THE Debauchee: OR, THE Credulous Cuckold, A COMEDY

Aphra Behn

Act First.

Scene I.

Enter Careless and Watt.

Watt, have you deliver'd the Letter, as I order'd you?

Yes, Sir, I have to your Uncles Friend Mr Save-all, but he says, he has made your peace so often and to so little purpose, that he now absolutely despairs of a Reconciliation between you.

But then thou shouldst have told him, I wou'd not take that for an answer.

Then he wou'd have answer'd me, Let your precious Master take his course, for he is like to have no better answer.

Couldst thou not tell him again, that I have taken all the Courses, a young Gentleman can, to maintain himself like one; but they are all run out, and I have not one trick to manage, and may perish unless that damn'd Uncle of mine, set me up again, nor know I how to arrive to that but through his Intercession.

Puh, Sir, then I know what he wou'd have told me again, and muster'd up all your Vices: then that this same Uncle (so despis'd a thing) before he discarded you, had releast you out of Prison, within the space of Thirteen months, a Dozen times.

Well, Coxcomb, that was not once a Month then. Why shou'd he upbraid me with it? I am sure 'twas I that suffer'd for't, and so you might have told him.

Yes, and then he wou'd have answered me, that your extravagant courses have cost your Uncle at least Fifteen hundred Pounds, and upon your last debauch (when he resolv'd never to concern himself for you again, about a year ago) he cast another Five hundred Pound after you, with this Proviso that you shou'd never trouble him any more; and at last finding you incorrigible, he Marry'd on purpose to disinherit you.

Ay, that damn'd Marriage has ruin'd me—but, damn it, let it go, and let my Uncle go to the Devil, and let Save-all go, and be damn'd for a Cynical Ass as he is.—I confess he has by his formal Solicitation, made up breaches between my Uncle and me, at least a Score of times, what a Devil had it been for him to have try'd his Interest for me once more?

I wish you wou'd consider what is to be done, for your own sake, besides you ought to take some care of me your Creature, that have stuck to you through all Fortunes, to maintain and keep up your Gallantry, and think in time before these Cloths are worn out, for you'll find it somewhat difficult to Equip your self again.

I care not, I will not give my self one Minutes trouble about it, I'll rather dye here in New Alsatia, or sell my self a Slave to the Galleys. Consider quoth a?—what shou'd I consider?

Consider your poor Whore Sir, for she (as you have manag'd her) is in a worse Case than your self; her Cloths grow somewhat shabby.

Ay there's it, I wou'd willingly do somewhat for her, but how the Devil knows.—Have I not already done all that possibly can be done by a distressed hopeless heir?

Has the Die quite fail'd you, and all the Cheats that thereupon depend? Your Marrabone bowling Booties forsaken you? your Tennis Court Betting? your Cock-Pit Cozenages too? and all your Arts of borrowing?

All, all Arts are quite confounded.

I wonder your Father shou'd leave you nothing to live upon but Wit, and that not for life.

Hold thy peace;—I am contriving a way how (tho it cost me my life,) to disgrace my Uncle.

There's a Plot! I beseech you think of your poor Whore, Sir—what do you think will become of her, if you shou'd cast away your self?

Thou knowst I must leave her once.

If you cou'd leave her handsomly—and betake your self to other Women.

To other Women? what to do? to empty my Bones? I have had enough of variety.

Ay but, Sir, you are handsom and young; I have known such in this Town, who have brought in as good a Living, as any Miss of 'em all; kept their Coaches too, with only being a little Snout Fair.

Damn it, I'll ne're fall so low to do the drugery of any Old Lady.

Very good! many a younger Brother wou'd leap at such preferment.

No I'll pursue my first Resolves, and will commit some death-deserving Crime, tho' these Cloths go to the Hangman for't, in spight to him that was my Uncle, and that ridiculous, grave, formal Nonsensical speaking Friend of his Saveall, that calls People Pe-o-p-le.

Mr Saveall!—Cou'd I expect this honour? how am I oblig'd to you for this Visit?

—Sir, being inform'd my Uncle was come to Town and you with him, I did presume to write to you.

Send away your Servant.

Go, wait without.

One Servant is not fit to be employ'd in all Offices. —It was a bold thing indeed, to write to me, considering how often I have interceded for you, and reconcil'd you to your overgrateful Uncle, therein was your good thoughts of your self.

The wretchedst Creature breathing! in having wearied out my best of Friends, on whom my chiefest happiness depended.

No, I am not wearied, but have the same good wishes still to serve you, but cannot strive against impetuous Torrents.

My Uncle's then resolv'd that I shall perish. But did you speak on my behalf this time?

O Sir! I have try'd him even unto his displeasure.

But did you mention that good deed of mine, which he once swore shou'd ever be remember'd?

All, Sir, all; but 'twas in vain to urge your merits to him, tho' to say truth, it was a worthy Action to save him, from the inhuman Violence of Thieves and Murderers— but—

Watt, and I, made Four of the stoutest Rogues fly for't, that ever cry'd Stand upon the Kings high way.—After they had dismounted him, and set their Pistols to his Bosom; he crying and roaring out for Assistance, I happen'd by meer Accident to pass by, which was a miraculous chance, nay it was, when I was out of his Favour too, and had been so for six Months; and yet Nature prevail'd and I sav'd him—nay more—

Fare you well, Sir, I cou'd have said all this as well as you—but—

Good Mr Saveall, do not leave me.

Good Mr Careless, give me leave to be heard as well as to hear.

I cry you mercy, Sir, pray proceed.

I was saying what you did then for your Uncle was a worthy Action, and you exprest your self a perfectly kind Nephew; the Action too drew blessings on your head, notwithstanding you were then cast off to Reprobation, he then receiv'd you into his Bosome again, Adopted you his Son, tho but his Sisters Son, allow'd you Three hundred Pounds a year, and gave Walter Fifty Pounds for the good Service he then did.

And he deserv'd it, I'll say that, he receiv'd a slash over the Coxcomb, he never bore his drink well since.

God be with you the second time.

Nay sweet Mr. Saveall—

I came not altogether to hear you speak, but to speak unto you my self.

Sir, I will attend with all due submission.

As I was saying—Sir Oliver being thus gracious unto you, you presumed upon your Merit still, and flew to new extravagancies, till for one good service you did him, he repaid you a hundred, by paying of Surgions Bills for Claps, Wounds, &c. Redeeming you out of Prison, till wearyed with your Extravagancies he turn'd you off for ever, nay even at that time—

Even at that time I could have liv'd, and might do so still, only by being imagin'd his Heir, had he not been Marryed: a Curse upon that Marriage, it turn'd the hearts of all well minded Citizens from me.

A Third time I will take my leave.

Sir, You shall see the last of me first and that immediately, that you may let my Uncle know, I'll be no more a Vexation to him, unless in Charity he will see me buried; 'tis all I ask.

I hope you will not kill your self and thereby damn your Soul.

O Sir, you need not disarm me, I can die without that help—I feel my heart ready to break; alas Sir, my Uncle has abandon'd me, and so have you, and then 'tis high time to dye—Watt—

Your pleasure, Sir.

I have delay'd too long to tell him the good News I bring him.

Put me to Bed, Watt.

Mrs. Phebe is come indeed, but I hope you will not go to Bed with her before him.

Put me to Bed, I say—come undress me quickly.

Lord, Lord, Sir, how his heart pants! pangs of death I fear.

Alas! I hope not so, good Mr. Walter. I will now be brief—Mr. Careless, pray look up.

No, no, Sir, I am well prepar'd to die, I thank my Stars.

Why Sir Oliver is Friends with you!

Alas, alas Sir,—

Why I thought you a Man of more resolution.

Ay, Ay Sir, I have made a resolution.

Come Sir, I profess, all that I have done was only to search your temper.

Ay, Ay, Sir, but I am afraid you have searcht too deep.

Ay, Ay,—

Come Sir, look up, Sir Oliver intends to take you into Grace again, and make a farther Tryal of you—you may be yet his Heir, for your New young Aunt is now out of hopes of a Child, having been Marryed at least 20 Months, and no signs of Issue.

Ah Sir,—can this be possible?

Most possible. Come Sir, you must along with me to your Uncle; and all things shall be well again.

Your Generosity has reviv'd me, Sir,—Watt, my Sword.—tell Phebe I am now in haste, going to see my Uncle, and cannot stay to speak with her.

Good Gentleman, how feebly he stands! but his Uncles kind Aspect will recover him.

Sir, what if I shou'd first (to shew the Reformation of my mind) leave off my unbecoming Perriwig, and put off these gay Cloths, and Equip my self in a Students Gown? I can be furnisht at the Brokers, Sir.

The Reformation of your mind's sufficient; and these Cloths become your Quality.

Enter Phebe to Watt.

What? he is departed, it seems.

Call'd by his happy Fortune.

Refuse to see me? but I'll fetch him back. [Offers to go.

Hold, hold, sweet Phebe, you will not ruine him; he's gone to be Friends with his Uncle, and I dare promise you within a day or two, a New Gown and Petticoat.

You know how to dissemble too—pray let him make me amends for the wrongs he has done me, for I neither can nor will any longer bear with him.

Nor bear him neither? You had best have a care what you say.

Nor with him neither, Sawcebox, unless he Marry me, as he promis'd, and save my honour.

Your honour, with a Pox!

Yes, Sirrah, my honour, which was unspotted before he seduc'd me, which e're long I'll make him know—nay and thou shalt assist me in it.

Why look you, Mrs. Phebe, be not so passionate, and I'll do all I can to serve you.

'Tis your safest way, or I'll be the death of you.

Bless me, how desperate Poverty makes a Whore! —but what Course do you intend to take with him?

Why I intend to send my wealthy Kinsman that lives in the City to demand satisfaction of him, which if he refuses, I don't doubt but he'll hamper him.

What I'll warrant you, you mean Saleware, he that has the flanting Wife?

Why how now Impudence! do you mock my misery? —I'll make him know what it is to abuse simple Innocence. He had no way to accomplish his wicked design, but by promising to Marry me, and at the same time made me refuse the offers of a good match in the Country, by which I incurr'd the displeasure of all my Friends; and does he think to leave me now at last, without making some provision for me? but he shall find that my Kinsman has mony, and will stretch his purse to right me by Law.—for I have already given him an Account of his ill usage to me.

But I hope you have not told him how often he has enjoy'd you, and the Wheres, and the Whens.

Sirrah, I shall teach you and your Master too, to use me with more Civility ere it be long.

Why truly, Mrs. Phebe, for all my Fooling I have a perfect sense of the injuries he has done you, and have not been wanting in my perswasions to make him less cruel;—but I'll warrant you will refuse me a kiss now for all the good Offices I have done you.

Away you impudent Rascal.

Come prethee tempt me no farther, for if you do, by Heaven I shall be most desperately in Love with you.

You in Love with me, you pittiful Creature!

Yes, faith Madam, I am your Creature as well as my Masters, and can satisfie my appetite very well upon a dish after he has done with it, and you know the Servingman is always allow'd to break his Fast upon his Masters leavings—Oh, how Devillish hungry that frown makes me.

You are no Impudent Rascal you?

Come, come, you know a good stomach needs no sawce, and you may save your self the charge and trouble of going to Law, nor shall you need the assistance of any other Friend, to make my Master do you reason, but your Friend and Servant honest Watt.

In good time.

Come take my Counsel, and if I do not handle matters so (if you'll but joyn with me) as shall content you, then say I'm a Man of no Abilities.

How joyn with you?

In the next Room I'll shew you; there I'll dictate a Letter, which you shall write too him, which shall sting him to the quick.

Nay I intended to write to him before I departed the house—Oh Cozin, are you come?

The Devil take this sniveling Cuckold for spoiling our sport.—hark ye, Mrs. Phebe, is this your Worshipful Kinsman you told me of.

I am the Gentleman, Sir, if you have any thing to say to me—my Kinswoman has told me all, and so pray tell your Master, and that he's a dishonest Gentleman if he does not Marry her according to his promise; 'tis that I came to demand in her right, or to denounce the Law against him.

'Twas well, Sir, that you came too late to tell him so, for he wou'd have so swinged you else—

Oh, oh, Sir, these great Speeches cannot fright me, I neither fear, nor care for swinging, I'll not be dasht, nor basht, nor cross him out of my Book for such payments; for, Sir, take notice he is in my Books for Sixscore pounds, as you can witness, tho you have lost the remembrance of me;—but Sapientia mea mihi; Stultitia tua tibi.

Oh your Servant, sweet Mr. Saleware, I had indeed forgot you—how does Mrs. Saleware, your most beautiful Wife? the Flower de Luce of Pater Noster Row.

No matter to you, Sir, how my Wife does; 'tis, my Kinswoman that I talk of, whom your Master has deflowr'd, and deluded, and led into a Fools Paradise, as the saying is, by swearing he wou'd make her his Wife, and here he has held her off, and held her on, till she is with Child by him, and I'll have you to know, Sirrah, my Cozin is a Gentlewoman.

Pray, Sir, how many Children have you, by your most exquisite Wife?

Why what's that to you? again Sirrah—still medling with my Wife?

I only spoke it, because you were talking of Children, Sir, —but how shall I know this is my Masters Child, if she has conceiv'd?

I shall make him know 'tis his. Come, come, there's Law to be had for money, money to be had for Friends, Friends to be had in the Spiritual Court; and so, if you please, you may tell your Master. Come, Cozin, come.

But pray, Sir, give me leave to ask you one question: From whom doth your Cozin derive her Gentility? Is it from you or your Wife?

Sirrah, you are a sawcy Jackanapes, to offer to meddle with your betters; for I'll have you to know, I am a Common Council Man, and as for my Wife, let me advise you not to mention her but with respect, or I shall bring you, where you shall be taught to mend your manners.

I cry you mercy, Sir, I know she's for great Persons.

Are you at it again? Well, Sirrah, remember this. —Come away, Cozin.

Scene II.

Enter Sir Oliver Thrivewell and Lady.

Why shou'd you harbour so ill an opinion of me?

Your late unkindness is too visible; did you not take me in your Arms last night, with exstasie? And when you discover'd that 'twas I, you coldly turn'd away, as if you had dreamt the while.

Methinks you dream now, or else you cou'd not talk so idlely.

This will not do, for I'm resolv'd, I'll never let you rest, till I know what 'tis has caus'd this Melancholy.—I am sure, be it what it will, it has been but very lately entertain'd.— Come be free with me, have you enter'd into Bonds for Friends, and are forc'd to satisfy 'em?

No, no, prethee give o're.

Or has any sad distaster befallen some dear Friend of yours?

Fie, fie.

Or is it your extravagant Nephews wicked Courses that afflicts you?—I was in hopes you had been Friends with him, you made your Friend Mr. Saveall and I believe so. You said you wou'd send for him; have you not? or do you repent the promise which you made us?

Neither, upon my life; when e're he comes, he shall be wellcome to me, prethee leave to be Inquisitive.

Indeed I shall not, Sir, till I know:

Nay good wife—

No persuasion shall prevail, I will know't tho it be a sin against my self: and Ile forgive it too.

Now shall I play the Fool, and tell her.

You will not tell me then?

Yes, I will, if you will be so good as to forgive it, tho you are most concern'd to punish it:

Sir, 'tis my duty to forgive any thing, and here again, I swear I will forgive it.

Let me confirm your mercy—and on this Altar which I have transgrest, offer new vows, of Love and Faith for ever.

Again, Sir, I forgive what ere it be.

Ile sin no more so, yet I scarce know a man that is not guilty this way—

Dear Husband, to the business. You've lov'd a pretty Woman, Is't not so? I mean—unlawfully?—

Your guess is right; and I expect my sentence.

Ha, ha, ha, what a Coyle was here, about a thing of nothing? Where shall you find from the Carman to the States-man, one tree from such a fault?—

And can you pardon it then?

Never fear it: tho I've been jealous ever since your last being in Town.

—But pray, how many Women—have you thus lov'd?—

Upon my life but one.

Tell me her name; tho I fancy I suspect who 'tis already.

Saleware my Silkmans Wife.

'Tis she I meant. Pray what price? for she's a handsome woman;

Faith after a tedious Courtship which she withstood, with much put-on Coyness and fain'd scorn, crying I had mistook my woman, she was not of that lewd sort—and so forth, at last I offer'd her a Hundred Guinies, which soften'd her into a yielding; and then I once enjoy'd her.

I guess the time too. 'Twas last Term when you stay'd out all night, and said you'd been amongst the Wits.

Still you guess right,—but that for which I hate this jilting Quean, is, having purchast her at such a price, I thought to have lov'd on still on the old stock. But she turn'd tail—and cry'd, Another Hundred Guinies, and you're welcome; this answer I receiv'd but yesterday.

O unmerciful! how rich would the City be, were every kindness that their Wives granted, so return'd and pay'd! Why, twould begger the Court and Country. But here comes Mr. Saveall and Mr. Careless, I believe. Faith 'tis a handsom Gentleman—

Enter Saveall and Careless.

Sir, I have according to your desire brought home your Nephew Careless; a Penitent he is, and so I recommend him.

George, thou art welcome, nor will I perplex thee with any upbraiding of thy past offences.

I humbly thank you, Sir,

Nay, not so grave, good George: Ile have thee live with all thy wonted Spirit. Leave but thy wonted lewdness and 'tis enough.

Sir, they only serv'd to teach me how I ought to be, by seeing my own defermity in them, and I hope, have wrought that Effect in me which you desire—

'Tis well sayd, and, George, thank Mr. Saveall and your Aunt too, for they were your Advocates,

Hah! my Aunt! how beautiful she is!

Salute her, George—

I dare not, Sir, approach her.

I like that Modesty.

Nay, nay, Sir, he is transform'd from what he was.

Madam, the goodness you have shown me, cannot be pay'd but with that reverence and respect we pay to Heaven; for when I wou'd approach you as a Lady to whom I owe obedience as an Aunt, your bounty and your Beauty gives me Laws, and thus commands my distance.

This distance is too much. You'le be more welcome, if you approach more near.

I'd rather offend in my respect, than in my obedience, and since you command it—thus take the humble boldness —Ah, she's a Heavenly creature—

[aside.

George,—come hither—take notice; George, my house here is yours, my table yours: and all my Servants to be commanded by you:—but you have Watt still?

Yes, Sir, a very harmless honest true hearted Fellow 'tis: as I have instructed him, he has left off swearing now, and can say Grace.

'Tis well. Send for him to wait on you: to morrow Ile pay your debts if you owe any thing.

Some few, Sir, hardly worth taking notice of: they shall not be your trouble—

You speak well, Sir.

Well, George, what ere they be, they shall be pay'd. Come lead your Aunt in to Dinner—

Act Second.

Scene I.

Salewares Shop.

Discovers Alitia Saleware: a Prentice, the Lady Thrivewel, and a Footman.

I assure your Ladyship, there cannot be better ware in London, and your Ladyship will find it such in the wearing.

Have you made a Bill Mrs. Saleware? for I am satisfied in the goodness of your Commodity;—a Note of the particulars I pray: and at as low a Rate as you can afford for ready money; for I am never in the City Books, like Heirs under age and Courtiers:

Your Ladyships pay was ever good, and I have made the Prices according. Here 'tis, Madam—

Let me see—Boy, take you the Box, 'tis all put up.

Yes, Madam.

Give me my Purse, Boy, and go you home with the Lace. I have only Gold, Mrs. Saleware, which you will weigh before you take, I suppose.

That's no great pains, Madam.

How ever Ile not give you the trouble now,—pray send your man for a Glass of beer—

Some beer for my Lady—

That I may take the opportunity to tell you, what possibly you wou'd be loth he should hear:—for 'tis more the business of the Fore-man of the Shop to keep his Mistresses secrets.

Your Ladyship is merry.

Not very merry, because I find by your Bill here that I have laid out more mony than my Husband allow'd me: here is a Hundred and Eight Pounds and Two shillings, and I am allow'd but the Hundred.

The rest is no great matter, Madam,

Oh, very great in a Norfolk Ladys Pocket: and wou'd supply her Credit at Picket, and Lantraloo a whole Christmas in the Country: tho you great Gamesters of the City here, can lose and win your Hundreds, whilst 'tis so easily commanded out of the Pockets of those Country-Ladys Husbands—

I understand not your Ladyship.

Ile tell you then: Sir Oliver, when he was last in Town, lent you, or left with you, a Hundred Guinies, which he has given to me: now here is in the Bill one Hundred and Eight Pounds and Two Shillings, so here is Twelve shillings for you, and all is paid.

What mean you, Madam?

Why, have you forgot the Money my Husband lent you? 'tis strange, when 'twas to do you such a service.

A service, Madam!

Yes, a service; have a care you don't make me suspect that you deserv'd it from him some dishonest way.

Please you to drink, Madam?

After you Mrs. Saleware.

—This Notes right cast up, Boy?

To a Farthing, Madam.

I hope your Ladyship will find your self so well us'd, that you will always be pleas'd to Honour me with your Ladyships Custom.

On these Terms always, Mrs. Saleware, and so, Your Servant.

Your Ladyships obedient.—Open the Coach for my Lady.

My Footman's there, he need not.

Wou'd your Coachman wou'd carry your Ladyship to the Devil.

La. returns still gazing upon Bell.

Hark you, Mrs. Saleware.—sure 'tis the same.

Your command's an honour, Madam.

Do you know that Gentleman?

Yes, Madam, he is Gentleman to the Lord Loveless, and call'd Bellamy.

'Tis a hansom youth, I thought I had seen his Face before. I commend you for placing your Love here now: but an old Country Knight is a dangerous man; have a care of such, for likely, they have handsom Ladys of their own; adieu sweet Mrs. Saleware—

The Devil take her, how she shot Darts at Bellamy: she Loves the Beardless Boy, this chast Lady.

Now, Madam, may I be heard?

Yes, if you please to speak.

But you are frowning, Madam, why do those Eyes put on such Marks of anger, threatning a death to him, whom they have made their slave?

Fie upon't, what stuff's this, I am out of Humour, and this will increase it.

Who durst offend you?

An unlucky accident that has happened to me, I have cozened my self in the Sale of a parcel of Goods, which if my Husband shou'd know, here wou'd be such a life—

Hang him Mercenary fool, why shou'd he set you here to forward such mean Trade?

Ay, this talk pleases me.

Ranking his Wife but with his Prentices,

'Tis very true, Mr. Bellamy: 'tis a mean thing as you say, but I have reveng'd it to day, in the mistake I have made.

I hope it was not much?

Not much; but so much as has spoil'd a Shop-Trader of me: your Lord told me, I shou'd not be at this Servile pass long: that he wou'd take me from it, and carry me to the other End of the Town, and take me a House in the Pellmell—

He still designs it;—If I prevent him not.

He said I shou'd have new Cloths, too, and sent the Mercer to me with Patterns of Brocados de or: but I have heard nothing on't since.

Perhaps this Letter will satisfie you.

—What a cursed office is this, to play the Pander for the man I love, I am well born, and but for his flattery, had still remain'd with Honour and in Virtue: but his bewitching tongue wrought on my easiness, and rob'd me of my Fame:—'twas well in this disguise I was conceal'd, my sister else had known me, and then I'd been undone: 'tis this—that keeps me too, conceal'd, from the false Loveless, who takes me for a Boy, and makes me do what even in this bold shape I am asham'd to act, to Pimp for him: —Oh heavens! that word—but I'll prevent his longer doting here; to wast his fortune and his love on one, common, ingrateful, and insensible.

O what a sweet Letter's here, and yet I have a kind of a mind to this Bellamy too—at Shatliens at six, good—[Aside. —Sir, I find my Lord is all honour.

But, Madam, will you think on me that languish for you.

Because I am kind to your Lord, you imagin I must be so to you? but I wou'd have you to know I am none of those: I am not faln from his favor yet, or if I were, I shou'd not fall to Pages—there be more Lords.

Madam, you have silenc'd me.

Nay, not so hasty, come back Mr. Bellamy.

Can you take his mony forsooth?—d'ye hear, Sir.

Stay you behind the Counter, Sirrah; cannot I handle the Gentleman without you?—What, fly for my first denial? —Come, let a smile encourage you again—

Oh how you bless me!—

—Come, come, leave off to talk like a Player, and if you have a passion for me, let me know't—Are you asham'd? that blush wou'd seem to say so—come then, whisper it in my ear—

Oh strange, is that the highest price you dare venture? I cannot, Sir, afford it so: yet this—before you go—I'm sure you cannot match it.

I shall forget my duty to my Lord—

Prithee do so, and so will I, and tell me what you wou'd have me to do with you.

I wou'd intreat you—

Forward, Sir, without a blush.

That you wou'd vouchsafe—

To do what, I pray?

To wear this Watch by your side—and every minute think of me.

I could have done that without all this intreaty—is this all?

No, there is something more, but when I think how fair you are, and what a blessing my Lord injoys in you—

Prithee no more of him: but ask me something.

I dare not hope you can grant me any thing.

Why so?

Because you love my Lord so well.

Perhaps not when he is present—but tell me what is it?

That you'd be pleas'd—

I am pleas'd.

To grace this Ring with your fair hand.

And what hurt will that be to your Lord?—come, come, I must divine your meaning now, and what returns I must make you for all these presents—but—

But—you'll be cruel and betray me to my Lord.

But I will not, tho' I have you at my mercy; for it is evident you wou'd lye with me—deny it if you can.

Did I name such a word now? I swear you make me blush.

Then you're a fool; come, take courage, and be more a man, for you shall—

What shall I?

Why you shall—you understand me, do what I said you wish't to do.

Oh how happy you will make me!

But 'tis on this condition.

Let it be what it will I'll do't.

Why you saw here e'n now, a young Lady.

What of her?

'Tis my Lady Thrivewell.

Wife to Sir Oliver Thrivewell?

Yes; it seems you know her then.

I have seen her, I think, when she was a Maid.

Well, she's passionately in love with you—you saw her speak to me, and how unwilling she was to go, and lose the pleasure of looking on you.

What does all this tend to?

Nay, I speak against my self, to oblige that sweet person, which few women do; but I have particular reason for't, and you must make love to her. You know what I mean.

Alass, how shou'd I get access?

O, my Lord's to borrow mony of her husband, and you're to be employ'd, I know upon the Message, then you'l have opportunity, and she being willing, the bus'ness may soon be done:— and 'tis the only way to win my love.

This is to try my constancy.

I vow I do not, but will be yours intirely, when this is done;—but see my husband:—We must sup to night at Shaltines.

Enter Tom Saleware.

How does my dear Ali.?—Mr. Bellamy, your servant, I hope my Honour'd Lord's well. Why what, you are not brisk and gay! I hope my wife has not couzen'd you in any Wares; or are you and she upon some bargain, that you cannot agree about? You must comply with Mr. Bellamy, my sweet Aly. he is my Noble Lord's Favorite, and must be us'd well, and shall, whether I am within or without doors.

Sir you mistake, and I must take my leave.

What an Asenego's this? he might a return'd my Complement, tho' I care not a fart for him. I hope thou hast couzen'd him indeed, Ale.

Thomas, you are mistaken, Thomas,—in setting me to couzen any body; I am weary of this sneaking Trade, Thomas, and of this taudrum City dress, Thomas, as I have often told you, Thomas; but you think a wife shou'd obey her husband.

Never the sooner for a hasty word, sweet heart; but for these Tawdrums, as you call them, I say, they are the City-fashion: yet you may follow your own humor, and my Lord's fancy, as I promis'd before I had you.

Why, that's well said, Friend.

Nay, now I am sure she's pleas'd, she calls me Friend, she ever did so when she was in good humor.

—But, Friend, I have found a chapman for the Lace my Lord Lack-Land bespoke, and wanted mony to pay for: a chapman that will buy it all.

I have sold it, Friend, already.

How, Friend, and is't paid for?

Yes, tis paid for.

Well, it comes as pat to stop a Gap.

It has stopt a gap already. I have bought me things I wanted, fine Clothes, and Tours, and Points and Knots, and—

And—never the sooner for a hasty word.

'Tis so, Friend, what City-Wife can draw in Customers to her Shop, that is not Lady-like? and therefore I have done it.

Say you so, say you so?—

What are you angry at it?

I were a beast if I should—no, no, Friend, I am not angry: let it go—& sapientia mea mihi, is my Motto.

Well Thomas, look to your Shop, for I must go abroad.

Pray whither?

How, dare you ask that question?

I am Corrected. Sam, wash your Face, and get your Cloke and Gloves and wait on your Mistriss.

I'le have no Sam, to tell you all he sees: In good time, is that friendly?—

I am again Corrected, but you'l return by supper time?

Again are you at it?

I've don, I've don.

I'l neither come to supper, nor to bed, perhaps.

Never the sooner for a hasty word, I hope.

Nor when I do come home, you shall not ask me, Where I have been, what I have done, or what Company I had?

No, no; sapientia mea mihi, I say still.

Scene II.

Careless his Chamber.

Enter Careless: Watt with a Candle.

Are not we in another world, Watt? And have not I improv'd my time well, already, look you here, sirrah? [Shews Gold.

—'Tis a comfortable sight, Sir, may it long continue so.

I'll score no more Reckonings in Taverns now, nor hide my self in Priviledged places, to prevent the Alarms of damnable Duns, that besiege a Chamber-door as soon as day. I owe nothing now, Boy, and here's delicious Gold, besides, substantial Mettal —hark, how it rings.—

Yes, 'twill ring the Changes shortly.

So let it, Watt, for necessaries—and chime all out too, for I can manage my Unkle now, and drain new showrs when this is gone.

And do you call Claret, Whores, Hectors, and Fidlers, Necessaries?

Why yes, or the devil's in't.

What, Sir, shall go for Pious Uses, for you'l have little left?

Pious Uses! Art mad?

No, Sir, but I call it a pious thing, to have regard in some degree to your poor whore Phebe; she'l come railing home else, and spoil all.

She cannot injure me, the World's my own. Do's not all the House adore me? the Servants and the Tenants call me young Master. Do's not my Unkle let Leases, take Mortgages, and let Money in my Name? And has he not taken care I shall have a thing, call'd a Wife, worth ten thousand pound? And can I fear the Clamour of a little whore, thinkest thou?—No.

'Tis very well, Sir, and I admire your luck, but most, to see the fine young Lady, your Aunt, so kind to you; Why she outdoes your Unkle that way.

She shall be no loser by that, I have resolv'd she shall not go un-rewarded by me.

But still, Sir, Mrs. Phebe is forgotten.

You are, methinks, damnable careful of Mrs. Phebe, but I have answer'd here her impudent Letter she sent me, wherein she desir'd me to marry her, a Pox upon her:—Here, carry it her, with these ten Guineys, but do not give them her, till she promise to write, nor come no more, till I think fit to send to her.

That may be long enough, for ought I know.

Why, faith it may be so: for I must leave off this lewd whoring life, for reasons I have.

I Sir, I shou'd like it well, if you wou'd do so, and make it your bus'ness to court the Widow in an honourable way; you were about her once, and I think not ill receiv'd; Faith, Sir, try her again.—

Well, well, Sir, go you about your bus'ness.—

I'm gone, Sir.—

Enter Saveall.

Mr. Saveall, I see you are a man of Honour, and mean to keep your word in carrying a Letter to the Widow for me—here 'tis—ready.—

It is discreetly done, Mr. Careless.

Faith I have been hard imploy'd, writing News into the Country, to several persons of Quality, of how Affairs stand in Court and City: of News of State, and News of Gallantry, all, all that has come within my knowledge.

A handsome and commendable Imployment, and will improve your knowledge, and in time you may become a Parliament-man, and assist in the great Affair of the Rule of the Nation.

When I am married, Sir, I shall take up.

I shall be over joy'd to see such good effects of my negotiation of this bus'ness.

Faith, Sir, I am unus'd to write to Ladys, and a little awkard in such matters, but I shall mend with practice. In the mean time I beseech you, Sir, to beg my pardon for the roughness of the Language.

To the most Incomparable, and most Virtuous [Reads. of her Sex, Mrs. Crosstil, present.—The outside is handsome, and promiseth the in-side to be courtly and civil.

Pray Heaven she have the same opinion of it: which with your kind interpretation may do much.

I shall not be wanting to say all things to your advantage, and doubt not but I shall prevail in your behalf.

Oh, Sir, how you continue your goodness!

Well, Sir, expect me and your Fortune modestly early in the morning.

Your Servant, Sir. Now the Devil take me if can wish him good luck, only ten thousand pound is a most delicious sum:—But who comes here? my Aunts Governant? how very like a Bawd she wou'd look in any other place? but being an Attendant on my Aunt—I may be mistaken.

Enter Closett with a Candle.

Not to interrupt your Cogitations, Sir, I have here from my Lady brought you.—

What dear Closett, any thing from her is precious—

A Caudle, Sir, the same her Ladyship eats to strengthen her. O, 'tis a most profitable Cordial Restorative; I made it, Sir, my self.

How am I oblig'd to her Generosity, which so far exceeds my merits!

How she graces me in all companies, and conversation, with her particular Favors: recommending me, and commending me to all the Ladys that pay her visits: Then what a care she takes of my Lodging, my Chamber, Furniture, my Table drest up, my fine Twilights, my Perfumes, and my Plate: and what not? —Why here are rich things in this Caudle too.—

Have you perceiv'd that? Ile assure you, theirs Amber Greece.—

Ah! Closett, what pitty 'twas this fair young Aunt of mine was not married to a young man?

Alas, Sir! Aye, great pitty.

She is the Charmingst Lady!

Indeed she is so, Sir, I have known her, and serv'd her from a Child, and then she was a Charming Child: And as she grew towards Woman she was a Charming Maid. And now she is a charming Lady, as you say, Sir: And cou'd I live to see a Child of hers, I shou'd think I had liv'd long enough, unless I might live to see that have Children too: which I cou'd wish withal my heart.

I had rather see you at the Devil, and your Charming Lady too; but I hope my Uncles Impotence; or her honesty, will preserve her from my curse.

—But, alas Sir, I shall never see her have one—

That's excellent.

Say you so, Sir,—because 'twill hinder your being Heir? But, I thought you had valu'd your Aunt above all that.

So I do, Closett, I spoke of the bottom of the Caudle: that that was Excellent;

—But, dost think there are no ways, Closett, to get my Aunt with Child?

Ways? Yes, yes, Sir, there are ways enow, did not her too nice Virtue spoil all.

Canst not thou perswade her to her good?

How, Sir?

Nay, do not mistake me, Closett,—By this good Guiney, I meant no harm,—

No, in my Conscience, Sir, yon spoke in pure Love to your Aunt.

—Nay,—nay,—Nay, you shall take it; Nor do I care if thou tell'st my Aunt, how dearly I love her, and how well I wish her: Nay, Gad and she were not my Aunt, tell her, I had rather get her a Son and Heir, than inherit all my Uncles Estate my self.

Good heart! how passionately, and honestly he speaks! Well, 'tis a good thing to be grateful.

Alas! that's my Lady calls.

Kiss her dear hands from me,—and tell her—oh, tell her, that—I know not what, I love her so, I cannot express it.

I had forgot her message to you, I have the dullest brain of my own—

What was't?

My Lady intreats you wou'd—

That I wou'd?—with all my Soul, I wou'd—

My Lady, desires you—

Thy Lady desires me? By Heaven, and she shall have me.

Lord, Sir, she desires you,—

The Devil take me, if I do not desire her too, for all she's wife to my Uncle.

Will you not hear me out, Sir? she desires you to go abroad with her.

Oh, any whither, to Chelsey,—Knights-Bridge,—Branford, —Geernwich, I know all the convenient houses at every place; and will be as secret—

I do not understand you, Sir.

The Pox take this tongue of mine, it will be talking in the wrong place.—

Well, Sir, you'll go with my Lady, Ile tell her.

I will: Tell her, she shall command my life.

Enter Lady.

Closett, you make good hast.

Madam, I was just coming. But, Mr. Careless, was talking so affectionately of your Ladyship, and so tenderly, that methoughts, I cou'd have stay'd a whole day to have heard him.

I am oblig'd to him. But, Nephew, you must go abroad with me, to the Park, and to the Exchange; if you can leave your Study so long.

All the world to wait on you. My dear Aunt, I have no Business, that can or shall hinder me, from sacrificing the whole time I have to live, to your Service.

Dear George, use less Complement to me.

Give it a kinder name, I do beseech you.—

Come, the Coach-man waits, and we shall have no time between this and Supper. You must not talk now, good Nephew.

I'm all obedience Madam,—but a Pox on't, I must meet my Gang at the Rose to night.—

O that Heaven had sent my Lady such a Husband.

Act Third.

Scene I.

A Hall.

Discovers old Sim the Butler asleep in a Chair, a Candle burning almost out. After a great Noise of calling Sons of Whores, &c. and bouncing at the Door, Enter Careless drunk, all loose, and without his Perriwig.

Money, ye Sons of Whores? ask me for money? As if, George Careless ever paid Coach, or Chair Men— unmerciful Villains—money—no, no! This is not an Age of Payment.

—Who's yonder?—Old Sim—my Uncles Butler?—a— very honest—Fellow,—now is he diligently sleeping for my coming home, and most carefully—and kindly left the Door open for me:—So, ho, ho,—Old Simon,—so, ho, ho,—up, up, dull Mortal.

I have use for thee.—Lord,! Lord!—what Sots and Beasts, some Men make of themselves, to sleep away half that short life Heaven has given them!—What will this wicked World come too?—Why Sim, ye drowsie Slave, up I say,—

Au, Au.—

Why, Sim, ye Son of a Whore, is this a time to sleep in? Open thine Eyes,—behold me, and guess what Business I have for thee.

Au, au,—anon, Sir.

Nay now, good Sim, now.—

Shall I never sleep more?

Unconscionable Simon, no reason in thy Sleep?—Come hither, Sim,—I have honest—lawful business for thee,—prithee —fetch me a Whore.—

'Tis my young Master George's voice, Au,—au,—deliver me well out of this lewd Town again, that I may have my fill of Sleep, and Pudding. Au, au,—mercy on me, who's here? Aye, 'tis he, my young Master George, at this late hour.

You lie, Sim, you lie,—'tis early—

So it should be, by my blinking Candle.—But how, Sir, came you in this lamentable pickle?

How do you mean, Sir?—

Why, Sir, wheres your Sword, and Periwincle?—sure you have been Fighting, Sir.

Only kickt a Couple of Chair-men—that, had the impupudence (wou'dst thou think it, Sim,) to ask me money.

Alas, Sir, that they shou'd offer it—

I, to me. Sim!—me that always bilk the Slaves.—

Enter Chair-men, with Sword and Perriwig.

The Constable and Watch! well, a my Conscience he never came home in's life but 'twas thus attended.

These,—these,—are the Sons of Whores, that had the Impudence to ask me money.

Your Worship was mistaken, we scorn to ask your Worship money, we know you better then lo, as they say,— But,—if your Worship wou'd be pleas'd to give us something to drink your Worships health, after our cold sitting up all Night, we shou'd be bound to your Worship.

Alas, poor Devils! Sim, give 'em a Guiney to drink. But no paying, good Sim, 'tis an ill Precedent.—

Good Mr. Simon, consider us, for we have waited all night at the Rose Door; and he fearing only that we wou'd ask him money, fell on us, and beat us, we disarm'd him, and then to Cuffs we went: I protest, Sir, no Fault of ours.

Well, get you gone: and come again anon, and you shall be paid.

God bless your Worship.

Come, Sir, will you not please to go to Bed?—'tis broad day light, and you'll wake your Uncle, and you know that may be fatal to you.

My Uncle! Damn my Uncle.—Sim, I tell thee in private, my Uncle's an old Cuckold; dost hear? a Cuckold, Simon.—

God forbid, Sir, my Lady's a Virtuous Lady, tho I say't.

Why so she is too, Sim,—but I speak of my Uncle— I say,—and I say, again—he is a Cuc-Cuckold,—or shall be a Cuckold before I have done, Sim,—my conscience urges me to't.—'twill be a work of great Humility, and Charity, and this is a wicked world, Sim,—a very wicked world; and 'tis time some should mend for Example,—and now we talk of mending, Sim ,—fetch me a Whore.—

A Whore, Sir?—

I, Sim, a Whore.—

Bless me, Sir! Why we have none i'th'house, nor can fetch any out of Doors.

Sim, you lie,—Sim,—do not give your mind to lying, 'twill spoil thee,—no Whores i'th'house,—why where's Mrs. Figit , my Ladies woman? Doll the Chamber-maid? Starcht Susan, of the Landry? or greasie Bess, that's under the Cook? Or my Ladies Nurse, old Winter?—Or where's my Lady her self? she'l serve now.—No Whores i'th'house!

Deliver me! What do you mean, Sir?

What all sober discreet persons shou'd mean, to know all the she-things in the house,—therefore, Sirrah, fetch me a Whore; or I shall untile,—I shall.—

O hold, Sir, I wou'd not for the world you shou'd be heard.

Enter Bess the Scullery-maid passing by.

Hold! hold! there's a Female,—come hither, Wench, —come hither,—I say.—Why you drunken Baggage, can't you stand still?

Pox on you, he cou'd no sooner ask for a Whore, but you must bolt out.—

I was going to clean up my Kitchen.—

Hang thy Kitchen, thou must along with me, I have need of thee.—

Any service that I can do that's honest, Sir.—

Honest, I, I, we'll be very honest,—thou shalt only go to Bed with me a little; dear Bess, let me kiss thee. [Kisses. Well, 'tis a rare Wench! she wou'd victual a whole Camp; a kiss a day to each man, were a plentiful meal, she smells so of Beef and Mutton: and I have a raw stomach, and cou'd digest her now finely. Come honest Bess, let's up.—

I hope you do not take me for a Whore, Mr. George?

A Whore,—why what wou'd you be taken for, a Cherubin?—Can I take thee for a Nobler Creature?

Ah, fie upon you, Mr. George, I did not think you had the Face to seduce a young thing as I am.—Well, my Lady shall know't.

Come away, I say,—come,—you do not know what I design you, when my Nuncle dies.—

I, when will that be, trow?

Canst not thou put a little ingredient into his Potage? —That will do his business, and send him to Heaven without the help of a Doctor,—and then—

And what then?

Then, Ile marry thee, by this hand, marry thee.— Come away, and do not stand in thy own light.

Tell him you'l come, you Slut.

Well, Sir, you have overcome me; go you to bed, and I'll but pull off my Shoes, and steal up to you presently.

Sim, will she keep her word?

I, I warrant you, Sir; we have all found her a kind soul, and honest in that point, tho' I say't. Pray go to bed.

Give me some wine first.—

Wine, Sir? you have had Wine enough of all conscience, a vast quantity of Wine, a vast quantity.

What thou takest me to be drunk now, I'll warrant, dost thou? No, Sim, I have that rare quality,—the more I drink the soberer I am, 'tis a Miracle to me now that,—therefore give me some Wine, to set me right, that I may look thus— gravely on my Uncle.

Nay, pray, Sir, go to Bed,—

Dam me, Sim, I'll have your Leathern Ears, if I have no wine. So, ho, some Wine you Rascal—some Wine.

Ah, good. Sir, speak softly.

Softly, you Bitch?—why who do I fear? Softly!— there's softly for you,—and there's hola.—

I, I, Sir, you shall not hear me cry out, for all your Kicking—for your sake.—

Softly, quoth a, I'll softly ye.—

So here's fine doings! you'l be turn'd out for this anon, and I after you for my kindness in setting up for you all night.

Now am I compassionate,—dear Sim, come kiss me, —kiss me, I say.—Why you scurvy coy Rascal, why don't you kiss me?—So dry your Eyes, and hear me sing a Song that will make thee weep afresh,—Listen with reverence.

Scene, The Widows House.

Enter Mrs. Crostill, Saveall and Betty.

Ha, ha, ha, I suppose you know the inside of this, Mr. Saveall ?

No, Madam, but I believe it passionate and Courtly, as he that sent it: only indeed he commanded me to excuse the roughness of the Stile, he being unus'd to write Epistles of this Nature.

Ha, ha, ha. Pray Sir, read it: you must be acquainted with his excellent Stile.

I am overjoy'd to see her so well pleas'd; wou'd I had brought it last night.

Read aloud, Sir, for I can never be weary of hearing it.

Thou damnable impudent Woman,—hah,— how darest thou, tho but in thy Dreams, imagin I am, or can be so great a Coxcomb as to marry thee; a sin which thou art Damn'd for but believing.—

—O Heavens! the Devil himself was sure his Secretary.

O Sir, proceed I pray.

Dost thou not hear I am again establish't in my Uncles favor, and dost thou think I can want 5 or 10 Guinies to give a Wench, or that there are not Wenches to be found for such Sums; that I must be destined to marry you with a Pox.—

I, I, 'twas the Devil that Dictated to him.

Pray on, Sir.

No, therefore let me advise you, since you are so mad for a Husband, (tho I believe you love me, and only me,) marry a Blockhead, either in the City, or Country, that thinks there's Joys in Marriage, and I may chance to be so kind to be your Friend, by the by; and so you may have Children, like

You have not read many such Love-letters.

This injury to you, Madam, is irreparable; but the affront done to me I'll fight him for.

Oh, Sir, he has oblig'd me beyond expression, and I beseech you tell him so: nay I'm in earnest.—For what concerns your self, do what you please.

I do unsay all I said in his behalf, and beg your pardon.—

'Tis all one, Sir, I love him still the better; and tell him, this Letter has made such impressions here, as nothing can remove: and if you will oblige me indeed, you must bring him to me, and let me alone to speak to him, and tell him of his Letter.

Sure you're not in earnest, Lady?

By my life, I am, and I beseech you credit me, and bring him to me to day; bring him in good humor too, and then I'l say you are my friend indeed.—

I will not fail you, Lady.

Was there ever so extravagant a creature as this Careless?

Madam, will you not be reveng'd on him?

Yes, Betty, the most severe way that ever woman took.—I'll love him! love him to that degree, he shall confess no hate was ever so perplexing.

I confess, Madam, you were ever of a contradictive humour, and possibly you'l love him the better, because he has affronted you.

I do so, and am all impatience till I see him. Prithee give me the Song he made to me the last time he was in the Country.—

Scene, The Hall again.

Enter Sim alone.

'Tis a meer folly to go to bed now, 'tis time to rise.—Well, Simon, well, thou art bound to give God thanks, thou wert not born a Gentleman,—some comfort that.—Mercy upon us, what lives they lead! never rise till three of the clock after noon, (or very rarely) and then they are damnable dry, and crop-sick,— but not at all hungry, so they lose both breakfast and dinner, (two great blessings;) instead of Prayers, the first words they speak, as soon as awake, are—Damn me, how cursed drunk was I last night! Hay, Jack —some small Beer, you Vermin,— (very fine)—well—at last he gets himself dress'd, calls for his Coach (and not a word of dinner) rouls to Play-house, to that that has the bawdiest Play (for that settles his stomach,) tells as many as he meets (that he knows) how he was claw'd away last night, but forswears drinking again, for at least a day or two; then spys me a Vizard, over the benches he stalks, and there thunders a deal of leud bawdy, till he has won her heart quite; away they go, sup and get drunk in spight of vows of sobriety, and then to some convenient Mansion of pleasure, where they spew and snore away the remaining part o'th'night, and then comes repentance, and never till then have they any grace before their eyes.

Enter Mr. Saveall, angry.

Mr. Simon, where's your pretious young Master?

So, my pretious young Master; he has heard of his mornings revel-rout.—Sir, I know you are dissatisfi'd, as you have reason, but as you have ever been, be so good to pardon this fault too.

Pardon him! I'd sooner pardon the man shou'd cuckold me. No, Sir, where is he?

Alas, Sir, you know he has not been abed above an hour or two, 'tis pity to disturb him.

So, the old trade too still; I say, he must be disturbed, and that quickly too, or I shall make a foul house,—and so tell him.

Why, Lord, Mr. Saveall!—

Lord me no Lords Mr. Simon, I say I will speak to him; go tell him, or I'l go to him, on such a message as shall not please him very well.

Well, Sir, I'l go, tho' it grieves my heart to wake him.

This affront has rais'd an unusual storm in my breast, had not the Lady been of my acquaintance, and the Match of my proposing, it had never griev'd me: My comfort is, she is so humorous, that this Letter will rather bring her on, than put him off: but what she'l think of me the while—'tis for that I will be reveng'd, that I may let her see I had no hand in't.

Enter Careless yawning, in his Night-Gown, and Sim.

Oh, Mr. Saveall—

Make your self ready. [Walking fast and angry to and fro.

Faith, I sat up a little late last night.—

Dress you, I say.

Dress me, for what? 'tis too early.

The better, Sir.—

Why do's the Widow intend to marry me instantly?

No, Sir, but I intend to fight with you.

How, Sir?

Bless my soul, here's fine doings!

What injury have I done you, that you shou'd ruin my Reputation?

How, Sir?

You have put me on a base imployment, to carry a Letter to a Noble Lady, stuft with such Language, as your Lust, the Devil and all your Cabal of Hectors cou'd never have invented such another.

Enter Watt.

Cou'd not your Pimp there—serve for the base Office?

I do not understand you.

You had better have eaten fire, or sent it with your ears, than have provok'd me thus by being the Messenger. [Draws.

Forbear, and hear me, Sir, before you take a resolution to abandon me: If I must lose the Widow, by Heaven 'tis by the most unlucky mistake in the world.—Watt, come hither,—Did you carry the Letter I sent to Phebe?

Yes, Sir, and the poor soul's overjoy'd at the good News you sent her.

The Devil take her for a lucky whore. That Letter, Sir, was it I writ to the Widow, and that which you carried was meant for this Damsel: I know 'tis so.

How cou'd it be possible you shou'd so mistake?

Sealing them before I had superscrib'd them, a Pox upon me: and to be charg'd with rudeness to the Widow,—when I was so religiously bent to lead a virtuous Matrimonial life.—The Letter, Sir, (for I'l confess to you) was written to a poor retaining whore of mine, whom I have turn'd off.

It was not so directed.

No, no, Sir, there was the mistake; and Fortune's always kind to whores, those of her own trade.—Well, hang me, if 'twere not the sweetest well-pen'd thing,—Sirrah, go and fetch it back.

Lord, Sir, she'l n'ere part with it.

Then take it by force, you Rogue you.

What force, Sir?

Thus, you dog,—thus.—
                                        [Kicks him.
This was a Plot of your's, sirrah; I believe you lye with her, you are so ready to cheat me to serve her—but I'l be reveng'd on you both.

I, I, now we may go hang, now you are in favour with Sir Oliver —but if I do not fit you for't—

I am in your debt for being absent last night too, and letting Sim sit up for me, whom I abus'd.—A rogue—[Kicks him.

'Tis all upon account, Sir.—

No more, Mr. Careless, 'tis sufficient and since 'twas a mischance, I am pacify'd, and will set you right with the Widow again.

But then she'l know of this Mistris I have had,—but the truth is, 'tis now grown so common a thing amongst the married men too, as well as the Gallants, that she cannot but forgive it, I think.—But who's here? my Aunt with a young handsom fellow; she's undrest too, Death! now am I jealous,—but for my Uncles sake,—I must needs beat him.

By no means, Sir, I wou'd not have you commit such an outrage in your Aunts presence, and your Uncles house, for all the world.

You do not know him, Sir?

Yes, Sir, I do, he is both friend and servant to a person of Honour, whom I value, the Lord Loveless.

Mr. Saveall, I must speak with you.

In the name of pleasure, what is this stripling imploy'd for to my Aunt? I perceive they have been in private too together, not so much as Bawd Closset to overlook 'em: 'tis a pretty youth, and I must beat it, when I see time convenient.

Mr. Saveall, pray speak to Sir Oliver, for my Lord is going to marry a rich Fortune, and will redeem his mortgaged Land that's forfeit to Sir Oliver.

Six hundred pound, you say, Madam?—I will get it done for his Lordship.

Here's a pretty come-off! as if he were chamber'd up with her all this while to borrow mony: Ah woman, woman, what Politicks you have!

Your servant, Mr. Bellamy.

I go your way, Sir, and will wait on you.

I wou'd wait on him too.—

George, come back—whither go you?

To bring the young Gentleman to the gate.

Oh, you are too ceremonious, George,—tis below you.

So; I am instructed, Madam.—

You know not whose servant he is.

So, she loves him, I know it by her slighting him.— [Aside. Oh, Madam, there are Lords servants that may deserve the favour of Knights Ladies.

Not so, good George.

As the Lady may like 'em, Madam.

Sure you're not sober yet, George, or melancholy.—I hope nothing troubles you?

Not much, Madam.

Come, come, I know your grief, you think I am angry with you for the pickle you came home in last night, or rather this morning: but I excus'd your absence to your Uncle, pretending I had sent you to my Brother's, five mile out of Town, to do a little bus'ness for me: and you may see I am not much displeas'd by that, tho' you were with your blades, George.

Did you do me this good office to my Uncle?

Yes indeed, and he believ'd me.

Cou'd you be so good?—Indeed I was amongst 'em, but will be better temper'd for the future.

I shall be glad to see't, for your own sake.

I will obey your will in every thing.

Oh, had you beheld your self, and how you were hung together.

A drunkard is a beast, but I'l be so no more.—

That's well promis'd; and I'l reward it thus, George, there's a small stock of Gold.—

Dear Aunt, let me kiss the hand from whence such bounty flows.

Not to afflict you with all you said and did: I will only chide you for calling for whores, George.

Oh Lord! why did I? did I? what a wicked dog was I!

You frighted poor old Sim, with Fetch me a whore:— the poor wretch blest himself, and cry'd,—There was none i'th' house! then you roar'd out, How! no whores i'th'house? where's Figet? where starcht Susan? where's Doll, greasie Bess, or old Winter? meaning Closet, or my Lady her self?—No whores!—But why me, George, up in your Catalogue?

God forgive me, was I so prophane a Rogue? such an unhallow'd Rascal?

Yes, consider it well, George, and lay it to your heart, so fine, so handsome a young Gentleman to spoil himself with such lewd courses, 'tis great shame and pity.

A Pox on this damn'd Wine, 'tis that debauches me to all the other sins.

'Tis true, had you not been drunk, you wou'd never have medled with so sad a dirty creature, as Bess the scullion.—

I, that's it she's most offended at, she's not displeas'd I call'd for her Ladyship last night; she presents me too with Gold: I will apprehend her meaning:—she wou'd have me leave off debauching, and give her a proof of my passion and my manhood.—

Come, come, be not melancholy, tho', George, for I wou'd have you still gay and pleasant, tho' not lewd.

Madam, you have reform'd my soul, and now I beseech you take the fruits of your good advice: I am all yours.

How mean you?

As I say, the most passionate Lover, the most secret Servant, that ever was blest with a Lady's favour.

Sure, Sir, you are not well?

Not well? Gad I defie all the Surgeons in London, that can say the contrary—I am sound, as a Bell.—

Not well in your senses, Sir.

Do you doubt my secresie? I'l never be drunk more to endanger my blabbing in that humour. My Uncle shall never know it.

Can you name your Uncle, and yet pursue me this shameful way?

Who the Devil can do you this kindness more naturally and less sinfully than my self? am I not his own flesh and blood?

Surely you do but rally?

By Heaven I am in earnest: try. In earnest? yes.—Come let me lead you to my chamber,—and give you the first clear proof of my intire passion.—

I know you can but jeast.

I'l convince you above.—Dear, Madam, come.

And wou'd you wrong your Uncle?

Why do you name him? he's not so just to you, you may Cuckold him with less sin, than lye with him; for then you are in danger, for he's a spark abroad, I can assure you.

How can you tell?

Oh, I have heard it every where.—But what needs all this Ceremony?—come let's up.—

Unhand me. If you provoke me, I'l undo you.—

She's angry,—what a Pox, have I mistaken her? [Aside.

Is this the best construction you can make of all my kindness to you?

Pox on't, I am not mistaken in her neither, but [Aside. apply'd my self to her, too soon after her young Monsieur had left her.—E'gad I'l tell her so too.—

Well, I see a penitence in your face, George, for what you've done; and if 'tis true, I can easily forgive you;—but here comes my woman.—

Enter Closet.

The Devil take her.

Madam.—

Look that you never tempt me so again.

Then I must dye, unless you'l yield without it.

Look handsomely, and do not betray your self, and for once you are safe.

So, she'l come about again.

Well, go Cozin, and do that Affair for me I spoke of.

I go, Madam, I have my instructions all?

Yes, George, if you can remember.—

Oh, witty Devil, how she has turn'd the discourse! by which I find she puts no faith in old Maulkeena there: I love her invention.

Now what's the news with you?

A Citizen waits to speak with you, Madam.

Who is't?

Mr. Saleware, Madam.

Sure his Aly has impudently told him what I have done.

There's a Gentlewoman too, Madam.

Bring 'em in.

Re-enters with Tom Saleware and Phebe.

Madam, I humbly desire a word or two with your Ladyship, concerning my Cozen Phebe here: She's abus'd by a Gentleman that lies here, as I understand; Mr. Careless, Madam, who has damag'd her much.

Indeed!

Read this, Madam, 'twill inform you of the truth of what I say,—hold up your head, Phebe, we'll not be dasht in a good Cause.—

Madam,

My Uncle's favour has incourag'd me to make my humble adresses to you in the way of holy Marriage, I shall not be altogether unworthy the Honour of being your Husband, since I may justly enough hope my Estate may be sutable to your desires: 'Tis long that I have had a passion for you, and impatient till I find whether 'twill be receiv'd well by you. If you vouchsafe to do so, I shall not only declare my self a good and grateful Husband, but live the happyest of all men,

This is so far from injury, that me thinks 'tis very kind.

O but Madam, he is gone from his word, and denies this his Act and deed, like a disloyal man; and having born her in hand thus long, wou'd now cast her off: Sent his man to ravish the Letter from her, but never the sooner for a hasty word, Cozin, we'll not be dasht nor basht, I'll warrant thee.

To the fair hands of Mrs. Phebe Gimcrack.— Is that your name?

I am the wretched thing that owns it, Madam.

Never the sooner for a hasty word.

I will endeavour to serve you, Mr. Saleware,—if I knew how.

O Lord, Madam, you are discreet, and if your Ladyship takes this matter in hand, I doubt not but to see my Cozin happy, and a good end of the business; but if it cannot be, I shall find Friends, nor shall her Cause be starv'd for want of monies, as they say: For we will not be dasht, nor basht; Sapientia mea mihi, is my word, and so dear Madam, I have discharg'd my mind.

Well, Mr. Saleware, I'll take care of your Kinswoman, and do my best for her.

I humbly thank you, Madam. Phebe, do you mind me? Bear your self to this Noble Lady handsomly, and high, as becomes the Family you came off; She may chance do you more good than all my high talking: I pray carry it high;— or,—Sapientia mea mihi, Stultitia tua tibi ; that's my Motto.

O doubt not me, Sir; nor my Carriage.—

Closett, take this young Woman up to your Chamber, and treat her well; I will do something for her: doubt not, Mr. Saleware.

How I shall be bound to your Ladyship.

—So, now will I home, and see if my Wife be come yet, or not, she has been out all day, and night too; but this I must bear, as we are Friends: for Sapientia, is my Motto.—

Scene, A Shop.

Discovers Alitia in it fine, with Bellamy.

I see you design to kill me, you wou'd not else let me be a witness to those Joys which my Lord only reaps, and must look on and languish for, to conduct you to him; after that undress you, and lay you,—O, I dare not name where, but, wou'd I might never live to see him embrace you more.

Come, come, you shall not soften me so, you dissembling thing you?

By all that's good, I am not, I speak truth:—O how you lay this morning wrapt in his dear embraces.—

Well, and did not you come from being wrapt in dear imbraces too, those of my Lady Thrivewell?—once more, let me hear the pleasing story,

O if you lov'd me, as you say, you cou'd not take a pleasure in hearing what Joys I took with another?

Joys which you give, I can. Come let me hear how kind she was, and how well she lik'd you.

So well she lik'd me, that she swore and I believ'd her, she never lik'd her Husband half so well.

Some other man perhaps she did.

She vow'd, and I again believ'd; she never knew a man besides her Husband.—

And your self,—but then she was kind?

Very kind.

And cou'd you,—when you pretended to me, cou'd you? Ah you're a cozening thing.

Inspir'd with thoughts of you; I was grateful to her Ladyship, and she in requital to your kindness, for sending me, has sent you a hundred Guinies.

I, was she so obliging? Where be they?

At my Chamber.

O the Subtilty of these men! for fear I shou'd not keep my assignation, yon think to oblige me that way, to come to you; but you may believe, my dear Bellamy, I am all yours, and will be so when e're you name the time.

Enter Tom. Saleware.

On my Conscience, my wife's not come home yet: Well, thus it must be, in spight of chance, and high heel Shoes which will go a wry sometimes. How a Lady there,—and my Wife not with her?—hah ,—my Wife? Stay, are my Eyes mine own?—'tis she—my friend Wife, in that t'other end o'th' Town habit she has so long wisht for: but, Mr. Bellamy, and she are whispering, I must not yet advance.

This night let it be.—

You have had enough of your Lady, sure for one day?

Doubt me not, dearest, Madam?

So, Madam, is't come to that? wou'd they had done, that I might approach without interruption.

And with all faith and secresie, I am undone else: for you know my vows to my Lord.

You undo me with these suspitions.

See my Husband.—Pray, Sir, present my service, and humble thanks, to my Lord, and my Husbands too.—

Yes, I beseech you, Sir.—

I will obey you, Madam.—

—Still, I say, this is an Assenego, he will never stand a Complement with me: But, Sapientia mea mihi;—but, what new Graces has his Lordship done us, that you have made me send him thanks for? For you say, you bought these rich Cloths your self.

'Tis enough, I am sensible, and you may leave your silly impertinent inquisitions.

I stand corrected, Friend.

And stand still corrected, or I shall break the Peace with you.

Never the sooner for a hasty word.

Before I marry'd you, did not my Lord make you Indent with me, to ask me no Questions, to deny me nothing I had a mind too, either for wearing, or eating, or going abroad where and with whom I pleas'd; and did you not agree to all this?

I did, and will still hold to my Indentures with my Noble Lord: whose favor I wou'd not loose, for Forty Indentures.

O wou'd you not so.

And what the dickins care I for my spightful Neighbours, who because they cannot maintain their Wives so fine as thou art, asperse thee,—and cry there's Tom. Salewares fine Wife: but Sapientia mea mihi, is my Motto; Let the Assenegoes tattle their hearts out, for I am resolv'd to show my self a dutiful Husband, in spight of Fortune and foul weather.

To prevent their talking, I'll remove out of their sight, and leave your pittiful Shop keeping.

Never the sooner for a hasty word.

Nay, I'll do't. I have been about it: have all under one done other Business too.

I cou'd tell her under who, if I durst too.

What's that you mumble there, to your self?

I was only Divining what that business shou'd be, which you did all under one; Ile warrant, you have taken fine Lodgings in the Mall , as you intended.

No; but I have taken a house there, by my Lords directions.

How, how, what must I then break up Shop?

No indeed, look to your Shop, and keep your City house too, for your self to lie in.

Must I not then lie in the same house?

No, Friend, not unless you mean to break with me for ever.

Well,—I will not disoblige thee, nor my Noble Lord, for any Consideration, for you know my Motto; Sapientia mea mihi; Stultitia tua tibi.—And so let's in to Dinner.

Act Fourth.

Scene I.

Enter Mrs. Crostill, Lord Loveless and Bellamy.

Madam, I'm but a bashful Lover, unskill'd to court a Widow, to swear I love you,—must and will have you;—And want the moving confidence to stir your blood by putting you to't, before the Priest declare it lawful; —But, I have Love and tenderness, which you will find in all the Actions of my life.

This modest Courtship will do no good on the Widow, he has mistook her humor. Blest mistake!

My Lord, I am not worthy your regard, my Birth, and Education, are not sutable to your great Fame. Fortune, 'tis true, was kind and gave me wealth, which sets me up a Mark for every Man, that aims at riches: Whilst all my little Beauties lie dead upon my hands, none court for that in a Wife; 'Tis enough, his Mistris shall be fair.

Madam, you seem to upbraid me with a sin, I vow, I never knew,—I am so Innocent.—

That 'twere pitty Marriage shou'd debauch yor Lordship.

It cannot, Madam, I'll be so true to you,—so faithful, and so just—

Impossible! I wou'd not have you so degenerate from the true gallantry of your Sex, and Age, to be a constant Husband. O how vile a sound it has! a young Lord, and constant to his Wife! Not for the World, wou'd I be that Woman, that shou'd be guilty of making you so strange a Monster.

Madam, by my Honour, I never lov'd till now, and you may rally as you please; but, I again protest 'tis not your wealth, but Virtue I admire: and you I must possess, or be for ever wretched.

Enter Saveall and Careless.

—Stay,—let us retire again, here is the Lord Loveless.

Let there be the Devil, I'll not retire an Inch,— —Save you, Widow.—

What rudeness is this?

Widow, I am in hast, and have not leasure for long whining Courtship.

Mr. Saveall, what Fellow's this, you have brought to affront me?

Your Pardon, good my Lord, we knew not of your Lordships being here; 'tis Mr. Careless, Nephew to Sir Oliver Thrivewell,—of whom I have procur'd the Five hundred pound, your Lordship desir'd by Mr. Bellamy.

For that I thank you; but for him, I must have an account of his rudeness.

Pray have respect to the presence of the Widow, my good Lord.—

I shall do as becomes me, Sir.

Then it seems, you do not deny the Letter, to be your own hand?

No, faith, Widow.

Have you the impudence to confess it?

Yes, and will not ask your Pardon for't; why what the Devil was there, that was not kind? I offer'd, if you Marry'd, to do your Drudgery, 'Egad I think you're beholden to me.

Madam, I made my first Addresses to you, and desire the favour of being first heard.

Sir, she shall hear me first, whoere came first I care not, she has heard you first already; or you have lost time.

Sir, I have been heard, and I will be heard again, and what's all this to you?

But you shall not, Sir; let me see you dare speak a Syllable to this Widow; or but tell her you love her with your Eyes, and it shall be your last; by Heaven it shall.

Unhand me, Saveall.—

How dare you, Sir, use this insolence in my house? On what incouragement, or by what Authority is it?

Good pert thing, hold thy prating, for let me tell thee, I neither love thee, my self, as you perhaps vainly imagin, nor will I suffer any other to do so.

I beseech your Lordship, to Pardon him, he's certainly mad.

The fitter for you, Widow.

Madam, the respect I bear you ties my hands, or you shou'd see I wou'd not be affronted.—Mr. Careless, you know me I suppose, and pray expect me to morrow morning.

I shall, Sir, I shall. You have your answer, Sir, and may be gone.

Death, shall my fears of angring her, make me endure all this?

Sir, what's your business here? what have you to say to me? If any thing, say it quickly, and leave me free.

Softly, good Widow, you are so impatient, till you hear me say, I love you,—well, know then I do love you most abominably, and am resolv'd to Marry you, and then to use you as I list.

Pray, Sir, how old are you?

O parlous Wit! what, I warrant you expect to be Courted in fine Language;—Ah, cruel Woman, how can you treat a Gentleman that loves you dearer than his Eyes, so rigorously? One that cannot,—nay, will not, (whilst there are ways to dye,) live out of your favor.

Who is't, you speak of, Sir?—

I am the wretched Man.—

All this, and more, Sir, my heart directs to an unknown youth, who loves not me.

Death, but you shall not, Ile have you love none but me.

I cannot chuse, you're such a civil Person, and write such passionate stuff in your Letter.—

O does that Letter trouble you? In good time, Ile write more, and worse to you hereafter, and in earnest too.—Did I not tell you the mistake, unreasonable Creature?

Sir, I have nothing to say to you; and beg your Pardon, if I tell you, I desire you no more to visit me.

Why, then fare you well. Ile have as good a Widow, on every Ale-house Chimney.

O how his humour pleases me, yet now Ile be reveng'd on't.—Sir, your Servant, will your Lordship please to walk in? This rude Fellow has disorder'd you?

Madam, you honour your servant, and fully make amens, for all I've suffer'd, in the Allowance of this favor.

But, Sir, I am not pleas'd she shou'd allow it you.

Death, Sir, But she shall.—

Shall you control me, in my own house? —Pray learn to know your self.—Mr. Saveall, pray carry him away; or Ile have it done more indescently.

I will endure it for once; because I know 'twas done only in revenge to me.—But who's here? My fine young dandy-prat,—and at the Widows too!—Sir, I have seen you but twice, and 'twas at places where I cannot allow of your coming, first at my Aunts, and now here at my Widows.

Your Widow, good Sir? I thought she had been the Widow of one deceas'd?

Thou art a pretty witty child; but, Sirrah, let me find you here no more, nor at my Aunts, I charge you: if I do, I shall have you whip't.

I hear your Charge, Sir; but you must leave it to my discretion, whether I will obey you, or not.

Well, Sir, remember I have given you fair warning.

Sir, will it please you to walk homeward?

You must excuse me, Sir, at present.

It will not be convenient, Sir, to visit the Widow again to day.

O fear it not, Sir, I do not like her so well now.

Do your pleasure, Sir,—Farewell.