh, my dear _Bellmour_!

    [_All draw on_ Bellmour's side_--Diana _holds_ Bellmour,
    Celinda _runs between their Swords, and defends_ Bellmour;
    _Sir_ Tim. Sham, _and_ Sharp _draw, and run into several
    Corners, with signs of Fear_.

_Friend_. Who art thou, that thus fondly guard'st his Heart?
                                                    [_To_ Celinda.
--Be gone, and let me meet it.

_Cel_. That thou mayst do through mine, but no way else.

_Friend_. Here are too many to encounter, and I'll defer my Vengeance.

_Char_. Stay, Sir, we must not part so.

    [_Ex. Drawing at the same Door, that Sir_ Tim. _is sneaking out at_.

Come back I say.    [_Pulls in Sir_ Tim.
Slave! Dost thou tremble?--

Sir _Tim_. Sir, I'm not the Man you look for--
By Fortune, _Sham_, we're all undone:
He has mistook me for the fighting Fellow.

_Char_. Villain, defend thy Life.

Sir _Tim_. Who, I, Sir? I have no quarrel to you, nor no man breathing,
not I, by Fortune.

_Cel_. This Coward cannot be my Brother.    [_Aside_.

_Char_. What made thee draw upon my Brother?

Sir _Tim_. Who, I, Sir? by Fortune, I love him--I draw upon him!

_Char_. I do not wonder thou canst lye, for thou'rt a Coward!
Didst not thou draw upon him? Is not thy Sword yet out?
Did I not see thee fierce, and active too, as if thou hadst dar'd?

Sir _Tim_. Why, he's gone, Sir; a Pox of all Mistakes and Masqueradings
I say--this was your Plot, _Sham_.

_Char_. Coward! Shew then thy Face.

Sir _Tim_. I'll be hang'd first, by Fortune; for then 'twill be plain
'twas I, because I challeng'd _Bellmour_ last Night, and broke my
Assignation this Morning.    [_Aside_.

_Char_. Shew thy Face without delay, or--

Sir _Tim_. My Face, Sir! I protest, by Fortune, 'tis not worth seeing.

_Char_. Then, Sirrah, you are worth a kicking--take that--and that--
                                                           [_Kicks him_.

Sir _Tim_. How, Sir? how?

_Char_. So, Sir, so.
                        [_Kicks him again_.

Sir _Tim_. Have a care, Sir--by Fortune, I shall fight with a little
more.

_Char_. Take that to raise you.
                                   [_Strikes him_.

Sir _Tim_. Nay, then I am angry, and I dare fight.

                                       [_They fight out_.

_Lord_. Go, Ladies, see the Bride to her Chamber.

                                            [_Ex. Women_.

_Bel_. The Knight, Sir _Timothy Tawdrey_;
--The Rascal mist me at the appointed place,
And comes to attack me here--
                        [_Turns to_ Cel.
--Brave Youth, I know not how
I came to merit this Relief from thee:
Sure thou art a Stranger to me, thou'rt so kind.

_Cel_. Sir, I believe those happy ones that know you
Had been far kinder, but I'm indeed a Stranger.

_Bel_. Mayst thou be ever so to one so wretched;
I will not ask thy Name, lest knowing it,
(I'm such a Monster) I should ruin thee.

_Cel_. Oh, how he melts my Soul! I cannot stay,
Lest Grief, my Sex, my Bus'ness shou'd betray.    [_Aside_.
--Farewel, Sir--
May you be happy in the Maid you love.
                                            [_Exit_ Cel.

_Bel_. O, dost thou mock my Griefs? by Heaven, he did.
--Stay, Sir, he's gone.

    _Enter_ Charles Bellmour.

_Char_. The Rogue took Courage, when he saw there was no Remedy; but
there's no hurt done on either side.

_Lord_. 'Tis fit such as he shou'd be chastis'd, that do abuse
Hospitality. Come, come, to Bed; the Lady, Sir, expects you.

_Bel_. Gentlemen, good Night.

                                 [_Exeunt_.



SCENE II_. A Bed Chamber_.


    _Enter_ Diana.

_Dia_. I long to know the Cause of _Bellmour's_ Disorder to Night, and
here he comes.

    _Enter_ Bellmour, Lord, Charles, _and the rest_.

_Char_. Shan't we see you laid, Brother?

_Bel_. Yes, in my Grave, dear _Charles_;
But I'll excuse that Ceremony here.

_Char_. Good Night, and no Rest to you, Brother.

                       [_Ex. all but_ Bellmour _and_ Diana.

_Dia_. Till now, my _Bellmour_, I wanted Opportunity
To ask the Cause, why on a joyful Day,
When Heav'n has join'd us by a sacred Tie,
Thou droop'st like early Flowers with Winter-storms.

_Bel_. Thou art that Winter-storm that nips my Bud;
All my young springing Hopes, my gay Desires,
The prospect of approaching Joys of Love,
Thou in a hapless Minute hast took from me,
And in its room,
Hast given me an eternal Desperation.

_Dia_. Have you then given me Vows ye can repent of?

_Bel_. I given ye Vows! be witness, ye just Pow'rs,
How far I was from giving any Vows:
No, no, _Diana_, I had none to give.

_Dia_. No Vows to give!
What were they which unto the Holy Man
Thou didst repeat, when I was made all thine?

_Bel_. The Effects of low Submission, such as Slaves
Condemn'd to die, yield to the angry Judge.

_Dia_. Dost thou not love me then?

_Bel_. Love thee! No, by Heaven: yet wish I were so happy,
For thou art wondrous fair and wondrous good.

_Dia_. Oh, what a Defeat is here!
The only Man, who from all Nature's store
I found most charming, fit for my Desires;
And now after a thousand Expectations,
Such as all Maids that love like me do hope,
Just ready for the highest Joys of Love!
Then to be met thus cold--nay, worse, with scorn.    [_Aside_.
--Why, since you could not love me, did you marry me?

_Bel_. Because I was a Beast, a very Villain!
That stak'd a wretched Fortune to all my Joys of Life,
And like a prodigal Gamester lost that all.

_Dia_. How durst you, Sir, knowing my Quality,
Return me this false Pay, for Love so true?
Was this a Beauty, Sir, to be neglected?

_Bel_. Fair angry Maid, frown on, frown till you kill,
And I shall dying bless those Eyes that did so.
For shou'd I live, I shou'd deprive the happier World
Of Treasures, I'm too wretched to possess.
And were't not pity that vast store of Beauty
Shou'd, like rich Fruit, die on the yielding Boughs?

_Dia_. And are you then resolved to be a Stranger to me?

_Bel_. For ever! for a long Eternity!

_Dia_. O thou'st undone me then; hast thou found out
A Maid more fair, more worthy of thy Love?
Look on me well.

_Bel_. I have consider'd thee,
And find no Blemish in thy Soul, or Form;
Thou art all o'er Divine, yet I must hate thee,
Since thou hast drawn me to a mortal Sin,
That cannot be forgiven by Men, or Heaven.
--Oh, thou hast made me break a Vow, _Diana_,
A sacred solemn Vow;
And made me wrong the sweetest Innocence,
That ever blest the Earth.

_Dia_. Instead of cooling this augments my Fire;
No Pain is like defeated new Desire.    [_Aside_.
'Tis false, or but to try my Constancy.
Your Mistress is not so divine as I,
And shou'd I, 'gainst himself, believe the Man
Who first inspir'd my Heart with Love's soft Flame?

_Bel_. What Bliss on me insensibly you throw!
I'd rather hear thee swear, thou art my Foe,
And like some noble and romantick Maid
With Poniards wou'd my stubborn Heart invade;
And whilst thou dost the faithful Relique tear,
In every Vein thoud'st find _Celinda_ there.

_Dia_. Come, Sir, you must forget _Celinda's_ Charms,
And reap Delights within my circling Arms,
Delights that may your Errors undeceive,
When you find Joys as great as she can give.

_Bel_. What do I hear?--is this the kind Relief
Thou dost allow to my Despair and Grief?
Is this the Comfort that thou dost impart
To my all-wounded, bleeding, dying Heart?
Were I so brutal, cou'd thy Love comply
To serve it self with base Adultery?
For cou'd I love thee, cou'd I love again,
Our Lives wou'd be but one continu'd Sin:
A Sin of that black dye, a Sin so foul,
'Twou'd leave no Hopes of Heav'n for either's Soul.

_Dia_. Dull Man! Dost think a feeble vain Excuse
Shall satisfy me for this Night's abuse?
No, since my Passion thou'st defeated thus,
And robb'd me of my long-wish'd Happiness,
I'll make thee know what a wrong'd Maid can do,
Divided 'twixt her Love and Injuries too.

_Bel_. I dare thy worst;
Shou'd Hell assist thy Aims, thou cou'dst not find,
New Plagues, unless thou shou'dst continue kind,
Hard Fate, _Diana_, when thy Love must be
The greatest Curse that can arrive to me.
--That Friendship which our Infant Years begun,
And till this Day has still continued on,
I will preserve; and my Respects shall be
Profound, as what was ever paid by me:
But for my Love, 'tis to _Celinda_ due,
And I can pay you none that's just and true.

_Dia_. The rest I'd have thee know I do despise,
I better understand my conquering Eyes;
Those Eyes that shall revenge my Love and Shame,
I'll kill thy Reputation and thy Name.
                                   [_Exit_.

_Bel_. My Honour! and my Reputation, now!
They both were forfeit, when I broke my Vow,
Nor cou'd my Honour with thy Fame decline;
Whoe'er profanes thee, injures nought of mine.
This Night upon the Couch my self I'll lay,
And like _Franciscans_, let th'ensuing Day
Take care for all the Toils it brings with it;
Whatever Fate arrives, I can submit.

                                 [_Exit_.



SCENE III. _A Street_.


    _Enter_ Celinda, _drest as before_.

_Cel_. Not one kind Wound to send me to my Grave,
And yet between their angry Swords I ran,
Expecting it from _Bellmour_, or my Brother's:
Oh, my hard Fate! that gave me so much Misery,
And dealt no Courage to prevent the shock.
--Why came I off alive, that fatal Place
Where I beheld my _Bellmour_, in th'embrace
Of my extremely fair, and lovely Rival?
--With what kind Care she did prevent my Arm,
Which (greedy of the last sad-parting twine)
I wou'd have thrown about him, as if she knew
To what intent I made the passionate Offer?
--What have I next to do, but seek a Death
Wherever I can meet it--Who comes here?    [_Goes aside_.

    _Enter Sir_ Timothy, Sham _and_ Sharp, _with Fidlers and Boy_.

Sir _Tim_. I believe this is the Bed-chamber Window where the Bride
and Bridegroom lies.

_Sham_. Well, and what do you intend to do, if it be, Sir?

Sir _Tim_. Why, first sing a Baudy Song, and then break the Windows,
in revenge for the Affront was put upon me to night.

_Sharp_. Faith, Sir, that's but a poor Revenge, and which every Footman
may take of his Lady, who has turn'd him away for filching--You know,
Sir, Windows are frail, and will yield to the lusty Brickbats; 'tis an
Act below a Gentleman.

Sir _Tim_. That's all one, 'tis my Recreation; I serv'd a Woman so the
other night, to whom my Mistress had a Pique.

_Sham_. Ay, Sir, 'tis a Revenge fit only for a Whore to take--And the
Affront you receiv'd to Night, was by mistake.

Sir _Tim_. Mistake! how can that be?

_Sham_. Why, Sir, did you not mind, that he that drew upon _Bellmour_,
was in the same Dress with you.

Sir _Tim_. How shou'd his be like mine?

_Sham_. Why, by the same Chance, that yours was like his--I suppose
sending to the Play-house for them, as we did, they happened to send
him such another Habit, for they have many such for dancing Shepherds.

Sir _Tim_. Well, I grant it a Mistake, and that shall reprieve the
Windows.

_Sharp_. Then, Sir, you shew'd so much Courage, that you may bless the
Minute that forc'd you to fight.

Sir _Tim_. Ay, but between you and I, 'twas well he kick'd me first,
and made me angry, or I had been lustily swing'd, by Fortune--But thanks
to my Spleen, that sav'd my Bones that bout--But then I did well--hah,
came briskly off, and the rest.

_Sham_. With Honour, Sir, I protest.

Sir _Tim_. Come then, we'll serenade him. Come, Sirrah, tune your Pipes,
and sing.

_Boy_. What shall I sing, Sir?

Sir _Tim_. Any thing sutable to the Time and Place.

  SONG.

  I.

  _The happy Minute's come, the Nymph is laid,
    Who means no more to rise a Maid.
  Blushing, and panting, she expects th'Approach
    Of Joys that kill with every touch:
  Nor can her native Modesty and Shame
  Conceal the Ardour of her Virgin Flame_.

  II.

  _And now the amorous Youth is all undrest,
    Just ready for Love's mighty Feast;
  With vigorous haste the Veil aside he throws,
    That doth all Heaven at once disclose.
  Swift as Desire, into her naked Arms
  Himself he throws, and rifles all her Charms_.

Good morrow, Mr. _Bellmour_, and to your lovely Bride, long may you
live and love.

    _Enter_ Bellmour _above_.

_Bel_. Who is't has sent that Curse?

Sir _Tim_. What a Pox, is that _Bellmour_? The Rogue's in choler, the
Bride has not pleas'd him.

_Bel_. Dogs! Do you upbraid me? I'll be with you presently.

Sir _Tim_. Will you so?--but I'll not stay your coming.

_Cel_. But you shall, Sir.

_Bel_. Turn, Villains!

    [_Sir_ Tim. _&c. offers to go off_, Celinda _steps forth, and
    draws, they draw, and set upon her. Enter_ Bellmour _behind them:
    They turn, and_ Celinda _sides with_ Bellmour, _and fights. Enter_
    Diana, Bellmour _fights 'em out, and leaves_ Celinda _breathless,
    leaning on her Sword_.

_Dia_. I'll ne'er demand the cause of this disorder,
But take this opportunity to fly
To the next hands will take me up--who's here?

_Cel_. Not yet, my sullen Heart!

_Dia_. Who's here? one wounded--alas--

_Cel_. 'Tis not so lucky--but who art thou
That dost with so much pity ask?

_Dia_. He seems a Gentleman--handsome and young--    [_Aside_.
Pray ask no Questions, Sir; but if you are what you seem,
Give a Protection to an unhappy Maid.
--Do not reply, but let us haste away.

_Cel_. Hah--What do I hear! sure, 'tis _Diana_.
--Madam, with haste, and joy, I'll serve you.
--I'll carry her to my own Lodgings.
Fortune, in this, has done my Sufferings right,
My Rival's in my Power, upon her Wedding-Night.    [_Aside_.

                                                     [_Exeunt_.

    _Enter_ Bellmour, _Sir_ Tim. Sham, _and_ Sharp.

Sir _Tim_. Lord, Lord, that you should not know your Friend and humble
Servant, _Tim. Tawdrey_--But thou look'st as if thou hadst not been
a-bed yet.

_Bel_. No more I have.

Sir _Tim_. Nay, then thou losest precious time, I'll not detain thee.
                                                        [_Offers to go_.

_Bel_. Thou art mistaken, I hate all Woman-kind--

Sir _Tim_. How, how!

_Bel_, Above an Hour--hark ye, Knight--I am as leud, and as debaucht
as thou art.

Sir _Tim_. What do you mean, _Frank_?

_Bel_. To tell a Truth, which yet I never did.
--I whore, drink, game, swear, lye, cheat, rob, pimp, hector, all,
all I do that's vitious.

Sir _Tim_. Bless me!

_Bel_. From such a Villian, hah!

Sir _Tim_. No, but that thou should'st hide it all this while.

_Bel_. Till I was married only, and now I can dissemble it no longer--
come--let's to a Baudy-House.

Sir _Tim_. A Baudy-house! What, already!
This is the very quintessence of Leudness.
--Why, I thought that I was wicked, but, by Fortune,
This dashes mine quite out of Countenance.

_Bel_. Oh, thou'rt a puny Sinner!--I'll teach thee Arts (so rare) of Sin,
the least of them shall damn thee.

Sir _Tim_. By Fortune, _Frank_, I do not like these Arts.

_Bel_. Then thou'rt a Fool--I'll teach thee to be rich too.

Sir _Tim_. Ay, that I like.

_Bel_. Look here, my Boys!
        [_Hold up his Writings, which he takes out of his Pockets_.
The Writings of 3000 pounds a Year:
--All this I got by Perjury.

Sir _Tim_. By Fortune, a thriving Sin.

_Bel_. And we will live in Sin while this holds out.
_And then to my cold Home--Come let's be gone:
Oh, that I ne'er might see the rising Sun_.

                                       [_Exeunt_.




ACT IV.

SCENE I. Celinda's _Chamber_.


    _Discovers_ Celinda _as before sitting in a Chair_,
    Diana _by her in another, who sings_.

  SONG.

  I.

  Celinda, _who did Love disdain,
  For whom had languished many a Swain,
  Leading her bleating Flocks to drink,
  She spy'd upon the River's brink
  A Youth, whose Eyes did well declare
  How much he lov'd, but lov'd not her_.

  II.

  _At first she laugh'd, but gaz'd the while,
  And soon it lessen'd to a Smile;
  Thence to surprize and wonder came,
  Her Breast to heave, her Heart to flame;
  Then cry'd she out, Ah, now I prove
  Thou art a God, Almighty Love_.

  III.

  _She wou'd have spoke, but Shame deny'd,
  And bad her first consult her Pride;
  But soon she found that Aid was gone,
  For Love, alas, had left her none.
  Oh, how she burns, but 'tis too late,
  For in his Eyes she reads her Fate_.

_Cel_. Oh, how numerous are her Charms
--How shall I pay this generous Condescension?
Fair lovely Maid--

_Dia_. Why do you flatter, Sir?

_Cel_. To say you're lovely, by your self I do not,
I'm young, and have not much convers'd with Beauty:
Yet I'll esteem my Judgment, since it knows
Where my Devotions shou'd be justly paid.
--But, Madam, may I not yet expect
To hear the Story, you so lately promis'd me?

_Dia_. I owe much to your Goodness, Sir--but--

_Cel_. I am too young, you think, to hear a Secret;
Can I want Sense to pity your Misfortunes,
Or Passion to incite me to revenge 'em?

_Dia_. Oh, would he were in earnest!

_Cel_. She's fond of me, and I must blow that flame,
Do any thing to make her hate my _Bellmour_.    [_Aside_.
--But, Madam, I'm impatient for your Story,
That after that, you may expect my Service.

_Dia_. The Treatment you this night have given a distressed Maid,
enough obliges me; nor need I tell you, I'm nobly born; something
about my Dress, my Looks and Mien, will doubtless do me reason.

_Cel_. Sufficiently--

_Dia_. But in the Family where I was educated, a Youth of my own Age,
a Kinsman too, I chanc'd to fall in love with, but with a Passion my
Pride still got the better of; and he, I thought, repaid my young
Desires. But Bashfulness on his part, did what Pride had done on mine,
And kept his too conceal'd--At last my Uncle, who had the absolute
Dominion of us both, thought good to marry us together.

_Cel_. Punish him, Heaven, for a Sin so great.
--And are you married then?

_Dia_. Why is there Terror in that Word?

_Cel_. By all that's Sacred, 'tis a Word that kills me.
Oh, say thou art not;
And I thus low will fall, and pay thee Thanks.    [_Kneels_.

_Dia_. You'll wish indeed I were not, when you know
How very, very wretched it has made me.

_Cel_. Shou'd you be telling me a Tale all day,
Such as would melt a Heart that ne'er could love,
'Twould not increase my Reason for the wish
That I had dy'd e'er known you had been married.

_Dia_. So many soft Words from my _Bellmour's_ mouth
Had made me mad with Joy, and next to that
I wish to hear 'em from this Youth;
If they be real, how I shall be reveng'd!    [_Aside_.
--But why at my being married should you sigh?

_Cel_. Because I love, is that a Wonder, Madam?
Have you not Charms sufficient at first sight
To wound a Heart tender and young as mine?
Are you not heavenly fair? Oh, there's my Grief--
Since you must be another's.

_Dia_. Pray hear me out; and if you love me after,
Perhaps you may not think your self unhappy.
When Night was come, the long'd for Night, and all
Retir'd to give us silent Room for Joy--

_Cel_. Oh, I can hear no more--by Heav'n, I cannot.
--Here--stab me to the Heart--let out my Life,
I cannot live, and hear what follow'd next.

_Dia_. Pray hear me, Sir--

_Cel_. Oh, you will tell me he was kind--
Yes, yes--oh God--were not his balmy Kisses
Sweeter than Incense offer'd up to Heaven?
Did not his Arms, softer and whiter far
Than those of _Jove's_ transform'd to Wings of Swans,
Greedily clasp thee round?--Oh, quickly speak,
Whilst thy fair rising Bosom met with his;
And then--Oh--then--

_Dia_. Alas, Sir! What's the matter?--sit down a while.

_Cel_. Now--I am well--pardon me, lovely Creature,
If I betray a Passion, I'm too young
To've learnt the Art of hiding;
--I cannot hear you say that he was kind.

_Dia_. Kind! yes, as Blasts to Flow'rs, or early Fruit;
All gay I met him full of youthful Heat:
But like a Damp, he dasht my kindled Flame,
And all his Reason was--he lov'd another,
A Maid he call'd _Celinda_.

_Cel_. Oh blessed Man!

_Dia_. How, Sir?

_Cel_. To leave thee free, to leave thee yet a Virgin.

_Dia_. Yes, I have vow'd he never shall possess me.

_Cel_. Oh, how you bless me--but you still are married,
And whilst you are so--I must languish--

_Dia_. Oh, how his Softness moves me!    [_Aside_.
--But can all this Disorder spring from Love?

_Cel_. Or may I still prove wretched.

_Dia_. And can you think there are no ways
For me to gratify that Love?
What ways am I constrain'd to use to work out my Revenge!    [_Aside_.

_Cel_. How mean you, Madam?

_Dia_. Without a Miracle, look on my Eyes--
And Beauty--which you say can kindle Fires;
--She that can give, may too retain Desires.

_Cel_. She'll ravish me--let me not understand you.

_Dia_. Look on my Wrongs--
Wrongs that would melt a frozen Chastity,
That a religious Vow had made to Heaven:
--And next survey thy own Perfections.

_Cel_. Hah--

_Dia_. Art thou so young, thou canst not apprehend me?
Fair bashful Boy, hast thou the Power to move,
And yet not know the Bus'ness of thy Love?

_Cel_. How in an instant thou hast chill'd my Blood,
And made me know no Woman can be good?
'Tis Sin enough to yield--but thus to sue
Heav'n--'tis my Business--and not meant for you.

_Dia_. How little Love is understood by thee,
'Tis Custom, and not Passion you pursue;
Because Enjoyment first was nam'd by me,
It does destroy what shou'd your Flame renew:
My easy yielding does your Fire abate,
And mine as much your tedious Courtship hate.
Tell Heaven--you will hereafter sacrifice,
--And see how that will please the Deities.
The ready Victim is the noblest way,
Your Zeal and Obligations too to pay.

_Cel_. I think the Gods wou'd hardly be ador'd,
If they their Blessings shou'd, unask'd, afford;
And I that Beauty can no more admire,
Who ere I sue, can yield to my Desire.

_Dia_. Dull Youth, farewel:
For since 'tis my Revenge that I pursue
Less Beauty and more Man as well may do.
                               [_Offers to go_.

    _Enter_ Friendlove _disguised, as one from a Camp_.

_Cel_. Madam, you must not go with this Mistake.
                                          [_Holds her_.

_Friend_. _Celinda_ has inform'd me true--'tis she--
Good morrow, Brother, what, so early at your Devotions?

_Cel_. O, my Brother's come, and luckily relieves me.    [_Aside_.

_Friend_. Your Orizons are made to a fair Saint.
--Pray, Sir, what Lady's that?
--Or is it blasphemy to repeat her Name?
--By my bright Arms, she's fair--With what a charming
Fierceness, she charges through my Body to my Heart.
--Death! how her glittering Eyes give Fire, and wound!
And have already pierc'd my very Soul!
--May I approach her, Brother?

_Cel_. Yes, if you dare, there's danger in it though,
She has Charms that will bewitch you:
--I dare not stand their Mischief.
                                      [_Exit_.

_Friend_. Lady, I am a Soldier--yet in my gentlest Terms
I humbly beg to kiss your lovely Hands--
Death! there's Magick in the Touch.
By Heaven, you carry an Artillery in every part.

_Dia_. This is a Man indeed fit for my purpose.    [_Aside_.

_Friend_. Nay, do not view me, I am no lovely Object;
I am a Man bred up to Noise and War,
And know not how to dress my Looks in Smiles;
Yet trust me, fair one, I can love and serve
As well as an _Endymion_, or _Adonis_.
Wou'd you were willing to permit that Service!

_Dia_. Why, Sir?--What cou'd you do?

_Friend_. Why--I cou'd die for you.

_Dia_. I need the Service of the living, Sir.
But do you love me, Sir?

_Friend_. Or let me perish, flying from a single Enemy.
I am a Gentleman, and may pretend to love you;
And what you can command, I can perform.

_Dia_. Take heed, Sir, what you say, for I'm in earnest.

_Friend_. Command me any thing that's just and brave;
And, by my Eyes, 'tis done.

_Dia_. I know not what you call just or brave;
But those whom I do the Honour to command,
Must not capitulate.

_Friend_. Let him be blasted with the Name of Coward,
That dares dispute your Orders.

_Dia_. Dare you fight for me?

_Friend_. With a whole Army; 'tis my Trade to fight.

_Dia_. Nay, 'tis but a single Man.

_Friend_. Name him.

_Dia_. _Bellmour_.

_Friend_. Of _Yorkshire_? Companion to young _Friendlove_, that came
lately from _Italy_?

_Dia_. Yes, do you know him?

_Friend_. I do, who has oft spoke of _Bellmour_;
We travel'd into _Italy_ together--But since, I hear,
He fell in love with a fair cruel Maid,
For whom he languishes.

_Dia_. Heard you her Name?

_Friend_. _Diana_, rich in Beauty, as in Fortune.
--Wou'd she had less of both, and more of Pity;
And that I knew not how to wish, till now
That I became a Lover, perhaps as unsuccessful.    [_Aside_.

_Dia_. I knew my Beauty had a thousand Darts,
But knew not they cou'd strike so quick and home.    [_Aside_.
Let your good Wishes for your Friend alone,
Lest he being happy, you shou'd be undone.
For he and you cannot be blest at once.

_Friend_. How, Madam!

_Dia_. I am that Maid he loves, and who hates him.

_Friend_. Hate him!

_Dia_. To Death.

_Friend_. Oh, me unhappy!    [_Aside_.

_Dia_. He sighs and turns away--am I again defeated?
Surely I am not fair, or Man's insensible.

_Friend_. She knows me not--
And 'twas discreetly done to change my Shape:
For Woman is a strange fantastick Creature;
And where before, I cou'd not gain a Smile,
Thus I may win her Heart.    [_Aside_.
--Say, Madam, can you love a Man that dies for you?

_Dia_. The way to gain me, is to fight with _Bellmour_.
Tell him from me you come, the wrong'd _Diana_;
Tell him you have an Interest in my Heart,
Equal to that which I have made in yours.

_Friend_. I'll do't; I will not ask your Reason, but obey.
Swear e'er I go, that when I have perform'd it,
You'll render me Possession of your Heart.

_Dia_. By all the Vows that Heaven ties Hearts together with,
I'll be entirely yours.

_Friend_. And I'll not be that conscientious Fool,
To stop at Blessings 'cause they are not lawful;
But take 'em up, when Heaven has thrown 'em down,
Without the leave of a Religious Ceremony.    [_Aside_.
Madam, this House, which I am Master of,
You shall command; whilst I go seek this _Bellmour_.

_Dia_. But e'er you go, I must inform you why
I do pursue him with my just Revenge.

_Friend_. I will attend, and hear impatiently.

                                          [_Exeunt_.



SCENE II. _A Baudy House_.


    _Enter Mrs_. Driver _and_ Betty Flauntit.

_Flaunt_. _Driver_, prithee call for a Glass, that I may set my self
in order, before I go up; for really my Knight has not been at home all
this Night, and I am so confus'd--

    _Enter one with a Glass, and two Wenches_, Jenny _and_ Doll.

Lord, Mrs. _Driver_, I wonder you shou'd send for me, when other Women
are in Company; you know of all things in the World, I hate Whores, they
are the pratingst leudest poor Creatures in Nature; and I wou'd not, for
any thing, Sir _Timothy_ shou'd know that I keep Company, 'twere enough
to lose him.

Mrs. _Driv_. Truly, Mrs. _Flauntit_, this young Squire that you were
Sent to for, has two or three Persons more with him that must be
accommodated too.

_Flaunt_. _Driver_, though I do recreate my self a little sometimes,
yet you know I value my Reputation and Honour.

_Jenny_. Mrs. _Driver_, why shou'd you send for us where _Flauntit_ is?
a stinking proud Flirt, who because she has a tawdry Petticoat, I warrant
you, will think her self so much above us, when if she were set out in
her own natural Colours, and her original Garments, wou'd be much below
us in Beauty.

Mrs. _Driv_. Look ye, Mrs. _Jenny_, I know you, and I know Mrs.
_Flauntit_; but 'tis not Beauty or Wit that takes now-a-days; the Age
is altered since I took upon me this genteel Occupation: but 'tis a fine
Petticoat, right Points, and clean Garnitures, that does me Credit, and
takes the Gallant, though on a stale Woman. And again, Mrs. _Jenny_,
she's kept, and Men love as much for Malice, as for Lechery, as they
call it. Oh, 'tis a great Mover to Joy, as they say, to have a Woman
that's kept.

_Jen_. Well! Be it so, we may arrive to that excellent Degree of
Cracking, to be kept too one day.

Mrs. _Driv_. Well, well, get your selves in order to go up to the
Gentlemen.

_Flaunt_. _Driver_, what art thou talking to those poor Creatures?
Lord, how they stink of Paint and Pox, faugh--

Mrs. _Driv_. They were only complaining that you that were kept,
shou'd intrude upon the Privileges of the Commoners.

_Flaunt_. Lord, they think there are such Joys in Keeping, when I vow,
_Driver_, after a while, a Miss has as painful a Life as a Wife; our
Men drink, stay out late, and whore, like any Husbands.

_Driv_. But I hope in the Lord, Mrs. _Flauntit_, yours is no such Man;
I never saw him, but I have heard he's under decent Correction.

_Flaunt_. Thou art mistaken, _Driver_, I can keep him within no moderate
Bounds without Blows; but for his filthy Custom of Wenching, I have
almost broke him of that--but prithee, _Driver_, who are these Gentlemen?

_Driv_. Truly, I know not; but they are young, and fine as Princes: two
of 'em were disguis'd in masking Habits last Night, but they have sent
'em away this Morning, and they are free as Emperors--One of 'em has
lost a Thousand Pound at Play, and never repin'd at it; one's a Knight,
and I believe his Courage is cool'd, for he has ferreted my Maids over
and over to Night--But 'tis the fine, young, handsom Squire that I
design you for.

_Flaunt_. No matter for his Handsomness, let me have him that has
most Money.

                            [_Exeunt_.



SCENE III. _Another Chamber in the Brothel, a Table with Box and Dice_.


    _Enter_ Bellmour, _Sir_ Timothy, Sham _and_ Sharp.

_Bel_. Damn it, give us more Wine.    [_Drinks_.
Where stands the Box and Dice?--Why, _Sham_.

_Sham_. Faith, Sir, Your Luck's so bad, I han't the Conscience to play
longer--Sir _Timothy_ and you play off a hundred Guineas, and see if
Luck will turn.

_Bel_. Do you take me for a Country Squire, whose Reputation will be
crackt at the loss of a petty Thousand? You have my Note for it to my
Goldsmith.

_Sham_. 'Tis sufficient if it were for ten thousand.

_Bel_. Why, Sir _Timothy_--Pox on't, thou'rt dull, we are not half
debauch'd and leud enough, give us more Wine.

Sir _Tim_. Faith, _Frank_, I'm a little maukish with sitting up all
Night, and want a small refreshment this Morning--Did we not send
for Whores?

_Bel_. No, I am not in humour for a Wench--
By Heaven, I hate the Sex.
All but divine _Celinda_,
Appear strange Monsters to my Eyes and Thoughts.

Sir _Tim_. What, art Italianiz'd, and lovest thy own Sex?

_Bel_. I'm for any thing that's out of the common Road of Sin; I love
a Man that will be damn'd for something: to creep by slow degrees to
Hell, as if he were afraid the World shou'd see which way he went, I
scorn it, 'tis like a Conventicler--No, give me a Man, who to be certain
of's Damnation, will break a solemn Vow to a contracted Maid.

Sir _Tim_. Ha, ha, ha, I thought thou would'st have said at least--had
murder'd his Father, or ravish'd his Mother--Break a Vow, quoth ye--by
Fortune, I have broke a thousand.

_Bel_. Well said, my Boy! A Man of Honour! And will be ready whene'er
the Devil calls for thee--So--ho--more Wine, more Wine, and Dice.

    _Enter a Servant with Dice and Wine_.

Come, Sir, let me--
                       [_Throws and loses_.

Sir _Tim_. What will you set me, Sir?

_Bel_. Cater-tray--a hundred Guineas--oh, damn the Dice--'tis mine--come,
a full Glass--Damnation to my Uncle.

Sir _Tim_. By Fortune, I'll do thee reason--give me the Glass, and,
_Sham_, to thee--Confusion to the musty Lord.

_Bel_. So--now I'm like my self, profanely wicked.
A little room for Life--but such a Life
As Hell it self shall wonder at--I'll have a care
To do no one good deed in the whole course on't,
Lest that shou'd save my Soul in spite of Vow-breach.
--I will not die--that Peace my Sins deserve not.
I'll live and let my Tyrant Uncle see
The sad effects of Perjury, and forc'd Marriage.
--Surely the Pow'rs above envy'd my Bliss;
Marrying _Celinda_, I had been an Angel,
So truly blest, and good.    [_Weeps_.

Sir _Tim_. Why, how now, _Frank_--by Fortune, the Rogue is Maudlin--So,
ho, ho, so ho.

_Bel_. The matter?

Sir _Tim_. Oh, art awake--What a Devil ail'st thou, _Frank_?

_Bel_. A Wench, or any thing--come, let's drink a round.

_Sham_. They're come as wisht for.

    _Enter_ Flauntit, Driver, Doll _and_ Jenny _mask'd_.

_Bel_. Oh, damn 'em! What shall I do?
Yet it would look like Virtue to avoid 'em.
No, I must venture on--Ladies, y'are welcome.

Sir _Tim_. How, the Women?--Hold, hold, _Bellmour_, let me choose too--
Come, come, unmask, and shew your pretty Faces.

_Flaunt_. How, Sir _Timothy_! What Devil ow'd me a spite.    [_Aside_.

Sir _Tim_. Come, unmask, I say: a willing Wench would have shew'd all
in half this time.

_Flaunt_. Wou'd she so, Impudence!
                            [_Pulls off her Mask_.

Sir _Tim_. How, my _Betty_!

_Flaunt_. This is the Trade you drive, you eternal Fop, when I sit at
home expecting you Night after Night.

Sir _Tim_. Nay, dear Betty!

_Flaunt_. 'Tis here you spend that which shou'd buy me Points and
Petticoats, whilst I go like no body's Mistress; I'd as live be your
Wife at this rate, so I had: and I'm in no small danger of getting the
foul Disease by your Leudness.

Sir _Tim_. Victorious _Betty_, be merciful, and do not ruin my Reputation
amongst my Friends.

_Flaunt_. Your Whores you mean, you Sot you.

Sir _Tim_. Nay, triumphant _Betty_, hear thy poor _Timmy_.

_Flaunt_. My poor _Ninny_, I'm us'd barbarously, and won't endure it.

Sir _Tim_. I've won Money to Night, _Betty_, to buy thee Clothes--hum
--hum--Well said, _Frank_, towse the little Jilts, they came for that
purpose.

_Flaunt_. The Devil confound him, what a Prize have I lost by his being
here--my Comfort is, he has not found me out though, but thinks I came
to look for him, and accordingly I must dissemble.

_Bel_. What's here? A Lady all in Tears!

Sir _Tim_. An old Acquaintance of mine, that takes it unkindly that I
am for Change--_Betty_, say so too, you know I can settle nothing till
I'm marry'd; and he can do it swingingly, if we can but draw him in.

_Flaunt_. This mollifies something, do this, and you'll make your Peace;
if not, you Rascal, your Ears shall pay for this Night's Transgression.

Sir _Tim_. Come hither, _Frank_, is not this a fine Creature?

_Bel_. By Heaven, a very Devil!

Sir _Tim_. Come, come, approach her; for if you'll have a Miss, this has
all the good Qualities of one--go, go Court her, thou art so bashful--

_Bel_. I cannot frame my Tongue to so much Blasphemy, as 'tis to say kind
things to her--I'll try my Heart though--Fair Lady--Damn her, she is not
fair--nor sweet--nor good--nor--something I must say for a beginning.
Come, Lady--dry your Eyes:
This Man deserves not all the Tears you shed.
--So--at last the Devil has got the better of me,
And I am enter'd.

_Flaunt_. You see, Sir, how miserable we Women are that love you Men.

_Bel_. How, did you love him? Love him against his Will?

_Flaunt_. So it seems, Sir.

_Bel_. Oh, thou art wretched then indeed; no wonder if he hate thee--
Does he not curse thee?
Curse thee till thou art damn'd, as I do lost _Diana_.    [_Aside_.

_Flaunt_. Curse me! He were not best in my hearing;
Let him do what he will behind my Back.
What ails the Gentleman?

_Bel_. Gods! what an odious thing mere Coupling is!
A thing which every sensual Animal
Can do as well as we--but prithee tell me,
Is there nought else between the nobler Creatures?

_Flaunt_. Not that I know of, Sir--
Lord, he's very silly, or very innocent, I hope he has his Maidenhead;
if so, and rich too. Oh, what a booty were this for me!    [_Aside_.

_Bel_. 'Tis wondrous strange;
Why was not I created like the rest,
Wild, and insensible, to fancy all?

_Flaunt_. Come, Sir, you must learn to be gay, to sing, to dance, and
talk of any thing, and fancy any thing that's in your way too.

_Bel_. Oh, I can towse, and ruffle, like any Leviathan, when I begin--
Come, prove my Vigor.    [_Towses her_.

_Flaunt_. Oh, Lord, Sir! You tumble all my Garniture.

_Bel_. There's Gold to buy thee more--

_Flaunt_. Oh, sweet Sir--wou'd my Knight were hang'd, so I were well
rid of him now--Well, Sir, I swear you are the most agreeable Person--

_Bel_. Am I?--let us be more familiar then--I'll kiss thy Hand, thy
Breast, thy Lips--and--

_Flaunt_. All--you please, Sir--

_Bel_. A tractable Sinner!    [_Offers to kiss her_.
Faugh--how she smells--had I approach'd so near divine _Celinda_, what
A natural Fragrancy had sent it self through all my ravisht Senses!
                                                              [_Aside_.

_Flaunt_. The Man's extasy'd, sure, I shall take him.
Come, Sir, you're sad.

_Bel_. As Angels fall'n from the Divine Abode,
And now am lighted on a very Hell!
--But this is not the way to thrive in Wickedness;
I must rush on to Ruin--Come, fair Mistress,
Will you not shew me some of your Arts of Love?
For I am very apt to learn of Beauty--Gods--
What is't I negotiate for?--a Woman!
Making a Bargain to possess a Woman!
Oh, never, never!

_Flaunt_. The Man is in love, that's certain--as I was saying, Sir--

_Bel_. Be gone, Repentance! Thou needless Goodness,
Which if I follow, canst lead me to no Joys.
Come, tell me the Price of all your Pleasures.

Sir _Tim_. Look you, Mistress, I am but a Country Knight.
Yet I shou'd be glad of your farther Acquaintance.
--Pray, who may that Lady be--

_Driv_. Who, Mrs. Flauntit, Sir?

Sir _Tim_. Ay, she: she's tearing fine, by Fortune.

_Driv_. I'll assure you, Sir, she's kept, and is a great Rarity,
but to a Friend, or so--

Sir _Tim_. Hum--kept--pray, by whom?

_Driv_. Why, a silly Knight, Sir, that--

Sir _Tim_. Ay, ay, silly indeed--a Pox upon her--a silly Knight,
you say--

_Driv_. Ay, Sir, one she makes a very Ass of.

Sir _Tim_. Ay, so methinks--but she's kind, and will do reason for
all him.

_Driv_. To a Friend, a Man of Quality--or so.

Sir _Tim_. Ay, she blinds the Knight.

_Driv_. Alas, Sir, easily--he, poor Cully, thinks her a very Saint--but
when he's out of the way, she comes to me to pleasure a Friend.

Sir _Tim_. But what if the Fool miss her?

_Driv_. She cries Whore first, brings him upon his Knees for her Fault;
and a piece of Plate, or a new Petticoat, makes his Peace again.

Sir _Tim. Why--look you, Mistress, I am that Fop, that very silly Knight,
and the rest that you speak of.

_Driv_. How, Sir? then I'm undone, she's the Upholder of my Calling, the
very Grace of my Function.

Sir _Tim_. Is she so? e'en keep her to your self then, I'll have no more
of her, by Fortune--I humbly thank you for your Intelligence, and the
rest. Well--I see there's not one honest Whore i'th' Nation, by Fortune.

          _Enter_ Charles Bellmour, _and_ Trusty.

Hark ye, Mistress, what was your Bus'ness here?

_Flaunt_. To meet a Rogue!--

Sir _Tim_. And I to meet a Whore, and now we are well met.

_Flaunt_. How, Sir?

Sir _Tim_. Nay, never be surpriz'd, for your Intrigues are discover'd,
 the good Matron of the House (against her Will) has done me that
kindness--you know how to live without your Keeper, and so I'll
leave you.

_Flaunt_. You're too serviceable a Fool to be lost so.    [_Aside_.

_Bel_. Who knows this bold Intruder?

_Char_. How, Sir, am I a Stranger to you? But I shou'd wonder at it,
since all your last Night's Actions betray'd a strange depravity of
Sense.--Sir, I have sought you long, and wish I had not found you yet,
since both the Place and Company declare, how grossly you've dissembled
Virtue all this while.

_Bel_. Take hence that prating Boy.

_Char_. How, Sir--You are my elder Brother, yet I may be allow'd to do
the Business that I came for, and from my Uncle to demand your Wife.

_Bel_. You may return, and tell him that she's dead.

_Char_. Dead! sure, Sir, you rave.
                           [_Turns him about_.

_Bel_. Indeed I do--but yet she's dead, they say.

_Char_. How came she dead?

_Bel_. I kill'd her--ask no more, but leave me.
                                   [_Turns him about again_.

_Char_. Sir, this is Madman's Language, and not to be believed.

_Bel_. Go to--y'are a saucy Boy.

_Char_. Sir, I'm an angry Boy--
But yet can bear much from a Brother's Mouth;
Y'ave lost your sleep: pray, Sir, go home and seek it.

_Bel_. Home! I have no Home, unless thou mean'st my Grave,
And thither I cou'd wish thou wou'd conduct me.    [_Weeps_.

_Flaunt_. Pray Heaven this young virtuous Fellow don't spoil all.
--Sir, shall I send for a Scrivener to draw the Settlement you
promis'd me?

_Bel_. Do so, and I'll order him to get it ready.

_Char_. A Settlement! On whom? This Woman, Sir?

_Bel_. Yes, on this Woman, Sir.

_Char_. Are you stark mad?--Know you where you are?

_Bel_. Yes, in a Baudy-house.

_Char_. And this Woman, Sir.--

_Bel_. A very Whore--a tawdry mercenary Whore!
And what of this?

_Char_. And can you love her, Sir?

_Bel_. No, if I did, I wou'd not gratify her.

_Char_. What, is't in Charity to keep her honest?

_Bel_. Neither.

_Char_. Is your Lust grown so high--

_Bel_. Take that--    [_Strikes him_.
For naming but so base a thing to me.

_Char_. I wear a Sword, but not to draw on Mad-men. But since y'are so
free, Sir, I demand that Fortune, which by my Father's Will y'are bound
to pay the day after your Wedding-Day; my Sister's too is due.

_Bel_. Ha, ha, ha,--Sir _Timothy_, come hither--who dost think this is?

Sir _Tim_. A Fidler, perhaps--let him play in the next Room.

_Bel_. No, my Brother--come to demand his Portion of me; he says I am in
leud Company, and, like a Boy, he wou'd correct me.

Sir _Tim_. Why, this comes of Idleness; thou should'st have bound him
Prentice in time, the Boy would have made a good saucy Taylor.

_Char_. Sirrah, y'are a Rascal, whom I must thus chastise.
                                                   [_Kicks him_.

    [_They all draw, and_ Bellmour _stands foremost, and fights
    with_ Charles; _the Women run squeaking out, Sir_ Tim.
    Sham, _and_ Sharp _sneak behind_; Trusty _interposes_.

_Trust_. Hold, hold, I beseech you, my dear Masters! Oh, what a fight
is this? Two Brothers fighting with each other! Oh, were my old Master
alive, this wou'd break his Heart: Oh, Sir, you've kill'd your Brother!

_Bel_. Why, then his Portion's paid.
                           [Charles _wounded_.

Sir _Tim_. How, kill'd! Nay, 'tis time we departed then, and shifted
for ourselves.

                  [_Ex. Sir_ Tim. Sham _and_ Sharp.

_Trust_. Oh, Sir, shall I send for a Chyrurgion?

_Char_. No, for a Coach rather, I am not wounded much.

                                             [_Ex_. Trusty.

_Bel_. How dar'st thou trust thy self alone with me?

_Char_. Why should I fear thee?

_Bel_. Because I'm mad,
Mad as a Tygress rob'd of her dear Young.

_Char_. What is't that makes you so?

_Bel_. My Uncle's Politicks, Hell take him for't,
Has ruin'd me, thou and my Sister too,
By marrying me to a fair hated Maid,
When I had plighted all my Faith before.

    _Enter_ Trusty.

_Trust_. Sir, here's a Coach.

_Char_. Come, Brother, will you go home with me?

_Bel_. Home!--no, never to that place thou call'st so.
If, when I'm dead, thou wouldst behold thy Brother,
And take the last Adieu from his cold Lips,
(If those so perjur'd can deserve that kindness)
Inquire for lost _Celinda_, at whose Feet
Thou shalt behold me fall'n a Sacrifice.
Till then, I'll let mistaken Parents know
The mischiefs that ensue a broken Vow.

                              [_Ex. severally_.




ACT V.

SCENE I. _Covent Garden_.


    _Enter_ Betty Flauntit _alone_.

_Flaunt_. Sure I rose the wrong way to day, I have had such damn'd ill
luck every way: First, to be sent for to such a Man as this _Bellmour_,
and, as the Devil wou'd have it, to find my Knight there; then to be
just upon the Point of making my Fortune, and to be interrupted by that
virtuous Brother of his; then to have a Quarrel happen, that (before I
could whisper him in the Ear, to say so much as, Meet me here again--
anon) forc'd me to quit the House, lest the Constable had done it for
me; then that that silly Baud should discover all to my Cully. If this
be not ill Luck, the Devil's in't--But _Driver_ must bring matters
about, that I may see this liberal Squire again--But here comes my
Noddy, I must pretend to be angry.

    _Enter Sir_ Timothy.

Sir _Tim_. Lord, Lord, how ye look now, as if you had committed no
Misdemeanour: Alas, good Innocent, what canst thou say for thy self,
thou Renegado thou, for being false to my Bosom, say?

_Flaunt_. False to your Bosom! You silly impudent Sot you--who dares
accuse me?

Sir _Tim_. E'en your trusty and well-beloved Friend, Mrs. _Driver_
the Baud.

_Flaunt_. She! She's an impudent confounded Lyar--and because she wou'd
have your worshipful Custom--scandaliz'd me, to breed a difference
between us.

Sir _Tim_. Ay, if you could make me believe that indeed, when she knew
Me not, nor ever saw me all the Days of her Life before.

_Flaunt_. I know that, Simpleton; but when I went to enquire for you by
your Name, and told her my Bus'ness, our Amours are not kept so secret,
nor was she so dull, as not to understand how matters went between us.

Sir _Tim_. Now though I know this to be a damn'd Lye, yet the Devil has
assisted her to make it look so like Truth, that I cannot in Honour but
forgive her.

_Flaunt_. Forgive me!--Who shall forgive you your debauch'd Whoring and
Drinking?--marry, ye had need so, you are such a Ruffler, at least if
y'are every where as you are at home with me--No, Sirrah, I'll never bed
with you more; here I live sneaking without a Coach, or any thing to
appear withal; when even those that were scandalous two Ages ago, can be
seen in _Hide-Park_ in their fine Chariots, as if they had purchas'd it
with a Maidenhead; whilst I, who keep myself intirely for you, can get
nothing but the Fragments of your Debauches--I'll be damn'd before I'll
endure it.

Sir _Tim_. Just as the Baud said; yet I am mollify'd--nay, dear _Betty_,
forgive me, and I'll be very good for the future.

_Flaunt_. Will you swear to be so?

Sir _Tim_. Ay, by Fortune, I will.

_Flaunt_. Come, what will you give me then to be Friends? for you won
Money last Night.

Sir _Tim_. Ay, that's it that appeases her highest Storms--here, my
Jewel, here's a hundred Guineas to buy thee fine things.

_Flaunt_. Yes, great store of fine things indeed, with this pitiful Sum;
let me feel in your Pockets, and see if you have no more.
                                         [_She feels in his Pockets_.

Sir _Tim_. So, 'twas well I laid by the rest, my Peace had not been
Made under every Rag on't else; and what I was painfully cheating for
All this Night, would have been laid out at the Mercers and Lacemans
in half an Hour.
--Well, are you satisfy'd I have no more?

_Flaunt_. Have you sunk none indeed and indeed, my _Timmy?_

Sir _Tim_. No, I need not, you sink mine fast enough, I thank ye.
                                                           [_Aside_.

_Flaunt_. Well, get your self ready to go abroad with me.

                                                  [_Exit_ Flaunt.

Sir _Tim_. I have other Matters in hand--now have I four hundred
Guineas in Bank, which I won last Night of _Bellmour_, which I'll make
use of to debauch his Sister, with whom I'm damnably in love, and long
for the return of my two Setting-dogs, to bring me News of the Game.

    _Enter_ Sham _and_ Sharp.

Oh, are you come?

_Sham_. Ay, Sir, with News worth the hearing; I have been diligent,
Sir, and got my self acquainted with the old Steward of the Family, an
avaricious _Judas_, that will betray for Gold.

Sir _Tim_. And that we'll furnish him with--his Master's Gold, like all
other mortal things, must return from whence it came.

_Sharp_. Not all, Sir; for _Sham_ and I have dispos'd of part.

Sir _Tim_. Indeed you are a little shabby.

_Sham_. Ay, Sir, Fools were made to repair the Breaches of us that have
Wit enough to manage 'em.

Sir _Tim_. What--the Goldsmith paid the Money at sight, without
demanding why?

_Sharp_. Readily, Sir--he's a brave Fellow, and must not be lost so.

_Sham_. By no means, we must make use of him whilst he is hot; for I
doubt the Humour is not natural, and I fear he may cool.

Sir _Tim_. But to our Business.

_Sharp_. Ay, Sir, this same Sister of his you must have;
if it be but to put this insolent Whore _Flauntit_ out of favour, who
manages this Fop intirely.    [_Aside_.

Sir _Tim_. Ay, but art thou sure there is no danger in this Enterprize?
Shall I not have my Throat cut? and the rest.

_Sham_. We have none of that _Italian_ Humour now-a-days, I can assure
ye; they will sooner, with a brotherly kindness, assist the yielding
Sister to the willing Gallant.

Sir _Tim_. A good thriving Inclination, by Fortune.

_Sham_. And, Sir, you have all Encouragement; her Brother, you heard,
refus'd to pay her Portion, and you know the Fate of a handsom young
Wench in this Town, that relies on weak Virtue--Then because she is in
The House with her Uncle, this same Steward has contriv'd matters so,
to bring you in at the Back-door, her Lodgings being in the Garden.

Sir _Tim_. This is something--Oh, I'm impatient to be with her--Well, I
must in, and make some Lye to _Betty_ for my Absence, and be with you
presently.
              [_Exit Sir_ Tim.

_Sharp_. What Design hast thou in hand? for I suppose there is no such
real thing as debauching of this Lady.

_Sham_. Look ye, _Sharp_, take to thee an implicit Faith, and believe
Impossibilities; for thou and I must cozen this Knight.

_Sharp_. What, our Patron?

_Sham_. Ay, _Sharp_, we are bound to labour in our Callings, but mum--
here he comes.

    _Enter Sir_ Timothy.

Sir _Tim_. Come, let's away, my Lyoness begins to roar.--You, _Sharp_,
go seek after _Bellmour_, watch his Motions, and give us notice.

                                                           [_Exeunt_.

_Flaunt_. He is gone, and I believe [Betty Flauntit _peeping out_.] for
no Goodness; I'll after him, and watch him.

                                  [_Exit cross the Stage_.



SCENE II. _Lord_ Plotwell's _House_.


    _Enter Lord_ Plotwell, Charles, Trusty, _and two Servants_.

_Lord_. In a Baudy-house, with Whores, Hectors, and Dice! Oh, that I
should be so deceiv'd in Mankind, he whom I thought all Virtue and
Sobriety! But go some of you immediately, and take Officers along with
you, and remove his Quarters from a Baudy-house to a Prison: charge him
with the Murder of his Wife.

_Char_. My Lord, when I demanded her, he said indeed that she was dead,
and kill'd by him; but this I guess was the Effects of Madness, which
Debauchery, and want of Sleep has brought him to.

_Lord_. That shall be try'd; go to the Place where _Charles_ has
directed you, and do as I command you.

                               [_Ex. Servants_.

--Oh, sweet _Diana_, in whom I had plac'd my absolute Delight,
And gave thee to this Villain, because I wish'd thee happy.
And are my Expectations fall'n to this?
Upon his Wedding Night to abandon thee,
And shew his long dissembled natural Leudness!

_Char_. My Lord, I hope, 'tis not his natural Temper;
For e'er we parted, from a brutal Rudeness,
He grew to all the Softness Grief could dictate.
He talkt of breach of Vows, of Death, and Ruin,
And dying at the Feet of a wrong'd Maid;
I know not what he meant.

_Lord_. Ay, there's his Grief; there is some jilting Hussy has drawn
him in; but I'll revenge my self on both.

    _Enter_ Page.

_Page_. A Letter for your Lordship.

Lord _reads_.

  My LORD,

  _As your Goodness has been ever great towards me, so I
  humbly beseech you to continue it; and the greatest Proofs you
  can give me of it, is to use all your Interest to undo that tye
  between_ Bellmour _and my self, which with such Joy you
  knit. I will say no more, but as you love my Life, and my
  dearer Honour, get a Divorce, or you will see both ruin'd in
                                             Your_ Diana.

            [_Gives_ Charles _the Letter_.

_Lord_. A Divorce! yes, if all my Interest or Estate can purchase it--
some Joy yet that thou art well.

_Char_. Doubtless her Reasons must be great for this Request.

_Lord_. Yes, for she lov'd him passionately; when I first told her of
my Designs to marry 'em together, she could not hide her Joy; which was
one Motive, I urg'd it to him with such Violence.

_Char_. Persons so near of Kin do seldom prosper in the Marriage-Bed.

_Lord_. However 'tis, I now think fit to unmarry 'em;
And as for him, I'll use him with what Rigor
The utmost Limits of the Law allows me.

_Char_. Sir, I beseech you--

_Lord_. You beseech me! You, the Brother of the
Villain! that has abus'd the best of all my Hopes!--No,
I think--I shall grow (for his sake) to hate all that belong to him.

_Char_. Sir, how, have I offended?

_Lord_. Yes, Sir, you have offended me, and Nature has offended me;
you are his Brother, and that's an Offence to me.

_Char_. Is that a Fault, my Lord?

_Lord_. Yes, Sir, a great one, and I'll have it so; and let me tell you,
you nor your Sister (for that reason) must expect no more Friendship at
my Hands, than from those that are absolute Strangers to you: Your
Brother has refus'd you your Portions, and I'll have as little Mercy
As he, and so farewel to you--But where's the Messenger that brought
the Letter?

_Page_. Without, my Lord.

                  [_Ex_. Lord _and_ Page.

_Trust_. Here's like to be a hopeful end of a noble Family. My Comfort
is, I shall die with Grief, and not see the last of ye.    [_Weeps_.

_Char_. No, _Trusty_, I have not been so meanly educated, but I know how
to live, and like a Gentleman: All that afflicts me in this Misfortune,
is my dear Sister _Phillis_, she's young; and to be left poor in this
loose Town, will ruin her for ever.

_Trust_. Sir, I think we were best to marry her out of the way.

_Char_. Marry her! To whom? who is't regards poor Virtue?

_Trust_. For that let me alone; and if you dare trust her to my
Management, I'll undertake to marry her to a Man of 2000 pounds a Year;
and if it fail, I'll be sure to keep her Honour safe.

_Char_. Prithee how wilt do this?

_Trust_. Sir, I have serv'd your Family these thirty Years, with Faith
and Love; and if I lose my Credit now, I'll never pretend to't more.

_Char_. Do what thou wilt, for I am sure thou'rt honest,
And I'll resign my Sister to thy Conduct,
Whilst I endeavour the Conversion of my Brother.
                                          [_Exit_ Charles.

    _Enter_ Phillis.

_Phil_. No News yet of my Brother?

_Trust_. None: The Next you'll hear is, that he's undone, and that you
must go without your Portions; and worse than that, I can tell you, your
Uncle designs to turn you out of Doors.

_Phil_. Alas! what shou'd I do, if he shou'd be so cruel? Wou'd I were
in _Flanders_ at my Monastery again, if this be true.

_Trust_. I have better Bus'ness for you, than telling of Beads--No,
Mrs. _Phillis_, you must be married.

_Phil_. Alas! I am too young, and sad for Love.

_Trust_. The younger, and the less Love, the better.

    _Enter_ Page.

_Page_. Mr. _Trusty_, here's a Gentleman would speak with you, he says
his Name's Mr. _Sham_.

_Trust_. Gud's me, Mistress, put on all your Holiday Looks; for this is
the little Merchant of Love by Retail, that brings you the Husband I
promis'd you.

    _Enter_ Sham.

_Sham_. Well, Mr. _Trusty_, I have brought Sir _Timothy_ as I promis'd,
he is at the Garden-door.

_Trust_. The best time in the World, my Lord's out of the way.

_Sham_. But you know our Conditions.

_Trust_. Yes, that if he marry her, you are to have all the Money that
he offers to debauch her.

_Sham_. Right.

_Trust_. Bring him in then, and I'll civilly withdraw.
                                               [_Exit_ Trusty.

    _Enter_ Sham, _bringing in Sir_ Timothy.

Sir _Tim_. Well, _Sham_, thou hast prepar'd all things, and there needs
no Ceremony.

_Sham_. None, none, Sir; you may fall down-right to the Business.
                                                             [_Exit_.

    _Enter_ Phillis.

Sir _Tim_. _sings_.

  _Come, my_ Phillis, _let us improve
  Both our Joys of equal Love;
  Whilst we in yonder shady Grove,
  Count Minutes by our Kisses_.

_Phil_. What sort of Courtship's this? 'tis very odd!

Sir _Tim_. Pox on formal Fops; we have high-born and generous Souls,
and scorn the common Road--Come, let's enjoy, whilst Youth and Beauty
lasts.

_Phil_. What means this Rudeness? I'll tell my Brother.

Sir _Tim_. Your Brother! by Fortune, he's so leud, that should I he so
unconscionable to leave thee a Virgin but this Night, he wou'd ravish
thee himself, and that at cheaper Rates than I design to do it.

_Phil_. How dare you talk to me at this rate?

Sir _Tim_. Talk to thee--by Fortune, I'll play the _Tarquin_ with thee,
if thou yieldest not quickly--for thou hast set me all on fire.

_Phil_. Defend me, Heaven, from such a Man.

Sir _Tim_. Then it must defend you from all the Sex; for all Mankind are
like me, nay, and all Womankind are, or wou'd be, what I must make thee.

_Phil_. What's that, a Wench?

Sir _Tim_. Fie, fie, that's a gross Name; no, a Miss, that's the Word--
a Lady of Delight, a Person of Pleasure and the rest; I'll keep thee,
not a Woman of Quality shall be half so fine--Come, dear _Phillis_,
yield. Oh, I am mad for the happy hour--come, say the word, 'tis but
inclining thy Head a little thus, thy pretty Eyes down, and thy Cheeks
all Blushes, and fetching a long Sigh--thus--with--do--what you please
--at the end on't--and I shall take it for granted.

_Phil_. That, Sir, you'll never hear me say to any thing but a Husband,
if I must say it then.

Sir _Tim_. A Husband! it is enough to spoil a Man's Appetite, the very
naming on't--By Fortune, thou hast been bred with thy great Grand-mother,
some old Queen _Elizabeth_ Lady, that us'd to preach Warnings to young
Maidens; but had she liv'd in this Age, she wou'd have repented her
Error, especially had she seen the Sum that I offer thee--Come, let's in,
by Fortune, I'm so vigorous, I shall ravish else.

_Phil_. Unhand me, or I'll call out. I assure you, this is not the way
to gain me.

Sir _Tim_. I know there is a way to gain all mortal Womankind; but how
to hit the critical Minute of the Berjere--

_Phil_. It is past your Politicks at this time, Sir.

Sir _Tim_. I'll try all ways, and the Devil's in it, if I don't hit
upon the right at last.    [_Aside_.
All the soft things I've said--

_Phil_. That a Knight of your Parts ought to say.

Sir _Tim_. Then I have kneel'd--and cry'd, and swore--and--

_Phil_. And damn'd your self five hundred times.

Sir _Tim_. Yet still y'are impregnable--I'll make another Proposition to
you, which is both reasonable and modish--if it prove a Boy--I'll marry
you--the Devil's in't, if that be not fair.

_Phil_. You get no earnest of me, Sir, and so farewel to you.
                                                       [_Ex_. Phillis.