THE LUCKY CHANCE; OR, AN ALDERMAN’S BARGAIN.

ARGUMENT.

Harry Bellmour, having killed his man in a duel, flies to Brussels, perforce leaving behind him Leticia, to whom he is affianced. During his absence Sir Feeble Fainwou’d, a doting old alderman and his rival, having procured his pardon from the King to prevent it being granted if applied for a second time, and keeping this stratagem secret, next forges a letter as if from the Hague which describes in detail Bellmour’s execution for killing a toper during a tavern brawl. He then plies his suit with such ardour that Leticia, induced by poverty and wretchedness, reluctantly consents to marry him. On the wedding morning Bellmour returns in disguise and intercepts a letter that conveys news of the arrival of Sir Feeble’s nephew, Frank, whom his uncle has never seen. The lover straightway resolves to personate the expected newcomer, and he is assisted in his design by his friend Gayman, a town gallant, who having fallen into dire need is compelled to lodge, under the name of Wasteall, with a smith in Alsatia. His estate has been mortgaged to an old banker, Sir Cautious Fulbank, whose wife Julia he loves, and to her he pretends to have gone to Northamptonshire to his uncle’s death bed. He is discovered, unknown to himself, in his slummy retreat by Bredwel, Sir Cautious’ prentice, who has to convey him a message with reference to the expiration of the mortgage, and who reveals the secret to Lady Fulbank. She promptly abstracts five hundred pounds from her husband’s strong box and forwards it to her lover by Bredwel, disguised as a devil, with an amorous message purporting to be from some unknown bidding him attend at a certain trysting place that night without fail. Gayman, now able to redeem his forfeited estates, dresses in his finest clothes and appears at Sir Feeble Fainwou’d’. wedding. Bellmour has meanwhile revealed himself to Leticia, who is plunged in despair at the nuptials. Lady Fulbank, who is present, greets Gayman and asks him to give her an assignation in the garden, but he excuses himself in order to keep his prior appointment, and she leaves him in dissembled anger. Bredwel then in his satanic masquerade meets Gayman, and bringing him a roundabout way, introduces him into Sir Cautious’ house, where, after having been entertained with a masque of dances and songs as by spirits, he is conducted to Lady Fulbank’s chamber by her maid disguised as an ancient crone, and admitted to his mistress’ embraces. Meanwhile Sir Feeble Fainwou’d, who just at the moment of entering the bridal chamber has been hurriedly fetched away by Bellmour under the pretext of an urgent message from Sir Cautious concerning some midnight plot and an outbreak in the city, arrives at the house in great terror, and Sir Cautious (not knowing the reason of so late a visit) and he sit opposite each other for a while, gaping and staring in amaze. Bredwel, to pass Gayman out undetected, ushers him through the room white-sheeted like a ghost, and the two old fools are well frightened, but eventually they conclude there has been some mistake or trick. Sir Feeble returns home to find Leticia with her jewels about to flee, but she succeeds in reassuring him. Gayman now visits Lady Fulbank and gives her some account of his adventures with the she-devil, all of which he half jestingly ascribes to magic. Sir Cautious and various guests enter, dice are produced and, luck favouring the gallant, Gayman wins one hundred pounds from the old Banker, and a like sum from several others of the company. As the niggardly Sir Cautious bewails his losses the victor offers to stake three hundred pounds against a night with Julia, the bargain, of course, being kept from the lady. After some rumination Sir Cautious accepts and Gayman wins the throw. That night he causes himself to be conveyed to Sir Cautious’ house in a chest and Sir Cautious leads him to Lady Fulbank in bed, she supposing him to be her husband. Meanwhile Sir Feeble being with Leticia is about to enter her bed when from behind the curtains Bellmour appears unmasqued, dressed in a torn and blood-stained shirt and brandishing a dagger. Sir Feeble flies in terror. The next morning Lady Fulbank discovers the trick which has been played upon her and rates both her husband and lover soundly. Bellmour and Leticia arriving throw themselves on her protection. Sir Feeble and Sir Cautious are at length obliged to acquiesce in the existing state of things and to resign their ladies to their two gallants. They are unable to protest even when Sir Feeble finds that his daughter Diana has married Bredwel instead of Sir Cautious’ nephew Bearjest for whom she was designed, whilst the choused fop is wedded to Pert, Lady Fulbank’s woman, to whom he had been previously contracted.

SOURCE.

The plot of The Lucky Chance; or, An Alderman’s Bargain is original save for the details of Lady Fulbank’s design upon Gayman, when he is conveyed to her house by masqued devils and conducted to her chamber by Pert dressed as a withered beldame. In this Mrs. Behn exactly copies Shirley’s excellent comedy, The Lady of Pleasure, produced at the Private House in Drury Lane, October, 1635, (4to 1637). In the course of Lady Bornwell’s intrigue with Kickshaw he is taken blindfold to the house of the procuress, Decoy, who, in the guise of a doting crone, leads him to a chamber where he imagines he is to meet a succubus, whilst the Lady, unknown to him, entertains him herself.

THEATRICAL HISTORY.

The Lucky Chance; or, An Alderman’s Bargain, produced at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, in 1687, was, with the exception of the disapproval of a certain pudibond clique, received with great favour, and kept the stage for a decade or more. During the summer season of 1718 there was, on 24 July, a revival, ‘not acted twenty years,’ of this witty comedy at Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Gayman was played by Frank Leigh, son of the famous low comedian; Sir Feeble Fainwou’d by Bullock.

On 25 November, 1786, there was produced at Drury Lane a comedy by Mrs. Hannah Cowley (1743-1809), a prolific but mediocre dramatist, entitled, A School for Greybeards; or, The Mourning Bride (4to 1786 and 1787). Genest writes: ‘On the first night it struck me that I had seen something like the play before and when the 4th act came I was fully satisfied—that part of the plot which concerns Antonia, Henry, and Gasper [Donna Antonia (The Mourning Bride), Mrs. Crouch; Don Henry, Kemble; Don Gasper (a Greybeard), Parsons; Donna Seraphina, Miss Farren]; and even the outlines of Seraphina’s character, are taken from The Lucky Chance—as Mrs. Behn’s play, though a very good one is too indecent to be ever represented again. Mrs. Cowley might without any disgrace to herself have borrowed whatever she pleased provided she had made a proper acknowledgement—instead of which she says in her preface “—The idea of the business which concerns Antonia, Henry and Gasper was presented to me in an obsolete Comedy; I say the idea, for when it is known that in the original the scene lay among traders in London—and those traders of the lowest and most detestable manners, it will be conceived at once, that in removing it to Portugal and fixing the characters among the nobility, it was hardly possible to carry with me more than the idea”—the traders whom Mrs. Cowley mentions, are both Knights, the one an Alderman, the other a Banker.’ Genest then compares various scenes and expressions from The Lucky Chance with Mrs. Cowley and concludes ‘The other scenes though they may differ in the dialogue yet agree in essentials—the scene in the 5th act between Alexis and Gasper bears the strongest resemblance to that between Sir Feeble and Sir Cautious in The Lucky Chance. Mrs. Cowley was ashamed to advance a direct lie, but she was not ashamed to insinuate a falsehood—A Naeuio uel sumpsisti multa, si fateris; uel, si negas surripuisti—Cicero.’ The strictures of our stage historian are entirely apposite and correct. Henry, Don Gasper and Antonia of the Georgian comedy are none other but Bellmour, Sir Feeble, and Leticia. With regard to the reception of The School for Greybeards ‘the audience took needless offence at a scene in the 4th act, and an unfortunate expression in Young Bannister’s part [Don Sebastian. Bannister, jun., also spoke the prologue], revived the opposition in the last scene—no more was heard till King [Don Alexis] advanced to speak the last speech—some alteration was made on the 2nd night, and the play was acted 9 times or more in the course of the season, but never afterwards [It was played at Bath 28 October, 1813. Chatterley acted Don Gasper; Miss Greville (from the Pantheon theatre), Donna Seraphina. It had little success]—it is a good Comedy and was very well acted.’

The audience must indeed have been qualmish prudes. Of all plays it is the most harmless. The scene in the fourth Act to which exception was taken seems to have been No. II, after the marriage of Gasper and Antonia, a most trifling and inept business. In Act V, IV, Alexis says to Viola: ‘As for you Madam bread and water, and a dark chamber shall be your lot—’ but Sebastian (Bannister, jun.), who has married Viola, breaks in crying: ‘No, Sir,—I am the arbiter of her lot;—however, I confirm half your punishment; and a dark chamber she shall certainly have.’ To this speech in the 4to Mrs. Cowley appends the following note: ’.his is the expression, I am told, which had nearly prov’d fatal to the Comedy. I should not have printed it, but from the resolution I have religiously kept, of restoring every thing that was objected to.’ Imagination and ingenuity fail to fathom the cryptic indecency. The School for Greybeards is, in fine, a modest and mediocre comedy of little value.

12 December, 1786, Walpole, writing from Berkeley Square to the Countess of Upper Ossary, says: ‘To-night … I am going to Mrs. Cowley’s new play, which I suppose is as instructive as the Marriage of Figaro, for I am told it approaches to those of Mrs. Behn in spartan delicacy; but I shall see Miss Farren, who, in my poor opinion, is the first of all actresses.’ Writing three days later to the same lady he has: ‘The Greybeards have certainly been chastised, for we did not find them at all gross. The piece is farcical and improbable, but has some good things, and is admirably acted.’ Those ‘good things’ are entirely due to Mrs. Behn.

To the Right Honourable Laurence, Lord Hyde, Earl of Rochester, one of his Majesty’s most Honourable Privy Council, Lord High Treasurer of England, and Knight of the Noble Order of the Garter.

My Lord,

When I consider how Ancient and Honourable a Date Plays have born, how they have been the peculiar Care of the most Illustrious Persons of Greece and Rome, who strove as much to outdoe each other in Magnificence, (when by Turns they manag’d the great Business of the Stage, as if they had contended for the Victory of the Universe;) I say, my Lord, when I consider this, I with the greater Assurance most humbly address this Comedy to your Lordship, since by right of Antient Custom, the Patronage of Plays belong’d only to the great Men, and chiefest Magistrates. Cardinal Richelieu, that great and wise Statesman, said, That there was no surer Testimony to be given of the flourishing Greatness of a State, than publick Pleasures and Divertisements—for they are, says he—the Schools of Vertue, where Vice is always either punish’t, or disdain’d. They are secret Instructions to the People, in things that ‘tis impossible to insinuate into them any other Way. ‘Tis Example that prevails above Reason or DIVINE PRECEPTS. (Philosophy not understood by the Multitude;) ‘tis Example alone that inspires Morality, and best establishes Vertue, I have my self known a Man, whom neither Conscience nor Religion cou’d perswade to Loyalty, who with beholding in our Theatre a Modern Politician set forth in all his Colours, was converted, renounc’d his opinion, and quitted the Party.

The Abbot of Aubignac to show that Plays have been ever held most important to the very Political Part of Government, says, The Phylosophy of Greece, and the Majesty and Wisdom of the Romans, did equally concern their Great Men in making them Venerable, Noble, and Magnificent: Venerable, by their Consecration to their Gods: Noble, by being govern’d by their chiefest Men; and their Magnificency was from the publick Treasury, and the liberal Contributions of their Noble Men.

It being undeniable then, that Plays and publick Diversions were thought by the Greatest and Wisest of States, one of the most essential Parts of good Government, and in which so many great Persons were interested; suffer me to beg your Lordships Patronage for this little Endeavour, and believe it not below the Grandure of your Birth and State, the Illustrious Places you so justly hold in the Kingdom, nor your Illustrious Relation to the greatest Monarch of the World, to afford it the Glory of your Protection; since it is the Product of a Heart and Pen, that always faithfully serv’d that Royal Cause, to which your Lordship is by many Tyes so firmly fixt: It approaches you with that absolute Veneration, that all the World is oblig’d to pay you; and has no other Design than to express my sense of those excellent Vertues, that make your Lordship so truly admir’d and lov’d. Amongst which we find those two so rare in a Great Man and a Statesman, those of Gracious Speech and easie Access, and I believe none were ever sent from your Presence dissatisfied. You have an Art to please even when you deny; and something in your Look and Voice has an Air so greatly good, it recompences even for Disappointment, and we never leave your Lordship but with Blessings. It is no less our Admiration, to behold with what Serenity and perfect Conduct, that great Part of the Nations Business is carry’d on, by one single Person; who having to do with so vast Numbers of Men of all Qualitys, Interests, and Humours, nevertheless all are well satisfi’d, and none complain of Oppression, but all is done with Gentleness and Silence, as if (like the first Creator) you cou’d finish all by a Word. You have, my Lord, a Judgment so piercing and solid, a Wisdom so quick and clear, and a Fortitude so truly Noble, that those Fatigues of State, that wou’d even sink a Spirit of less Magnitude, is by yours accomplish’t without Toil, or any Appearance of that harsh and crabbed Austerity, that is usually put on by the buisy Great. You, my Lord, support the Globe, as if you did not feel its Weight; nor so much as seem to bend beneath it: Your Zeal for the Glorious Monarch you love and serve, makes all things a Pleasure that advance his Interest, which is so absolutely your Care. You are, my Lord, by your generous Candor, your unbyast Justice, your Sweetness, Affability, and Condescending Goodness (those never-failing Marks of Greatness) above that Envy which reigns in Courts, and is aim’d at the most elevated Fortunes and Noblest Favourites of Princes: And when they consider your Lordship, with all the Abilitys and Wisdom of a great Counsellor, your unblemisht Vertue, your unshaken Loyalty, your constant Industry for the Publick Good, how all things under your Part of Sway have been refin’d and purg’d from those Grossnesses, Frauds, Briberys, and Grievances, beneath which so many of his Majestys Subjects groan’d, when we see Merit establish’t and prefer’d, and Vice discourag’d; it imposes Silence upon Malice it self, and compells ‘em to bless his Majesty’s Choice of such a Pillar of the State, such a Patron of Vertue.

Long may your Lordship live to remain in this most Honourable Station, that his Majesty may be serv’d with an entire Fidelity, and the Nation be render’d perfectly Happy. Since from such Heads and Hearts, the Monarch reaps his Glory, and the Kingdom receives its Safety and Tranquility. This is the unfeign’d Prayer of,

                                         My Lord,
                                    Your Lordships most Humble
                                          And most Obedient Servant
                                                     A. Behn

PREFACE.

The little Obligation I have to some of the witty Sparks and Poets of the Town, has put me on a Vindication of this Comedy from those Censures that Malice, and ill Nature have thrown upon it, tho in vain: The Poets I heartily excuse, since there is a sort of Self-Interest in their Malice, which I shou’d rather call a witty Way they have in this Age, of Railing at every thing they find with pain successful, and never to shew good Nature and speak well of any thing; but when they are sure ‘tis damn’d, then they afford it that worse Scandal, their Pity. And nothing makes them so thorough-stitcht an Enemy as a full Third Day, that’s Crime enough to load it with all manner of Infamy; and when they can no other way prevail with the Town, they charge it with the old never failing Scandal—That ‘tis not fit for the Ladys: As if (if it were as they falsly give it out) the Ladys were oblig’d to hear Indecencys only from their Pens and Plays and some of them have ventur’d to treat ‘em as Coursely as ‘twas possible, without the least Reproach from them; and in some of their most Celebrated Plays have entertained ‘em with things, that if I should here strip from their Wit and Occasion that conducts ’.m in and makes them proper, their fair Cheeks would perhaps wear a natural Colour at the reading them: yet are never taken Notice of, because a Man writ them, and they may hear that from them they blush at from a Woman—But I make a Challenge to any Person of common Sense and Reason—that is not wilfully bent on ill Nature, and will in spight of Sense wrest a double Entendre from every thing, lying upon the Catch for a Jest or a Quibble, like a Rook for a Cully; but any unprejudic’d Person that knows not the Author, to read any of my Comedys and compare ’.m with others of this Age, and if they find one Word that can offend the chastest Ear, I will submit to all their peevish Cavills; but Right or Wrong they must be Criminal because a Woman’s; condemning them without having the Christian Charity, to examine whether it be guilty or not, with reading, comparing, or thinking; the Ladies taking up any Scandal on Trust from some conceited Sparks, who will in spight of Nature be Wits and Beaus; then scatter it for Authentick all over the Town and Court, poysoning of others Judgments with their false Notions, condemning it to worse than Death, Loss of Fame. And to fortifie their Detraction, charge me with all the Plays that have ever been offensive; though I wish with all their Faults I had been the Author of some of those they have honour’d me with. For the farther Justification of this Play; it being a Comedy of Intrigue Dr. Davenant out of Respect to the Commands he had from Court, to take great Care that no Indecency should be in Plays, sent for it and nicely look’t it over, putting out anything he but imagin’d the Criticks would play with. After that, Sir Roger L’Estrange read it and licens’d it, and found no such Faults as ‘tis charg’d with: Then Mr. Killigrew, who more severe than any, from the strict Order he had, perus’d it with great Circumspection; and lastly the Master Players, who you will I hope in some Measure esteem Judges of Decency and their own Interest, having been so many Years Prentice to the Trade of Judging.

I say, after all these Supervisors the Ladys may be convinc’d, they left nothing that could offend, and the Men of their unjust Reflections on so many Judges of Wit and Decencys. When it happens that I challenge any one, to point me out the least Expression of what some have made their Discourse, they cry, That Mr. Leigh opens his Night Gown, when he comes into the Bride-chamber; if he do, which is a Jest of his own making, and which I never saw, I hope he has his Cloaths on underneath? And if so, where is the Indecency? I have seen in that admirable Play of Oedipus, the Gown open’d wide, and the Man shown, in his Drawers and Waist coat, and never thought it an Offence before. Another crys, Why we know not what they mean, when the Man takes a Woman off the Stage, and another is thereby cuckolded; is that any more than you see in the most Celebrated of your Plays? as the City Politicks, the Lady Mayoress, and the Old Lawyers Wife, who goes with a Man she never saw before, and comes out again the joyfull’st Woman alive, for having made her Husband a Cuckold with such Dexterity, and yet I see nothing unnatural nor obscene: ‘tis proper for the Characters. So in that lucky Play of the London Cuckolds, not to recite Particulars. And in that good Comedy of Sir Courtly Nice, the Taylor to the young Lady—in the fam’d Sir Fopling Dorimont and Bellinda, see the very Words—in Valentinian, see the Scene between the Court Bawds. And Valentinian all loose and ruffld a Moment after the Rape, and all this you see without Scandal, and a thousand others The Moor of Venice in many places. The Maids Tragedy—see the Scene of undressing the Bride, and between the King and Amintor, and after between the King and Evadne—All these I Name as some of the best Plays I know; If I should repeat the Words exprest in these Scenes I mention, I might justly be charg’d with course ill Manners, and very little Modesty, and yet they so naturally fall into the places they are designed for, and so are proper for the Business, that there is not the least Fault to be found with them; though I say those things in any of mine wou’d damn the whole Peice, and alarm the Town. Had I a Day or two’s time, as I have scarce so many Hours to write this in (the Play, being all printed off and the Press waiting,) I would sum up all your Beloved Plays, and all the Things in them that are past with such Silence by; because written by Men: such Masculine Strokes in me, must not be allow’d. I must conclude those Women (if there be any such) greater Critics in that sort of Conversation than my self, who find any of that sort in mine, or any thing that can justly be reproach’t. But ‘tis in vain by dint of Reason or Comparison to convince the obstinate Criticks, whose Business is to find Fault, if not by a loose and gross Imagination to create them, for they must either find the Jest, or make it; and those of this sort fall to my share, they find Faults of another kind for the Men Writers. And this one thing I will venture to say, though against my Nature, because it has a Vanity in it: That had the Plays I have writ come forth under any Mans Name, and never known to have been mine; I appeal to all unbyast Judges of Sense, if they had not said that Person had made as many good Comedies, as any one Man that has writ in our Age; but a Devil on’t the Woman damns the Poet.

Ladies, for its further Justification to you, be pleas’d to know, that the first Copy of this Play was read by several Ladys of very great Quality, and unquestioned Fame, and received their most favourable Opinion, not one charging it with the Crime, that some have been pleas’d to find in the Acting. Other Ladys who saw it more than once, whose Quality and Vertue can sufficiently justifie any thing they design to favour, were pleas’d to say, they found an Entertainment in it very far from scandalous; and for the Generality of the Town, I found by my Receipts it was not thought so Criminal. However, that shall not be an Incouragement to me to trouble the Criticks with new Occasion of affronting me, for endeavouring at least to divert; and at this rate, both the few Poets that are left, and the Players who toil in vain will be weary of their Trade.

I cannot omit to tell you, that a Wit of the Town, a Friend of mine at Wills Coffee House, the first Night of the Play, cry’d it down as much as in him lay, who before had read it and assured me he never ‘saw a prettier Comedy. So complaisant one pestilent Wit will be to another, and in the full Cry make his Noise too; but since ‘tis to the witty Few I speak, I hope the better Judges will take no Offence, to whom I am oblig’d for better Judgments; and those I hope will be so kind to me, knowing my Conversation not at all addicted to the Indecencys alledged, that I would much less practice it in a Play, that must stand the Test of the censoring World. And I must want common Sense, and all the Degrees of good Manners, renouncing my Fame, all Modesty and Interest for a silly Sawcy fruitless Jest, to make Fools laugh, and Women blush, and wise Men asham’d; My self all the while, if I had been guilty of this Crime charg’d to me, remaining the only stupid, insensible. Is this likely, is this reasonable to be believ’d by any body, but the wilfully blind? All I ask, is the Priviledge for my Masculine Part the Poet in me, (if any such you will allow me) to tread in those successful Paths my Predecessors have so long thriv’d in, to take those Measures that both the Ancient and Modern Writers have set me, and by which they have pleas’d the World so well: If I must not, because of my Sex, have this Freedom, but that you will usurp all to your selves; I lay down my Quill, and you shall hear no more of me, no not so much as to make Comparisons, because I will be kinder to my Brothers of the Pen, than they have been to a defenceless Woman; for I am not content to write for a Third day only. I value Fame as much as if I had been born a Hero; and if you rob me of that, I can retire from the ungrateful World, and scorn its fickle Favours.

THE LUCKY CHANCE;

or, An Alderman’s Bargain.

PROLOGUE,

Spoken by Mr. Jevon.

_Since with old Plays you have so long been cloy’d,
As with a Mistress many years enjoy’d,
How briskly dear Variety you pursue;
Nay, though for worse ye change, ye will have New.
Widows take heed some of you in fresh Youth
Have been the unpitied Martyrs of this Youth.
When for a drunken Sot, that had kind hours,
And taking their own freedoms, left you yours;
’.was your delib’rate choice your days to pass
With a damn’d, sober, self-admiring Ass,
Who thinks good usage for the Sex unfit,
And slights ye out of Sparkishness and Wit.
But you can fit him—Let a worse Fool come,
If he neglect, to officiate in his room.
Vain amorous Coxcombs every where are found,
Fops for all uses, but the Stage abound.
Though you shou’d change them oftener than your Fashions,
There still wou’d be enough for your Occasions:
But ours are not so easily supplied,
All that cou’d e’er quit cost, we have already tried.
Nay, dear sometimes have bought the Frippery stuff. |
This, Widows, you—I mean the old and tough— |
Will never think, be they but Fool enough. |

Such will with any kind of Puppies play; |
But we must better know for what we pay: |
We must not purchase such dull Fools as they. |
Shou’d we shew each her own partic’lar Dear,
What they admire at home, they wou’d loath here.
Thus, though the Mall, the Ring, the Pit is full,
And every Coffee-House still swarms with Fool;
Though still by Fools all other Callings live,
Nay our own Women by fresh Cullies thrive,
Though your Intrigues which no Lampoon can cure,
Promise a long Succession to ensure;
And all your Matches plenty do presage:
Dire is the Dearth and Famine on the Stage.
Our Store’s quite wasted, and our Credit’s small,
Not a Fool left to bless our selves withal.
We re forc’t at last to rob, (which is great pity,
Though ‘tis a never-failing Bank) the City.

We show you one to day intirely new,
And of all Jests, none relish like the true.
Let that the value of our Play inhance,
Then it may prove indeed the_ Lucky Chance.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

MEN.

Sir Feeble Fainwou’d, an old Alderman to be married Mr. Leigh. to Leticia, Sir Cautious Fulbank, an old Banker married to Julia, Mr. Nokes. Mr. Gayman, a Spark of the Town, Lover of Julia, Mr. Betterton. Mr. Bellmour. contracted to Leticia. disguis’d, and passes for Sir Feeble’s Nephew, Mr. Kynaston. Mr. Bearjest, Nephew to Sir Cautious, a Fop, Mr. Jevon. Capt. Noisey, his Companion, Mr. Harris. Mr. Bredwel, Prentice to Sir Cautious, and Brother to Leticia, in love with Diana, Mr. Bowman. Rag, Footman to Gayman. Ralph, Footman to Sir Feeble. Dick, Footman to Sir Cautious. Gingle, a Music Master. A Post-man. Two Porters. A Servant.

WOMEN.

Lady Fulbank, in love with Gayman, honest and generous, Mrs. Barry. Leticia. contracted to _Bellmour, married to Sir Feeble, young and virtuous, Mrs. Cook. Diana, Daughter to Sir Feeble, in love with Bredwel; virtuous, Mrs. Mountford. Pert, Lady Fulbank’s Woman. Gammer Grime, Landlady to Gayman, a Smith’s Wife in Alsatia, Mrs. Powell. Susan, Servant to Sir Feeble. Phillis, Leticia’s Woman.

A Parson, Fidlers, Dancers and Singers.

The Scene, LONDON.

ACT I.

SCENE I. The Street, at break of Day.

Enter Bellmour disguis’d in a travelling Habit.

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

Enter Mr. Gingle and several with Musick.

Fid. But hark ye, Mr. Gingle, is it proper to play before the Wedding?

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

[They play and sing.

Enter Phillis in the Balcony, throws ‘em Money.

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

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

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

Bel. Hah, Phillis, Leticia’s Woman!

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

Phil. She sends it only to drink her Health.

Ging. Come, Lads, let’s to the Tavern then— [Ex. Musick.

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

Enter Gayman wrapt in his Cloke.

Gay. ‘Tis yet too early, but my Soul’s impatient, And I must see Leticia. [Goes to the door.

Bel. Death and the Devil—the Bridegroom! Stay, Sir, by Heaven, you pass not this way. [Goes to the door as he is knocking, pushes him away, and draws.

Gay. Hah! what art thou that durst forbid me Entrance?—Stand off.

[They fight a little, and closing view each other.

Bel. Gayman!

Gay. My dearest Bellmour!

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

Gay. Hah, this to me, dear Harry?

Bel. Whither is Honour, Truth and Friendship fled?

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

Bel. I thank you, Sir.

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

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

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

Bel. Are you not in love, Sir?

Gay. Most damnably,—and wou’d fain lie with the dear jilting Gipsy.

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

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

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

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

Bel. To be married! [Sighing.

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

Bel. Who mean you?

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

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

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

Bel. Fie, what Stuff’s here!

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

Bel. You banter me—but in plain English, tell me, What made you here thus early, Entring yon House with such Authority?

Gay. Why, your Mistress Leticia, your contracted Wife, is this Morning to be married to old Sir Feeble Fainwou’d, induc’d to’t I suppose by the great Jointure he makes her, and the improbability of your ever gaining your Pardon for your high Duel—Do I speak English now, Sir?

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

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

Bel. I did so.

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

Bel. And left her to Temptation—was that well done?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gay. For your sake, though the day be broke upon us, And I’m undone, if seen—I’ll venture in— [Throws his Cloke over.

Enter Sir Feeble Fainwou’d, Sir Cautious Fulbank, Bearjest and Noisey. [Pass over the Stage, and go in.

Hah—see the Bridegroom! And with him my destin’d Cuckold, old Sir Cautious Fulbank.—Hah, what ail’st thou, Man?

Bel. The Bridegroom! Like Gorgon’s Head he’as turned me into Stone.

Gay. Gorgon’s Head—a Cuckold’s Head—’twas made to graft upon.

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

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

Bel. What wouldst thou have me do?

Gay. As many an honest Man has done before thee—Cuckold him— cuckold him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enter Sir Feeble, Sir Cautious, Bearjest, Noisey, Leticia sad, Diana, Phillis. [Pass over the Stage.

Bel. ‘Tis she; support me, Charles, or I shall sink to Earth, —Methought in passing by she cast a scornful glance at me; Such charming Pride I’ve seen upon her Eyes, When our Love-Quarrels arm’d ‘em with Disdain— I’ll after ‘em, if I live she shall not ‘scape me. [Offers to go, Gay. holds him.

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

Bel. I’ve done, and I will live, but he shall ne’er enjoy her. —Who’s yonder, Ralph, my trusty Confident?

Enter Ralph.

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

Ral. One that was never made in Heaven, Sir; ’.is Alderman Fainwou’d, and Mrs. Leticia Bredwel.

Bel. Bredwel—I have heard of her,—she was Mistress—

Ral. To fine Mr. Bellmour, Sir,—ay, there was a Gentleman —But rest his Soul—he’s hang’d, Sir. [Weeps.

Bel. How! hang’d?

Ral. Hang’d, Sir, hang’d—at the Hague in Holland.

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

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

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

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

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

Bel. And did the young Lady believe this?

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

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

Enter Post-man with Letters.

Post. Pray, Sir, which is Sir Feeble Fainwou’d’.?

Bel. What wou’d you with him, Friend?

Post. I have a Letter here from the Hague for him.

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

Dear Brother,

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

—Hum—hark ye, Charles, do you know who I am now?

Gay. Why, I hope a very honest Friend of mine, Harry Bellmour.

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

Gay. It may be so.

Bel. I am, d’ye see, Charles, this very individual, numerical young Mr.—what ye call ‘um Fainwou’d, just come from St. Omers into England—to my Uncle the Alderman. I am, Charles, this very Man.

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

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

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

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

[Exeunt.

SCENE II. Sir Cautious Fulbank’s House.

Enter Lady Fulbank, Pert and Bredwel. Bredwel gives her a Letter.

Lady Fulbank reads.

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

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

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

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

Pert. And I think the Sin were less.

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

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

L. Ful. And put in Wenching too.—

Bred. No, assure your self, Madam—

L. Ful. Of that I would be better satisfied—and you too must assist me, as e’er you hope I should be kind to you in gaining you Diana. [To Bredwel.

Bred. Madam, I’ll die to serve you.

Pert. Nor will I be behind in my Duty.

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

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

L. Ful. You shall not grieve me—prithee on.

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

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

Bred. Mr. Crap, being busy with a borrowing Lord, sent me to Mr. Wasteall, whose Lodging is in a nasty Place called Alsatia, at a Black-Smith’s.

L. Ful. But what’s all this to Gayman?

Bred. Madam, this Wasteall was Mr. Gayman.

L. Ful. Gayman! Saw’st thou Gayman?

Bred. Madam, Mr. Gayman, yesterday.

L. Ful. When came he to Town?

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

L. Ful. Not at his Uncle’s in Northamptonshire?

Bred. Your Ladyship was wont to credit me.

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

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

L. Ful. Whom foundst thou? Gayman?

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

L. Ful. Heavens, is’t possible?

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

L. Ful. What were they?

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

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

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

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

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

L. Ful. How much redeems it?

Bred. Madam, five hundred Pounds.

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

Pert. If I were your Ladyship, I wou’d make use of Sir Cautious’s Cash: pay him in his own Coin.

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

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

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

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

[Exeunt.

SCENE III. The House of Sir Feeble.

   Enter Sir Feeble, Leticia, Sir Cautious, Bearjest, Diana, Noisey.
   Sir Feeble sings and salutes ‘em.

Sir Feeb. Welcome, Joan Sanderson, welcome, welcome. [Kisses the
Bride. Ods bobs, and so thou art, Sweet-heart. [So to the rest.

Bear. Methinks my Lady Bride is very melancholy.

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

Sir Feeb. Always by day-light, Sir Cautious.

   But when bright Phoebus does retire,
   To Thetis’ Bed to quench his fire.
   And do the thing we need not name,
   We Mortals by his influence do the same.
   Then then the blushing Maid lays by
   Her simpering, and her Modesty;
   And round the Lover clasps and twines
   Like Ivy, or the circling Vines.

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

Bear. Away with it, to the Bride’s Haunce in Kelder.

Sir Feeb. Gots so, go to, Rogue, go to, that shall be, Knave, that shall be the morrow morning; he—ods bobs, we’ll do’t, Sweet heart; here’s to’t. [Drinks again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enter Susan, Sir Feeble whispers her, she goes out.

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

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

Enter Susan with a Box.

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

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

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

Let. Heavens, what a nauseous thing is an old Man turn’d Lover! [Ex. Leticia and Diana.

Sir Cau. How, steal up, Sir Feeble—I hope not so; I hold it most indecent before the lawful hour.

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

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

Sir Feeb. Wise young Men, Sir Cautious; but wise old Men must nick their Inclinations; for it is not as ‘twas wont to be, for it is not as ’.was wont to be— [Singing and Dancing.

Enter Ralph.

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

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

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

Sir Feeb. I thank you, Sir.

Enter Ralph and Bellmour disguised, gives him a Letter, he reads.

How—my Nephew! Francis Fainwou’d! [Embraces him.

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

Sir Feeb. Sir Cautious, know my Nephew—’tis a young St. Omers
Scholar—but none of the Witnesses.

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

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

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

Bel. That’s been my study, Sir.

Sir Feeb. And you will not be proud, but will be commanded by me, Francis?

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

Sir Feeb. Why, thou’rt an honest Fellow, Francis,—and thou’rt heartily welcome—and I’ll make thee fortunate. But come, Sir Cautious, let you and I take a turn i’th’ Garden, and get a right understanding between your Nephew Mr. Bearjest, and my Daughter Dye.

Sir Cau. Prudently thought on, Sir, I’ll wait on you.—

[Ex. Sir Feeble, and Sir Cautious.

Bea. You are a Traveller, I understand.

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

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

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

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

Bel. Sure, Sir, you go by shipping into Ireland?

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

Bel. Was that your farthest Travel, Sir?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bea. Pray, Sir, what store of Miracles have you at St. Omers?

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

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

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

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

Enter L. Fulb. and Pert, Sir Cau. and Sir Feeb.

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

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

Sir Feeb. How, Sir, not like my Daughter Dye?

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

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

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

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

Enter Let_. fine in Jewels_.

Sir Feeb. You honour us too highly now, Madam.
                                 [Presents his Wife, who salutes her.

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

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

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

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

Sir Cau. Hah, ha, ha, he tickles ye, i’faith, Ladies. [To his Lady.

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

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

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

Enter Ralph.

Ralph. Sir, Dinner’s on the Table.

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

[Exeunt.