Trusty. My Lord, ‘tis my young Master Bellmour.
Lord. Ye all doat upon him, but he’s not the Man you take him for.
Trusty. How, my Lord! not this Mr. Bellmour!
Lord. Dogs, obey me. [Offers to go.
Bel. Stay, Sir—oh, stay—what will become of me?
’.were better that my Life were lost, than Fortune—
For that being gone, Celinda must not love me.
—But to die wretchedly—
Poorly in Prison—whilst I can manage this—
Is below him, that does adore Celinda. [Draws.
I’ll kill my self—but then—I kill Celinda.
Shou’d I obey this Tyrant—then too she dies.
Yes, Sir—You may be cruel—take the Law,
And kill me quickly, ‘twill become your Justice. [Weeps.
Lord. Was I call’d back for this? Yes, I shall take it, Sir; do not fear. [Offers to go.
Bel. Yet, stay, Sir—Have you lost all Humanity? Have you no Sense of Honour, nor of Horrors?
Lord. Away with him—go, be gone.
Bel. Stay, Sir. Oh, God! what is’t you’d have me do?
—Here—I resign my self unto your Will—
But, Oh Celinda! what will become of thee? [Weeps.
—Yes, I will marry—and Diana too.
Lord. ‘Tis well you will; had I not been good-natur’d now, You had been undone, and miss’d Diana too.
Bel. But must I marry—needs marry, Sir? Or lose my Fortune, and my Liberty, Whilst all my Vows are given to another?
Lord. By all means, Sir—
Bel. If I must marry any but Celinda,
I shall not, Sir, enjoy one moment’s Bliss:
I shall be quite unman’d, cruel and brutal;
A Beast, unsafe for Woman to converse with.
Besides, Sir, I have given my Heart and Faith,
And my second Marriage is Adultery.
Lord. Heart and Faith, I am glad ‘tis no worse; if the Ceremony of the Church has not past, ‘tis well enough.
Bel. All, Sir, that Heaven and Love requires, is past.
Lord. Thou art a Fool, Frank, come—dry thy Eyes. And receive Diana—Trusty, call in my Niece.
Bel. Yet, Sir, relent, be kind, and save my Soul.
[Ex. Trusty.
Lord. No more—by Heaven, if you resist my Will, I’ll make a strange Example of thee, and of that Woman, whoe’er she be, that drew you to this Folly. Faith and Vows, quoth ye!
Bel. Then I obey.
Enter Trusty and Diana.
Lord. Look ye here, Frank; Is this a Lady to be dislik’d? Come hither, Frank—Trusty, haste for Dr. Tickletext, my Chaplain’s not in Town; I’ll have them instantly married—Come hither, Diana—will you marry your Cousin, Frank Bellmour?
Dia. Yes, if it be your pleasure; Heaven cou’d not let fall a greater Blessing. [Aside.
Lord. And you, Frank, will you marry my Niece Diana?
Bel. Since you will have it so.
Lord. Come, follow me then, and you shall be both pleas’d.
Bel. Oh my Celinda!—
To preserve thee, what is’t I wou’d not do? Forfeit my Heaven, nay more, I forfeit you.
[Exit.
SCENE V. The Street.
Enter Sir Timothy Tawdrey, Sham and Sharp.
Sir Tim. Now, Sham, art not thou a damn’d lying Rogue, to make me saunter up and down the Mall all this Morning, after a Woman that thou know’st in thy Conscience was not likely to be there?
Sham. Why, Sir—if her Maid will be a jilting Whore, how can I help it?—Sharp, thou know’st we presented her handsomly, and she protested she’d do’t.
Sharp. Ay, ay, Sir: But the Devil a Maid we saw. [Aside.
Sham. Sir, it may be Things have so fallen out, that she could not possibly come.
Sir Tim. Things! a Pox of your Tricks—Well, I see there’s no trusting a poor Devil—Well, what Device will your Rogueship find out to cheat me next?
Sham. Prithee help me out at a dead lift, Sharp. [Aside.
Sharp. Cheat you, Sir!—if I ben’t reveng’d on this She-Counsellor of the Patching and Painting, this Letter-in of Midnight Lovers, this Receiver of Bribes for stol’n Pleasures; may I be condemn’d never to make love to any thing of higher Quality.
Sir Tim. Nay, nay, no threatning, Sharp; it may be she’s innocent yet—Give her t’other Bribe, and try what that will do. [Gives him Money.
Sham. No, Sir, I’ll have no more to do with frail Woman, in this Case; I have a surer way to do your Business.
Enter Page with a Letter.
Sir Tim. Is not that Bellmour’s Page?
Sharp. It is, Sir.
Sir Tim. By Fortune, the Rogue’s looking for me; he has a Challenge in his hand too.
Sham. No matter, Sir, huff it out.
Sir Tim. Prithee do thee huff him, thou know’st the way on’t.
Sham. What’s your Bus’ness with Sir Timothy, Sir?
Page. Mine, Sir, I don’t know the Gentleman; pray which is he?
Sir Tim. I, I, ‘tis so—Pox on him.
Sharp. Well, Boy, I am he—What—Your Master.
Page. My Master, Sir—
Sharp. Are not you Bellmour’s Page?
Page. Yes, Sir.
Sharp. Well, your News.
Page. News, Sir? I know of none, but of my Master’s being this Morning—
Sir Tim. Ay, there it is—behind Southampton House.
Page. Married this Morning.
Sir Tim. How! Married! ‘Slife, has he serv’d me so?
Sham. The Boy is drunk—Bellmour married!
Page. Yes, indeed, to the Lady Diana.
Sir Tim. Diana! Mad, by Fortune; what Diana?
Page. Niece to the Lord Plotwell.
Sir Tim. Come hither, Boy—Art thou sure of this?
Page. Sir, I am sure of it; and I am going to bespeak Musick for the Ball anon.
Sir Tim. What hast thou there—a Letter to the Divine Celinda?
A dainty Boy—there’s Money for to buy thee Nickers.
Page. I humbly thank you.
[Exit.
Sharp. Well, Sir, if this be true, Celinda will be glad of you again.
Sir. Tim. Ay, but I will have none of her—For, look you, Sham, there is but two sorts of Love in this World—Now I am sure the Rogue did love her; and since it was not to marry her, it was for the thing you wot on, as appears by his writing to her now—But yet, I will not believe what this Boy said, till I see it.
Sham. Faith, Sir, I have thought of a thing, that may both clear your doubt, and give us a little Mirth.
Sir Tim. I conceive thee.
Sham. I know y’are quick of Apprehension, Sir Timothy.
Sir Tim. O, your Servant, dear Sham—But to let thee see, I am none of the dullest, we are to Jig it in Masquerade this Evening, hah.
Sham. Faith, Sir, you have it, and there you may have an Opportunity to court Bellmour’s Sister.
Sir Tim. ‘Tis a good Motion, and we will follow it; send to the Duke’s
House, and borrow some Habits presently.
Sham. I’ll about it, Sir.
Sir Tim. Make haste to my Lodging—But hark ye—not a word of this to Betty Flauntit, she’ll be up in Arms these two Days, if she go not with us; and though I think the fond Devil is true to me, yet it were worse than Wedlock, if I should be so to her too.
Tho Whores in all things else the Mastery get, In this alone, like Wives, they must submit.
Exeunt.
ACT III.
SCENE I. A Room in Lord Plotwell’s House.
Enter Lord Plotwell, Bellmour leading in Diana, _follow’d by _Charles Bellmour, Phillis, and other Ladies and Gentlemen. [Musick plays, till they are all seated.
Lord. Here, Nephew, I resign that Trust, which was repos’d in me by your dead Father; which was, that on your Wedding-Day I should thus— make you Master of your whole Fortune, you being married to my liking— And now, Charles, and you, my Niece Phillis, you may demand your Portions to morrow, if you please, for he is oblig’d to pay you the Day after that of his Marriage.
Phil. There’s time enough, my Lord.
Lord. Come, come, Ladies, in troth you must take but little Rest to Night, in complaisance to the Bride and Bridegroom, who, I believe, will take but little—Frank—why, Frank—what, hast thou chang’d thy Humour with thy Condition? Thou wert not wont to hear the Musick play in vain.
Bel. My Lord, I cannot dance.
Dia. Indeed, you’re wondrous sad,
And I, methinks, do bear thee Company,
I know not why; and yet excess of Joy
Have had the same Effects with equal Grief.
Bel. ‘Tis true, and I have now felt the Extremes of both.
Lord. Why, Nephew Charles—has your Breeding at the Academy instructed your Heels in no Motion?
Char. My Lord, I’ll make one.
Phil. And I another, for Joy that my Brother’s made happy in so fair a Bride.
Bel. Hell take your Ignorance, for thinking I am happy,—
Wou’d Heaven wou’d strike me dead,
That by the loss of a poor wretched Life
I might preserve my Soul—But Oh, my Error!
That has already damn’d it self, when it consented
To break a Sacred Vow, and Marry here.
Lord. Come, come, begin, begin, Musick to your Office.
[Soft Musick.
Bel. Why does not this hard Heart, this stubborn Fugitive,
Break with this Load of Griefs? but like ill Spirits
It promis’d fair, till it had drawn me in,
And then betray’d me to Damnation.
Dia. There’s something of disorder in his Soul, Which I’m on fire to know the meaning of.
Enter Sir Timothy, Sham, and Sharp, in Masquerade.
Sir Tim. The Rogue is married, and I am so pleas’d, I can forgive him our last Night’s Quarrel. Prithee, Sharp, if thou canst learn that young Thing’s Name, ‘tis a pretty airy Rogue, whilst I go talk to her.
Sharp. I will, Sir, I will.
[One goes to take out a Lady.
Char. Nay, Madam, you must dance. [Dance.
Bel. I hope you will not call it Rudeness, Madam, if I refuse you here.
[The Lady that danced goes to take out the Bridegroom. After the
Dance she takes out Sir Timothy, they walk to a Courant.
Am I still tame and patient with my Ills?
Gods! what is Man, that he can live and bear,
Yet know his Power to rid himself of Grief?
I will not live; or if my Destiny
Compel me to’t, it shall be worse than dying.
Enter Page with a Table-Book.
Bel. What’s this?
Page. The Answer of a Letter, Sir, you sent the divine Celinda; for so it was directed.
Bel.—Hah—Celinda—in my Croud of Thoughts
I had forgot I sent—come nearer, Boy—
What did she say to thee?—Did she not smile?
And use thee with Contempt and Scorn?—tell me.
Page. How scorn, Sir!
Bel. Or she was angry—call’d me perjur’d Villain, False, and forsworn—nay, tell me truth.
Page. How, Sir?
Bel. Thou dost delay me—say she did, and please me.
Page. Sir!
Bel. Again—tell me, what answer, Rascal, did she send me?
Page. You have it, Sir, there in the Table-Book.
Bel. Oh, I am mad, and know not what I do. —Prithee forgive me, Boy—take breath, my Soul, Before thou do’st begin; for this—perhaps, may be So cruel kind, To leave thee none when thou hast ended it. [Opens it, and reads.
LETTER.
I have took in the Poison which you sent, in those few fatal Words, “Forgive me, my Celinda, I am married”—’Twas thus you said—And I have only Life left to return, “Forgive me my sweet Bellmour, I am dead.” CELINDA.
Can I hear this, and live?—I am a Villian!
In my Creation destin’d for all Mischief,
—To commit Rapes, and Murders, to break Vows,
As fast as Fools do Jests.
Come hither, Boy—
And said the Lady nothing to thee?
Page. Yes, e’er she read the Letter, ask’d your Health, And Joy dispers’d it self in Blushes through her Cheeks.
Bel. Her Beauty makes the very Boy adore it.
Page. And having read it, She drew her Tablets from her Pocket, And trembling, writ what I have brought you, Sir.
Bel. Though I before had loaded up my Soul
With Sins, that wou’d have weigh’d down any other,
Yet this one more it bears, this Sin of Murder;
And holds out still—What have I more to do,
But being plung’d in Blood, to wade it through?
Enter Friendlove in Masquerade. A Jigg.
Friend. There stands the Traitor, with a guilty Look,
That Traitor, who the easier to deceive me,
Betray’d my Sister; yet till I came and saw
The Perjury, I could not give a Faith to’t.
By Heaven, Diana loves him, nay, dotes on him,
I find it in her Eyes; all languishing,
They feed the Fire in his: arm’d with a double Rage,
I know I shall go through with my Revenge.
Sir Tim. Fair Maid—
Phil. How do you know that, Sir?
Sir Tim. I see y’are fair, and I guess you’re a Maid.
Phil. Your Guess is better than your Eye-sight, Sir.
Sir Tim. Whate’er you are, by Fortune, I wish you would permit me to love you with all your Faults.
Phil. You? Pray who are you?
Sir Tim. A Man, a Gentleman—and more, a Knight too, by Fortune.
Phil. Then ‘twas not by Merit, Sir—But how shall I know you are either of these?
Sir Tim. That I’m a Man, the Effects of my vigorous Flame shall prove —a Gentleman, my Coat of Arms shall testify; and I have the King’s Patent for my Title.
Phil. For the first you may thank your Youth, for the next your Father, and the last your Money.
Sir Tim. By Fortune, I love thee for thy Pertness.
Phil. Is it possible you can love at all?
Sir Tim. As much as I dare.
Phil. How do you mean?
Sir Tim. Not to be laught at; ‘tis not the Mode to love much; A Platonick Fop I have heard of, but this is an Age of sheer Enjoyment, and little Love goes to that; we have found it incommode, and loss of time, to make long Addresses.
Enter Celinda like a Boy.
Phil. I find, Sir, you and I shall never agree upon this matter; But see, Sir, here’s more Company.
Cel. Oh Heaven! ‘tis true, these Eyes confirm my Fate.
Yonder he is—and that fair splendid Thing,
That gazes on him with such kind Desire,
Is my blest Rival—Oh, he is married!
—Gods! And yet you let him live;
Live too with all his Charms, as fine and gay,
As if you meant he shou’d undo all easy Maids,
And kill ‘em for their Sin of loving him.
Wretched Celinda!
But I must turn my Eyes from looking on
The fatal Triumphs of my Death—Which of all these
Is my Brother? Oh, that is he: I know him
By the Habit he sent for to the Play-House.
[Points to Sir Tim.
And hither he’s come in Masquerade,
I know with some Design against my Bellmour,
Whom though he kill me, I must still preserve:
Whilst I, lost in despair, thus as a Boy
Will seek a Death from any welcome Hand,
Since I want Courage to perform the Sacrifice.
Enter one and dances an Entry, and a Jig at the end on’t.
Lord. Enough, enough at this time, let’s see the Bride to bed, the Bridegroom thinks it long.
Friend. Hell! Can I endure to hear all this with Patience?
Shall he depart with Life to enjoy my Right,
And to deprive my Sister of her due?
—Stay, stay, and resign
That Virgin.
Bel. Who art thou that dar’st lay a Claim to ought that’s here?
Friend. This Sword shall answer ye. [Draws.
Bel. Though I could spare my Life, I’ll not be robb’d of it. [Draws.
Dia. Oh, my dear Bellmour!
[All draw on Bellmour’s side_—Diana holds Bellmour, Celinda runs between their Swords, and defends Bellmour; Sir Tim. Sham, and Sharp draw, and run into several Corners, with signs of Fear.
Friend. Who art thou, that thus fondly guard’st his Heart? [To Celinda. —Be gone, and let me meet it.
Cel. That thou mayst do through mine, but no way else.
Friend. Here are too many to encounter, and I’ll defer my Vengeance.
Char. Stay, Sir, we must not part so.
[Ex. Drawing at the same Door, that Sir Tim. is sneaking out at.
Come back I say. [Pulls in Sir Tim.
Slave! Dost thou tremble?—
Sir Tim. Sir, I’m not the Man you look for—
By Fortune, Sham, we’re all undone:
He has mistook me for the fighting Fellow.
Char. Villain, defend thy Life.
Sir Tim. Who, I, Sir? I have no quarrel to you, nor no man breathing, not I, by Fortune.
Cel. This Coward cannot be my Brother. [Aside.
Char. What made thee draw upon my Brother?
Sir Tim. Who, I, Sir? by Fortune, I love him—I draw upon him!
Char. I do not wonder thou canst lye, for thou’rt a Coward! Didst not thou draw upon him? Is not thy Sword yet out? Did I not see thee fierce, and active too, as if thou hadst dar’d?
Sir Tim. Why, he’s gone, Sir; a Pox of all Mistakes and Masqueradings
I say—this was your Plot, Sham.
Char. Coward! Shew then thy Face.
Sir Tim. I’ll be hang’d first, by Fortune; for then ‘twill be plain ’.was I, because I challeng’d Bellmour last Night, and broke my Assignation this Morning. [Aside.
Char. Shew thy Face without delay, or—
Sir Tim. My Face, Sir! I protest, by Fortune, ‘tis not worth seeing.
Char. Then, Sirrah, you are worth a kicking—take that—and that— [Kicks him.
Sir Tim. How, Sir? how?
Char. So, Sir, so. [Kicks him again.
Sir Tim. Have a care, Sir—by Fortune, I shall fight with a little more.
Char. Take that to raise you. [Strikes him.
Sir Tim. Nay, then I am angry, and I dare fight.
[They fight out.
Lord. Go, Ladies, see the Bride to her Chamber.
[Ex. Women.
Bel. The Knight, Sir Timothy Tawdrey; —The Rascal mist me at the appointed place, And comes to attack me here— [Turns to Cel. —Brave Youth, I know not how I came to merit this Relief from thee: Sure thou art a Stranger to me, thou’rt so kind.
Cel. Sir, I believe those happy ones that know you Had been far kinder, but I’m indeed a Stranger.
Bel. Mayst thou be ever so to one so wretched; I will not ask thy Name, lest knowing it, (I’m such a Monster) I should ruin thee.
Cel. Oh, how he melts my Soul! I cannot stay, Lest Grief, my Sex, my Bus’ness shou’d betray. [Aside. —Farewel, Sir— May you be happy in the Maid you love. [Exit Cel.
Bel. O, dost thou mock my Griefs? by Heaven, he did. —Stay, Sir, he’s gone.
Enter Charles Bellmour.
Char. The Rogue took Courage, when he saw there was no Remedy; but there’s no hurt done on either side.
Lord. ‘Tis fit such as he shou’d be chastis’d, that do abuse Hospitality. Come, come, to Bed; the Lady, Sir, expects you.
Bel. Gentlemen, good Night.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II_. A Bed Chamber_.
Enter Diana.
Dia. I long to know the Cause of Bellmour’s Disorder to Night, and here he comes.
Enter Bellmour, Lord, Charles, and the rest.
Char. Shan’t we see you laid, Brother?
Bel. Yes, in my Grave, dear Charles; But I’ll excuse that Ceremony here.
Char. Good Night, and no Rest to you, Brother.
[Ex. all but Bellmour and Diana.
Dia. Till now, my Bellmour, I wanted Opportunity
To ask the Cause, why on a joyful Day,
When Heav’n has join’d us by a sacred Tie,
Thou droop’st like early Flowers with Winter-storms.
Bel. Thou art that Winter-storm that nips my Bud;
All my young springing Hopes, my gay Desires,
The prospect of approaching Joys of Love,
Thou in a hapless Minute hast took from me,
And in its room,
Hast given me an eternal Desperation.
Dia. Have you then given me Vows ye can repent of?
Bel. I given ye Vows! be witness, ye just Pow’rs, How far I was from giving any Vows: No, no, Diana, I had none to give.
Dia. No Vows to give! What were they which unto the Holy Man Thou didst repeat, when I was made all thine?
Bel. The Effects of low Submission, such as Slaves Condemn’d to die, yield to the angry Judge.
Dia. Dost thou not love me then?
Bel. Love thee! No, by Heaven: yet wish I were so happy, For thou art wondrous fair and wondrous good.
Dia. Oh, what a Defeat is here!
The only Man, who from all Nature’s store
I found most charming, fit for my Desires;
And now after a thousand Expectations,
Such as all Maids that love like me do hope,
Just ready for the highest Joys of Love!
Then to be met thus cold—nay, worse, with scorn. [Aside.
—Why, since you could not love me, did you marry me?
Bel. Because I was a Beast, a very Villain! That stak’d a wretched Fortune to all my Joys of Life, And like a prodigal Gamester lost that all.
Dia. How durst you, Sir, knowing my Quality, Return me this false Pay, for Love so true? Was this a Beauty, Sir, to be neglected?
Bel. Fair angry Maid, frown on, frown till you kill,
And I shall dying bless those Eyes that did so.
For shou’d I live, I shou’d deprive the happier World
Of Treasures, I’m too wretched to possess.
And were’t not pity that vast store of Beauty
Shou’d, like rich Fruit, die on the yielding Boughs?
Dia. And are you then resolved to be a Stranger to me?
Bel. For ever! for a long Eternity!
Dia. O thou’st undone me then; hast thou found out A Maid more fair, more worthy of thy Love? Look on me well.
Bel. I have consider’d thee,
And find no Blemish in thy Soul, or Form;
Thou art all o’er Divine, yet I must hate thee,
Since thou hast drawn me to a mortal Sin,
That cannot be forgiven by Men, or Heaven.
—Oh, thou hast made me break a Vow, Diana,
A sacred solemn Vow;
And made me wrong the sweetest Innocence,
That ever blest the Earth.
Dia. Instead of cooling this augments my Fire; No Pain is like defeated new Desire. [Aside. ’.is false, or but to try my Constancy. Your Mistress is not so divine as I, And shou’d I, ‘gainst himself, believe the Man Who first inspir’d my Heart with Love’s soft Flame?
Bel. What Bliss on me insensibly you throw!
I’d rather hear thee swear, thou art my Foe,
And like some noble and romantick Maid
With Poniards wou’d my stubborn Heart invade;
And whilst thou dost the faithful Relique tear,
In every Vein thoud’st find Celinda there.
Dia. Come, Sir, you must forget Celinda’s Charms,
And reap Delights within my circling Arms,
Delights that may your Errors undeceive,
When you find Joys as great as she can give.
Bel. What do I hear?—is this the kind Relief
Thou dost allow to my Despair and Grief?
Is this the Comfort that thou dost impart
To my all-wounded, bleeding, dying Heart?
Were I so brutal, cou’d thy Love comply
To serve it self with base Adultery?
For cou’d I love thee, cou’d I love again,
Our Lives wou’d be but one continu’d Sin:
A Sin of that black dye, a Sin so foul,
’.wou’d leave no Hopes of Heav’n for either’s Soul.
Dia. Dull Man! Dost think a feeble vain Excuse
Shall satisfy me for this Night’s abuse?
No, since my Passion thou’st defeated thus,
And robb’d me of my long-wish’d Happiness,
I’ll make thee know what a wrong’d Maid can do,
Divided ‘twixt her Love and Injuries too.
Bel. I dare thy worst;
Shou’d Hell assist thy Aims, thou cou’dst not find,
New Plagues, unless thou shou’dst continue kind,
Hard Fate, Diana, when thy Love must be
The greatest Curse that can arrive to me.
—That Friendship which our Infant Years begun,
And till this Day has still continued on,
I will preserve; and my Respects shall be
Profound, as what was ever paid by me:
But for my Love, ‘tis to Celinda due,
And I can pay you none that’s just and true.
Dia. The rest I’d have thee know I do despise, I better understand my conquering Eyes; Those Eyes that shall revenge my Love and Shame, I’ll kill thy Reputation and thy Name. [Exit.
Bel. My Honour! and my Reputation, now!
They both were forfeit, when I broke my Vow,
Nor cou’d my Honour with thy Fame decline;
Whoe’er profanes thee, injures nought of mine.
This Night upon the Couch my self I’ll lay,
And like Franciscans, let th’ensuing Day
Take care for all the Toils it brings with it;
Whatever Fate arrives, I can submit.
[Exit.
SCENE III. A Street.
Enter Celinda, drest as before.
Cel. Not one kind Wound to send me to my Grave,
And yet between their angry Swords I ran,
Expecting it from Bellmour, or my Brother’s:
Oh, my hard Fate! that gave me so much Misery,
And dealt no Courage to prevent the shock.
—Why came I off alive, that fatal Place
Where I beheld my Bellmour, in th’embrace
Of my extremely fair, and lovely Rival?
—With what kind Care she did prevent my Arm,
Which (greedy of the last sad-parting twine)
I wou’d have thrown about him, as if she knew
To what intent I made the passionate Offer?
—What have I next to do, but seek a Death
Wherever I can meet it—Who comes here? [Goes aside.
Enter Sir Timothy, Sham and Sharp, with Fidlers and Boy.
Sir Tim. I believe this is the Bed-chamber Window where the Bride and Bridegroom lies.
Sham. Well, and what do you intend to do, if it be, Sir?
Sir Tim. Why, first sing a Baudy Song, and then break the Windows, in revenge for the Affront was put upon me to night.
Sharp. Faith, Sir, that’s but a poor Revenge, and which every Footman may take of his Lady, who has turn’d him away for filching—You know, Sir, Windows are frail, and will yield to the lusty Brickbats; ‘tis an Act below a Gentleman.
Sir Tim. That’s all one, ‘tis my Recreation; I serv’d a Woman so the other night, to whom my Mistress had a Pique.
Sham. Ay, Sir, ‘tis a Revenge fit only for a Whore to take—And the Affront you receiv’d to Night, was by mistake.
Sir Tim. Mistake! how can that be?
Sham. Why, Sir, did you not mind, that he that drew upon Bellmour, was in the same Dress with you.
Sir Tim. How shou’d his be like mine?
Sham. Why, by the same Chance, that yours was like his—I suppose sending to the Play-house for them, as we did, they happened to send him such another Habit, for they have many such for dancing Shepherds.
Sir Tim. Well, I grant it a Mistake, and that shall reprieve the
Windows.
Sharp. Then, Sir, you shew’d so much Courage, that you may bless the Minute that forc’d you to fight.
Sir Tim. Ay, but between you and I, ‘twas well he kick’d me first, and made me angry, or I had been lustily swing’d, by Fortune—But thanks to my Spleen, that sav’d my Bones that bout—But then I did well—hah, came briskly off, and the rest.
Sham. With Honour, Sir, I protest.
Sir Tim. Come then, we’ll serenade him. Come, Sirrah, tune your Pipes, and sing.
Boy. What shall I sing, Sir?
Sir Tim. Any thing sutable to the Time and Place.
SONG.
I.
The happy Minute’s come, the Nymph is laid,
Who means no more to rise a Maid.
Blushing, and panting, she expects th’.pproach
Of Joys that kill with every touch:
Nor can her native Modesty and Shame
Conceal the Ardour of her Virgin Flame.
II.
And now the amorous Youth is all undrest,
Just ready for Love’s mighty Feast;
With vigorous haste the Veil aside he throws,
That doth all Heaven at once disclose.
Swift as Desire, into her naked Arms
Himself he throws, and rifles all her Charms.
Good morrow, Mr. Bellmour, and to your lovely Bride, long may you live and love.
Enter Bellmour above.
Bel. Who is’t has sent that Curse?
Sir Tim. What a Pox, is that Bellmour? The Rogue’s in choler, the
Bride has not pleas’d him.
Bel. Dogs! Do you upbraid me? I’ll be with you presently.
Sir Tim. Will you so?—but I’ll not stay your coming.
Cel. But you shall, Sir.
Bel. Turn, Villains!
[Sir Tim. &c. offers to go off, Celinda steps forth, and draws, they draw, and set upon her. Enter Bellmour behind them: They turn, and Celinda sides with Bellmour, and fights. Enter Diana, Bellmour fights ‘em out, and leaves Celinda breathless, leaning on her Sword.
Dia. I’ll ne’er demand the cause of this disorder, But take this opportunity to fly To the next hands will take me up—who’s here?
Cel. Not yet, my sullen Heart!
Dia. Who’s here? one wounded—alas—
Cel. ‘Tis not so lucky—but who art thou That dost with so much pity ask?
Dia. He seems a Gentleman—handsome and young— [Aside.
Pray ask no Questions, Sir; but if you are what you seem,
Give a Protection to an unhappy Maid.
—Do not reply, but let us haste away.
Cel. Hah—What do I hear! sure, ‘tis Diana.
—Madam, with haste, and joy, I’ll serve you.
—I’ll carry her to my own Lodgings.
Fortune, in this, has done my Sufferings right,
My Rival’s in my Power, upon her Wedding-Night. [Aside.
[Exeunt.
Enter Bellmour, Sir Tim. Sham, and Sharp.
Sir Tim. Lord, Lord, that you should not know your Friend and humble Servant, Tim. Tawdrey—But thou look’st as if thou hadst not been a-bed yet.
Bel. No more I have.
Sir Tim. Nay, then thou losest precious time, I’ll not detain thee. [Offers to go.
Bel. Thou art mistaken, I hate all Woman-kind—
Sir Tim. How, how!
Bel, Above an Hour—hark ye, Knight—I am as leud, and as debaucht as thou art.
Sir Tim. What do you mean, Frank?
Bel. To tell a Truth, which yet I never did. —I whore, drink, game, swear, lye, cheat, rob, pimp, hector, all, all I do that’s vitious.
Sir Tim. Bless me!
Bel. From such a Villian, hah!
Sir Tim. No, but that thou should’st hide it all this while.
Bel. Till I was married only, and now I can dissemble it no longer— come—let’s to a Baudy-House.
Sir Tim. A Baudy-house! What, already!
This is the very quintessence of Leudness.
—Why, I thought that I was wicked, but, by Fortune,
This dashes mine quite out of Countenance.
Bel. Oh, thou’rt a puny Sinner!—I’ll teach thee Arts (so rare) of Sin, the least of them shall damn thee.
Sir Tim. By Fortune, Frank, I do not like these Arts.
Bel. Then thou’rt a Fool—I’ll teach thee to be rich too.
Sir Tim. Ay, that I like.
Bel. Look here, my Boys! [Hold up his Writings, which he takes out of his Pockets. The Writings of 3000 pounds a Year: —All this I got by Perjury.
Sir Tim. By Fortune, a thriving Sin.
Bel. And we will live in Sin while this holds out. And then to my cold Home—Come let’s be gone: Oh, that I ne’er might see the rising Sun.
[Exeunt.
ACT IV.
SCENE I. Celinda’s Chamber.
Discovers Celinda as before sitting in a Chair, Diana by her in another, who sings.
SONG.
I.
Celinda, who did Love disdain,
For whom had languished many a Swain,
Leading her bleating Flocks to drink,
She spy’d upon the River’s brink
A Youth, whose Eyes did well declare
How much he lov’d, but lov’d not her.
II.
At first she laugh’d, but gaz’d the while,
And soon it lessen’d to a Smile;
Thence to surprize and wonder came,
Her Breast to heave, her Heart to flame;
Then cry’d she out, Ah, now I prove
Thou art a God, Almighty Love.
III.
She wou’d have spoke, but Shame deny’d,
And bad her first consult her Pride;
But soon she found that Aid was gone,
For Love, alas, had left her none.
Oh, how she burns, but ‘tis too late,
For in his Eyes she reads her Fate.
Cel. Oh, how numerous are her Charms —How shall I pay this generous Condescension? Fair lovely Maid—
Dia. Why do you flatter, Sir?
Cel. To say you’re lovely, by your self I do not,
I’m young, and have not much convers’d with Beauty:
Yet I’ll esteem my Judgment, since it knows
Where my Devotions shou’d be justly paid.
—But, Madam, may I not yet expect
To hear the Story, you so lately promis’d me?
Dia. I owe much to your Goodness, Sir—but—
Cel. I am too young, you think, to hear a Secret; Can I want Sense to pity your Misfortunes, Or Passion to incite me to revenge ‘em?
Dia. Oh, would he were in earnest!
Cel. She’s fond of me, and I must blow that flame,
Do any thing to make her hate my Bellmour. [Aside.
—But, Madam, I’m impatient for your Story,
That after that, you may expect my Service.
Dia. The Treatment you this night have given a distressed Maid, enough obliges me; nor need I tell you, I’m nobly born; something about my Dress, my Looks and Mien, will doubtless do me reason.
Cel. Sufficiently—
Dia. But in the Family where I was educated, a Youth of my own Age, a Kinsman too, I chanc’d to fall in love with, but with a Passion my Pride still got the better of; and he, I thought, repaid my young Desires. But Bashfulness on his part, did what Pride had done on mine, And kept his too conceal’d—At last my Uncle, who had the absolute Dominion of us both, thought good to marry us together.
Cel. Punish him, Heaven, for a Sin so great. —And are you married then?
Dia. Why is there Terror in that Word?
Cel. By all that’s Sacred, ‘tis a Word that kills me. Oh, say thou art not; And I thus low will fall, and pay thee Thanks. [Kneels.
Dia. You’ll wish indeed I were not, when you know How very, very wretched it has made me.
Cel. Shou’d you be telling me a Tale all day, Such as would melt a Heart that ne’er could love, ’.would not increase my Reason for the wish That I had dy’d e’er known you had been married.
Dia. So many soft Words from my Bellmour’s mouth
Had made me mad with Joy, and next to that
I wish to hear ‘em from this Youth;
If they be real, how I shall be reveng’d! [Aside.
—But why at my being married should you sigh?
Cel. Because I love, is that a Wonder, Madam?
Have you not Charms sufficient at first sight
To wound a Heart tender and young as mine?
Are you not heavenly fair? Oh, there’s my Grief—
Since you must be another’s.
Dia. Pray hear me out; and if you love me after,
Perhaps you may not think your self unhappy.
When Night was come, the long’d for Night, and all
Retir’d to give us silent Room for Joy—
Cel. Oh, I can hear no more—by Heav’n, I cannot. —Here—stab me to the Heart—let out my Life, I cannot live, and hear what follow’d next.
Dia. Pray hear me, Sir—
Cel. Oh, you will tell me he was kind—
Yes, yes—oh God—were not his balmy Kisses
Sweeter than Incense offer’d up to Heaven?
Did not his Arms, softer and whiter far
Than those of Jove’s transform’d to Wings of Swans,
Greedily clasp thee round?—Oh, quickly speak,
Whilst thy fair rising Bosom met with his;
And then—Oh—then—
Dia. Alas, Sir! What’s the matter?—sit down a while.
Cel. Now—I am well—pardon me, lovely Creature,
If I betray a Passion, I’m too young
To’ve learnt the Art of hiding;
—I cannot hear you say that he was kind.
Dia. Kind! yes, as Blasts to Flow’rs, or early Fruit;
All gay I met him full of youthful Heat:
But like a Damp, he dasht my kindled Flame,
And all his Reason was—he lov’d another,
A Maid he call’d Celinda.
Cel. Oh blessed Man!
Dia. How, Sir?
Cel. To leave thee free, to leave thee yet a Virgin.
Dia. Yes, I have vow’d he never shall possess me.
Cel. Oh, how you bless me—but you still are married, And whilst you are so—I must languish—
Dia. Oh, how his Softness moves me! [Aside. —But can all this Disorder spring from Love?
Cel. Or may I still prove wretched.
Dia. And can you think there are no ways For me to gratify that Love? What ways am I constrain’d to use to work out my Revenge! [Aside.
Cel. How mean you, Madam?
Dia. Without a Miracle, look on my Eyes— And Beauty—which you say can kindle Fires; —She that can give, may too retain Desires.
Cel. She’ll ravish me—let me not understand you.
Dia. Look on my Wrongs—
Wrongs that would melt a frozen Chastity,
That a religious Vow had made to Heaven:
—And next survey thy own Perfections.
Cel. Hah—
Dia. Art thou so young, thou canst not apprehend me? Fair bashful Boy, hast thou the Power to move, And yet not know the Bus’ness of thy Love?
Cel. How in an instant thou hast chill’d my Blood, And made me know no Woman can be good? ’.is Sin enough to yield—but thus to sue Heav’n—’tis my Business—and not meant for you.
Dia. How little Love is understood by thee,
’.is Custom, and not Passion you pursue;
Because Enjoyment first was nam’d by me,
It does destroy what shou’d your Flame renew:
My easy yielding does your Fire abate,
And mine as much your tedious Courtship hate.
Tell Heaven—you will hereafter sacrifice,
—And see how that will please the Deities.
The ready Victim is the noblest way,
Your Zeal and Obligations too to pay.
Cel. I think the Gods wou’d hardly be ador’d,
If they their Blessings shou’d, unask’d, afford;
And I that Beauty can no more admire,
Who ere I sue, can yield to my Desire.
Dia. Dull Youth, farewel: For since ‘tis my Revenge that I pursue Less Beauty and more Man as well may do. [Offers to go.
Enter Friendlove disguised, as one from a Camp.
Cel. Madam, you must not go with this Mistake. [Holds her.
Friend. Celinda has inform’d me true—’tis she— Good morrow, Brother, what, so early at your Devotions?
Cel. O, my Brother’s come, and luckily relieves me. [Aside.
Friend. Your Orizons are made to a fair Saint.
—Pray, Sir, what Lady’s that?
—Or is it blasphemy to repeat her Name?
—By my bright Arms, she’s fair—With what a charming
Fierceness, she charges through my Body to my Heart.
—Death! how her glittering Eyes give Fire, and wound!
And have already pierc’d my very Soul!
—May I approach her, Brother?
Cel. Yes, if you dare, there’s danger in it though, She has Charms that will bewitch you: —I dare not stand their Mischief. [Exit.
Friend. Lady, I am a Soldier—yet in my gentlest Terms
I humbly beg to kiss your lovely Hands—
Death! there’s Magick in the Touch.
By Heaven, you carry an Artillery in every part.
Dia. This is a Man indeed fit for my purpose. [Aside.
Friend. Nay, do not view me, I am no lovely Object;
I am a Man bred up to Noise and War,
And know not how to dress my Looks in Smiles;
Yet trust me, fair one, I can love and serve
As well as an Endymion, or Adonis.
Wou’d you were willing to permit that Service!
Dia. Why, Sir?—What cou’d you do?
Friend. Why—I cou’d die for you.
Dia. I need the Service of the living, Sir. But do you love me, Sir?
Friend. Or let me perish, flying from a single Enemy. I am a Gentleman, and may pretend to love you; And what you can command, I can perform.
Dia. Take heed, Sir, what you say, for I’m in earnest.
Friend. Command me any thing that’s just and brave; And, by my Eyes, ‘tis done.
Dia. I know not what you call just or brave; But those whom I do the Honour to command, Must not capitulate.
Friend. Let him be blasted with the Name of Coward, That dares dispute your Orders.
Dia. Dare you fight for me?
Friend. With a whole Army; ‘tis my Trade to fight.
Dia. Nay, ‘tis but a single Man.
Friend. Name him.
Dia. Bellmour.
Friend. Of Yorkshire? Companion to young Friendlove, that came lately from Italy?
Dia. Yes, do you know him?
Friend. I do, who has oft spoke of Bellmour;
We travel’d into Italy together—But since, I hear,
He fell in love with a fair cruel Maid,
For whom he languishes.
Dia. Heard you her Name?
Friend. Diana, rich in Beauty, as in Fortune.
—Wou’d she had less of both, and more of Pity;
And that I knew not how to wish, till now
That I became a Lover, perhaps as unsuccessful. [Aside.
Dia. I knew my Beauty had a thousand Darts,
But knew not they cou’d strike so quick and home. [Aside.
Let your good Wishes for your Friend alone,
Lest he being happy, you shou’d be undone.
For he and you cannot be blest at once.
Friend. How, Madam!
Dia. I am that Maid he loves, and who hates him.
Friend. Hate him!
Dia. To Death.
Friend. Oh, me unhappy! [Aside.
Dia. He sighs and turns away—am I again defeated? Surely I am not fair, or Man’s insensible.
Friend. She knows me not—
And ‘twas discreetly done to change my Shape:
For Woman is a strange fantastick Creature;
And where before, I cou’d not gain a Smile,
Thus I may win her Heart. [Aside.
—Say, Madam, can you love a Man that dies for you?
Dia. The way to gain me, is to fight with Bellmour.
Tell him from me you come, the wrong’d Diana;
Tell him you have an Interest in my Heart,
Equal to that which I have made in yours.
Friend. I’ll do’t; I will not ask your Reason, but obey. Swear e’er I go, that when I have perform’d it, You’ll render me Possession of your Heart.
Dia. By all the Vows that Heaven ties Hearts together with, I’ll be entirely yours.
Friend. And I’ll not be that conscientious Fool,
To stop at Blessings ‘cause they are not lawful;
But take ‘em up, when Heaven has thrown ‘em down,
Without the leave of a Religious Ceremony. [Aside.
Madam, this House, which I am Master of,
You shall command; whilst I go seek this Bellmour.
Dia. But e’er you go, I must inform you why I do pursue him with my just Revenge.
Friend. I will attend, and hear impatiently.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II. A Baudy House.
Enter Mrs. Driver and Betty Flauntit.
Flaunt. Driver, prithee call for a Glass, that I may set my self in order, before I go up; for really my Knight has not been at home all this Night, and I am so confus’d—
Enter one with a Glass, and two Wenches, Jenny and Doll.
Lord, Mrs. Driver, I wonder you shou’d send for me, when other Women are in Company; you know of all things in the World, I hate Whores, they are the pratingst leudest poor Creatures in Nature; and I wou’d not, for any thing, Sir Timothy shou’d know that I keep Company, ‘twere enough to lose him.
Mrs. Driv. Truly, Mrs. Flauntit, this young Squire that you were Sent to for, has two or three Persons more with him that must be accommodated too.
Flaunt. Driver, though I do recreate my self a little sometimes, yet you know I value my Reputation and Honour.
Jenny. Mrs. Driver, why shou’d you send for us where Flauntit is? a stinking proud Flirt, who because she has a tawdry Petticoat, I warrant you, will think her self so much above us, when if she were set out in her own natural Colours, and her original Garments, wou’d be much below us in Beauty.
Mrs. Driv. Look ye, Mrs. Jenny, I know you, and I know Mrs. Flauntit; but ‘tis not Beauty or Wit that takes now-a-days; the Age is altered since I took upon me this genteel Occupation: but ‘tis a fine Petticoat, right Points, and clean Garnitures, that does me Credit, and takes the Gallant, though on a stale Woman. And again, Mrs. Jenny, she’s kept, and Men love as much for Malice, as for Lechery, as they call it. Oh, ‘tis a great Mover to Joy, as they say, to have a Woman that’s kept.
Jen. Well! Be it so, we may arrive to that excellent Degree of Cracking, to be kept too one day.
Mrs. Driv. Well, well, get your selves in order to go up to the
Gentlemen.
Flaunt. Driver, what art thou talking to those poor Creatures? Lord, how they stink of Paint and Pox, faugh—
Mrs. Driv. They were only complaining that you that were kept, shou’d intrude upon the Privileges of the Commoners.
Flaunt. Lord, they think there are such Joys in Keeping, when I vow, Driver, after a while, a Miss has as painful a Life as a Wife; our Men drink, stay out late, and whore, like any Husbands.
Driv. But I hope in the Lord, Mrs. Flauntit, yours is no such Man; I never saw him, but I have heard he’s under decent Correction.
Flaunt. Thou art mistaken, Driver, I can keep him within no moderate Bounds without Blows; but for his filthy Custom of Wenching, I have almost broke him of that—but prithee, Driver, who are these Gentlemen?
Driv. Truly, I know not; but they are young, and fine as Princes: two of ‘em were disguis’d in masking Habits last Night, but they have sent ’.m away this Morning, and they are free as Emperors—One of ‘em has lost a Thousand Pound at Play, and never repin’d at it; one’s a Knight, and I believe his Courage is cool’d, for he has ferreted my Maids over and over to Night—But ‘tis the fine, young, handsom Squire that I design you for.
Flaunt. No matter for his Handsomness, let me have him that has most Money.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III. Another Chamber in the Brothel, a Table with Box and Dice.
Enter Bellmour, Sir Timothy, Sham and Sharp.
Bel. Damn it, give us more Wine. [Drinks. Where stands the Box and Dice?—Why, Sham.
Sham. Faith, Sir, Your Luck’s so bad, I han’t the Conscience to play longer—Sir Timothy and you play off a hundred Guineas, and see if Luck will turn.
Bel. Do you take me for a Country Squire, whose Reputation will be crackt at the loss of a petty Thousand? You have my Note for it to my Goldsmith.
Sham. ‘Tis sufficient if it were for ten thousand.
Bel. Why, Sir Timothy—Pox on’t, thou’rt dull, we are not half debauch’d and leud enough, give us more Wine.
Sir Tim. Faith, Frank, I’m a little maukish with sitting up all Night, and want a small refreshment this Morning—Did we not send for Whores?
Bel. No, I am not in humour for a Wench—
By Heaven, I hate the Sex.
All but divine Celinda,
Appear strange Monsters to my Eyes and Thoughts.
Sir Tim. What, art Italianiz’d, and lovest thy own Sex?
Bel. I’m for any thing that’s out of the common Road of Sin; I love a Man that will be damn’d for something: to creep by slow degrees to Hell, as if he were afraid the World shou’d see which way he went, I scorn it, ‘tis like a Conventicler—No, give me a Man, who to be certain of’s Damnation, will break a solemn Vow to a contracted Maid.
Sir Tim. Ha, ha, ha, I thought thou would’st have said at least—had murder’d his Father, or ravish’d his Mother—Break a Vow, quoth ye—by Fortune, I have broke a thousand.
Bel. Well said, my Boy! A Man of Honour! And will be ready whene’er the Devil calls for thee—So—ho—more Wine, more Wine, and Dice.
Enter a Servant with Dice and Wine.
Come, Sir, let me— [Throws and loses.
Sir Tim. What will you set me, Sir?
Bel. Cater-tray—a hundred Guineas—oh, damn the Dice—’tis mine—come, a full Glass—Damnation to my Uncle.
Sir Tim. By Fortune, I’ll do thee reason—give me the Glass, and, Sham, to thee—Confusion to the musty Lord.
Bel. So—now I’m like my self, profanely wicked.
A little room for Life—but such a Life
As Hell it self shall wonder at—I’ll have a care
To do no one good deed in the whole course on’t,
Lest that shou’d save my Soul in spite of Vow-breach.
—I will not die—that Peace my Sins deserve not.
I’ll live and let my Tyrant Uncle see
The sad effects of Perjury, and forc’d Marriage.
—Surely the Pow’rs above envy’d my Bliss;
Marrying Celinda, I had been an Angel,
So truly blest, and good. [Weeps.
Sir Tim. Why, how now, Frank—by Fortune, the Rogue is Maudlin—So, ho, ho, so ho.
Bel. The matter?
Sir Tim. Oh, art awake—What a Devil ail’st thou, Frank?
Bel. A Wench, or any thing—come, let’s drink a round.
Sham. They’re come as wisht for.
Enter Flauntit, Driver, Doll and Jenny mask’d.
Bel. Oh, damn ‘em! What shall I do? Yet it would look like Virtue to avoid ‘em. No, I must venture on—Ladies, y’are welcome.
Sir Tim. How, the Women?—Hold, hold, Bellmour, let me choose too—
Come, come, unmask, and shew your pretty Faces.
Flaunt. How, Sir Timothy! What Devil ow’d me a spite. [Aside.
Sir Tim. Come, unmask, I say: a willing Wench would have shew’d all in half this time.
Flaunt. Wou’d she so, Impudence! [Pulls off her Mask.
Sir Tim. How, my Betty!
Flaunt. This is the Trade you drive, you eternal Fop, when I sit at home expecting you Night after Night.
Sir Tim. Nay, dear Betty!
Flaunt. ‘Tis here you spend that which shou’d buy me Points and Petticoats, whilst I go like no body’s Mistress; I’d as live be your Wife at this rate, so I had: and I’m in no small danger of getting the foul Disease by your Leudness.
Sir Tim. Victorious Betty, be merciful, and do not ruin my Reputation amongst my Friends.
Flaunt. Your Whores you mean, you Sot you.
Sir Tim. Nay, triumphant Betty, hear thy poor Timmy.
Flaunt. My poor Ninny, I’m us’d barbarously, and won’t endure it.
Sir Tim. I’ve won Money to Night, Betty, to buy thee Clothes—hum —hum—Well said, Frank, towse the little Jilts, they came for that purpose.
Flaunt. The Devil confound him, what a Prize have I lost by his being here—my Comfort is, he has not found me out though, but thinks I came to look for him, and accordingly I must dissemble.
Bel. What’s here? A Lady all in Tears!
Sir Tim. An old Acquaintance of mine, that takes it unkindly that I am for Change—Betty, say so too, you know I can settle nothing till I’m marry’d; and he can do it swingingly, if we can but draw him in.
Flaunt. This mollifies something, do this, and you’ll make your Peace; if not, you Rascal, your Ears shall pay for this Night’s Transgression.