Enter Sir Anthony Meriwill and Sir Charles.
Sir. Anth. So, I have tutor’d the young Rogue, I hope he’ll learn in time. Good Day to your Ladyship; Charles [putting him forward] my Nephew here, Madam—Sirrah—notwithstanding your Ladyship’s Commands— Look how he stands now, being a mad young Rascal!—Gad, he wou’d wait on your Ladyship—A Devil on him, see if he’ll budge now—For he’s a brisk Lover, Madam, when he once begins. A Pox on him, he’ll spoil all yet.
L. Gal. Please you sit, Sir.
Sir Char. Madam, I beg your Pardon for my Rudeness.
L. Gal. Still whining?—
[Dressing her self carelesly.
Sir Anth. D’ye hear that, Sirrah? oh, damn it, beg Pardon! the Rogue’s quite out of’s part.
Sir Char. Madam, I fear my Visit is unseasonable.
Sir Anth. Unseasonable! damn’d Rogue, unseasonable to a Widow?—Quite out.
L. Gal. There are indeed some Ladies that wou’d be angry at an untimely Visit, before they’ve put on their best Faces, but I am none of those that wou’d be fair in spite of Nature, Sir—Put on this Jewel here. [To Clos.
Sir Char. That Beauty needs no Ornament, Heaven has been too bountiful.
Sir Anth. Heaven! Oh Lord, Heaven! a puritanical Rogue, he courts her like her Chaplain. [Aside, vext.
L. Gal. You are still so full of University Complements—
Sir Anth. D’ye hear that, Sirrah?—Ay, so he is, indeed, Madam—To her like a Man, ye Knave. [Aside to him.
Sir Char. Ah, Madam, I am come—
Sir Anth. To shew your self a Coxcomb.
L. Gal. To tire me with Discourses of your Passion—
Fie, how this Curl fits!
[Looking in the Glass.
Sir Char. No, you shall hear no more of that ungrateful Subject.
Sir Anth. Son of a Whore, hear no more of Love, damn’d Rogue! Madam, by George, he lyes; he does come to speak of Love, and make Love, and to do Love, and all for Love—Not come to speak of Love, with a Pox! Owns, Sir, behave your self like a Man; be impudent, be saucy, forward, bold, touzing, and leud, d’ye hear, or I’ll beat thee before her: why, what a Pox! [Aside to him, he minds it not.
Sir Char. Finding my Hopes quite lost in your unequal Favours to young Wilding, I’m quitting of the Town.
L. Gal. You will do well to do so—lay by that Necklace, I’ll wear
Pearl to day. [To Clos.
Sir Anth. Confounded Blockhead!—by George, he lyes again, Madam. A Dog, I’ll disinherit him. [Aside.] He quit the Town, Madam! no, not whilst your Ladyship is in it, to my Knowledge. He’ll live in the Town, nay, in the Street where you live; nay, in the House; nay, in the very Bed, by George; I’ve heard him a thousand times swear it. Swear it now, Sirrah: look, look, how he stands now! Why, dear Charles, good Boy, swear a little, ruffle her, and swear, damn it, she shall have none but thee. [Aside to him.] Why, you little think, Madam, that this Nephew of mine is one of the maddest Fellows in all Devonshire.
L. Gal. Wou’d I cou’d see’t, Sir.
Sir Anth. See’t! look ye there, ye Rogue—Why, ‘tis all his Fault, Madam. He’s seldom sober; then he has a dozen Wenches in pay, that he may with the more Authority break their Windows. There’s never a Maid within forty Miles of Meriwill-Hall to work a Miracle on, but all are Mothers. He’s a hopeful Youth, I’ll say that for him.
Sir Char. How I have lov’d you, my Despairs shall witness: for I will die to purchase your Content. [She rises.
Sir Anth. Die, a damn’d Rogue! Ay, ay, I’ll disinherit him: A Dog, die, with a Pox! No, he’ll be hang’d first, Madam.
Sir Char. And sure you’ll pity me when I’m dead.
Sir Anth. A curse on him; pity, with a Pox. I’ll give him ne’er a
Souse.
L. Gal. Give me that Essence-bottle. [To Clos.
Sir Char. But for a Recompence of all my Sufferings—
L. Gal. Sprinkle my Handkerchief with Tuberose. [To Clos.
Sir Char. I beg a Favour you’d afford a Stranger.
L. Gal. Sooner, perhaps. What Jewel’s that? [To Clos.
Clos. One Sir Charles Merwill—
L. Gal. Sent, and you receiv’d without my Order!
No wonder that he looks so scurvily.
Give him the Trifle back to mend his Humour.
Sir Anth. I thank you, Madam, for that Reprimand. Look in that Glass, Sir, and admire that sneaking Coxcomb’s Countenance of yours: a pox on him, he’s past Grace, lost, gone: not a Souse, not a Groat; good b’ye to you, Sir. Madam, I beg your Pardon; the next time I come a wooing, it shall be for my self, Madam, and I have something that will justify it too; but as for this Fellow, if your Ladyship have e’er a small Page at leisure, I desire he may have Order to kick him down Stairs. A damn’d Rogue, to be civil now, when he shou’d have behav’d himself handsomely! Not an Acre, not a Shilling—buy Sir Softhead. [Going out meets Wild, and returns.] Hah, who have we here, hum, the fine mad Fellow? so, so, he’ll swinge him, I hope; I’ll stay to have the pleasure of seeing it done.
Enter Wilding, brushes by Sir Charles.
Wild. I was sure ‘twas Meriwill’s Coach at Door. [Aside.
Sir Char. Hah, Wilding!
Sir Anth. Ay, now, Sir, here’s one will waken ye, Sir. [To Sir Char.
Wild. How now, Widow, you are always giving Audience to Lovers, I see.
Sir Char. You’re very free, Sir.
Wild. I am always so in the Widow’s Lodgings, Sir.
Sir Anth. A rare Fellow!
Sir Char. You will not do’t elsewhere?
Wild. Not with so much Authority.
Sir Anth. An admirable Fellow! I must be acquainted with him.
Sir Char. Is this the Respect you pay Women of her Quality?
Wild. The Widow knows I stand not much upon Ceremonies.
Sir Anth. Gad, he shall be my Heir. [Aside still.
L. Gal. Pardon him, Sir, this is his Cambridge Breeding.
Sir Anth. Ay, so ‘tis, so ‘tis, that two Years there quite spoil’d him.
L. Gal. Sir, if you’ve any further Business with me, speak it; if not,
I’m going forth.
Sir Char. Madam, in short—
Sir Anth. In short to a Widow, in short! quite lost.
Sir Char. I find you treat me ill for my Respect;
And when I court you next,
I will forget how very much I love you.
Sir Anth. Sir, I shall be proud of your farther Acquaintance; for I like, love, and honour you. [To Wild.
Wild. I’ll study to deserve it, Sir.
Sir Anth. Madam, your Servant. A damn’d sneaking Dog, to be civil and modest with a Pox! [Ex. Sir Char, and Sir Anth.
L. Gal. See if my Coach be ready. [Ex. CIos.
Wild. Whether are you janting now?
L. Gal. Where you dare not wait on me, to your Uncle’s to Supper.
Wild. That Uncle of mine pimps for all the Sparks of his Party;
There they all meet and bargain without Scandal:
Fops of all sorts and sizes you may chuse,
Whig-land offers not such another Market.
Enter Closet.
Clos. Madam, here’s Sir Timothy Treat-all come to wait on your Ladyship to Supper.
Wild. My Uncle! Oh, damn him, he was born to be my Plague: not— Disinheriting me had not been so great a Disappointment; and if he sees me here, I ruin all the Plots I’ve laid for him. Ha, he’s here.
Enter Sir Tim.
Sir Tim. How, my Nephew Thomas here!
Wild. Madam, I find you can be cruel too, Knowing my Uncle has abandon’d me.
Sir Tim. How now, Sir, what’s your Business here?
Wild. I came to beg a Favour of my Lady Galliard, Sir, knowing her Power and Quality here in the City.
Sir Tim. How a Favour of my Lady Galliard! The Rogue said indeed he would cuckold me. [Aside.] Why, Sir, I thought you had been taken up with your rich Heiress?
Wild. That was my Business now, Sir: Having in my possession the Daughter and Heir of Sir Nicholas Gett-all, I would have made use of the Authority of my Lady Galliard’s House to have secur’d her, till I got things in order for our Marriage; but my Lady, to put me off, cries I have an Uncle.
L. Gal. A well contrived Lye. [Aside.
Sir Tim. Well, I have heard of your good Fortune; and however a Reprobate thou hast been, I’ll not shew my self so undutiful an Uncle, as not to give the Gentlewoman a little House-room: I heard indeed she was gone a week ago, And, Sir, my House is at your Service.
Wild. I humbly thank you, Sir. Madam, your Servant. A pox upon him and his Association. [Goes out.
Sir Tim. Come, Madam, my Coach waits below.
[Exit.
ACT III.
SCENE I. A Room.
Enter Sir Timothy Treat-all, and Jervice.
Sir Tim. Here, take my Sword, Jervice. What have you inquir’d, as I directed you, concerning the rich Heiress, Sir Nicholas Get-all’s Daughter?
Jer. Alas, Sir, inquir’d! why, ‘tis all the City-News that she’s run away with one of the maddest Tories about Town.
Sir Tim. Good Lord! Ay, ay, ‘tis so; the plaguy Rogue my Nephew has got her. That Heaven shou’d drop such Blessings in the Mouths of the wicked! Well, Jervice, what Company have we in the House, Jervice?
Jer. Why, truly, Sir, a fine deal, considering there’s no Parliament.
Sir Tim. What Lords have we, Jervice?
Jer. Lords, Sir, truly none.
Sir Tim. None! what, ne’er a Lord! some mishap will befall me, some dire mischance! Ne’er a Lord! ominous, ominous! our Party dwindles daily. What, nor Earl, nor Marquess, nor Duke, nor ne’er a Lord! Hum, my Wine will lie most villanously upon my Hands to Night. Jervice, what, have we store of Knights and Gentlemen?
Jer. I know not what Gentlemen there be, Sir; but there are Knights, Citizens, their Wives and Daughters.
Sir Tim. Make us thankful for that; our Meat will not lie upon our Hands then, Jervice: I’ll say that for our little Londoners, they are as tall Fellows at a well-charg’d Board as any in Christendom.
Jer. Then, Sir, there’s Nonconformist-Parsons.
Sir Tim. Nay, then we shall have a clear Board; for your true
Protestant Appetite in a Lay-Elder, does a Man’s Table Credit.
Jer. Then, Sir, there’s Country Justices and Grand-Jury-Men.
Sir Tim. Well enough, well enough, Jervice.
Enter Mrs. Sensure.
Sen. An’t like your Worship, Mr. Wilding is come in with a Lady richly drest in Jewels, mask’d, in his Hand, and will not be deny’d speaking with your Worship.
Sir Tim. Hah, rich in Jewels! this must be she. My Sword again, Jervice.—Bring ‘em up, Sensure.—Prithee how do I look to Night, Jervice? [Setting himself.
Jer. Oh, most methodically, Sir.
Enter Wild, with Diana, and Betty.
Wild. Sir, I have brought into your kind protection the richest Jewel all London can afford, fair Mrs. Charlot Gett-all.
Sir Tim. Bless us, she’s ravishing fair! Lady, I had the honour of being intimate with your worthy Father. I think he has been dead—
Dia. If he catechize me much on that point, I shall spoil all. [Aside. Alas, Sir, name him not; for if you do, [weeping. I’m sure I cannot answer you one Question.
Wild. For Heaven sake, Sir, name not her Father to her; the bare remembrance of him kills her. [Aside to him.
Sir Tim. Alas, poor Soul! Lady, I beg your Pardon. How soft-hearted she is! I am in love; I find already a kind of tickling of I know not what, run frisking through my Veins. [Aside.
Bet. Ay, Sir, the good Alderman has been dead this twelve-month just, and has left his Daughter here, my Mistress, three thousand Pound a Year. [Weeping.
Sir Tim. Three thousand Pound a Year! Yes, yes, I am in love. [Aside.
Bet. Besides Money, Plate, and Jewels.
Sir Tim. I’ll marry her out of hand, [Aside.] Alas, I cou’d even weep too; but ‘tis in vain. Well, Nephew, you may be gone now; for ‘tis not necessary you shou’d be seen here, d’ye see. [Pushing him out.
Wild. You see, Sir, now, what Heaven has done for me; and you have often told me, Sir, when that was kind you wou’d be so. Those Writings, Sir, by which you were so good to make me Heir to all your Estate, you said you wou’d put into my possession, whene’er I made it appear to you I could live without ‘em, or bring you a Wife of Fortune home.
Sir Tim. And I will keep my word; ‘tis time enough. [Putting him out.
Wild. I have, ‘tis true, been wicked; but I shall now turn from my evil ways, establish my self in the religious City, and enter into the Association. There want but these same Writings, Sir, and your good Character of me.
Sir Tim. Thou shalt have both, all in good time, Man: Go, go thy ways, and I’ll warrant thee for a good Character, go.
Wild. Ay, Sir, but the Writings, because I told her, Sir, I was your Heir; nay, forc’d to swear too, before she wou’d believe me.
Sir Tim. Alas, alas! how shreudly thou wert put to’t!
Wild. I told her too, you’d buy a Patent for me; for nothing woos a City-Fortune like the hopes of a Ladyship.
Sir Tim. I’m glad of that; that I can settle on her presently.
[Aside.
Wild. You may please to hint something to her of my godly Life and Conversation; that I frequent Conventicles, and am drunk no where but at your true Protestant Consults and Clubs, and the like.
Sir Tim. Nay, if these will please her, I have her for certain. [Aside. Go, go, fear not my good word.
Wild. But the Writings, Sir—
Sir Tim. Am I a Jew, a Turk? Thou shalt have any thing, now I find thee
a Lad of Parts, and one that can provide so well for thy Uncle.
[Aside.
[Puts him out, and addresses himself to the Lady.
Wild. Wou’d they were hang’d that trust you, that have but the art of Legerdemain, and can open the Japan-Cabinet in your Bed-chamber, where I know those Writings are kept. Death, what a disappointment’s here! I wou’d ha’ sworn this Sham had past upon him. [Aside.] But, Sir, shall I not have the Writings now?
Sir Tim. What, not gone yet! for shame, away; canst thou distrust thy own natural Uncle? Fie, away, Tom, away.
Wild. A Plague upon your damn’d Dissimulation, that never failing Badge of all your Party, there’s always mischief at the bottom on’t; I know ye all; and Fortune be the Word. When next I see you, Uncle, it shall cost you dearer. [Exit.
Enter Jervice.
Jer. An’t please your Worship, Supper’s almost over, and you are askt for.
Sir Tim. They know I never sup; I shall come time enough to bid ‘em welcome. [Exit Jer.
Dia. I keep you, Sir, from Supper, and better Company.
Sir Tim. Lady, Were I a Glutton, I cou’d be satisfy’d
With feeding on those two bright starry Eyes.
Dia. You are a Courtier, Sir; we City-Maids do seldom hear such
Language; in which you shew your kindness to your Nephew, more than your
thoughts of what my
Beauty merits.
Sir Tim. Lord, Lord, how innocent she is! [Aside.] My Nephew,
Madam? yes, yes, I cannot chuse but be wondrous kind upon his score.
Dia. Nay, he has often told me, you were the best of Uncles, and he deserves your goodness, so hopeful a young Gentleman.
Sir Tim. Wou’d I cou’d see’t. [Aside.
Dia. So modest.
Sir Tim. Yes, ask my Maids. [Aside.
Dia. So civil.
Sir Tim. Yes, to my Neighbours Wives. [Aside.] But so, Madam, I find by this high Commendation of my Nephew, your Ladyship has a very slender opinion of your devoted Servant the while: or else, Madam, with this not disagreeable Face and Shape of mine, six thousand Pound a year, and other Virtues and Commodities that shall be nameless, I see no reason why I shou’d not beget an Heir of my own Body, had I the helping hand of a certain victorious Person in the World, that shall be nameless. [Bowing and smirking.
Dia. Meaning me, I am sure; if I shou’d marry him now, and disappoint my dear Inconstant with an Heir of his own begetting, ‘twou’d be a most wicked Revenge for past Kindnesses. [Aside.
Sir Tim. I know your Ladyship is studying now who this victorious
Person shou’d be, whom I dare not name: but let it suffice, she is,
Madam, within a Mile of an Oak.
Dia. No, Sir, I was considering, if what you say be true, How unadvisedly I have lov’d your Nephew, Who swore to me he was to be your Heir.
Sir Tim. My Heir, Madam! am I so visibly old to be so desperate?
No, I’m in my years of desires and discretion,
And I have thoughts, durst I but utter ‘em;
But modestly say, Mum—
Dia. I took him for the hopefullest Gentleman—
Sir Tim. Let him hope on, so will I; and yet, Madam, in consideration of your Love to him, and because he is my Nephew, young, handsome, witty, and so forth, I am content to be so much a Parent to him, as if Heaven please,—to see him fairly hang’d.
Dia. How, Sir! [In amaze.
Sir Tim. He has deserv’d it, Madam: First, for lampooning the Reverend City with its noble Government, with the Right Honourable Gown-men; libelling some for Feasting, and some for Fasting, some for Cuckolds, and some for Cuckold-makers; charging us with all the seven deadly Sins, the Sins of our Fore-fathers, adding seven score more to the number; the Sins of Forty-One reviv’d again in Eighty-One, with Additions and Amendments; for which, though the Writings were drawn, by which I made him my whole Executor, I will disinherit him. Secondly, Madam, he deserves hanging for seducing, and most feloniously bearing away a young City-Heiress.
Dia. Undone, undone! Oh, with what Face can I return again! What Man of Wealth or Reputation, now Will think me worth the owning! [Feigns to weep.
Sir Tim. Yes, yes, Madam, there are honest, discreet, religious, and true Protestant Knights in the City, that wou’d be proud to dignify and distinguish so worthy a Gentlewoman. [Bowing and smiling.
Bet. Look to your hits, and take fortune by the forelock, Madam. [Aside. —Alas, Madam, no Knight, and poor too!
Sir Tim. As a Tory Poet.
Bet. Well, Madam, take Comfort; if the worst come to the worst, you have Estate enough for both.
Dia. Ay, Betty, were he but honest, Betty.
[Weeping.
Sir Tim. Honest! I think he will not steal; but for his Body, the Lord have mercy upon’t, for he has none.
Dia. ‘Tis evident, I am betray’d, abus’d;
H’as lookt and sigh’d, and talkt away my Heart;
H’as sworn, and vow’d, and flatter’d me to ruin.
[Weeping.
Sir Tim. A small fault with him; he has flatter’d and sworn me out of many a fair Thousand: why, he has no more Conscience than a Politician, nor no more Truth than a Narrative (under the Rose).
Dia. Is there no Truth nor Honesty i’th’ World?
Sir Tim. Troth, very little, and that lies all i’th’ City amongst us sober Magistrates.
Dia. Were I a Man, how wou’d I be reveng’d!
Sir Tim. Your Ladyship might do it better as you are were I worthy to advise you.
Dia. Name it.
Sir Tim. Why, by marrying your Ladyship’s most assur’d Friend, and most humble Servant, Timothy Treat-all of London, Alderman. [Bowing.
Bet. Ay, this is something, Mistress; here’s Reason.
Dia. But I have given my Faith and Troth to Wilding, Betty.
Sir Tim. Faith and Troth! We stand upon neither Faith nor Troth in the
City, Lady. I have known an Heiress married and bedded, and yet with the
Advice of the wiser Magistrates, has been unmarried and consummated anew
with another, so it stands with our Interest: ‘tis Law by Magna Charta.
Nay, had you married my ungracious Nephew, we might by this our Magna
Charta have hang’d him for a Rape.
Dia. What, though he had my Consent?
Sir Tim. That’s nothing, he had not ours.
Dia. Then shou’d I marry you by stealth, the Danger wou’d be the same.
Sir Tim. No, no, Madam, we never accuse one another; ‘tis the poor Rogues, the Tory Rascals we always hang. Let ‘em accuse me if they please; alas, I come off hand-smooth with Ignoramus.
Enter Jervice.
Jer. Sir, there’s such a calling for your Worship! They are all very merry, the Glasses go briskly about.
Sir Tim. Go, go, I’ll come when all the Healths are past; I love no
Healths.
Jer. They are all over, Sir, and the Ladies are for dancing; so they are all adjourning from the Dining-room hither, as more commodious for that Exercise. I think they’re coming, Sir.
Sir Tim. Hah, coming! Call Sensure to wait on the Lady to her
Apartment.—
[Enter Sensure.]
And, Madam, I do most heartily recommend my most humble Address to your most judicious Consideration, hoping you will most vigorously, and with all your might, maintain the Rights and Privileges of the Honourable City; and not suffer the Force or Persuasion of any Arbitrary Lover whatsoever, to subvert their antient and Fundamental Laws, by seducing and forcibly bearing away so rich and so illustrious a Lady: and, Madam, we will unanimously stand by you with our Lives and Fortunes.—This I learnt from a Speech at the Election of a Burgess. [Aside.
[Leads her to the Door; She goes out with Betty and Sensure. Enter Musick playing, Sir Anthony Meriwill dancing with a Lady in his Hand, Sir Charles with Lady_ Galliard, several other Women and Men.
Sir Anth. [singing.]
Philander _was a jolly Swain,
And lov’d by ev’ry Lass;
Whom when he met along the Plain,
He laid upon the Grass.
And here he kist, and there he play’d
With this and then the t’other,
Till every wanton smiling Maid
At last became a Mother.
And to her Swain, and to her Swain,
The Nymph begins to yield;
Ruffle, and breathe, then to’t again,
Thou’rt Master of the Field_.
[Clapping Sir Char, on the back.
Sir Char. And if I keep it not, say I’m a Coward, Uncle.
Sir Anth. More Wine there, Boys, I’ll keep the Humour up.
[Enter Bottles and Glasses.
Sir Tim. How! young Meriwill so close to the Widow—Madam—
[Addressing himself to her. Sir Char. puts him by.
Sir Char. Sir Timothy, why, what a Pox dost thou bring that damn’d
Puritanical, Schismatical, Fanatical, Small-beer-Face of thine into good
Company? Give him a full Glass to the Widow’s Health.
Sir Tim. O lack, Sir Charles, no Healths for me, I pray.
Sir Char. Hark ye, leave that cozening, canting, sanctify’d Sneer of yours, and drink ye me like a sober loyal Magistrate, all those Healths you are behind, from his sacred Majesty, whom God long preserve, with the rest of the Royal Family, even down to this wicked Widow, whom Heaven soon convert from her leud designs upon my Body. [Pulling Sir Tim. to kneel.
Sir Anth. A rare Boy! he shall have all my Estate.
Sir Tim. How, the Widow a leud design upon his Body! Nay, then I am jealous. [Aside.
L. Gal. I a leud design upon your Body; for what, I wonder?
Sir Char. Why, for villanous Matrimony.
L. Gal. Who, I?
Sir Char. Who, you! yes, you.
Why are those Eyes drest in inviting Love?
Those soft bewitching Smiles, those rising Breasts,
And all those Charms that make you so adorable,
Is’t not to draw Fools into Matrimony?
Sir Anth. How’s that, how’s that! Charles at his Adorables and
Charms! He must have t’other Health, he’ll fall to his old Dog-trot again
else. Come, come, every man his Glass; Sir Timothy, you are six behind:
Come, come, Charles, name ‘em all.
[Each take a Glass, and force Sir Tim. on his knees.
Sir Char.—Not bate ye an Ace, Sir. Come, his Majesty’s Health, and Confusion to his Enemies. [They go to force his Mouth open to drink.
Sir Tim. Hold, Sir, hold, if I must drink, I must; but this is very arbitrary, methinks. [Drinks.
Sir Anth. And now, Sir, to the Royal Duke of Albany. Musick, play a Scotch Jig. [Music plays, they drink.
Sir Tim. This is mere Tyranny.
Enter Jervice.
Jer. Sir, there is alighted at the Gate a Person of Quality, as appears by his Train, who give him the Title of a Lord.
Sir Tim. How, a strange Lord! Conduct him up with Ceremony, Jervice— ’.ds so, he’s here!
Enter Wilding in disguise, Dresswell, and Footmen and Pages.
Wild. Sir, by your Reverend Aspect, you shou’d be the renown’d Mester de Hotel.
Sir Tim. Mater de Otell! I have not the Honour to know any of that Name, I am call’d Sir Timothy Treat-all. [Bowing.
Wild. The same, Sir; I have been bred abroad, and thought all Persons of Quality had spoke French.
Sir Tim. Not City Persons of Quality, my Lord.
Wild. I’m glad on’t, Sir; for ‘tis a Nation I hate, as indeed I do all Monarchies.
Sir Tim. Hum! hate Monarchy! Your Lordship is most welcome.
[Bows.
Wild. Unless Elective Monarchies, which so resemble a Commonwealth.
Sir Tim. Right, my Lord; where every Man may hope to take his turn— Your Lordship is most singularly welcome. [Bows low.
Wild. And though I am a Stranger to your Person, I am not to your Fame, amongst the sober Party of the Amsterdamians, all the French Hugonots throughout Geneva; even to Hungary and Poland, Fame’s Trumpet sounds your Praise, making the Pope to fear, the rest admire you.
Sir Anth. I’m much oblig’d to the renowned Mobile.
Wild. So you will say, when you shall hear my Embassy. The Polanders by me salute you, Sir, and have in this next new Election prick’d ye down for their succeeding King.
Sir Tim. How, my Lord, prick’d me down for a King! Why, this is wonderful! Prick’d me, unworthy me down for a King! How cou’d I merit this amazing Glory!
Wild. They know, he that can be so great a Patriot to his Native Country, where but a private Person, what must he be when Power is on his side?
Sir Tim. Ay, my Lord, my Country, my bleeding Country! there’s the stop to all my rising Greatness. Shall I be so ungrateful to disappoint this big expecting Nation? defeat the sober Party, and my Neighbours, for any Polish Crown? But yet, my Lord, I will consider on’t: Mean time my House is yours.
Wild. I’ve brought you, Sir, the Measure of the Crown: Ha, it fits you to a Hair. [Pulls out a Ribband, measures his Head. You were by Heav’n and Nature fram’d that Monarch.
Sir Anth. Hah, at it again! [Sir Charles making sober Love. Come, we grow dull, Charles; where stands the Glass? What, balk my Lady Galliard’s Health! [They go to drink.
Wild. Hah, Galliard—and so sweet on Meriwill! [Aside.
L. Gal. If it be your business, Sir, to drink, I’ll withdraw.
Sir Char. Gad, and I’ll withdraw with you, Widow. Hark ye, Lady Galliard, I am damnably afraid you cannot bear Liquor well, you are so forward to leave good Company and a Bottle.
Sir Tim. Well, Gentlemen, since I have done what I never do, to oblige you, I hope you will not refuse a Health of my Denomination.
Sir Anth. We scorn to be so uncivil.
[All take the Glasses.
Sir Tim. Why then here’s a conceal’d Health that shall be nameless, to his Grace the King of Poland.
Sir Char. King of Poland! Lord, Lord, how your Thoughts ramble!
Sir Tim. Not so far as you imagine; I know what I say, Sir.
Sir Char. Away with it. [Drink all.
Wild. I see, Sir, you still keep up that English Hospitality that so renowned our Ancestors in History. [Looking on L. Gal.
Sir Tim. Ay, my Lord, my noble Guests are my Wife and Children.
Wild. Are you not married, then? Death, she smiles on him. [Aside.
Sir Tim. I had a Wife, but rest her Soul, she’s dead; and I have no
Plague left now but an ungracious Nephew, perverted with ill Customs,
Tantivy Opinions, and Court-Notions.
Wild. Cannot your pious Examples convert him? By Heaven, she’s fond of him! [Aside.
Sir Tim. Alas, I have try’d all ways, fair and foul; nay, had settled t’other Day my whole Estate upon him, and just as I had sign’d the Writings, out comes me a damn’d Libel, call’d, A Warning to all good Christians against the City-Magistrates; and I doubt he had a Hand in Absalom and Achitophel, a Rogue. But some of our sober Party have claw’d him home, i’ faith, and given him Rhyme for his Reason.
Wild. Most visibly in Love! Oh, Sir, Nature, Laws, and Religion plead for so near a Kinsman.
Sir Tim. Laws and Religion! Alas, my Lord, he deserves not the Name of a Patriot, who does not for the publick Good, defy all Laws and Religion.
Wild. Death, I must interrupt ‘em—Sir, pray what Lady’s that.
[Wild, salutes her.
Sir Tim. I beseech your Lordship know her, ‘tis my Lady Galliard; the rest are all my Friends and Neighbours, true Protestants all—Well, my Lord, how do you like my Method of doing the business of the Nation, and carrying on the Cause with Wine, Women, and so forth?
Wild. High Feeding and smart Drinking, gains more to the Party, than your smart Preaching.
Sir Tim. Your Lordship has hit it right: a rare Man this!
Wild. But come, Sir, leave serious Affairs, and oblige these fair ones.
[Addresses himself to Galliard, Sir Charles puts him by. Enter Charlot disguised, Clacket and Foppington.
Sir Char. Heavens, Clacket, yonder’s my False one, and that my lovely Rival. [Pointing to Wild, and L. Gal.
Enter Diana and Sensure masked, and Betty.
Dia. Dear Mrs. Sensure, this Favour has oblig’d me.
Sen. I hope you’ll not discover it to his Worship, Madam.
Wild. By her Mien, this shou’d be handsome— [Goes to Diana.] Madam, I hope you have not made a Resolution to deny me the Honour of your Hand.
Dia. Ha, Wilding! Love can discover thee through all Disguise.
Wild. Hah, Diana! wou’d ‘twere Felony to wear a Vizard. Gad, I’d rather meet it on the King’s Highway, with Stand and Deliver, than thus encounter it on the Face of an old Mistress; and the Cheat were more excusable—But how— [Talks aside with her.
Sir Char. Nay, never frown nor chide: For thus do I intend to shew my
Authority, till I have made thee only fit for me.
Wild. Is’t so, my precious Uncle? Are you so great a Devil in Hypocrisy? Thus had I been serv’d, had I brought him the right Woman. [Aside.
Dia. But do not think, dear Tommy, I wou’d have serv’d thee so; married thy Uncle, and have cozen’d thee of thy Birth-right—But see, we’re observ’d.
[Charlot listening behind him all this while.
Char. By all that’s good ‘tis he! that Voice is his! [He going from Dian. turns upon Charlot, and looks.
Wild. Hah, what pretty Creature’s this, that has so much of Charlot in her Face? But sure she durst not venture; ‘tis not her Dress nor Mien. Dear pretty Stranger, I must dance with you.
Char. Gued deed, and see ye shall, Sir, gen you please. Though I’s not dance, Sir, I’s tell ya that noo.
Wild. Nor I, so we’re well matcht. By Heaven, she’s wondrous like her.
Char. By th’ Mass not so kind, Sir: ‘Twere gued that ene of us shou’d dance to guid the other weel.
Wild. How young, how innocent and free she is! And wou’d you, fair one, be guided by me?
Char. In any thing that gued is.
Wild. I love you extremely, and wou’d teach you to love.
Char. Ah, wele aday! [Sighs and smiles.
Wild. A thing I know you do not understand.
Char. Gued faith, and ya’re i’th’ right, Sir; yet ‘tis a thing I’s often hear ya gay men talk of.
Wild. Yes, and no doubt have been told those pretty Eyes inspired it.
Char. Gued deed, and so I have! Ya men make sa mickle ado about ens Eyes, ways me, I’s ene tir’d with sick-like Complements.
Wild. Ah, if you give us wounds, we must complain.
Char. Ye may ene keep out a harms way then.
Wild. Oh, we cannot; or if we cou’d, we wou’d not.
Char. Marry, and I’s have ene a Song tol that tune, Sir.
Wild. Dear Creature, let me beg it.
Char. Gued faith, ya shall not, Sir, I’s sing without entreaty.
SONG.
_Ah, Jenny, gen your Eyes do kill,
You’ll let me tell my Pain;
Gued Faith, I lov’d against my Will,
But wad not break my Chain.
I ence was call’d a bonny Lad,
Till that fair Face of yours
Betray’d the Freedom ence I had,
And ad my bleether Howers.
But noo ways me like Winter looks,
My gloomy showering Eyne,
And on the Banks of shaded Brooks
I pass my wearied time.
I call the Stream that gleedeth on,
To witness if it see,
On all the flowry Brink along,
A Swain so true as lee_.
Wild. This very Swain am I, so true and so forlorn, unless ye pity me.—This is an excellency Charlot wants, at least I never heard her sing. [Aside.
Sir Anth. Why, Charles, where stands the Woman, Charles?
[Fop. comes up to Charlot.
Wild. I must speak to Galliard, though all my Fortunes depend on the Discovery of my self. [Aside.
Sir Anth. Come, come, a cooling Glass about.
Wild. Dear Dresswell, entertain Charles Meriwill a little, whilst I
speak to Galliard.
[The Men go all to the drinking Table.
By Heaven, I die, I languish for a Word!
—Madam, I hope you have not made a Vow
To speak with none but that young Cavalier.
They say, the Freedom English Ladies use,
Is, as their Beauty, great.
L. Gal. Sir, we are none of those of so nice and delicate a Virtue, as
Conversation can corrupt; we live in a cold Climate.
Wild. And think you’re not so apt to be in Love,
As where the Sun shines oftner.
But you too much partake of the Inconstancy of this your fickle Climate.
[Maliciously to her.
One day all Sun-shine, and th’ encourag’d Lover
Decks himself up in glittering Robes of Hope;
And in the midst of all their boasted Finery
Comes a dark Cloud across his Mistress’ Brow,
Dashes the Fool, and spoils the gaudy Show.
[L. Gal. observing him nearly.
L. Gal. Hah, do I not know that railing Tongue of yours?
Wild. ‘Tis from your Guilt, not Judgment then.
I was resolv’d to be to night a Witness
Of that sworn Love you flatter’d me so often with.
By Heaven, I saw you playing with my Rival,
Sigh’d, and lookt Babies in his gloating Eyes.
When is the Assignation? When the Hours?
For he’s impatient as the raging Sea,
Loose as the Winds, and amorous as the Sun,
That kisses all the Beauties of the Spring.
L. Gal. I take him for a sober Person, Sir.
Wild. Have I been the Companion of his Riots
In all the leud course of our early Youth,
Where like unwearied Bees we gather’d Flowers?
But no kind Blossom could oblige our stay,
We rifled and were gone.
L. Gal. Your Virtues I perceive are pretty equal;
Only his Love’s the honester o’th’ two.
Wild. Honester! that is, he wou’d owe his good Fortune to the Parson of the Parish; And I would be oblig’d to you alone. He wou’d have a Licence to boast he lies with you, And I wou’d do’t with Modesty and Silence: For Virtue’s but a Name kept free from Scandal, Which the most base of Women best preserve, Since Jilting and Hypocrisy cheat the World best. —But we both love, and who shall blab the Secret? [In a soft Tone.
L. Gal. Oh, why were all the Charms of speaking given
To that false Tongue that makes no better use of ‘em?
—I’ll hear no more of your inchanting Reasons.
Wild. You must.
L. Gal. I will not.
Wild. Indeed you must.
L. Gal. By all the Powers above—
Wild. By all the Powers of Love you’ll break your Oath, Unless you swear this Night to let me see you.
L. Gal. This Night.
Wild. This very Night.
L. Gal. I’d die first—At what Hour?
[First turns away, then sighs and looks on him.
Wild. Oh, name it; and if I fail— [With Joy.
L. Gal. I wou’d not for the World—
Wild. That I shou’d fail!
L. Gal. Not name the guilty Hour.
Wild. Then I through eager haste shall come too soon, And do your Honour wrong.
L. Gal. My Honour! Oh, that Word!
Wild. Which the Devil was in me for naming. [Aside. —At Twelve.
L. Gal. My Women and my Servants then are up.
Wild. At One, or Two.
L. Gal. So late! ‘twill be so quickly Day!
Wild. Ay, so it will; That half our Business will be left unfinisht.
L. Gal. Hah, what do you mean? what Business?
Wild. A thousand tender things I have to say; A thousand Vows of my eternal Love; And now and then we’ll kiss and—
L. Gal. Be extremely honest.
Wild. As you can wish.
L. Gal. Rather as I command: for should he know my wish, I were undone. [Aside.
Wild. The Sign—
L. Gal. Oh, press me not—yet you may come at Midnight under my
Chamber-Window.
[Sir Char. sees ‘em so close, comes to ‘em.
Sir Char. Hold, Sir, hold! Whilst I am listning to the Relation of your French Fortifications, Outworks, and Counterscarps, I perceive the Enemy in my Quarters—My Lord, by your leave. [Puts him by, growing drunk.
Char. Persuade me not; I burst with Jealousy.
[Wild. turns, sees Clacket.
Wild. Death and the Devil, Clacket! then ‘tis Charlot, and I’m discover’d to her.
Char. Say, are you not a false dissembling thing?
[To Wild. in anger.
Wild. What, my little Northern Lass translated into English!
This ‘tis to practise Art in spite of Nature.
Alas, thy Vertue, Youth, and Innocence,
Were never made for Cunning,
I found ye out through all your forc’d disguise.
Char. Hah, did you know me then?
Wild. At the first glance, and found you knew me too, And talkt to yonder Lady in revenge, Whom my Uncle would have me marry. But to avoid all Discourses of that nature, I came to Night in this Disguise you see, to be conceal’d from her; that’s all.
Char. And is that all, on Honour? Is it, Dear?
Wild. What, no Belief, no Faith in villanous Women?
Char. Yes, when I see the Writings.
Wild. Go home, I die if you shou’d be discover’d: And credit me, I’ll bring you all you ask. Clacket, you and I must have an old Reckoning about this Night’s Jant of yours. [Aside to Clacket.
Sir Tim. Well, my Lord, how do you like our English Beauties?
Wild. Extremely, Sir; and was pressing this young Lady to give us a Song.
[Here is an Italian Song in two Parts.
Sir Tim. I never saw this Lady before: pray who may she be, Neighbour? [To Clacket.
Mrs. Clack. A Niece of mine, newly come out of Scotland, Sir.
Sir Tim. Nay, then she dances by nature. Gentlemen and Ladies, please you to sit, here’s a young Neighbour of mine will honour us with a Dance. [They all sit; Charl. and Fop. dance. So, so; very well, very well. Gentlemen and Ladies, I am for Liberty of Conscience, and Moderation. There’s a Banquet waits the Ladies, and my Cellars are open to the Men; but for my self, I must retire; first waiting on your Lordship to shew you your Apartment, then leave you to cher entire: and to morrow, my Lord, you and I will settle the Nation, and will resolve on what return we will make to the noble Polanders.
[Exeunt all but Wild. Dres. and Fop. Sir Charles leading out Lady Galliard.
Sir Anth. Well said, Charles, thou leav’st her not till she’s thy own, Boy—And Philander was a jolly Swain, &c. [Exit singing.
Wild. All things succeed above my Wish, dear Frank,
Fortune is kind; and more, Galliard is so;
This night crowns all my Wishes.
Laboir, are all things ready for our purpose? [To his Footman.
Lab. Dark Lanthorns, Pistols, Habits and Vizards, Sir.
Fop. I have provided Portmantles to carry off the Treasure.
Dres. I perceive you are resolv’d to make a thorow-stitcht Robbery on’t.
Fop. Faith, if it lie in our way, Sir, we had as good venture a Caper under the Triple-Tree for one as well as t’other.
Wild. We must consider on’t. ‘Tis now just struck eleven; within this Hour is the dear Assignation with Galliard.
Dres. What, whether our Affairs be finish’d or not?
Wild. ‘Tis but at next Door; I shall return time enough for that trivial Business.
Dres. A trivial Business of some six thousand pound a year?
Wild. Trivial to a Woman, Frank: no more; do you make as if you went to bed.—Laboir, do you feign to be drunk, and lie on the Hall-table: and when I give the sign, let me softly in.
Dres. Death, Sir, will you venture at such a time?
Wild. My Life and future Hope—I am resolv’d.
Let Politicians plot, let Rogues go on
In the old beaten Path of Forty one;
Let City Knaves delight in Mutiny,
The Rabble bow to old Presbytery;
Let petty States be to confusion hurl’d,
Give me but Woman, I’ll despise the World.
[Exeunt.
ACT IV.
SCENE I. A Dressing-Room.
Lady Galliard is discover’d in an undress at her Table, Glass and Toilette, Closet attending: As soon as the Scene draws off she rises from the Table as disturbed and out of Humour.
L. Gal. Come, leave your everlasting Chamber-maid’s Chat, your dull Road of Slandering by rote, and lay that Paint aside. Thou art fuller of false News, than an unlicens’d Mercury.
Clos. I have good Proof, Madam, of what I say.
L. Gal. Proof of a thing impossible!—Away.
Clos. Is it a thing so impossible, Madam, that a Man of Mr. Wilding’s Parts and Person should get a City-Heiress? Such a bonne Mien, and such a pleasant Wit!
L. Gal. Hold thy fluent Tattle, thou hast Tongue
Enough to talk an Oyster-Woman deaf:
I say it cannot be.
—What means the panting of my troubled Heart!
Oh, my presaging Fears! shou’d what she says prove true,
How wretched and how lost a thing am I! [Aside.
Clos. Your Honour may say your Pleasure; but I hope
I have not liv’d to these Years to be impertinent—No,
Madam, I am none of those that run up and down the
Town a Story-hunting, and a Lye-catching, and—
L. Gal. Eternal Rattle, peace—
Mrs. Charlot Gett-all go away with Wilding!
A Man of Wilding’s extravagant Life
Get a Fortune in the City!
Thou mightst as well have told me, a Holder-forth were married to a Nun:
There are not two such Contraries in Nature,
’.is flam, ‘tis foolery, ‘tis most impossible.
Clos. I beg your Ladyship’s Pardon, if my Discourse offend you; but all the World knows Mrs. Clacket to be a person—
L. Gal. Who is a most devout Baud, a precise Procurer;
A Saint in the Spirit, and Whore in the Flesh;
A Doer of the Devil’s Work in God’s Name.
Is she your Informer? nay, then the Lye’s undoubted—
I say once more, adone with your idle Tittle-Tattle,
—And to divert me, bid Betty sing the Song which Wilding made
To his last Mistress; we may judge by that,
What little Haunts, and what low Game he follows.
This is not like the Description of a rich Citizen’s Daughter
and Heir, but some common Hackney of the Suburbs.
Clos. I have heard him often swear she was a Gentlewoman, and liv’d with her Friends.
L. Gal. Like enough, there are many of these Gentlewomen who live with their Friends, as rank Prostitutes, as errant Jilts, as those who make open profession of the Trade—almost as mercenary—But come, the Song.
[Enter Betty.
SONG.
_In Phillis all vile Jilts are met,
Foolish, uncertain, false, Coquette.
Love is her constant welcome Guest,
And still the newest pleases best.
Quickly she likes, then leaves as soon;
Her Life on Woman’s a Lampoon.
Yet for the Plague of human Race,
This Devil has an Angel’s Face;
Such Youth, such Sweetness in her Look,
Who can be Man, and not be took?
What former Love, what Wit, what Art,
Can save a poor inclining Heart?
In vain a thousand Times an hour
Reason rebels against her Power.
In vain I rail, I curse her charms;
One Look my feeble Rage disarms.
There is Inchantment in her Eyes;
Who sees ‘em, can no more be wise_.
Enter Wilding, who runs to embrace L. Gal.
Wild. Twelve was the lucky Minute when we met:
Most charming of your Sex, and wisest of all Widows,
My Life, my Soul, my Heaven to come, and here!
Now I have liv’d to purpose, since at last—Oh, killing Joy!
Come, let me fold you, press you in my Arms,
And kiss you Thanks for this dear happy Night.
L. Gal. You may spare your Thanks, Sir, for those that will deserve ’.m; I shall give you no occasion for ‘em.
Wild. Nay, no scruples now, dearest of Dears, no more, ’.is most unseasonable— I bring a Heart full fraight with eager Hopes, Opprest with a vast Load of longing Love; Let me unlade me in that soft white Bosom, That Storehouse of rich Joys and lasting Pleasures, And lay me down as on a Bed of Lillies. [She breaks from him.
L. Gal. You’re wondrous full of Love and Rapture, Sir; but certainly you mistake the Person you address ‘em to.
Wild. Why, are you not my Lady Galliard, that very Lady Galliard, who, if one may take her Word for’t, loves Wilding? Am I not come hither by your own Appointment; and can I have any other Business here at this time of night, but Love, and Rapture, and—
L. Gal. Scandalous and vain! by my Appointment, and for so leud a purpose; guard me, ye good Angels. If after an Affront so gross as this, I ever suffer you to see me more, Then think me what your Carriage calls me, An impudent, an open Prostitute, Lost to all sense of Virtue, or of Honour.
Wild. What can this mean? [Aside. Oh, now I understand the Mystery. [Looking on Closet. Her Woman’s here, that troublesome piece of Train. —I must remove her. Hark ye, Mrs. Closet, I had forgot to tell you, as I came up I heard a Kinsman of yours very earnest with the Servants below, and in great haste to speak with you.
Clos. A Kinsman! that’s very likely indeed, and at this time of night.
Wild. Yes, a very near Kinsman, he said he was your Father’s own Mother’s Uncle’s Sister’s Son; what d’ye call him?
Clos. Ay, what d’ye call him indeed? I shou’d be glad to hear his Name. Alas, Sir, I have no near Relation living that I know of, the more’s my Misfortune, poor helpless Orphan that I am. [Weeps.
Wild. Nay, but Mrs. Closet, pray take me right, This Country-man of yours, as I was saying—
L. Gal. Chang’d already from a Kinsman to a Countryman! a plain
Contrivance to get my Woman out of the Room. Closet, as you value my
Service, stir not from hence.
Wild. This Countryman of yours, I say, being left Executor by your Father’s last Will and Testament, is come—Dull Waiting-woman, I wou’d be alone with your Lady; know your Cue and retire.
Clos. How, Sir!
Wild. Learn, I say, to understand Reason when you hear it. Leave us awhile; Love is not a Game for three to play at. [Gives her Mony.
Clos. I must own to all the World, you have convinc’d me; I ask a thousand Pardons for my Dulness. Well, I’ll be gone, I’ll run; you’re a most powerful Person, the very Spirit of Persuasion—I’ll steal out—You have such a taking way with you—But I forgot my self. Well, your most obedient Servant; whenever you’ve occasion, Sir, be pleas’d to use me freely.
Wild. Nay, dear Impertinence, no more Complements, you see I’m busy now; prithee be gone, you see I am busy.
Clos. I’m all Obedience to you, Sir—Your most obedient—
L. Gal. Whither are you fisking and giggiting now?
Clos. Madam, I am going down, and will return immediately, immediately. [Exit Clos.
Wild. So, she’s gone; Heaven and broad Gold be prais’d for the Deliverance. And now, dear Widow, let’s lose no more precious time; we have fool’d away too much already.
L. Gal. This to me!
Wild. To you, yes, to whom else should it be? Unless being sensible you have not Discretion enough to manage your own Affairs your self, you resolve like other Widows, with all you’re Worth to buy a Governour, commonly call’d a Husband. I took ye to be wiser; but if that be your Design I shall do my best to serve you—though to deal freely with you—
L. Gal. Trouble not your self, Sir, to make Excuses; I’m not so fond of the Offer to take you at your Word. Marry you! a Rakeshame, who have not Esteem enough for the Sex to believe your Mother honest—without Money or Credit, without Land either in presenter prospect; and half a dozen hungry Vices, like so many bauling Brats at your Back, perpetually craving, and more chargeable to keep than twice the number of Children. Besides, I think you are provided for; are you not married to Mrs. Charlot Gett-all?
Wild. Married to her! Do I know her, you shou’d rather ask. What Fool has forg’d this unlikely Lye? but suppose ‘twere true, cou’d you be jealous of a Woman I marry? Do you take me for such an Ass, to suspect I shall love my own Wife? On the other side, I have a great Charge of Vices, as you well observe, and I must not be so barbarous to let ‘em starve. Every body in this Age takes care to provide for their Vices, though they send their Children a begging; I shou’d be worse than an Infidel to neglect them. No, I must marry some stiff aukward thing or other with an ugly Face, and a handsom Estate, that’s certain: but whoever is ordain’d to make my Fortune, ‘tis you only can make me happy— Come, do it then.
L. Gal. I never will.
Wild. Unkindly said, you must.
L. Gal. Unreasonable Man! because you see
I have unusual Regards for you,
Pleasure to hear, and Trouble to deny you;
A fatal yielding in my Nature toward you,
Love bends my Soul that way—
A Weakness I ne’er felt for any other;
And wou’d you be so base? and cou’d you have the Heart
To take th’ advantage on’t to ruin me,
To make me infamous, despis’d, loath’d, pointed at?
Wild. You reason false,
According to the strictest Rules of Honour,
Beauty should still be the Reward of Love,
Not the vile Merchandize of Fortune,
Or the cheap Drug of a Church-Ceremony.
She’s only infamous, who to her Bed
For Interest takes some nauseous Clown she hates:
And though a Jointure or a Vow in publick
Be her Price, that makes her but the dearer Whore.
L. Gal. I understand not these new Morals.
Wild. Have Patience I say, ‘tis clear:
All the Desires of mutual Love are virtuous.
Can Heav’n or Man be angry that you please
Your self, and me, when it does wrong to none?
Why rave you then on things that ne’er can be?
Besides, are we not alone, and private? who can know it?
L. Gal. Heaven will know’t; and I—that, that’s enough:
But when you are weary of me, first your Friend,
Then his, then all the World.
Wild. Think not that time will ever come.
L. Gal. Oh, it must, it will.
Wild. Or if it should, could I be such a Villain— Ah cruel! if you love me as you say, You wou’d not thus distrust me.
L. Gal. You do me wrong, I love you more than e’er my Tongue,
Or all the Actions of my Life can tell you—so well—
Your very Faults, how gross soe’er to me,
Have something pleasing in ‘em. To me you’re all
That Man can praise, or Woman can desire;
All Charm without, and all Desert within.
But yet my Virtue is more lovely still;
That is a Price too high to pay for you;
The Love of Angels may be bought too dear,
If we bestow on them what’s kept for Heaven.