THE REVENGE: OR, A MATCH IN NEWGATE.

Aphra Behn

• SCENE the First.
• SCENE II.

• SCENE the First.
• SCENE II.
• SCENE III.

• SCENE the First.
• SCENE II.
• SCENE III.

• SCENE the First.
• SCENE II.
• SCENE III.
• SCENE IV.

• SCENE the First.
• SCENE II.
• SCENE III.
• SCENE IV.

ACT the First.

SCENE the First.

A Street.

Enter Sam with Torch, Dashit raving, followed by Mrs. Dashit.

Run, you Rogue, run, raise the Street, you Son of a careless Whore: Cry, Stop Thief, stop Thief!

Which way, Sir?

A Pox of ways: Sirrah, cry, Stop Thief, I say.

So we may stop honest men, Sir.

There's no such thing within the Walls of London, ye Rogue; there's nothing but Knaves, Cheats, Cuckolds and Traytors, Thieves and Pickpockets, tho I be one of the Livery. A Pox of Honesty, my Plate's gone, the Reckoning unpaid, I'm cheated and undone! therefore run, ye Dog, run.

Good sweet Husband, have patience.

Patience! yes, so you advis'd when I found the Alderman and your Ladyship in a civil posture on the red Couch in the Swan. Patience quotha! Pox of your Remedies. Get ye in, here's Company.

Enter Footman with Flambeau, follow'd by Friendly and Wellman.

Whe! how now, Mr. Dashit, what inrag'd in Rancor, and the Beauty of the London-bars, your Lady too, in Tears! What's amiss? unfold thy dismal story.

Onely cheated, robb'd, abus'd, and undone, Sir: that's all, that's all.

As how, man! Come, advance thy comely Countenance, and do not let thy sorrowful Snout bedew thy reverend Jerkin. The reason, my hardly honest Dashit.

Oh Si, Mr. Trickwell that Knave is this night run away with our great Gallon-Tankard, six silver Boats, a great Salt, besides Spoons and Forks.

Oh, for some wise man that wou'd but finde 'em out presently!

Yes, if a wise man cou'd be found out presently.

How was this Plate lost? how escap'd he unseen with it?

Why, an't like ye, Sir, thus: As I understand, that man, man, quoth I? no, rather Monster, that t'other-end-of-the-Town-Villain, nay, I believe that Jesuit in disguise, sent from beyond Sea to ruine honest Citizens; I say, this Heathen Trickwell comes me into my house this evening with a great two-handed Gentlewoman, or some Priest in Petticoats; they call for a Room, pretend to send a Porter for some Ladies of delight, bespeak a Supper, but no Ladies came.

My Cockie forgets to tell your Worships, that our house being full, we had no Room emptie but the great Parlor below stairs.

Hold your peace, hold your peace, I say. Am I a Common-Council-man like to be of the Citie of London, and cannot tell my Tale my self? Get ye in, I say, and look to what's left.

Well, Sir, on with your Relation.

Well, Sir, a noble Supper they had of the best in season; I came in, cri'd, Your servant, Gentlemen; ask'd 'em how they lik'd their Wine, and departed civilly: Then enter'd a blinde Harper, cries, Do ye lack any Musick, Sir? He cries, Play: The Harper uncases, the Drawer is nodded out, who obeys, believing he wou'd be private with the Gentlewoman; and 'tis Sam's part, you know, Sir, to wink at things.

Right and civil.

Aye, aye, but he shall answer for that winking at the last day, I'll warrant him.

Well Sir, having eat the Supper, and Trickwell perceiving none in the room but the blinde Harper, whose Eyes Heaven had shut up from beholding wickedness, opens the Casement to the street, very patiently packs and pockets up my Plate, unnaturally thrusts the woman out of the window, and himself most preposterously with his heels forwards follows. The Harper plays on, bids the empty Dishes much good may do 'em, and plays on still. The Drawer returns, cries, What d'ye lack, Gentlemen? but out, alas, the Birds were flown, Sir, flown. Laments are rais'd.

Which did not pierce the Heavens.

Sam cries out; my Wife in the Bar hears the noise, and she bawl'd out; I heard her, and thunder'd; the Boys flew like Lightning, and all was in confusion.

Well, this must be for some great sins committed; the sins of the Bar and Sellar, unmerciful Bills, and suffisticated Wine, my honest damn'd Vintner:—Repent, oh repent and mend, and be sound.

Well, I will hang that Rogue Trickwell, and there's an end on't: I'll do't; and so Good night to you, Gallants.

Well, dear Jack, Good night: I have a Visit to make before I sleep, and will take my leave o'thee. A sound Wench, soft Sleep, and pleasant Dreams, bless thee, my dear Friendly.

Not so, I'll see thee safe at home; I dare not leave ye to your self so late; you are warm with Youth and Wine, which may direct you to the undoing of that body of yours which shortly must be blest with chast embraces. These common women will ruine thee, Frank; Faith leave 'em in good time: come, you shall not to a Bawdy-house, I hate 'em.

I pray for their continuance and increase ere since I thought of Marriage.

Prithee why?

A married man ought to love a Bawdy-house, as English-men love Flanders; wish war shou'd be maintain'd there, lest it shou'd be brought home to their own doors.

Thou art a worthy Lad, and brave; but this damn'd Lust has been thy constant daily vice, the onely one thou'rt given to.

Prithee call it a nightly one: But not to trifle with thee, Faith I am going the way of all flesh.

To a Whore?

One thou callest so, a very Publican and sinner.

And canst thou, having such an Object before thy eyes as the fair, the chast Mirinda, whom thou'rt to marry, give thy self up to the loose, the common arms of one who loves thee not but for her interest? Damn her, thou shalt not go. I hate, I nauseate a common Prostitute, who trades with all for gain; one that sells humane flesh, a Mangonist.

Poor Devils, what wou'd you have 'em do? wou'dst thou have 'em get their living by the Curse of man, the Sweat of their Brows? Egad they dearly earn what we give 'em. Is Charitie grown a sin, or relieving the Poor and Impotent, an offence? And Faith, Franck, where can we bestow our Money better? In Land the Title may be crackt, in Houses they may be burnt, in fine Cloaths they'll wear out, in Wine, alas, our Throats are but short, and our heads weak; but woman, oh dear lovely woman's the lasting true pleasure! Lay it out upon woman, I say, and a thousand to one, some one of them will bestow that on you that shall stick by you as long as you live: They are no ungrateful persons, they'll give Love for Love; do you protest, they'll swear; do you vow, they'll lye; do you sigh, they'll weep; do you give them English Coin, they'll repay you with the French—And they onely sell their Bodies: Do not some of our Sex sell their Souls? nay, since all things have been sold, Honour, Justice, Faith, even Religion, pray where's the dishonour of selling the Pleasures of a womans Bed? Who is't wou'd live and toil, but for a woman? who fights, lies cold and hard in open field, but to gain Wreaths to lay at a womans feet?

—Give me my Fee.

Well, Sir, I see you are resolv'd, and I can onely boast I love Diana better than you do her Sister Marinda.

Come, wilt thou go with me?

Whither?

To this house of Salvation.

Salvation!

Yes, 'twill make thee repent. Prithee go to the Family of Love, I'll shew thee my Creature, my Natural, my Mistriss, my pretty blue-ey'd Wanton, my honest fond self-hearted Flatterer, my fair-fac'd, sweet lip'd Rogue, that has Beauty enough for her Vertue, Vertue enough for a Woman, and Woman enough for any reasonable man, in my knowledge.

What to a Bawdy-house, to visit an impudent Prostitute? Pox on't, 'twill make me hate the Sex. The worst Object the world can shew me, is an immodest vulgar woman.

No matter, thou shalt go; go as thou lovest me.

Well, Sir, I'll go to bring you safely back.

SCENE II.

Enter Mrs. Dunwell, and Trickwell drunk.

Nay, Moll, unreasonable Mary! whe, the whole Prize was not above fortie pound; and hast thou the conscience to snack ten onely for a good word speaking, a little holding the door, and bawding? The device was my own too, the hazard mine, and the hanging may be mine, whilst thou securely filchest under my conduct. Come, the nest of Cups is fair, you Bitch, be contented; you were drunk too into the bargain, Moll. Come, bear a Conscience, Moll, and Heaven will bless our endeavours: besides, Moll, thou hast an honest Calling of Bawding, which brings thee in a pretty Livelihood, Moll; when God knows I trust to nothing but my own indurious slight of hand. Come, give me back the Salt.

By Yea and by Nay, Trickwell, I am afraid thou wilt play the Knave, and restore 'em.

No, by the Lord, Aunt, Restitution is Catholick; and you know Oracles are ceas'd. Tempus præteritum.—Dost hear, my necessary Evil?—Thou ungodly Fire that burnt Diana's Temple, dost hear? make Corina civil, or by the Lord, Bawd—

Fire! Gad you are the foulest mouth'd son of a Whore, the profanest railing Raskal, call a woman the most ungodly names! I must confess we all eat of the forbidden Fruit; and for my own part, though I am, as they say, a Bawd that covers a multitude of sins, yet I trust I am none of the wicked that go to Steeple-houses with profane Organs in 'em, ye scurvy sawcie Jack.

Who, I rail at thee, my industrious Moll, my subtle Procurer? I rail at thee, my necessarie Damnation? I'll make an Oration in praise of thy Modestie, thou flower of thy Function.

And I think I have deserv'd it at your hands, Mr. Trickwell; for I have assisted you early and late, up-rising, and down-lying.

Thou hast; therefore listen: A Bawd for her Profession is the most honourable of all the 12 Companies; for as that Trade is most worshipful that sells the best Commodities, what must the Bawd be then, my little Moll? For where others sell silk Cloaths, Gold and Silver, Pearls and Diamonds, thou sellest divine Vertue, Virginitie, Modestie, Maiden-heads, Youth and Beautie: And who are her Customers? not Cits, Grooms, Mechanicks, and disbanded Souldiers; but Gentlemen of the best Rank, Knights, Lords, Dukes, and Squires. Thus she lives, keeps the best Company, eats and drinks of the best, and domineers when she's drunk, reigns Queen, Moll, over her adoring Subjects. But hold, here's Wellman and Friendly! what a Pox does his Gravitie in a Bawdie-house?

Enter Wellman and Friendly.

Come along, yonders the Preface to my Mistriss, her Matron, or Bawd, or what you please. Mrs. Dunwell, your servant.

Your servant, sweet Sir: Ah, you're a prettie man, to neglect a Creature that loves you thus; introth you are—But well, I'll fetch her to you, Sir.—

Do so, sweet Mrs. Dunwell.—What, Mr. Trickwell, does your Knaveship dare walk the street? Look to't, Mr. Dashit lies in wait for you.

The more fool he; I can lie for my self: A Pox of the rich Raskal, 'tis no deceit in me to cheat him; he has cozen'd me of an Estate of some two hundred a year, with his damn'd Reckonings, and then who but honourable Mr. Trickwell, the noble Squire, and soforth, till he had got all my Land in Mortgage; then took the forfeiture, and turn'd me out of doors. I'll plague him for't. But I interrupt your diversion, and will kiss your hands, my noble Patrons.

Enter Dunwell and Corina, she kicking her.

See, Sir, this the ugly thing you so despise!

This!

This very thing: 'tis but a Dowdie—but she serves.—

A Whore this! Vertue defend me, what a lovely woman 'tis!

Salute her, man, salute her.

Salute her! yes, and leave my heart upon her lips.

Go, salute my friend; this is my friend Corina.

I care not for you nor your friends; I'm sure you use me scurvily, because you know I love you: but I shall learn those Arts you men are practis'd in; and scorn, and hate, and hide it, when it serves my turn, as you can do.—I shall—but yet I'm true, true as my Vertue when you first seduc'd it, false as you are, —and yet I love you strangely.—

Salute my friend, I say—go, you fond fool, clasp his neck round, and press his cheeks to yours; kiss him as you do me, as soft and meltingly: go, you coy tit, I say you shall.

She'as fir'd me with that touch:—there's Witchcraft in't.

Come, kiss her again; by Heaven thou shalt, I'll not be jealous on't: kiss her more ardently—So, thou wilt learn in time. Go fetch your Lute, and let him hear ye sing to't.

I'm all obedience, Sir, when you command; but I have something heavie at my heart that makes me wish you wou'd excuse me now.

Go too, I say—what can sit heavie there? I love thee, love thee infinitly, in faith I do, Corina. Here, here's Gold for thee; the Summer's coming on, and thou perhaps wants Toys, as Gowns and Points, and Petticoats. I'll have thee show, Corina, with the best, splendid and gay, my Girl, as is thy Beauty.

I'll take this Gold, but 'tis not that I want: methinks of late there is a strange decay of Passion in you; you're not so dearly fond as you were wont, supplying still your want of Love with Gold; your Mirth is forc'd, your Visits cold and short, as Winterdays; and when you speak of Love, you do't with caution. There's some reserve hid in that generous breast, which I wou'd be acquainted with, yet tremble lest you shou'd betray't too soon.

Corina, you mistake my heart, 'tis thine, intirely thine; but when a Lover's sure, as I am of thy heart, those little assiduities are neglected which onely hoping Lovers use to pay. I am happie now, and have no need of Vows but those of Constancie. Go to your Lute.

And have ye none you do designe to marry?

Fie, you're a fool to think I be so weak; Marry! I scorn that slaverie, whilst I possess all the delights of it with thee, without its plagues and care.—Go to your Lute. [Exit Cor.] Well, Frank, and how dost thou like my Mistriss? is she not charming? do you blame me now? Introth I lov'd her dearly once, till my Soul shew'd me the imperfections of my bodie, and plac'd my love on a more worthy object, my fair Marinda; which if this Baggage knew, there were no being for me, she wou'd so rave: But faith I think I'm not so criminals as you imagin'd, hah?

Yet she's a Whore!

A Whore! Oh call her a Miss, a Ladie of the Town, a Beautie of delight, or any thing. Whore! 'tis a nauseous name, and out of fashion now to call things by their right names. Is a Citizen a Cuckold? no, he's one of the Liverie: Is a great man a Fool? no, he's weak, or led away: Is a Person of Qualitie pockie? no, but is not well, has got a Surfeit, or so. Come, she is a Mistriss,—but heark, she sings!

She's all a perfect Heaven! Oh I adore her!

To obey your commands, I sung, my Love, but I had rather you had pardon'd me.

You are a simple Chit; go, get you gone, and let me go; 'tis late, and I am sleepie.

This Language was not wont to come from thee; take heed, and do not cheat my easie Faith: for if you do, perhaps 'twill make me mad; and in my wildness some strange things may do, may ruine both our lives. Take heed; for now I love ye much above 'em both. Come, you shall stay with me to night.

By no means, my Dear; this Gentleman has vow'd to see me chastly laid.

And so ye shall: the Play of Infants shall not be more chast. I have no wish to make him break his Vow, and he shall have a Bed.

Peace! that offer will offend him; he's a modest man, one of a profest abstinence. Good night.

And must you go?

I must.

And will you come to morrow? But oh I did not use to ask such Questions. Will you be sure?

I will: when did I fail? Good night. Boy, your Flambeau. Good night, Corina.

Why stay you, Sir? you see your friend is gone.

Madam, if he knows not how to prize Heaven, I do; and cannot leave the pleasure so soon, at least if you wou'd give me leave to gaze, I dare not say possess, that were a blessing fit onely for the Gods; nor knows man how to calm it.—That you shou'd throw away such wonderous beautie on the remiss, cold, and insensible!

Who is it, Sir, that's so insensible?

Death, whither does my passion hurry me? I shall betray friendship of many years, for a flame which a new lust has kindled in a moment.

Heavens! are you silent, Sir? what made ye talk of one remiss and cold? who mean ye? Wellman? Oh, if you did—

I meant mankinde; for none can merit you.—Is she unchast? can such an one be damn'd? Oh Love and Beautie, you two eldest seeds of the vast Chaos, what strong right ye have even in things divine, our very Souls!

Why do you stifle what was so well begun? Unfold; I know you have some meaning, Sir, in what you have to say: Concerns it Wellman?

No. Answer me one thing, Madam.

I will: for you have something to relate, which I must hear. Demand; I listen.

The Question is but rude.

I care not.—What means he?

Are you—You pardon me?

I do. There's something in his heart that I must flatter thence. Be confident.

And are you then—a—Whore? You said you wou'd forgive.

I did: and though that question, yet 'cause I know thou hast some reason for't, I'll answer thee directly, That I am.

Are Prostitutes such things, so delicate? Can custom spoil what Nature made so good? I never saw a sweet face vitious: it might be proud, inconstant, wanton, vain.

Oh leave, Sir, to philosophize on Beautie, and tell me why you do so.

Heavens! why cou'dst not thou be constant?

Constant! to what? to whom?

To Wellman: he has all the Charms of Nature; and to be false to him, was such a sin—

Oh Heavens! what base flatterer has traduc'd me? tell me; who dares report I am not true, not true to Wellman? I have been false to Vertue, false to Honour, false to my Name and Friends; but was to Wellman what Heaven is to the Just and Penitent, all soft, all mercie, all complying sweetness.

By Heaven, I do believe it; and nere heard a breath that cou'd prophanely say thou wert not: But oh, I thought with reason, if 'twere so, I cou'd not slightly part with such a Jewel, or, Indian-like, barter this real Gold for shining gingling Bawbles. Marinda! Heaven, thou'rt an Angel to her!

Enough: I know my doom; that word's enough; and I'm betray'd to ruine! [aside.] I will: My heart, thou shalt dissemble this—Go, base false man, that with the name of Friend has play'd the Traytor to the best of men. I know thou injur'st Wellman; or if true, 'twas not thy part to tell it: hadst thou license for such a cruel Tale, thou shou'dst have spar'd it to her that lov'd thy friend. Be gone, I hate thee, and whatsoere thou meants by such a Lye, I scorn thee for't, and think thee much unfit for any gallant friendship: I know 'tis truth, and with the fatal knowledge instruct my heart to break.

Friendly musing alone, enter peeping Wellman.

Tho I do not care for this woman now, yet some dregs of the old haunt of Jealousie remain about me still; and I must see what use my friend and quondam Mistriss makes of this kinde opportunitie.—Hah! alone, and musing!

'Twas not well done, indeed, to tell her; but Love was raging in me, and I believ'd I shou'd insinuate with that secret.

By Heaven, he's caught! Eternal Laughter seize me.

'Twas Love! the very first effects of Love were treacherous and ill: Heaven guard me from the rest. Yet I must on:

Is it so, Sweet-heart? how is't? what, is the worst sight the world can produce, a common woman now?

Hah! will you go home, Sir? 'tis high bed-time.

With all my heart, Sir; onely do not chide me. I must confess.—

Go thy ways for an Apostate; I believe my last Garment must be let out in the seams for you: Is't not so? But come, I must go serinade Marinda; but take this certain rule along with thee:

ACT the Second.

SCENE the First.

A Street.

Enter Wellman and Friendly, with Footmen with Lights, and men with Musick; as under Marinda's Window.

Well, Gentlemen, here's the Window of my dear Marinda : 'tis here, my friends, resides that lovely Maid, whose beautie chaces away those lesser fires that did infest my heart. Come, gently touch your strings, and call her forth to bless me ere I go to rest: I'm not half sanctifi'd without a sight.

Enter Marinda above, in Night-dress, and Diana.

Who's there, my dear lov'd Wellman? This was kinde.

My generous Marinda! when did I ere approach thee but with kindness, the fondest tenderest part of kindness too? and when I cease to do so, Heaven neglect me.

And me, when I but fear the contrary. Wou'd I cou'd let thee in; but oh I dare not: my Father nicely careful, tho thou'rt mine, mine by a solemn Contract, yet forbids me to entertain thee with that freedom yet.

But, my Marinda, 'tis a heavenly night, such as was made for Lovers, still and calm; and I have such soft things to whisper to thee, as pains me to conceal. I long to touch thy hand, to catch thy sighs, and lean my head upon thy rising bosome. A freedom now methinks you might allow me: 'tis very hard.

'Tis so; but yet a little suffering, and we may meet with lawful freedom: till when, continue to be true and kinde.

By Heaven, by all the Stars that shine above, and by thy brighter Eyes, I will be ever true.

I must give faith to what you say; and prithee since, easie Maid, I do believe so soon, in pitie do not cheat me. Here, wear this little Ring; a dying Brother gave it, and bad me never part with it but to him that Love had made my Husband: Wear it thou; for thou'rt my Souls best choice.

Which when I part from, Hope, the best comfort of my life, forsake me.

Heavens! what a long tedious Tale of Faith and Troth's here! Cou'd I once see the man I lik'd, I'd have done a thousand fine and more material things by this time.

Madam, here is a Man, whom if you cou'd but pity—

What, my grave Lover Mr. Friendly, who hates a Wencher! no by my Troth, I'm for no such dull Ingredience in a Lover: I love a man that knows the way to a womans bed without instructions. Besides, what shou'd we two do together, get Fools? no, I hate 'em.

You may be mistaken in your man.

I wish I were: Let him but bring it under the hand of any woman who has been kinde to him, and I'll believe him fit to be belov'd by me; till then, I am obdurate.

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

Let it be quickly then, I hate delays, you know I'm stor'd with Lovers, Sir John Empty will be before-hand with you else; you know he's a spruce Spark, and cannot long lay siege before a heart, but he will force an entrance: he's of my humour too, gay, loves Fiddles, Wine and Women; a fool and rich, oh heavenly Quality! Be wise, Sir, and consider 'em, and learn to whore betimes; you know not what you may come to. Farewel, the day begins to break, and the old man will wake. Good morrow, modest Mr. Friendly.

Good morrow, mad-cap: Come, shall's go to bed?

No, I cannot sleep; I'll walk a little.

And meditate? Farewel, Sir, I'm for rest.

This woman yesterday was charming to me, and now all that she said, seem'd dull and tedious. What a strange change is here! The light comes on; heark how the free-born Birds chant forth their untaught Passions, and in those pretty Notes express their love. They have no Bawds, no mercenary Beds, no politick Restraints, no artful Heats, no faint Dissemblings; Custom makes them not blush, nor Sham afflicts their name. Oh happy Birds, in whom an inborn heat is held no sin! how vastly you transcend poor wretched man, whom national custom, tyrannous respect of slavish order fetters, calling that sin in us, which in all else is Nature's highest Vertue. But a Whore! now shame forsake me, whither am I fallen, one that my friend has had, to live to be a shameful talk to men!

Wellman returns.

I have a mind to know whether Friendly goes to Corina; when I am absent, 'tis with some regret I think he shou'd; but present, it so pleases me to see his modesty in love, I'm ready to resigne her.—He's here still! Good morrow, Friend, I cannot leave thee thus dissatisfi'd; what art thou studying on?

Love; but it likes me not.

Why?

She is not honest.

What then? shou'd we hate all that are so, some men wou'd hate their Mothers and their Sisters; a sin against kind.

Is it a wise man's part to be in love?

Let wise men alone; 'twill beseem thee and me well enough.

And shall I not commit a sin against friendship?

What to love where I do? By Heaven, I resigne her freely to thee: the creature and I must grow strangers; and by this time she has heard of my designe to marry, and swears and rails, and cries, and curses me. Come, faith I will resigne her, and you see Diana will like thee nere the worse for't.

I'll but embrace her, hear her speak, and at the most but kiss her.

Oh heark, he that cou'd live upon the scent of Meat, wou'd live cheaply.

I shall never become heartily a man o'th' Town, a kind of flat ungracious Debauchee; an unsufficient dulness reigns about me.

This Italian breeding has spoil'd thee, and stiffen'd thy behaviour. Come, come, thou shalt to her, and she shall like thee.

But if she shou'd not, Friend!

Fear her not, 'tis her Trade, and what she'as practis'd long with many Lovers.

Was she not true to thee?

I do believe she was, whilst she was mine.

Was she a sinner ere you saw her then?

Oh a very Strumpet! Pardon me truth. Come, have a good heart, and thou shalt possess her, since thou'rt so in love.

Death, man, 'tis Destiny, I cannot help it.

Nay, I hope so. Come, come, she sells but flesh; so that even in the enjoying thou't regain again thy freedom. Go thy ways. [Exit Friend. Enter Trickwell.] How now, Raskal! what make you up so early?

He that will thrive, must be early stirring, Sir: I am going to get the Peny, Sir; Aye, Heaven has endow'd me with industry, I thank it.

And what good Acquaintance have you, Sirrah? no handsome women?

Faith, Sir, yes, some do start up now and then; but a Pox on't, when they have run through all the Trades and Degrees of the Citie, they pass at the other side of the Town for new Faces, and are caught up by your Courtiers for innocent and honest, though the Citie-Surgeon have had good Customers of 'um; and by my Troth, Sir, I hate to cheat a Gentleman with false Ware. But last night—

What last night?

I was horrid drunk at Supper with one Sir John Empty, a brave young fool for my purpose; I brought him a Wench, one Betty Cogit; a Pox on her, a pretty drunken Whore 'tis, and handsome: if she can serve you, I can bed my Knight with any other.

Away, you're a Rogue; I'll talk about it another time. Farewel: Have a care of Mr. Dashit, Sirrah.

Let Mr. Dashit have a care of me; I'll take care he shall be cozen'd most plentifully. Now for some new device! what shall it be?

Pray, Sir, which is the way to Cheapside, to the Sun-Tavern?

Sun-Tavern, Childe! what wou'dst thou do there?

Whe, Sir, I am sent for to trim Mr. Dashit; and tho he be my God-father, I know not the way to his house.

Why, art thou a Barber?

A Barber-Surgeon, Sir.

To what Bawdy-house does your Master belong? and what's your name?

John Scowre, an't like your Worship.

John Scowre! Good Mr. John Scowre, I desire your farther acquaintance. Nay, be cover'd, my dainty boy. Is thy Master at home?

My Father, forsooth, you mean; but he's dead.

And laid in's Grave, good boy?

Yes, Sir, and my Mother keeps shop.

A good witty boy; thou't live to read a Chapter to the Family, and write Sermons, John, in time, wo't thou not?

In grace a God, Sir.

And whither art thou going now, John?

Marry, forsooth, to trim Mr. Dashit the Vintner, He's my Godfather, I told you, forsooth.

Good boy, hold up thy head. Prithee do one thing for me; my name's Hazard.

He! good Mr. Hazard!

Lend me thy Barbers Implements.

Oh Lord, Sir!

Well spoken, a fine boy! What are they worth, childe?

Oh Lord, Sir, worth I know not.

A witty childe! Here's a shilling for thee. Where dost live, John ?

At the three Washballs, forsooth, in Mincing-lane.

Aye, I know't; a delicate boy! I have an odde Jest in my head, childe, to trim Mr. Dashit: 'Tis for a wager, boy, a humour; I'll return thy things presently. Hold, let's see—

What mean ye, Mr. Hazard?

Nothing, child, but a Jest. Go drink a flaggon, and I'll return presently.

Pray, Sir, do not stay.

As I'm an honest man—The three Washbals, John?

Aye, Sir.

Good: And if I do not shave Mr. Dashit, my ingenuity wants an edge. Let me see, a Barber! My villanous tongue will betray me; I must step in and disguise a little. For my speech, what if it be broken French, or a Northern or a Welch Barber? Good, the Widow Scowres man: good, newly hir'd a Journeyman; very well: I have my Cue, and will proceed, happy be luck—

SCENE II.

Enter Corina with her Hair loose, raving, and Mr. Dunwell.

Nay, dear sweet childe, do not torment thy self thus violently: say Wellman be to be marri'd, are there no more young Gentlemen, no more both handsome and rich? Come, come, you cou'd not expect to build Tabernacles with him.

Damn your sententious Nonsence, let me go loose as the winds when mad, when raging mad. 'Twas you, Heaven curse ye for't, that first seduc'd me, swore that he lov'd me, wou'd eternally; and when my Vertue had resolv'd me good, damn'd Witch, whose trade is Lying and Confusion, you hard besieg'd it round with tales of Wellman, repeated all his Charms so often o're, my Heart began to yield, and Vertue fade like flowers with too much heat; which when you saw; a Curse upon your Tongue, you told him where the part was feeblest here—told him my strength, and how he best might conquer: and he, oh lovely Tyrant, found it true, and never ceas'd till he had vanquisht all. Leave me, thou Witch, that hast reduc'd this soul, this body too, to nothing but a Grave.

To nothing! Marry and that's not my fault; I have made as many proffers of your Virginity since he ruin'd it, as if you had been my own Daughter a thousand times, so I have; but you were so peevish, you ever stood in your own light; nothing wou'd down with you but Wellman.

Hell take thy tongue, or blast it.

Aye, for God forgive me, it has been a thousand times forsworn for you, and yet I've brought you to nothing. Have I not brought you English and French Merchants of the best Rank, Jews of the richest Tribes, Irish Lords, Scottish Earls, and lastly, the Dutch Agent, who offer'd ye a Tun of money? and is all this nothing? Come, come, had you had grace, you had made something of all these; but nothing but Wellman was regarded.

Oh that hated Name, like some black Charm it curdles up my bloud.

And yet, a my conscience the Gentleman's an honest Gentleman, and one you have got fairly by; I hope him to you, and have I this for my labour? Well, Mary Dunwell, [weeps] go thy ways; Mary Dunwell, thy kinde heart will bring thee to the Hospital.

I'll be reveng'd; nothing but dire Revenge shall satiate my Rage. Methinks I am inspir'd with manly strength, a bloudy courage swells my rising heart, and I shall act some wonderous dismal mischief. And yet to see him bleed, he that has sworn so many tender things, and breath'd 'em all in kisses on my bosome; but now all those, and thousands new invented, he pays another Mistriss more beloved. I die, I die, and cannot bear that thought, by which I finde I'm feeble woman still. Why didst thou? tell me, for I'll here begin, why didst thou praise this Monster?—To my soul.

Heavens, Madam, hold and hear me: I did praise him, I confess; I said he was a fool, a lavish fool, one that lov'd women more than his Religion, that he kept high, and lov'd most ardently: but what of this? the wind you see is turn'd.

Turn all then to confusion; turn, thou Witch, 'tis I will play the Devil. Heart, resolve, and set down this decree, never to rest till thou hast made him equal to me, wretched.

Enter Boy.

Madam, Mr. Wellman and Mr. Friendly are below, and desire leave to kiss your hand.

Oh he's grown ceremonious in his Visits. No more, I will be calm, as if my fortune knew no change; I will dissemble, smile;

Enter Wellman and Friendly.

Oh my dear life! this woman has displeas'd me; but one kinde look from thee chases all other thoughts out of my soul.

But what's the matter? do not dissemble with me.

With thee! far be such art from thy Corina's tongue; you've taught her truth with love. What else shou'd such a Master teach a Mistriss? Come, I forgive her now: Alas, she'as lost the little Dog you gave me. Wou'd it not grieve one to loose ought of thine?

Fie, fie, cry for a Dog! what wou'dst thou do for me that pay'st such tributes to a poor worthless Animal?

For thee, weep tears of bloud; but 'tis impossible I cou'd be robb'd of thee by ought but death. I know thy noble heart—to be a Traytor.

Thou art so fond, thou mind'st nothing but me; sees thou not my friend?

Yes, and love him too, next to thy self, by Heaven; for he's as great a Villain, being he's man. Come, Sir, you must not be so sad; I'll sing and dance, do any thing to make you gay and smile: for trust me, Sir, I hate sad Company. Heavens, what ails you, Sir? have you the Tooth-ach, Sir? I've many remedies for that.

No, my pain is at my heart; have you a Cure for that?

A thousand. Kinde Eyes, soft Sighs and Kisses well appli'd.

'Twill but increase the pain: 'twas so I caught it.

Alas, I'll sing then; I have a thousand Songs, so pretty and so loving.—

Still that but hurts me more.

Then I've no Remedies. [sighs.] Hah, what Ring is that? I like it, and must have it.

No you must not, Love.

Fie, you call me Love, and cry I must not! I say I will. How now, who is't commands where I am?

You intirely; but this Ring I cannot part with.

'Tis my Rivals: Rot with his finger, how it fires my bloud, and the red flame kindles about my face, and will betray my heart! Come, 'tis a trifle.

I care not for the value.

Has it a worth besides its own intrinsick one?

Nay, you're of late so peevish and so jealous, that you grow troublesome.

Jealous! by this dear mouth not I. [Kisses him.] Come, give me the Ring; by all that's kinde, you shall: By all our Loves, and by all those soft Embraces when in my Arms you swore eternal Love, eternal Faith, I do conjure ye give it me: I never us'd to beg such Toys in vain.

Thou art uncivilly importunate. Go, fool, thou sha't not ha't; I care not for thee nor thy Jealousie.

He speaks his soul in that, which from his mouth destroys all my dissembling. I know that Ring, thou falser than the Devil; I know it is Marinda's, your new Mistriss: take her, but take her far from me be sure; keep her as thou wou'dst secrets that wou'd damn thee; for if she take but Air, she is no more; it will be all infected with my Sighs and Curses, and 'twill be catching, Sir: look to't, it will.

Thou'rt grown a hectoring Whore!

Leave me, or such another word from thee will put thee into danger. Dar'st thou upbraid the faults thou hast created? Furies possess me, that I may incounter the like Fate or killing Blasts! Oh I cou'd rave to think I want that power that might destroy thee!

Do not turn Witch before thy time, Corina.

I wou'd I were, that I might be an age in damning thee: But words are Air that blow above thy head, and cannot wound nor blast.

Nay, if you rave, I'll leave ye; fare ye well.—You will not go.

And is it true, hast thou abandon'd me? Canst thou forget our numerous Blisses past, the hours we've wasted out in Tales of Love, and curst all interruption but of Kisses, which 'twixt thy charming words I ever gave thee; when the whole live-long day we thought too short, yet blest the coming night? Hast thou forgot, false are thy Vows, all perjur'd, and thy Faith broken as my poor lost forsaken heart? and wou'dst thou wish me live to see this Change! Cou'dst thou believe, if thou hadst hid it from the talking world, my heart cou'd not have found it out by sympathie! A foolish unconsidering faithless man!

This is as troublesome as Rage to me.

Some comfort that thou dost confess thou'rt base; and this last blaze of my departing Love, has but a minutes light, and now 'tis gone.

It went in fume, and leaves a scent behinde it which does offend my sense: Farewel.

Farewel. And dost thou think I'll part with thee thus tamely! Faithless unthinking fool, by Heaven, no other woman shall possess thee; the perjur'd heart you gave, thus I demand:
                                        [Takes a Pistol out of her pocket, fires it at his breast; it onely flashes in the pan: Friendly runs to her; she throws it away.]
Oh damn this treacherous instrument, false as the heart 'twas aim'd at: But since, like Coward States, I wanted courage to attack the Foe, I'll turn my Fury into civil Broyls, and hurl all to confusion here within.

Pray leave her, Sir, your presence but inflames her.

I will: look to her, prithee. I was too rash, and mist from too much violence and rage—I might have more securely done the business. [aside.] Pray leave me, Sir, I cannot go, a fire in my blood confines me here: 'Tis not a vertuous flame!

This man whom I abhor because his Friend, through all my rage, I see has passion for me, raise it, ye Powers, till it become so high to be employ'd to any use, I'll put it to a fatal instrument of my Revenge.

Loveliest of all your injur'd Sex.—

You're charitable to the forsaken, Sir, but 'tis alas all thrown away on me; for I can never more believe there can be honesty in man, since Wellman is all Vice.

What Devil, envious of his glorious Choice, contriv'd to make him faithless to such Beauty! Had I that Blessing, which I dare not name, hardly dare wish, 'tis so above my merit, I shou'd dispise, as useless and unnecessary, all the vast Joys besides Heaven has in store, and at thy feet lay all my Fortunes down, and set up my eternal rest with thee.

Just so he spoke, and I fond fool believ'd, and tir'd him out with love; but you're all false, inconstant, faithless Tyrants, and betrayers even in that very minute that you gain us; we forfeit all our hopes in you for ever. I can believe no more.

Silence and Modestie were wont to be my two accustom'd Vertues; but my Love grows high and rages in me like a storm: Wou'd you'd believe my Vows; but you have been deceiv'd that way alreadie: therefore, thou dear, thou lovely injur'd fair one, credit my plain Sinceritie. I love, and to be short, wou'd have thee pay my flame, I will be grateful in what way you please. Take me to your Embraces, to your Bed. I am not us'd to ask such Questions, Madam, and want terms fit to dress 'em in.

And do you take me then for such a Creature, that have no sense but Appetite, the Brutal part of Love? Forbear to name it to me, you offend me.

Forgive me; I wou'd have you love me too: and if I have too hastily run o're what ought to have been said of my vast Passion, and came too rudely on the wisht-for part, 'tis the effects of youthful ignorance, of hot desire, and eager to be happy.

How shall I fain to yield! [aside.] There's such a seeming honest plainness, Sir, in what you say, in spight of all my grief, I listen to your Language. Cou'd you be true, cou'd you convince me throughly that you lov'd!

What Art will do't? what Vows, what Protestations, what Proofs, what Gifts, besides a faithful Heart?

Shall I, or can I trust again? Oh fool, how natural 'tis for women to believe! But when you've gain'd the utmost that you ask, will you not then grow cold?

As soon the Sun shall lose its native heat, denying warmth to Flowers.

I must have more than this: Can you believe this heart that has been us'd so ill already, can you trust on feeble Vows? Can you be bravely kinde, resolve a Deed wou'd shake a Soul that is not fixt in Love?

Is it a Deed that I may do with honour?

I did not studie that; but if there be any thing that stands in competition with your Love, it is not worth my owning.

Be it what it will, 'tis for so rich a Prize, without demanding what, I'll vow it done.

I hate this Wellman: You may guess the rest. Good day to you.

Leaving me! by Heaven we must not part: Love and Desire are madly raving in me; my impatient Heat admits of no resistance: I cannot live, without you grant me instantly that which I dare not ask.

As long as Wellman lives, I've made a Vow never to love again; yet am I understood.

Will you be mine when Wellman is no more?

By all my hopes, by my last best of wishes.

Be mine, and onely mine, for ever mine?

Inviolably yours.

Then hear me, on my knees I make this Vow: Wellman shall die before to morrows light. Now may I hope my Bliss?

Yes, when the Deed is done. And for a Token that you have dispatcht him, bring me that Diamond that he wears, and which he did refuse me.—Do you pawse—

Onely the manner, Sweet—

Oh you may pick a sudden Quarrel with him, word it to blows, and then take all advantages.

Hah! whither wou'd my hastie steps misguide me! was I not rushing on to kill a Friend? to kill a Friend, oh 'tis to kill my self! Passion, how hellish art thou? oh how vile, to kill a Friend to gain a sinful woman for Appetite, for sensual end, and momentarie pleasure;

Heaven! how neer was I to being undone! I'll flie, lest the temptation overtake me.

SCENE III.

Enter Mrs. Dashit with a bag of money, Mr. Dashit following.

Well, is the money right?

Just fiftie pound, Honey, in good hard Half-crowns.

Well, Mr. Trickwell, 'tis your confounded Worship puts me to this Charge; but an I catch thee, an I do not charge thee with as many Irons, mayst thou cozen me again, Knave, mayst thou cozen me again. Well, Wife, is the Barber come? I'll be trim'd, and then to my Neighbour Glistens the Goldsmith to new furnish my self with Plate.

Truely Husband, surely Heaven is not pleas'd with our Vocation; we wink at the sins of our Customers, our Wines are meerly Protestant, and I now speak it with grief of heart, we frie Fish with salt Butter, to the burthen of my Conscience, calling our Wines by fortie heathenish names to disguise truth.

Hold your prating; a Pox of your Conscience, go minde your business in the Bar, score double, and mend the matter with a vengeance.
                                        [Exit Mrs. Dash. lays the money on the Table.

Enter Trickwell drest like a Barber.

A Barber, Sir, the Widow Scowres man, an't like your Worship; my name's Timothy Hazard, Sir.

Very well, very well; and how does my Godson, Timothy?

Very well, an't like your Worship; he's gone to trim Parson Cuffett.

And how long have you been a Barber, Timothy?

A Year, an't like your Worship, come Christmas.

What, what, and a good Workman, Timothy? And may I trust my self in thy hands, Timothy?

Oh doubt me not, Sir, I'll shave your Worship as cleverly, as your Worship shall confess, by that time I've done.— Hah, 'tis Cash!

Well, Timothy, and what's the News, Timothy? You Barbers are notable News-mongers, good Commonwealthsmen: You—

Marrie, Sir, I know none but of the Speaking Childe and the Monster.

How, the Monsters! what Monster, good Timothy?

Has not your Worship heard of the Monster, the Gravesend -Monster?

By my Troth not I.

Why, Sir, there came ashore last night four and twentie huge horrible monsterous devouring—

Bless us! what?

Whales, Sir; which no sooner came ashore, but they turn'd into fearful Elephants that roar'd, then into Cockatrices that crow'd and frighted all the Judges out of Westminster hall.

Good Lord!

And in a moment these Cockatrices were turn'd into so many huge Giants in Scarlet, with Triple Crowns on their heads, and forked Tongues that hiss so loud, the noise is heard to the Royal Exchange; which has put the Citizens into such a Consternation, that 'tis thought the world's at an end.

Good Lord! And what may this portend, Timothy?

Portend, Sir, Poperie, Sir, Poperie; and these Monsters are call'd the four and twentie Whores of Babylon.

Oh monsterous! Four and twentie Whores! the Nation will be over-run with Poperie indeed, Timothy.: Bless us, what monsterous things are these Popish Monsters! Well, in grace of God my Wife and I will go see these four and twentie Whores. Nay, nay, God bless little England; this must portend rightdown Poperie, that's certain. Well, and hast thou no merrie News, Timothy?

Faith, Sir, they say that there's five and twentie couple of Bears are to dance a Dance in Paris-Garden before the King; and four and twentie couple of French Apes play to 'em upon Flute doux.

Oh Pox, Timothy, this must be a lye, Timothy; and this be not a lye, I am an Ass efaith: Four and twentie Bears dance to Flutes douxes! Ha, ha, ha.

'Tis credible reported, Sir.—Shut your Eyes close, Sir, closer yet, Sir, this Ball will make 'em smart.

Aye, aye, Timothy, I do wink.

Hold, Sir, your head will take cold;
                                        [Puts on a fools cap.
I'll put on your good Worships Night-cap. So, now I'll shave you, Sir. This must along with me, this Beaver too, and now adieu, worshipful Mr. Dashit.

Ha, ha, ha! Four and twentie couple of English Bears dance to the Musick of French Apes! Ha, ha, ha! in faith, good Timothy, thou makest my Worship smile,—But heark ye, Timothy, dost know one Trickwell? a villanous Rogue, Timothy, cheated me last night of Fiftie pound in Plate; but I'll Plate him, with a Pox, an I catch him. Come, haste, good Timothy. Art thou free, Timothy ? I am one of the Common Council, Timothy, and may do thee good shortly. Why Timothy! Timothy! dost leave me in the Suds? Why Timothy! I shall be blinde with winking. [wipes his Eyes.] Timothy! Hah, you—Wife, my money, Wife!

Enter Mrs. Dashit.

What's the noise here? you are always bawling.

'Owns, ye Whore, where's Timothy?

What Timothy?

Why the Barber, Jade, the Barber.

The Barber! I saw him go half a quarter of an hour since. Why, are you not trim'd?

Trim'd, a Pox trim ye; where's the money, the money, the money, ye Jade? I am trim'd with a vengeance!

What's the money gone! the whole Fiftie pound in the bag!

I have wink'd fair, in the Devils name.

Enter Jack. Kneels.

Pray, Godfather, give me your Blessing.

A Pox of Blessing, I am Cursing, Rogue: where's Timothy, thy Mothers man Timothy?

My Mother has no such, forsooth.

My money! my fiftie pound! A Plague of all Timothies; who was't trim'd me?

I know not, Godfather; onely one met me and borrow'd my Furniture, for a Jest, he said.

What kind of Fellow was't? Oh—

A little slender nimble well-spoken fellow, Sir.

Oh 'tis Trickwell, that Rogue Trickwell! a black Hair and Eye-brows, and grey Eyes?

Yes, Godfather.

Aye, aye, 'tis he. Raise the street upon him; I'll hang him if there be Law for money. Oh I shall faint! Wife, wife, fetch me the Rosa solus.

Good Husband, take comfort in the Lord, I'll play the Devil but I'll recover it; have a good heart, 'tis but a weeks false scoring in the Parliament-time.

So, some comfort: Wife, whe Wife, I say, is there any Musick in the house?

Yes, Sweet-heart, Mr. Squeeks Noyse.

Bid 'em play then: And John come kiss me now, now, now, and John come kiss me now. [sings.] Bid 'em play; laugh thou and be merrie, for I'll go dance, cast up my Accounts, and hang my self presently. I will not curse, but a Pox on Trickwell, he has shav'd me, he has trim'd me! I will go hang my self; but first let's have a Dance.

ACT the Third.

SCENE the First.

Enter Marinda, Diana, Ample.

Come, prithee Ample, sing the Song Wellman made upon the Kiss I gave him.

No, prithee don't, my stomack turns against kissing extreamly.

Why, Diana?

By the faith I have in this Beautie, 'tis the most unsavorie Ceremonie, the most sawcie Custom to Ladies; every Fellow now-a-daies with greasie sweatie Faces, stinking Breath, and nastie Teeth, must take a bodie over the Lips with such familiaritie; nay they think 'tis grateful to us too. Lord, there was an old Judge laid me over the face last night, and did so squeeze his grizly Brissles through my Lips, I'd as live a kist a row of Pins with the points to me; and yet I was forc'd to take it, take it with a Curtsie too: for my part I had as lieve they should belch in my face.

Fie, what a Comparison's there!

Sutable to the beastly Complement; and yet I love kissing too, if I may chuse my man and place.

Fie, if any one shou'd hear ye!

Let a thousand, I'd not be asham'd; 'tis not those that talk roguishly, that are to be suspected: you shall have a hypocritical holy Sister mince that publickly, that she'll receive with open arms privately: For my own part, I consider Nature without Apparel, without disguising; I give thoughts, words, and truth, a modest boldness; I love no prohibited things, and I wou'd have nothing prohibited but by Vertue.

But we must consider the world, who thinks severe modestie a womans Vertue.

Fie, fie, Vertue is freedom, handsome, cheerful mirth; I hate a severe, froward, ignorant, ill-bred behaviour in a woman; 'tis uncivil, hang't, I'll have none on't. Ample, what think you?

Faith, Madam, I can onely stand up for Kissing; I never ventur'd farther, tho I wou'd fain.

Thou art not of my minde; for I'll nere marrie.

Marrie God forbid! what will you do then?

Ene strive against the flesh: Marrie! no, faith, Husbands are like Lots in a book, one may prick a hundred times and finde all blanks. A Husband! a Hangman: a careless domineering insolent thing, that grows like Corral, whilst under water, soft and tender; but married, and above the waves, hard, stubborn, not to be bow'd nor manag'd: whilst your humble servant, Oh how assiduous, troublesomely officious and busie; but wed, the worstbred Tyrant and Sloven in nature. No, no, I'll live my own woman, I—and let the worst come to the worst, I had rather be call'd Wanton than a Fool.

Oh but a vertuous Marriage!

Vertuous Marriage! there's no more affinitie between Vertue and Marriage, than a man and his Horse: Wedlock may manage Vertue in the right way, but 'tis oftner loose and unbridled. I hate restraint upon my Vertue, or to owe it to the honour of a Husband; yet I like thy match well enough, a handsome man, good humour, wittie, and wilde; but my Sir John is such a tool, fit to make nothing but a Cuckold of. See if they be not here.

Enter Sir John Emptie and Wellman.

My sweet Marinda!

Good morrow, my little Sooterkin; how is't, my prettie Life?—Nay, I call all my Mistrisses so.

Indeed! How many Mistrisses have you had?

Some Nine, or thereabouts.

Then you have had nine lives, like a Cat.

Mew—you wou'd be kist for that.

Yes, if I lik'd the mouth that offer'd it.

By my troth, that must not be mine; I do not love to endanger my back with stooping so low: if you wou'd wear Chipeeners, much might be done.—Nay, let me alone to finde a Rowland for your Oliver .

Your pestilent wit will never make me asham'd of my shortness: the faults I can mend my self, I blush at; but those which Nature made, let her bear the shame for me, I have nothing to do with it; but you never forget to be wittie on my Beautie, Sir Knight, I shall be even with you.

Nor remember, by my troth, but as I do Religion, for Controversie sake onely, no hurt.

But, Brother, for I'll now call you so, since my Father this night resolves to contract you—Shall we not have Fiddles and dance? Sir John I'm sure will make one, and my Citie Lover the Aldermans son, Mr. Shatter, he's a most spruce Dancer of the first bench in the School, I'll promise ye.

Fore Gad, and well remember'd, he borrow'd a Diamond-Ring of me last night to make a Visit in to a Ladie; and was't you? The Devil take me, an I had thought that, he shou'd nere a had it. Adsbud he's here!

Enter Mr. Shatter.

Good day to my fair Mistriss.

Good morrow, sweet Mr. Shatter.

Sweet Mr. Shatter! Pox on him, is he a Rival now?

You're fine to day, rich in Jems, Mr. Shatter.

A Toy, Madam, I bought to please my finger.

I am more pretious to you than your finger; why not to oblige me? Come, I'm no profess'd beggar, you know.

Faith and troth, Madam, as I hope to be sav'd—Oh Lord, as the saying is—I protest upon my honour.

Do not pawn it for such a trifle.

As I'm a Gentleman, as God shall fa'me, I'll give a—

Is this yours to give?

Oh Lord, Madam, that's such a thing now, why shou'd your Ladyship—you're the strangest Joker, I protest.—

Hum! now I remember, I think I have seen this on a persons hand, an humble servant of mine, one Sir John Empty.

Pox of her memorie! a such another Madam. Whe, what a Devil's he to her now?

Nay, I'm sure this is it.

Troth, 'tis, Madam: the poor fellow wanted a little money to treat some women last night, and so he pawn'd it to me. 'Tis a Pawn, good faith, or else you shou'd have it.

Heark ye, thou base lying son of a cheating Cit, how dares thy impudence hope to prosper? Were it not for the respect I bear this noble Companie, I wou'd so bang thee!—

How now, what's the matter here?

Nothing, Madam, nothing. He was a little uncivil with me last night; for which, because I shou'd not call him to an account, he desir'd to make me any satisfaction. The Coward trembles at my very presence; but I have him on the hip, I'll take the forfeit of his Ring.

Heark ye, Sir, what's that you whisper to her?

Nothing, Sir, but to satisfie her that the Ring was yours, not pawn'd to me, but lent to grace my finger; and so I told her I begg'd your pardon for being a little too familiar with your Reputation.

Yes indeed, he did; and said you wou'd make him any satisfaction for a rudeness you did him last night, but he wou'd take the forfeit of the Ring for't.

How now, ye base Scoundrel!

Hold, hold, my Mistriss does but rally, faith.

Thy Mistriss! I disown thee; thou'rt a childe, I'll give thee to my woman. Come, Sister, let's make us ready for the Ball anon. Come, you shall be friends.

He shall renounce you then, and restore my Ring; Adsbud he shall.

With all my heart, to do you service, Sir.

And here I make an offer of it.

Well, I'll take it, Sir, to make me thine to night. Farewel, Brother, till anon.

To be huft thus by a Coward, a beaten Coward, what madness has possest thee?

Aye, but how the Devil did I know he was a Coward? cou'd not you have whisper'd me that?

Well, Sir, I'll try to make your peace with Diana. Leave me, I've business now. [Exit Shat. Enter Friend.] How now, my friend! what news from Love? is the Ladie of sin kinde? prithee say how; in faith I'll not be angrie.

Oh, Wellman! no Age did ere produce so damn'd a Creature so fair, and yet so false: had I been vicious, what a desperate wretched thing I'd been!

And listen'd to my love, my eager love; which when it urg'd her to create me happie, she prest me to this Murder, as the way, the onely means to gain her heart for ever. Mad with my flame, I cou'd deny her nothing, and then my lawless lust, not I, protested, confirm'd it with a thousand Oaths to kill ye, and bring this Ring to witness you were dead; and then her lovely bodie was my hire.

Horrid! nothing's defam'd but by its proper self: Physicians abuse Remedies, Lawyers spoil Law, and woman onely is a shame to woman. You've vow'd to kill me?

Most solemnly; for, friend, I must enjoy her. Oh that a man of sense shou'd fancie pleasure in one whose soul's so black and infamous; but 'tis my fate, and I must bow before it.

Thou shalt; I will contrive the means to satisfie thee. Come, I give a Ball to night to my Marinda; thou shalt be there: and by the way, I'll tell thee what we will do to make a seeming Quarrel, that all the world, as well as this Corina, may think I'm kill'd indeed, whilst I, lodg'd in some place obscure, may give thee time to cool this feavourish blood. Shew her this Ring, protest me surely dead; and when thou'rt satiated, we'll laugh at follie. Come, let us go.

SCENE II.

Enter Mr. Glisten and Dashit, with a great silver Bason or Punchbowl. Enter Trickwell in the habit of a Pedler with a box with Trinkets before him. Jervice.

Well, Neighbour Glisten, I am beholden to you for this credit till next week, and I am pleased in my choice of this piece of Flate; a Punch-bowl is a most fashonable thing, now French Wines are prohibited: I know 'twill please my Wife. Well, I am fortie pound indebted to you for't, honest Mr. Glisten.

Your word's sufficient, Sir, an 'twere for a thousand pound.

A Pox of the Rogue that robb'd me! Well, I shall catch him; and if I do, he shall half rot in Fetters in the Dungeon till he despair; then I'll hire a Parson on purpose that shall perswade him he is damn'd; then after see him with my own eyes hang'd without singing any Psalm: Lord, Lord, that he shou'd have but one neck!

Oh, Neighbour, you must use a Conscience in all things; but do your will. You'll command me no farther?

No, onely lend me your servant to carrie this Bowl home to my Peg ; I am to step into Leaden-hall.

Willingly, Sir: Here, Jervice, carrie home this Plate.

To my Wives own hands deliver it, good Jervice.

I'll warrant you, Sir.

To her own hand, honest Jervice.

I have deliver'd better things than this to a womans own hand, Sir, before now.

Monsieur, please you to buy a very fine delicate Ball, a sweet Ball, a Camphere-ball.

Prithee away.

One a Ball to shave, one a Ball to scowre.

Name 'em not to me, talk not of shaving; a Pox of the Rogue, I have been shav'd, I have.

I'll shave ye smoother yet: That Bowl, that delicious Bowl, I must be drunk out of; I have a fancie for't, it is too good for cheating Vintners: I say it must be mine; therefore, my worshipful Dashit , look to't: What tho there be rounds in a Ladder, and knots in a Halter? hang the Devil, I'll do't; I must draw a Lot for the great Punch-bowl.

SCENE III.

Enter Mrs. Dashit and Jervice with the Bowl.

Nay, Jervice, stay and drink, good Jervice; and how does Mrs. Glisten? I knew her well, she was a very good patient Creature, efaith; she has born, and born, and bore again, good woman, as well as I, with a bad Husband; yet I can finde no fault in Mr. Glisten: Here's to him, Jervice, he knew me before I was married; an honest man he is, [drinks] and a thriftie, I'll warrant him; and his Wife's a proper woman as any in Cheapside.

Yes, indeed forsooth, so she is.

She paints now, and yet she keeps her Husband's Customers still. Introth, Jervice, a handsome Wife in a fine carv'd seat, is the best Ware in a mans shop.

Yes, indeed forsooth, so 'tis.

But well, Jervice, remember me to your Master and Mistriss, and tell 'em I acknowledge the receipt of this, acknowledge the receipt.—This 'tis to have good Education, and to be brought up in a Tavern; and though my Husband be a Citizen, all London knows I keep as good Companie as any she within the Walls. Good day, honest Jervice.

Enter Trickwell drest like a Prentise, with a Jole of Salmon.

Fair hour to you, Mistriss.

A prettie Complement! I'll write it down: A beautiful thought to you, Sir.

Your Husband and my Master Mr. Glisten has sent you a Jole of fresh Salmon, and they intend to come both to Dinner presently to season your new Bowl, forsooth, which your Husband intreats you wou'd send back by me, that his Arms may be engraven on it, which he forgot before.

Are you sent by no Token? Nay, I have a wit.

Yes forsooth, by the same Token he was dry shav'd this morning.

A sad Token, but true: here, pray commend me to your Master and Mistriss, and tell 'em I expect 'em impatiently.
                                        Gives him the Bowl, takes the Salmon. Exit Trick.
Impatient was well again! Sam! why Sam, I say!

Anon, anon, forsooth.

Come quickly, spread the Table, lay Napkins, and do ye hear? perfume the Room a little; it does so smell of this prophane Tobacco! I could never endure this ungodly Tobacco, since our Doctor told me 'twas a bane to Propagation.—So spread handsomly: Lord, these Boys do things so arsie-versie! You shew your breeding. Well, I am a Gentlewoman by my Sisters side, I can tell you: so—methodically. Hum! I wonder where I got that word! Oh 'twas Sir John Empty bid me kiss him methodically; 'tis a sweet man!

Enter Mr. Dashit.

Well, Tony Dashit, be not discourag'd, be not disheartned, thou wilt recover all.

Oh are you come, Husband? where are they?

How now! how now! how now! what, a Feast towards! and in my private Parlour! Who treats, who treats, Peg?

Prithee leave fooling; are they come?

Come! who come?

Lord, How strange you make it!

Strange! what's strange? is the woman mad!

Aye strange: You know of none that sent me a Jole of Salmon, you—and said they wou'd come dine with me!

Hah, fresh Salmon! peace, not I; peace, the Messenger has mistaken the house: let's eat it up quickly, before it be inquir'd for. Come, come, Vineger quickly, Sam.—Some good luck yet, efaith; I never tasted Salmon that relisht better in my life. Well, 'tis a rare thing to feed at other mens cost.

Other mens cost! prithee did not you send this Salmon?

No, I say, no.

By Mr. Glisten's man?

I say no.

Who sent word that he and his Wife wou'd come to dinner with me?

No, no.

And hancel my new Bowl.

Hah, Bowl!

And withal, commanded me to send the Bowl back.

Hah, back!

That your Arms might be put on't.

Oh!

By the same token that you were dry shaven this morning.

Oh!

And thereupon I sent back the Bowl: nay and I bear not a brain—

And is the Bowl gone? is it deliver'd? departed? defunct? hah!

Delivered? yes sure, 'tis delivered.

I will never more say my Prayers; and is the Bowl gone?

Gone: God is my witness I deliver'd it with no more designe to be cozen'd on't, than the childe unborn.

Look to my house, I am haunted with Evil Spirits: hear me, thou Plague to man, thou Wife thou, if I have not my Bowl again, I will go to the Devil; I'll to a Conjurer: look to my house, I'll raise all the Wise men in London.

Bless me, what fearful words are these! I trust in God he is but drunk sure.

Enter Trick. as before.

I must have my Salmon, I cannot afford the old Rogue so good a bit; I must have it to season my Punch. Now for a Master-piece: Fair Mistriss—

Oh have I caught ye! Sam, shut up the doors, Sam.

Peace, good Mistriss, I'll tell you all: A Jest, a meer Jest; your Husband did it onely to fright ye: the Bowl's at my Masters, and thither your Husband's gone, and has sent me in all haste, lest you shou'd be over-frighted, to invite you to come to dinner to him.

Praise Heaven 'tis no worse!

And bad me desire you to send the Salmon before, and your self to follow: My Mistriss will be very glad to see you.

I pray take it. Well, I was never so out of my wits in my life: Pray thank your Mistriss. [Exit Trick. with the Salmon. How my heart beats still, beshrew him! Sam, my Hood, Sam, and Gloves, and Scarf, quickly.

Enter Dashit.

How now, whither are you janting, hah?

Come, play the fool no longer, will you go?

Whither, in the name of Madness, whither?

Whither! why to Mr. Glisten's to eat the Salmon. How strange you make it!

Your meaning, Jade, your meaning.

Lord bless me, did not you send for me and for the Salmon, by the self-same fellow that came for the Bowl?

'Tis well, 'tis wonderous well! and are you in your fight wits, Jade, are you?

An you make an Ass of me, I'll make an Ox of you, I tell ye that.

Nay, Jade, be patient; for look ye, I may be mad, or drunk, or so; tho you can bear more than I, I do well: I will not curse; but Heaven knows my minde. Come, let's go hear some Musick. I will never pray again, that's certain: Let's go hear some doleful Musick. Nay, if Heaven forget to prosper Knaves, the Citie's like to thrive: I'll go hang my self out of the way.

ACT the Fourth.

SCENE the First.

Enter Sir Lyonell, Mr. Wellman, Friendly, Sir John Emptie, Mr. Shatter, Marinda, Diana, Petronella, and other women and men; with Musick.

More Lights there, Boy, more Wine and Lights.— Come, come, son Wellman, for so I must call you now; introth you are not merrie, Sir, not heartily merrie: Come, we'll have tother Dance, efact we will, Mr. Wellman. Diana, whe Girl, I say! Adsme you're all out of sorts; I thought thy Tongue and heels cou'd never have been idle: Come, come, hands, hands, for shame.

Come, Mrs. Diana, I'm your man at this sport; I never stand out at these businesses: Your hand, fair Mistriss.

You lie, Sir.

Do I, Sir? I vow to God, I ask your pardon, Sir; I durst to have sworn I'd been in the right.

What, quarrelling about the Spoil before the Victorie!

Nay, Madam, as for that matter, I'm a man of Reason, and Frank Friendly's an honest fellow, and my friend.

You lie again, Sir.

Well, well, Sir, you are dispos'd to be merrie, or so, but there be more Ladies—Whe, what the Devil ails he, tro?

Pox on't, how rarely he huffs now! Well, it's a most admirable thing this same Courage, if a man had but the knack on't!

Come, Zouks, you're tardie, villanous: Young Men and Maids, to't, to't, I say, and do not idle time. Come, Minstrels, play away, efaith my dancing-days are not done yet.

Friendly, you're out.

Death, you lie!

The Quarrel, Gentlemen, the Quarrel! efaith, here's fine doings!

Oh, Sir, you have the advantage of the place.

I do believe I have; and you're not safe here: I'll meet you, Sir, anon.

Do so. Farewel.

For Heavens sake, Sir, come back—what wou'd you do? if there be ought that you take ill from Wellman, declare it here, and let us end the Quarrel. I know 'tis some mistake; I know he loves you: let not a trifle set such friends at odds. Speak to him, Sister.

Why how now, Sir, is this the proof you give me of your Love! Oh you have shew'd your self a gallant Spark! I thought it Jealousie, and took it kindly your rudeness to our Knight here; but to a friend, at least the man you call so, gives me some cause to fear you're angrie at his Contract with my Sister. Be friends, or I'll believe so.

Do so, I care not.

Hah! do you not love me? Do not make me serious, I shall be out of humour if you do; and Heaven knows what a strange thing I may prove then; I never tri'd it yet.

I care not; pray unhand me.

I will, in spight of all that wou'd detain thee. I never found my self thus much concern'd.

What sudden flaw is this?

By Heaven, I know not, Sir, unless some hidden flame for thee—

It cannot be, I never saw a glance, a look, or smile, cou'd be suspected Love: 'tis some old Grudge. Dear, do not follow him, my heart presages something that is fatal. [weeps.] Good Sir perswade him.

Away, ye fool, perswade him not to fight! away, a Coward! hang't, he were not worth thy love then.

Honour, my Deer, obliges me to go. Wou'dst have the man that has thy heart in keeping, be pointed out for Cowardize? Away, thou needst not fear, we shall at most onely exchange a Wound. Thy sacred Image guards my heart entire, and keeps it safe from danger. Go to the Banquet, entertain the Ladies, and be merrie.

By Cocks bones shall she, and be very merrie, to think she's like to have so brisk a Spark to her Bed-fellow. Go thy ways, William , and God's blessing go with thee, Boy: if thou wants a second, I can push yet, I'm not so old efaith.

I humbly thank ye, Sir; we shall think better on't perhaps before we fight.

Or shall Sir John go? he's a man of mettle, I assure you, Brother.

What the Devil do ye mean! I have mind to take this opportunitie to be with thee, thou little wanton—

Fear not, Sir, I'll excuse ye.

You little amiable mischievous Ape you, what a scurvie malicious Jest did you break upon me, to make the Proverb good, You had rather lose your Friend than your Jest?

A Jest! it was a parlous true one then: I said you were all Mettle; A brazen face, a leaden brain, and a copper nose and beard.

Wit, Lightning, and Quick-silver, thou little more than Dwarf, and something less than woman.

A Wasp, a Wasp! Your Wit stings, Sir.

Thou'rt plaguie sharp; pray God thou be'st not too far gone in Love; if thou shou'dst, I must be forc'd in honour to marrie thee, tho introth 'twou'd be hardly brought about.

No matter, Sir; things got by strugling, bring the greater pleasure, when dull Consent but palls the Appetite. Then thou'rt a fool too, the most admirable necessary for a Husband in the whole Creation, and the best Block to carve a Cuckold in.

Whe, what a tart Monkey's this! By my troth if thou hadst not so much wit, I cou'd finde in my heart to take thee for better for worse; for I finde thou con'dst bear me with all my faults.

Bear with thee! I wonder how thy Mother bore thee nine whole months about her, when I'll be sworn I can scarce endure thee in my sight an hour.

Alas for you, sweet Soul, good lack! A pox of your Wit: By the Lord Harry, you are the proudest, scoffing, scurvie, idle, fantastical, whimsical—Ads nigs, because you have read St. George for England, Amades de Gall, and the Legend of Lyes, you are licens'd, forsooth, to abuse all the world: Egad, Sir Lyonell, your Father shall know't.

He must not tho—Nay, do not go in Rancor, good dear Knight; for I must confess a secret to you; which if you knew my heart, you wou'd believe there were nothing so cruel there as you imagine. I speak very kinde things of you between my Maid and I anight as I am going to bed, and next my Prayers too, Heaven forgive me! I spoke things of you that I wou'd not wish you shou'd know.

Nay, look ye, for my part, if I have not most religiously vow'd my heart yours, been drunk twice a day to your health, swallow'd Fire and inches of your Cuff-strings, eat Candles, pledg'd your health in Chamber-lie, run Pins into my Arms, and done all manner of gallant and heroick actions, I'm the veriest son of a Whore breathing; and yet to tell me after all this, I have a brazen face, a leaden brain, and a copper nose, [weeps.] 'tis most intolerable, insupportable, and prodigious, I'll be sworn.

And de ye love me so indeed?

Love you! 'Sbud, whosoever says I do not, and honour you too, Egad; nay, and if you wou'd, wou'd marrie you, is a son of a Whore, and a Scoundrel, by the Lord.

And let me tell you in return, that—Heaven forgive me! And my Sister knows I have took drink and slept upon't, that if ever I marrie, it shall be you; and I will marrie, and yet I hope I do not say it shall be you neither. Come, let's to the Banquet.

Oh, dear Creature, I do not say you do: Lord, how was I mistaken in thy heart! But will you hereafter cast a kinde look at me, to put me in countenance before Companie? That I wou'd be at now.

Much may be done. Come, let's to the Banquet.

And will you, my prettie little Darling of mine eyes, marrie me? As I hope to breath, my Purse, Bodie, Soul and all, shall be thine.

Most affectionately spoken! Well, get my Fathers consent, and as for mine—the Devil take me if ever thou gets it.

A Kiss, and 'tis a Match. Thus Hymen shou'd begin; A falling out, sometimes proves falling in.

Enter Wellman and Friendly, as in the street.

Well, my dear friend, tell me with open heart, hath not my Reasoning reclaim'd thy Folly, preserv'd thy falling Vertue, and secur'd it?

There is no Vertue in Blood, no Reasoning in Desire: But shall I not in this fond act of Love, do that which will to thee render my name abhorr'd, and make thee hate me?

By Heaven, no.

And shall I then? may I enjoy Corina?

Thou shalt, by all our Friendships. Here, take this Ring, shew it to that fair Devil, it will confirm me dead; which rumour, with my absence, will make good—Possess thy Love, grow wearie in her Arms, then be thy self again.

But if Report grows strong, and I am seiz'd, where shall I finde thee?

At Glistens my Goldsmith in Cheapside, to whom I'll tell our business and designe.

Thither I'll come and tell thee how I thrive. Till when, farewel.

When woman's in the heart, the soul's all hell. Now Repentance, the after-clap of Fools, light on thee; I have an Art left that may reclaim thee yet. I'll make thee fall into the vilest dangers, even worse than womans Lust. No Goldsmith will I see, or tell my storie to, but in some fit disguise I'll hide my self impossible to be discover'd, and leave thee to two friends, a Whore and Law, that will be plague sufficient for one man; but is this friendship in me? [pawses.] No matter:

SCENE II.

Enter Corina in anger, followed by Trickwell with Plate, and Mrs. Dunwell.

Oh, impudence, am I then fallen so low to be sollicited by Pimps and Panders! Hell take the trade, if this be the effects on't.

Madam, whatever you may think of me, my Present has the shew of Qualitie; here's Plate, a Present that a Lord might make ye; and I was once a Gentleman, tho I am fallen so low by faithless Vice, yet tho undone, poor and depriv'd of all, I have a heart and will, that still remains, and fain wou'd venture on when Beautie calls. And if I have a stock, which Heaven and my own industrie has lent, I must employ it still to that dear use. Take first this little Tribute of my conquer'd heart; I may in time increase it: were it Crowns, here they shou'd all be offer'd.

And thus I'd spurn away: Base servile Villain, who livest by Noise and Riot, spunging upon the drops that fall from Gentlemen, canst thou believe that after Wellman's love, I cou'd receive a Raskal to my Arms?

If I were there, you'd finde but little difference; and possibly the next they entertain may fail to pay this price I offer ye. This Raskal and that beautious haughtie thing, bating the Sex, differ but very little. I live by Brauls, by rapine, and by Spoils, in Fears, Vexations, Dangers, so do you; I eat when I can get a fool to treat me, and you can do no more: Pox of your pride, methinks we two might understand each other; you've no Gallant to take your Quarrels up; you raign'd when time was, and I'll do so now, for you have known my love, shall finde my power, tho yet I nere durst tell you so.

Nor shall not yet; for tho that Lover's gone, who but to look on wou'd have made thee tremble, I've Beautie still that may command another Beautie whose very glance shou'd make thee bow: Gods! and has it lost its awe?

It has, and I'm resolv'd upon a Conquest.

Death, Sirra! stand off, and view my fatal hand, it carries death to the bold Ravisher, that dares approach unreverendly. A Whore! what tho to her that bears it 'tis a shame, an infamie that cannot be supported? to all the world besides it bears a mightie sound, petition'd, su'd to, worshipp'd as a God, presented, flatter'd, follow'd, sacrific'd to, Monarch of Monarchs, Tyrant of the world, what does that charming word not signifie! And darest thou raise thy hated eyes so high to gaze on such a Constellation! No, be gone, with all thy base-got worthless Trifles, quickly pack up, and hence, or I will kill thee.

So, Sir, you had better have lookt no higher than Mrs. Mary Dunwell, who can down with you when money's low; but when once a little in Pocket, you are for high feeding, forsooth. Go get you gone, I may chance take pitie on you when her passion's over, and do you some service.

No, by Heaven, I'll try my chance this very minute, throw my last Cast, for the great Stake is set, and will enjoy her now.

Hah! here's somebodie I hope will interrupt you.
                                        Opens the door.

Enter Wellman disguised.

Madam, I am a Gentleman grown poor, decay'd by fortune, and wou'd gladly serve: I can obey, cou'd you direct me where.

This fellow wou'd serve my turn most admirably! but if I cou'd—you wou'd grow proud with feeding well and clean Linnen.

I am not bred so ill, but I can tell how to be grateful to you.

Introth he apprehends most discreetly—but you're too big to wear a Liverie.

Not at all; 'tis the fashion now for Ladies to keep tall men in Liveries: your Page is out of fashion, and your stripling Footman.

Help! help! undone! Oh help!

Hah, what noise is that!

Heavens! the Rogue sure was ravishing her.

Enter Wellman dragging in Trickwell, Corina follows disordered.

Damn'd sawcie Villain, what was thy pretence?

What's that to thee, bold interrupting Slave, sent by the Devil to hinder my delight?

Dog—

Hold, do not kill the Raskal; 'tis enough you've sav'd me from his mischiefs: pray let him go.

'Tis pitie, but I will obey. Take that, and that, that, ye Mungrel Cur; Dogs shou'd be us'd so. [Kicks him out.] Death! what a very wretched thing's a Whore, that every Raskal dares approach with Love!

Who are ye, pray, to whom I'm so oblig'd?

One that wou'd gladly serve in any qualitie.

I'll do thee good; take that. [Gives him money.] I will prefer thee to some man of Qualitie: Mean time make this your home.

I wonder whether Friendly has been here!

Madam, one knocks; shall any have admittance?

Onely false Wellman's Friend. You may retire, and wait my farther pleasure.

I'll over-hear ye too.

Enter Dunwell and Friendly.

Now, my dear Mistriss, Soul of my desires, I come with all the Spoils of conquering Love, to lay 'em at thy feet. My Stop is dead, the Stop of all my ravishing Happiness; and here's the witness of my Victorie.

Dead! Wellman dead! Oh thou inhumane friend, that borest that title onely to betray him! Dead! and by thee! Heaven, can you let him live! Support me, or I fall to earth with this sad killing news.

Heavens, Madam, what d'ye mean? or shall I vow to you he is not dead?

Hah! not dead!

What wou'd you have me do? When I confirm him dead, you grow inrag'd; and when I say he lives, you kill with frowns.

Traytor, and hast thou then deceiv'd my hopes? and is not Wellman dead? Hell, what is man! how didst thou swear, how didst thou prostrate lie, and beg'd to give me any proof of thy false Passion? I ask'd thee this; and is it thus you give it! Oh for a quick revenging Power to kill thee!

Calm that dear angrie face, and tell my Love which way it best shall please.

Is't in thy choice, perjur'd, forsworn, and false, to tell me either? Damn thy double Tongue, and all this Beautie that mis-led thy truth, if thou hadst ever any in thy soul.

Then since it is my destinie to offend, which way soere I take I'll follow truth, and tell you, Madam, all your strict Commands I did obey, and Wellman is no more.

No more! why what hadst thou to do with my Commands? Oh thou hast kill'd all that my soul cou'd love! Tho I commanded, yet he was thy friend, and that in generositie shou'd have sav'd him. Go from my eyes, far from my thoughts remain.

Is this then the reward of all my Love? What have I done, but been obedient? Had I priz'd my Friendship above that Love, wou'd you have took it well? Yes, I will be gone, and to the judging world

I must not let him go, till I'm reveng'd. Stay, I relent; Oh stay, and give my heart a little time to take leave of its old acquaintance, ere it go to make a new and unknown choice agen. Alas, I lov'd this Wellman, lov'd him dearly, more than my life.

Why did you kill him then?

Why, in my own defence; he gave the first, I fear the mortal wound.

Then think it just, and think of him no more, but of the dear reward you are to give for all my service. Come, will you not?

I will; but you'll receive i