Chapter XVIII: Act I: SCENE I. The Street, at break of Day

_Enter_ Bellmour _disguis’d in a travelling Habit_.

_Bel_. Sure ‘tis the day that gleams in yonder East, The day that all but Lovers blest by Shade Pay chearful Homage to: Lovers! and those pursu’d like guilty me By rigid Laws, which put no difference ’.wixt fairly killing in my own Defence, And Murders bred by drunken Arguments, Whores, or the mean Revenges of a Coward. --This is _Leticia’s_ Father’s House-- [_Looking about_. And that the dear Balcony That has so oft been conscious of our Loves; From whence she has sent me down a thousand Sighs, A thousand looks of Love, a thousand Vows. O thou dear witness of those charming Hours, How do I bless thee, how am I pleas’d to view thee After a tedious Age of Six Months Banishment.

_Enter Mr_. Gingle _and several with Musick_.

_Fid_. But hark ye, Mr. _Gingle_, is it proper to play before the Wedding?

_Gin_. Ever while you live, for many a time in playing after the first night, the Bride’s sleepy, the Bridegroom tir’d, and both so out of humour, that perhaps they hate any thing that puts ‘em in mind they are married.

[_They play and sing_.

_Enter_ Phillis _in the Balcony, throws ‘em Money_.

_Rise_, Cloris, _charming Maid, arise!
And baffle breaking Day,
Shew the adoring World thy Eyes
Are more surprizing gay;

The Gods of Love are smiling round,
And lead the Bridegroom on,
And_ Hymen _has the Altar crown’d.
While all thy sighing Lovers are undone.

To see thee pass they throng the Plain;
The Groves with Flowers are strown,
And every young and envying Swain
Wishes the hour his own.
Rise then, and let the God of Day,
When thou dost to the Lover yield,
Behold more Treasure given away
Than he in his vast Circle e’er beheld_.

_Bel_. Hah, _Phillis, Leticia’s_ Woman!

_Ging_. Fie, Mrs. _Phillis_, do you take us for Fiddlers that play for Hire? I came to compliment Mrs. _Leticia_ on her Wedding-Morning because she is my Scholar.

_Phil_. She sends it only to drink her Health.

_Ging_. Come, Lads, let’s to the Tavern then--
[_Ex. Musick_.

_Bel_. Hah! said he _Leticia_? Sure, I shall turn to Marble at this News: I harden, and cold Damps pass through my senseless Pores.--Hah, who’s here?

_Enter_ Gayman _wrapt in his Cloke_.

_Gay_. ‘Tis yet too early, but my Soul’s impatient, And I must see _Leticia_. [_Goes to the door_.

_Bel_. Death and the Devil--the Bridegroom! Stay, Sir, by Heaven, you pass not this way. [_Goes to the door as he is knocking, pushes him away, and draws_.

_Gay_. Hah! what art thou that durst forbid me Entrance?--Stand off.

[_They fight a little, and closing view each other_.

_Bel_. _Gayman_!

_Gay_. My dearest _Bellmour_!

_Bel_. Oh thou false Friend, thou treacherous base Deceiver!

_Gay_. Hah, this to me, dear _Harry_?

_Bel_. Whither is Honour, Truth and Friendship fled?

_Gay_. Why, there ne’er was such a Virtue, ’.is all a Poet’s Dream.

_Bel_. I thank you, Sir.

_Gay_. I’m sorry for’t, or that ever I did any thing that could deserve it: put up your Sword--an honest man wou’d say how he’s offended, before he rashly draws.

_Bel_. Are not you going to be married, Sir?

_Gay_. No, Sir, as long as any Man in _London_ is so, that has but a handsom Wife, Sir.

_Bel_. Are you not in love, Sir?

_Gay_. Most damnably,--and wou’d fain lie with the dear jilting Gipsy.

_Bel_. Hah, who would you lie with, Sir?

_Gay_. You catechise me roundly--’tis not fair to name, but I am no Starter, _Harry_; just as you left me, you find me. I am for the faithless _Julia_ still, the old Alderman’s Wife.--’Twas high time the City should lose their Charter, when their Wives turn honest: But pray, Sir, answer me a Question or two.

_Bel_. Answer me first, what makes you here this Morning?

_Gay_. Faith, to do you service. Your damn’d little Jade of a Mistress has learned of her Neighbours the Art of Swearing and Lying in abundance, and is--

_Bel_. To be married! [Sighing.

_Gay_. Even so, God save the Mark; and she’ll be a fair one for many an Arrow besides her Husband’s, though he an old _Finsbury_ Hero this threescore Years.

_Bel_. Who mean you?

_Gay_. Why, thy Cuckold that shall be, if thou be’st wise.

_Bel_. Away; Who is this Man? thou dalliest with me.

_Gay_. Why, an old Knight, and Alderman here o’th’ City, Sir _Feeble Fainwou’d_, a jolly old Fellow, whose Activity is all got into his Tongue, a very excellent Teazer; but neither Youth nor Beauty can grind his Dudgeon to an Edge.

_Bel_. Fie, what Stuff’s here!

_Gay_. Very excellent Stuff, if you have but the Grace to improve it.

_Bel_. You banter me--but in plain _English_, tell me, What made you here thus early, Entring yon House with such Authority?

_Gay_. Why, your Mistress _Leticia_, your contracted Wife, is this Morning to be married to old Sir _Feeble Fainwou’d_, induc’d to’t I suppose by the great Jointure he makes her, and the improbability of your ever gaining your Pardon for your high Duel--Do I speak _English_ now, Sir?

_Bel_. Too well, would I had never heard thee.

_Gay_. Now I being the Confident in your Amours, the Jack-go-between-- the civil Pimp or so--you left her in charge with me at your Departure.

_Bel_. I did so.

_Gay_. I saw her every day; and every day she paid the Tribute of a shower of Tears, to the dear Lord of all her Vows, young _Bellmour_: Till faith at last, for Reasons manifold, I slackt my daily Visits.

_Bel_. And left her to Temptation--was that well done?

_Gay_. Now must I afflict you and my self with a long tale of Causes why; Or be charg’d with want of Friendship.

_Bel_. You will do well to clear that Point to me.

_Gay_. I see you’re peevish, and you shall be humour’d.--You know my _Julia_ play’d me e’en such another Prank as your false one is going to play you, and married old Sir _Cautious Fulbank_ here i’th’ City; at which you know I storm’d, and rav’d, and swore, as thou wo’t now, and to as little purpose. There was but one way left, and that was cuckolding him.

_Bel_. Well, that Design I left thee hot upon.

_Gay_. And hotly have pursu’d it: Swore, wept, vow’d, wrote, upbraided, prayed and railed; then treated lavishly, and presented high--till, between you and I, _Harry_, I have presented the best part of Eight hundred a year into her Husband’s hands, in Mortgage.

_Bel_. This is the Course you’d have me steer, I thank you.

_Gay_. No, no, Pox on’t, all Women are not Jilts. Some are honest, and will give as well as take; or else there would not be so many broke i’th’ City. In fine, Sir, I have been in Tribulation, that is to say, Moneyless, for six tedious Weeks, without either Clothes, or Equipage to appear withal; and so not only my own Love-affair lay neglected--but thine too--and I am forced to pretend to my Lady, that I am i’th’ Country with a dying Uncle--from whom, if he were indeed dead, I expect two thousand a Year.

_Bel_. But what’s all this to being here this Morning?

_Gay_. Thus have I lain conceal’d like a Winter-Fly, hoping for some blest Sunshine to warm me into life again, and make me hover my flagging Wings; till the News of this Marriage (which fills the Town) made me crawl out this silent Hour, to upbraid the fickle Maid.

_Bel_. Didst thou?--pursue thy kind Design. Get me to see her; and sure no Woman, even possest with a new Passion, Grown confident even to Prostitution, But when she sees the Man to whom she’s sworn so very--very much, will find Remorse and Shame.

_Gay_. For your sake, though the day be broke upon us, And I’m undone, if seen--I’ll venture in-- [_Throws his Cloke over_.

_Enter Sir_ Feeble Fainwou’d, _Sir_ Cautious Fulbank, Bearjest
_and_ Noisey. [_Pass over the Stage, and go in_.

Hah--see the Bridegroom! And with him my destin’d Cuckold, old Sir _Cautious Fulbank_.--Hah, what ail’st thou, Man?

_Bel_. The Bridegroom! Like _Gorgon’s_ Head he’as turned me into Stone.

_Gay_. _Gorgon’s_ Head--a Cuckold’s Head--’twas made to graft upon.

_Bel_. By Heaven, I’ll seize her even at the Altar, And bear her thence in Triumph.

_Gay_. Ay, and be borne to _Newgate_ in Triumph, and be hanged in Triumph--’twill be cold Comfort, celebrating your Nuptials in the Press-Yard, and be wak’d next Morning, like Mr. _Barnardine_ in the Play--Will you please to rise and be hanged a little, Sir?

_Bel_. What wouldst thou have me do?

_Gay_. As many an honest Man has done before thee--Cuckold him-- cuckold him.

_Bel_. What--and let him marry her! She that’s mine by sacred Vows already! By Heaven, it would be flat Adultery in her!

_Gay_. She’ll learn the trick, and practise it the better with thee.

_Bel_. Oh Heavens! _Leticia_ marry him! and lie with him!-- Here will I stand and see this shameful Woman, See if she dares pass by me to this Wickedness.

_Gay_. Hark ye, _Harry_--in earnest have a care of betraying your self; and do not venture sweet Life for a fickle Woman, who perhaps hates you.

_Bel_. You counsel well--but yet to see her married! How every thought of that shocks all my Resolution!-- But hang it, I’ll be resolute and saucy, Despise a Woman who can use me ill, And think my self above her.

_Gay_. Why, now thou art thy self--a Man again. But see, they’re coming forth, now stand your ground.

_Enter Sir_ Feeble, _Sir_ Cautious, Bearjest, Noisey, Leticia
_sad_, Diana, Phillis. [_Pass over the Stage_.

_Bel_. ‘Tis she; support me, _Charles_, or I shall sink to Earth, --Methought in passing by she cast a scornful glance at me; Such charming Pride I’ve seen upon her Eyes, When our Love-Quarrels arm’d ‘em with Disdain-- I’ll after ‘em, if I live she shall not ‘scape me. [_Offers to go_, Gay. _holds him_.

_Gay_. Hold, remember you’re proscribed, And die if you are taken.

_Bel_. I’ve done, and I will live, but he shall ne’er enjoy her. --Who’s yonder, _Ralph_, my trusty Confident?

_Enter_ Ralph.

Now though I perish I must speak to him. --Friend, what Wedding’s this?

_Ral_. One that was never made in Heaven, Sir; ’.is Alderman _Fainwou’d_, and Mrs. _Leticia Bredwel_.

_Bel_. Bredwel--I have heard of her,--she was Mistress--

_Ral_. To fine Mr. _Bellmour_, Sir,--ay, there was a Gentleman --But rest his Soul--he’s hang’d, Sir. [_Weeps_.

_Bel_. How! hang’d?

_Ral_. Hang’d, Sir, hang’d--at the _Hague_ in _Holland_.

_Gay_. I heard some such News, but did not credit it.

_Bel_. For what, said they, was he hang’d?

_Ral_. Why, e’en for High Treason, Sir, he killed one of their Kings.

_Gay_. Holland’s a Commonwealth, and is not rul’d by Kings.

_Ral_. Not by one, Sir, but by a great many; this was a Cheesemonger --they fell out over a Bottle of Brandy, went to Snicker Snee; Mr. _Bellmour_ cut his Throat, and was hang’d for’t, that’s all, Sir.

_Bel_. And did the young Lady believe this?

_Ral_. Yes, and took on most heavily--the Doctors gave her over--and there was the Devil to do to get her to consent to this Marriage--but her Fortune was small, and the hope of a Ladyship, and a Gold Chain at the Spittal Sermon, did the Business--and so your Servant, Sir. [_Ex_. Ralph.

_Bel_. So, here’s a hopeful Account of my sweet self now.

_Enter Post-man with Letters_.

_Post_. Pray, Sir, which is Sir _Feeble Fainwou’d’._?

_Bel_. What wou’d you with him, Friend?

_Post_. I have a Letter here from the _Hague_ for him.

_Bel_. From the _Hague_! Now have I a curiosity to see it--I am his Servant--give it me--[_Gives it him, and Exit_.--Perhaps here may be the second part of my Tragedy, I’m full of Mischief, _Charles_--and have a mind to see this Fellow’s Secrets. For from this hour I’ll be his evil Genius, haunt him at Bed and Board; he shall not sleep nor eat; disturb him at his Prayers, in his Embraces; and teaze him into Madness. Help me, Invention, Malice, Love, and Wit: [_Opening the Letter_. Ye Gods, and little Fiends, instruct my Mischief. [_Reads_.

Dear Brother,

_According to your desire I have sent for my Son from
_St. Omer’s_, whom I have sent to wait on you in_ England;
_he is a very good Accountant, and fit for Business, and much
pleased he shall see that Uncle to whom he’s so obliged, and
which is so gratefully acknowledged by--Dear Brother, your
affectionate Brother_,
Francis Fainwou’d.

--Hum--hark ye, _Charles_, do you know who I am now?

_Gay_. Why, I hope a very honest Friend of mine, _Harry Bellmour_.

_Bel_. No, Sir, you are mistaken in your Man.

_Gay_. It may be so.

_Bel_. I am, d’ye see, _Charles_, this very individual, numerical young Mr.--_what ye call ‘um Fainwou’d_, just come from _St. Omers_ into _England_--to my Uncle the Alderman. I am, _Charles_, this very Man.

_Gay_. I know you are, and will swear’t upon occasion.

_Bel_. This lucky Thought has almost calm’d my mind. And if I don’t fit you, my dear Uncle, May I never lie with my Aunt.

_Gay_. Ah, Rogue--but prithee what care have you taken about your Pardon? ‘twere good you should secure that.

_Bel_. There’s the Devil, _Charles_,--had I but that--but I have had a very good Friend at work, a thousand Guyneys, that seldom fails; but yet in vain, I being the first Transgressor since the Act against Duelling. But I impatient to see this dear delight of my Soul, and hearing from none of you this six weeks, came from _Brussels_ in this disguise--for the _Hague_ I have not seen, though hang’d there--but come--let’s away, and compleat me a right _St. Omer’s_ Spark, that I may present my self as soon as they come from Church.

[_Exeunt_.

SCENE II. _Sir_ Cautious Fulbank’s _House_.

_Enter Lady_ Fulbank, Pert _and_ Bredwel. Bredwel _gives her a Letter_.

_Lady_ Fulbank _reads_.

_Did my_ Julia _know how I languish in this cruel Separation,
she would afford me her pity, and write oftner. If only the
Expectation of two thousand a year kept me from you, ah!_
Julia, _how easily would I abandon that Trifle for your more
valued sight; but that I know a fortune will render me
more agreeable to the charming_ Julia, _I should quit all my
Interest here, to throw my self at her Feet, to make her
sensible how I am intirely her Adorer_.
Charles Gayman.

--Faith, _Charles_, you lie--you are as welcome to me now, Now when I doubt thy Fortune is declining, As if the Universe were thine.

_Pert_. That, Madam, is a noble Gratitude. For if his Fortune be declining, ‘tis sacrificed to his Passion for your Ladyship. --’Tis all laid out on Love.

L. _Ful_. I prize my Honour more than Life, Yet I had rather have given him all he wish’d of me, Than be guilty of his Undoing.

_Pert_. And I think the Sin were less.

L. _Ful_. I must confess, such Jewels, Rings and Presents as he made me, must needs decay his Fortune.

_Bred_. Ay, Madam, his very Coach at last was turned into a Jewel for your Ladyship. Then, Madam, what Expences his Despair have run him on --As Drinking and Gaming, to divert the Thought of your marrying my old Master.

L. _Ful_. And put in Wenching too.--

_Bred_. No, assure your self, Madam--

L. _Ful_. Of that I would be better satisfied--and you too must assist me, as e’er you hope I should be kind to you in gaining you _Diana_. [_To_ Bredwel.

_Bred_. Madam, I’ll die to serve you.

_Pert_. Nor will I be behind in my Duty.

L. _Ful_. Oh, how fatal are forc’d Marriages! How many Ruins one such Match pulls on! Had I but kept my Sacred Vows to _Gayman_, How happy had I been--how prosperous he! Whilst now I languish in a loath’d embrace, Pine out my Life with Age--Consumptions, Coughs. --But dost thou fear that Gayman is declining?

_Bred_. You are my Lady, and the best of Mistresses-- Therefore I would not grieve you, for I know You love this best--but most unhappy Man.

L. _Ful_. You shall not grieve me--prithee on.

_Bred_. My Master sent me yesterday to Mr. _Crap_, his Scrivener, to send to one Mr. _Wasteall_, to tell him his first Mortgage was out, which is two hundred pounds a Year--and who has since ingaged five or six hundred more to my Master; but if this first be not redeem’d, he’ll take the Forfeit on’t, as he says a wise Man ought.

L. _Ful_. That is to say, a Knave, according to his Notion of a wise Man.

_Bred_. Mr. _Crap_, being busy with a borrowing Lord, sent me to Mr. _Wasteall_, whose Lodging is in a nasty Place called _Alsatia_, at a Black-Smith’s.

L. _Ful_. But what’s all this to _Gayman_?

_Bred_. Madam, this _Wasteall_ was Mr. _Gayman_.

L. _Ful_. _Gayman_! Saw’st thou _Gayman_?

_Bred_. Madam, Mr. _Gayman_, yesterday.

L. _Ful_. When came he to Town?

_Bred_. Madam, he has not been out of it.

L. _Ful_. Not at his Uncle’s in _Northamptonshire_?

_Bred_. Your Ladyship was wont to credit me.

L. _Ful_. Forgive me--you went to a Black-Smith’s--

_Bred_. Yes, Madam; and at the door encountred the beastly thing he calls a Landlady; who lookt as if she had been of her own Husband’s making, compos’d of moulded Smith’s Dust. I ask’d for Mr. _Wasteall_, and she began to open--and did so rail at him, that what with her _Billinsgate_, and her Husband’s hammers, I was both deaf and dumb--at last the hammers ceas’d, and she grew weary, and call’d down Mr. _Wasteall_; but he not answering--I was sent up a Ladder rather than a pair of Stairs; at last I scal’d the top, and enter’d the inchanted Castle; there did I find him, spite of the noise below, drowning his Cares in Sleep.

L. _Ful_. Whom foundst thou? _Gayman_?

_Bred_. He, Madam, whom I waked--and seeing me, Heavens, what Confusion seiz’d him! which nothing but my own Surprize could equal. Asham’d--he wou’d have turn’d away; But when he saw, by my dejected Eyes, I knew him, He sigh’d, and blusht, and heard me tell my Business: Then beg’d I wou’d be secret; for he vow’d his whole Repose and Life depended on my silence. Nor had I told it now, But that your Ladyship may find some speedy means to draw him from this desperate Condition.

L. _Ful_. Heavens, is’t possible?

_Bred_. He’s driven to the last degree of Poverty-- Had you but seen his Lodgings, Madam!

L. _Ful_. What were they?

_Bred_. ‘Tis a pretty convenient Tub, Madam. He may lie a long in’t, there’s just room for an old join’d Stool besides the Bed, which one cannot call a Cabin, about the largeness of a Pantry Bin, or a Usurer’s Trunk; there had been Dornex Curtains to’t in the days of Yore; but they were now annihilated, and nothing left to save his Eyes from the Light, but my Landlady’s Blue Apron, ty’d by the strings before the Window, in which stood a broken six-penny Looking-Glass, that shew’d as many Faces as the Scene in _Henry_ the Eighth, which could but just stand upright, and then the Comb-Case fill’d it.

L. _Ful_. What a leud Description hast thou made of his Chamber?

_Bred_. Then for his Equipage, ‘tis banisht to one small Monsieur, who (saucy with his Master’s Poverty) is rather a Companion than a Footman.

L. _Ful_. But what said he to the Forfeiture of his Land?

_Bred_. He sigh’d and cry’d, Why, farewel dirty Acres; It shall not trouble me, since ‘twas all but for Love!

L. _Ful_. How much redeems it?

_Bred_. Madam, five hundred Pounds.

L. _Ful_. Enough--you shall in some disguise convey this Money to him, as from an unknown hand: I wou’d not have him think it comes from me, for all the World: That Nicety and Virtue I’ve profest, I am resolved to keep.

_Pert_. If I were your Ladyship, I wou’d make use of Sir _Cautious’s_ Cash: pay him in his own Coin.

_Bred_. Your Ladyship wou’d make no Scruple of it, if you knew how this poor Gentleman has been us’d by my unmerciful Master.

L. _Ful_. I have a Key already to his Counting-House; it being lost, he had another made, and this I found and kept.

_Bred_. Madam, this is an excellent time for’t, my Master being gone to give my Sister _Leticia_ at Church.

L. _Ful_. ‘Tis so, I’ll go and commit the Theft, whilst you prepare to carry it, and then we’ll to dinner with your Sister the Bride.

[_Exeunt_.

SCENE III. _The House of Sir_ Feeble.

_Enter Sir_ Feeble, Leticia, _Sir_ Cautious, Bearjest, Diana, Noisey.
_Sir_ Feeble _sings and salutes ‘em_.

Sir _Feeb_. Welcome, _Joan Sanderson_, welcome, welcome. [_Kisses the Bride_. Ods bobs, and so thou art, Sweet-heart. [_So to the rest_.

_Bear_. Methinks my Lady Bride is very melancholy.

Sir _Cau_. Ay, ay, Women that are discreet, are always thus upon their Wedding-day.

Sir _Feeb_. Always by day-light, Sir _Cautious_.

_But when bright_ Phoebus _does retire,
To_ Thetis’ _Bed to quench his fire.
And do the thing we need not name,
We Mortals by his influence do the same.
Then then the blushing Maid lays by
Her simpering, and her Modesty;
And round the Lover clasps and twines
Like Ivy, or the circling Vines_.

Sir _Feeb_. Here, _Ralph_, the Bottle, Rogue, of Sack, ye Rascal; hadst thou been a Butler worth hanging, thou wou’dst have met us at the door with it.--Ods bods, Sweet-heart, thy health.

_Bear_. Away with it, to the Bride’s _Haunce in Kelder_.

Sir _Feeb_. Gots so, go to, Rogue, go to, that shall be, Knave, that shall be the morrow morning; he--ods bobs, we’ll do’t, Sweet heart; here’s to’t. [_Drinks again_.

_Let_. I die but to imagine it, wou’d I were dead indeed.

Sir _Feeb_. Hah--hum--how’s this? Tears upon the Wedding day? Why, why--you Baggage, you, ye little Thing, Fools-face--away, you Rogue, you’re naughty, you’re naughty. [_Patting and playing, and following her_. Look--look--look now,--buss it--buss it--buss it--and Friends; did’ums, did’ums beat its none silly Baby--away, you little Hussey, away, and pledge me-- [_She drinks a little_.

Sir _Cau_. A wise discreet Lady, I’ll warrant her; my Lady would prodigally have took it off all.

Sir _Feeb_. Dear’s its nown dear Fubs; buss again, buss again, away, away--ods bobs, I long for Night--look, look, Sir _Cautious_, what an Eye’s there!

Sir _Cau_. Ay, so there is, Brother, and a modest Eye too.

Sir _Feeb_. Adad, I love her more and more, _Ralph_--call old _Susan_ hither--come, Mr. _Bearjest_, put the Glass about. Ods bobs, when I was a young Fellow, I wou’d not let the young Wenches look pale and wan--but would rouse ‘em, and touse ‘em, and blowze ‘em, till I put a colour in their Cheeks, like an Apple _John_, affacks--Nay, I can make a shift still, and Pupsey shall not be jealous.

_Enter_ Susan, _Sir_ Feeble _whispers her, she goes out_.

_Let_. Indeed, not I; Sir. I shall be all Obedience.

Sir _Cau_. A most judicious Lady; would my _Julia_ had a little of her Modesty; but my Lady’s a Wit.

_Enter_ Susan _with a Box_.

Sir _Feeb_. Look here, my little Puskin, here’s fine Playthings for its nown little Coxcomb--go--get you gone--get you gone, and off with this St. _Martin’s_ Trumpery, these Play-house Glass Baubles, this Necklace, and these Pendants, and all this false Ware; ods bobs, I’ll have no Counterfeit Geer about thee, not I. See--these are right as the Blushes on thy Cheeks, and these as true as my Heart, my Girl. Go, put’em on, and be fine. [_Gives ‘em her_.

_Let_. Believe me, Sir, I shall not merit this kindness.

Sir _Feeb_. Go to--More of your Love, and less of your Ceremony--give the old Fool a hearty buss, and pay him that way--he, ye little wanton Tit, I’ll steal up--and catch ye and love ye--adod, I will--get ye gone--get ye gone.

_Let_. Heavens, what a nauseous thing is an old Man turn’d Lover!
[_Ex_. Leticia _and_ Diana.

Sir _Cau_. How, steal up, Sir _Feeble_--I hope not so; I hold it most indecent before the lawful hour.

Sir _Feeb_. Lawful hour! Why, I hope all hours are lawful with a Man’s own Wife.

Sir _Cau_. But wise Men have respect to Times and Seasons.

Sir _Feeb_. Wise young Men, Sir _Cautious_; but wise old Men must nick their Inclinations; for it is not as ‘twas wont to be, for it is not as ’.was wont to be-- [_Singing and Dancing_.

_Enter_ Ralph.

_Ral_. Sir, here’s a young Gentleman without wou’d speak with you.

Sir _Feeb_. Hum--I hope it is not that same Bellmour come to forbid the Banes--if it be, he comes too late--therefore bring me first my long Sword, and then the Gentleman. [_Exit_ Ralph.

_Bear_. Pray, Sir, use mine, it is a travell’d Blade I can assure you, Sir.

Sir _Feeb_. I thank you, Sir.

_Enter_ Ralph _and_ Bellmour _disguised, gives him a Letter,
he reads_.

How--my Nephew! _Francis Fainwou’d_! [_Embraces him_.

_Bel_. I am glad he has told me my Christian name.

Sir _Feeb_. Sir _Cautious_, know my Nephew--’tis a young _St. Omers_ Scholar--but none of the Witnesses.

Sir _Cau_. Marry, Sir, and the wiser he; for they got nothing by’t.

_Bea_. Sir, I love and honour you, because you are a Traveller.

Sir _Feeb_. A very proper young Fellow, and as like old _Frank Fainwou’d_ as the Devil to the Collier; but, _Francis_, you are come into a very leud Town, _Francis_, for Whoring, and Plotting, and Roaring, and Drinking; but you must go to Church, _Francis_, and avoid ill Company, or you may make damnable Havock in my Cash, _Francis_, --what, you can keep Merchants Books?

_Bel_. That’s been my study, Sir.

Sir _Feeb_. And you will not be proud, but will be commanded by me, _Francis_?

_Bel_. I desire not to be favour’d as a Kinsman, Sir, but as your humblest Servant.

Sir _Feeb_. Why, thou’rt an honest Fellow, _Francis_,--and thou’rt heartily welcome--and I’ll make thee fortunate. But come, Sir _Cautious_, let you and I take a turn i’th’ Garden, and get a right understanding between your Nephew Mr. _Bearjest_, and my Daughter _Dye_.

Sir _Cau_. Prudently thought on, Sir, I’ll wait on you.--

[_Ex. Sir_ Feeble, _and Sir_ Cautious.

_Bea_. You are a Traveller, I understand.

_Bel_. I have seen a little part of the World, Sir.

_Bea_. So have I, Sir, I thank my Stars, and have performed most of my Travels on Foot, Sir.

_Bel_. You did not travel far then, I presume, Sir?

_Bea_. No, Sir, it was for my diversion indeed; but I assure you, I travell’d into _Ireland_ a-foot, Sir.

_Bel_. Sure, Sir, you go by shipping into _Ireland_?

_Bea_. That’s all one, Sir, I was still a-foot, ever walking on the Deck.

_Bel_. Was that your farthest Travel, Sir?

_Bea_. Farthest--why, that’s the End of the World--and sure a Man can go no farther.

_Bel_. Sure, there can be nothing worth a Man’s Curiosity?

_Bea_. No, Sir, I’ll assure you, there are the Wonders of the World, Sir: I’ll hint you this one. There is a Harbour which since the Creation was never capable of receiving a Lighter, yet by another Miracle the King of _France_ was to ride there with a vast Fleet of Ships, and to land a hundred thousand Men.

_Bel_. This is a swinging Wonder--but are there store of Mad-men there, Sir?

_Bea_. That’s another Rarity to see a Man run out of his Wits.

_Noi_. Marry, Sir, the wiser they I say.

_Bea_. Pray, Sir, what store of Miracles have you at _St. Omers?_

_Bel_. None, Sir, since that of the wonderful _Salamanca_ Doctor, who was both here and there at the same Instant of time.

_Bea_. How, Sir? why, that’s impossible.

_Bel_. That was the Wonder, Sir, because ‘twas impossible.

_Noi_. But ‘twas a greater, Sir, that ‘twas believed.

_Enter L_. Fulb. _and_ Pert, _Sir_ Cau. _and Sir_ Feeb.

Sir _Feeb_. Enough, enough, Sir _Cautious_, we apprehend one another. Mr. _Bearjest_, your Uncle here and I have struck the Bargain, the Wench is yours with three thousand Pound present, and something more after Death, which your Uncle likes well.

_Bea_. Does he so, Sir? I’m beholding to him; then ‘tis not a Pin matter whether I like or not, Sir.

Sir _Feeb_. How, Sir, not like my Daughter _Dye_?

_Bea_. Oh, Lord, Sir,--die or live, ‘tis all one for that, Sir--I’ll stand to the Bargain my Uncle makes.

_Pert_. Will you so, Sir? you’ll have very good luck if you do.
[_Aside_.

_Bea_. Prithee hold thy Peace, my Lady’s Woman.

L. _Ful_. Sir, I beg your pardon for not waiting on you to Church-- I knew you wou’d be private.

_Enter_ Let_. fine in Jewels_.

Sir _Feeb_. You honour us too highly now, Madam.
[_Presents his Wife, who salutes her_.

L. _Ful_. Give you Joy, my dear _Leticia_! I find, Sir, you were resolved for Youth, Wit and Beauty.

Sir _Feeb_. Ay, ay, Madam, to the Comfort of many a hoping Coxcomb: but _Lette_,--Rogue _Lette_--thou wo’t not make me free o’th’ City a second time, wo’t thou entice the Rogues with the Twire and the wanton Leer --the amorous Simper that cries, come, kiss me--then the pretty round Lips are pouted out--he, Rogue, how I long to be at ‘em!--well, she shall never go to Church more, that she shall not.

L. _Ful_. How, Sir, not to Church, the chiefest Recreation of a City Lady?

Sir _Feeb_. That’s all one, Madam, that tricking and dressing, and prinking and patching, is not your Devotion to Heaven, but to the young Knaves that are lick’d and comb’d and are minding you more than the Parson--ods bobs, there are more Cuckolds destin’d in the Church, than are made out of it.

Sir _Cau_. Hah, ha, ha, he tickles ye, i’faith, Ladies. [_To his Lady_.

_Bel_. Not one chance look this way--and yet I can forgive her lovely Eyes, Because they look not pleas’d with all this Ceremony; And yet methinks some sympathy in Love Might this way glance their Beams--I cannot hold-- Sir, is this fair Lady my Aunt?

Sir _Feeb_. Oh, _Francis_! Come hither, _Francis_. _Lette_, here’s a young Rogue has a mind to kiss thee. [_Puts them together, she starts back_. --Nay, start not, he’s my own Flesh and Blood, My Nephew--Baby--look, look how the young Rogues stare at one another; like will to like, I see that.

_Let_. There’s something in his Face so like my _Bellmour_, it calls my Blushes up, and leaves my Heart defenceless.

_Enter_ Ralph.

_Ralph_. Sir, Dinner’s on the Table.

Sir _Feeb_. Come, come--let’s in then--Gentlemen and Ladies, And share to day my Pleasures and Delight, But-- Adds bobs, they must be all mine own at Night.

[_Exeunt_.