THE YOUNGER BROTHER;
or, The Amorous Jilt.

PROLOGUE,

By an unknown Hand.

Spoke by Mr. Powell.

 DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. 

MEN.
Prince Frederick,	Mr. Verbruggen.
Sir Rowland Marteen,	Mr. Johnson.
George Marteen,	Mr. Powell.
Mr. Welborn,	Mr. Horden.
Sir Merlin Marteen,	Mr. Pinkethman.
Sir Morgan Blunder,	Mr. Bullock.
Mr. Twang,	Mr. Smeaton.
Britton,	Mr. Kent.
Philip.
WOMEN.
Mirtilla,	Mrs. Knight.
Olivia,	Mrs. Verbruggen.
Teresia,	Mrs. Temple.
Lady Blunder,	Mrs. Powell.
Mrs. Manage,	Mrs. Willis.
Lady Youthley,	Mrs. Harris.
Diana.
Constable and Watch, Pages, Footmen, Masqueraders, Servants, Rakehells, &c.

ACT I.

Scene I. A Chamber.

Enter George Marteen, in a rich Riding Habit, with his Valet Britton.

Geo. Were you with Mrs. Manage, Britton?

Britt. Yes, Sir; and she cries as much for her wanting room for you in her House, as she would have done some forty Years ago for a Disappointment of her Lover. But she assures me, the Lodging she has taken for you, is the best in all Lincolns-Inn-Fields.

Geo. And did you charge her to send Mirtilla’s Page to me?

Britt. I did, Sir; and he’ll be with you instantly.

Geo. ’Tis well—Then shall I hear some News of my Mirtilla. Aside.

Britton, haste thee, and get my Equipage in order; a handsome Coach, rich Liveries, and more Footmen: for ’tis Appearance only passes in the World—And d’ye hear, take care none know me by any other Name than that of Lejere.

Britt. I shall, Sir. Exit.

Geo. I came not from Paris into England, as my old Father thinks, to reform into a dull wretched Life in Wales. No, I’ll rather trust my kind Mistress Fortune, that has still kept me like her Darling, than purchase a younger Brother’s narrow Stipend, at the expence of my Pleasure and Happiness.

Enter Olivia in a Page’s Habit. She runs and embraces George.

Oliv. My ever charming Brother!

Geo. My best, my dear Olivia!

Oliv. The same lovely Man still! Thy Gallantry and Beauty’s all thy own; Paris could add no Graces to thy Air; nor yet pervert it into Affectation.

Geo. Spare me, and tell me how Mirtilla fares.

Oliv. I think, Brother, I writ you word to Paris, of a Marriage concluded betwixt me and Welborn?

Geo. That Letter I receiv’d: but from the dear Mirtilla, not one soft word; not one tender Line has blest my Eyes, has eas’d my panting Heart this tedious three Months space; and thou with whom I left the weighty Charge of her dear Heart, to watch her lovely Eyes, to give me notice when my Rivals press’d, and when she waver’d in her Faith to me, even thou wert silent to me, cruel Sister.

Oliv. Thou wilt be like a Lover presently, and tire the Hearer with a Book of Words, of heavy Sighs, dying Languishments, and all that huddle of Nonsense; and not tell me how you like my Marriage.

Geo. Welborn’s my Friend, and worthy of thy Heart.

Oliv. I never saw him yet; and to be sold unseen, and unsigh’d for, in the Flower of my Youth and Beauty, gives me a strange aversion to the Match.

Geo. Oh! you’ll like him when you see him—But my Mirtilla.—

Oliv. Like him—no, no, I never shall—what, come a Stranger to my Husband’s Bed? ’Tis Prostitution in the leudest manner, without the Satisfaction; the Pleasure of Variety, and the Bait of Profit, may make a lame excuse for Whores, who change their Cullies, and quit their nauseous Fools—No, no, my Brother, when Parents grow arbitrary, ’tis time we look into our Rights and Privileges; therefore, my dear George, if e’er thou hope for Happiness in Love, assist my Disobedience.

Geo. In any worthy Choice be sure of me; but canst thou wish Happiness in Love, and not inform me something of Mirtilla?

Oliv. I’ll tell you better News—our hopeful elder Brother, Sir Merlin, is like to be disinherited; for he is, Heaven be thanked—

Geo. Marry’d to some Town-Jilt, the common fate of Coxcombs.

Oliv. Not so, my dear George, but sets up for a celebrated Rake-hell, as well as Gamester; he cou’d not have found out a more dextrous way to have made thee Heir to four Thousand Pounds a Year.

Geo. What’s that without Mirtilla?

Oliv. Prithee no more of her—Love spoils a fine Gentleman: Gaming, Whoring and Fighting may qualify a Man for Conversation; but Love perverts all one’s Thoughts, and makes us fit Company for none but one’s self; for even a Mistress can scarce dispense with a fighting, whining Lover’s Company long, though all he says flatters her Pride.

Geo. Why dost thou trifle with me, when thou knowest the Violence of my Love?

Oliv. I wish I could any way divert your Thoughts from her, I would not have your Joy depend on such a fickle Creature.

Geo. Mirtilla false! What, my Mirtilla false!

Oliv. Even your Mirtilla’s false, and married to another.

Geo. Married! Mirtilla married! ’Tis impossible.

Oliv. Nay, married to that bawling, drinking Fool, Sir Morgan Blunder.

Geo. Married, and married to Sir Morgan Blunder! a Sot, an ill-bred senseless Fool; almost too great a Fool to make a Country Justice?

Oliv. No doubt, she had her Aims in’t, he’s a very convenient Husband, I’ll assure you, and that suits her Temper: he has Estate and Folly enough, and she has Youth and Wantonness enough to match ’em.

Geo. Her Choice gives me some Comfort, and some Hopes; for I’ll pursue her, but for Revenge, not Love.

Oliv. Forget her rather, for she’s not worth Revenge, and that way ’twill be none; prostitute in Soul as Body, she doats even on me in Breeches.

Geo. On thee, her Page? doat on thee, a Youth! she knew thee not as Woman.

Oliv. No, that Secret I have kept to do you Service.—At first she said she lov’d me for your sake, because you recommended me; and when I sung, or plaid upon my Flute, wou’d kiss my Cheek, and sigh, and often (when alone) wou’d send for me, and smile, and talk, and set my Hair in Curls, to make me saucy and familiar with her. One Day she said, Endimion, thy Name-sake was thus caress’d by Cynthia: A Goddess did not scorn the humble Swain, whom by her Love she equal’d to her Deity. She found that I had Sense to understand her, and paid her Advances back with equal Ardour.

Geo. Oh, Curse! where learnt she all this Wickedness? Aside.

Oliv. But she being oblig’d to go for Flanders, to see her Sister take the holy Habit, I feign’d a Sickness to be left behind, hoping that Absence might abate her Flame; yet she return’d more amorous, and fearing the Thefts of Love might wound her Honour, she thought a Husband would secure that Shame; and luckily my Aunt arriv’d from Wales, and brought Sir Morgan with her, who lodging where we did, at Mrs. Manage’s, my Aunt (that doats on Quality in either Sex) made up this hasty Match, unknown to me, though for my sake.

Geo. What will not faithless Woman do, when she is raging?

Oliv. And now having so well prepar’d the way, she grows impatient for an Opportunity; and thou art arriv’d, most happily to succour me.

Geo. No, for some days keep this habit on, it may be useful to us; but I must see this faithless perjur’d Woman, which I must contrive with Mrs. Manage.

Oliv. Yet pray resolve to see my Father first; for now’s the critical time to make thy Fortune: he came to Town last night, and lodges here at Mrs. Manage’s, with my Aunt Blunder.

Geo. What, in the House with thee, and not know thee?

Oliv. No more than a Priest Compassion; he thinks me at Hackney, making Wax Babies, where he intends to visit me within these three days,—But I forgot to tell you, our Brother, Sir Merlin, lodges in this House with you; and shou’d he know you—

Geo. ’Tis impossible—I’ve not see him, or my Father, these five Years. Absence, my Growth, and this unexpected Equipage, will not be penetrated by his Capacity.

Oliv. True, he’ll never look for his Brother George, in the Gallantry and Person of Monsieur Lejere—My good Father expects you home, like the prodigal Son, all torn and tatter’d, and as penitent too.

Geo. To plod on here, in a laborious Cheating, all my Youth and Vigour, in hopes of drunken Pleasures when I’m old; or else go with him into Wales, and there lead a thoughtless Life, hunt, and drink, and make love to none but Chamber-maids. No, my Olivia, I’ll use the sprightly Runnings of my Life, and not hope distant Pleasures from its Dregs.

Oliv. For that, use your Discretion; now equip your self to your present Business; the more simply you are clad and look, the better. I’ll home and expect you. Exit.

Geo. Do so, my good Sister; a little formal Hypocrisy may do, ’twill relish after Liberty; for a Pleasure is never so well tasted, as when it’s season’d with some Opposition.

Enter Britton.

Britt. Sir, I’ve News to tell you, will surprize you; Prince Frederick is arriv’d.

Geo. Is’t possible? I left him going for Flanders.

Britt. Passing by our Door, and seeing your Livery, he enquir’d for you; and finding you here, alighted just now. But see, Sir, he’s here.

Enter Prince Frederick; they meet and embrace.

Geo. My Life’s Preserver, welcome to my Arms as Health to sick Men.

Prince. And thou to mine as the kind Mistress to the longing Lover; my Soul’s Delight, and Darling of the Fair.

Geo. Ah Prince! you touch my bleeding Wound.

Prince. Ha, Lejere! leave to unhappy Lovers those Sighs, those folded Arms, and down-cast Eyes.

Geo. Then they are fit for me; my Mistress, Sir, that Treasure of my Life, for whom you’ve heard me sigh, is perjur’d, false, and married to another. Yet what is worse, I find my Prince, my Friend, here in my native Country, and am not able to pay him what his Greatness merits.

Prince. You pain me when you compliment my Friendship. Embracing.

Geo. Perhaps you will not think me worth this Honour, when you shall hear my Story.

Prince. Thou canst say nothing I can value less.

Geo. Perhaps too my way of Living has deceiv’d you, being still receiv’d by Princes, as Companions in all their Riots, Loves, and Divertisements; where ev’n you did me the Honour to esteem, and call me Friend.

Prince. Whate’er thou art, I’m sure thy Mind’s illustrious.

Geo. My Family, I must confess, is honourable; but, Sir, my Father was the younger House, of which my unhappy self was destin’d to be last: I’m a Cadet, that Out-cast of my Family, and born to that curse of our old English Custom. Whereas in other Countries, younger Brothers are train’d up to the Exercise of Arms, where Honour and Renown attend the Brave; we basely bind our youngest out to Slavery, to lazy Trades, idly confin’d to Shops or Merchants Books, debasing of the Spirit to the mean Cunning, how to cheat and chaffer.

Prince. A Custom insupportable!—

Geo. To this, to this low wretchedness of Life, your Servant, Sir—was destin’d by his Parents, and am yet this bound indentur’d Slave.

Prince. Thou hast no cause to quarrel with thy Stars, since Virtue is most valu’d when opprest—Are all your Merchants Apprentices thus gay?

Geo. Not all—but, Sir, I could not bow my Mind to this so necessary Drudgery; and yet however, I assum’d my native Temper, when out o’th’ Trading City; in it, I forc’d my Nature to a dull slovenly Gravity, which well enough deceiv’d the busy Block-heads; my Clothes and Equipage I lodg’d at this End of the Town, where I still pass’d for something better than I was, whene’er I pleas’d to change the Trader for the Gentleman.

Prince. And liv’d thus undiscover’d—

Geo. With Ease, still lov’d and courted by the Great, ever play’d high with those durst venture most; and durst make Love where’er my Fancy lik’d: but sometimes running out my Master’s Cash, (which was supply’d still by my Father) they sent me, to reform my expensive Life, a Factor, into France—still I essay’d to be a plodding Thriver, but found my Parts not form’d for dirty Business.

Prince. There’s not a Thought, an Action of thy Soul, that does not tend to something far more glorious.

Geo. If yet you think me worthy of your Favour, command that Life you have so oft preserv’d.

Prince. No more;—Thou hast increas’d my Value for thee.—Oh! take my Heart, and see how’t has been us’d by a fair Charmer, since I saw thee last—That sullen day we parted, you for England, you may remember I design’d for Flanders.

Geo. I do, with Melancholy, Sir, remember it.

Prince. Arriv’d at Ghent, I went to see an English Nun initiated, where I beheld the pretty Innocent, deliver’d up a Victim to foolish Chastity; but among the Relations, then attending the Sacrifice, was a fair Sister of the young Votress, but so surpassing all I’ad seen before, that I neglecting the dull holy Business, paid my Devotion to that kneeling Saint.

Geo. That was the nearest way to Heaven, my Lord.

Prince. Her Face, that had a thousand Charms of Youth, was heighten’d with an Air of Languishment; a lovely Sorrow dwelt upon her Eyes, that taught my new-born-Passion Awe and Reverence.

Geo. This Description of her fires me.— Aside.

Prince. Her dimpl’d Mouth, her Neck, her Hand, her Hair, a Majesty and Grace in every Motion, compleated my Undoing; I rav’d, I burnt, I languish’d with Desire, the holy Place cou’d scarce contain my Madness: with Pain, with Torture, I restrain’d my Passion when she retir’d, led sadly from the Altar. I, mixing with the Croud, enquir’d her Name and Country; her Servant told me, that she was of Quality, and liv’d in England, nay, in this very Town: this gave me Anguish not to be conceiv’d, till I resolv’d to follow her, which is the cause you find me here so soon. Thy Aid, thy Aid, Lejere, or I am lost.

Geo. I wish to live no longer than to serve your Highness: if she be, Sir, a Maid of Quality, I shall soon find her out, and then you’ll easily conquer. You’ve all the Youth, and Beauty, that can charm; and what gains most upon a Woman’s Heart, you’ve a powerful Title, Sir, a sort of Philter, that ne’er fails to win. But you’ve not told me yet the Lady’s Name.

Prince. I had forgot that;—’Tis in these Tablets written: Gives him the Tablets.

I’m now in haste, going to receive some Bills: I lodge at Welborn’s, who came over with me, being sent for to be marry’d.

Geo. I know the House, ’tis in Southampton-Square: I’ll wait upon your Highness— Exit Prince.

Let me see—Daughter to a deceas’d Lord; a Maid, and no Dowry, but Beauty; living in Lincoln’s-Inn-Fields. Opening the Tablets, reads.

—Ha!—her Name Mirtilla! Mirtilla! Pauses.

Prince, thou hast paid thyself for all the Favours done me. Mirtilla! Pauses.

Why, yes, Mirtilla! He takes but what she has given away already.—

Oh! damn her, she has broke her Faith, her Vows, and is no longer mine—And thou’rt my Friend. Pauses again.

Mirtilla’s but my Mistress, and has taken all the Repose of my poor Life away—Yes, let him take her, I’ll resign her to him; and therefore shut my Eyes against her Charms: fix her Inconstancy about my Heart, and scorn whatever she can give me.

Exit.

Scene II. A Chamber.

Enter Sir Morgan Blunder in a Night-Gown and Cap; to him Manage with a Caudle.

Man. Your Lady Mother has sent you a Caudle, Sir.

Sir Morg. Good Mrs. Manage, remember my kind Love to my Lady Mother, and tell her, I thank her for her Posset, but never eat in a Morning after hard drinking over night.

Man. Ah, Sir, but now you’re marry’d to a fine Lady, you ought to make much of your self.

Sir Morg. Good Madam, as little of your Matrimony as of your Caudle; my Stomach is plaguy squeamish, and a hair of the old Dog’s worth both of ’em. Oh! sick! sick!

Enter Sir Merlin, singing a Song in praise of a Rake-hell’s Life.

A SONG.
The Town-Rake; written by Mr. Motteux.

I.

II.

III.

Sir Mer. Why, how now, Sir Morgan, I see you’ll make a Husband of the right Town-Mode: What, married but four Days, and at your separate Apartment already?

Sir Morg. A Plague of your what d’ye call ums.

Sir Mer. Rakehells you would say, Cousin, an honourable Appellation for Men of Bravery.

Sir Morg. Ay, ay, your Rakehells—I was never so muddled with Treason, Tierce Claret, Oaths and Dice, all the Days of my Life—Was I in case to do Family duty? S’life, you drank down all my Love, all my Prudence too; Gad forgive me for it.

Sir Mer. Why, how the Devil cam’st thou to bear thy Liquor so ill? Ods my Life, you drunk like a Frenchman new come to the University.

Sir Morg. Pox, I can bear their drinking as well as any Man; but your London way of Bousing and Politics does not agree with my Constitution. Look ye, Cousin, set quietly to’t, and I’ll stand my ground; but to have screaming Whores, noisy Bullies, rattling Dice, swearing and cursing Gamesters, Couz. turns the Head of a Country-Drinker, more than the Wine.

Sir Mer. Oh! Use, Cousin, will make an able Man.

Sir Morg. Use, Cousin! Use me no Uses; for if ever you catch me at your damn’d Clubs again, I’ll give you my Mother for a Maid: Why, you talk downright Treason.

Sir Mer. Treason, ay—

Sir Morg. Ah Cousin, why, we talk’d enough to—hang us all.

Sir Mer. My honest Country-Couz. when wilt thou understand the Guelphs, and the Gibelins, and learn to talk Treason o’ this side the Law? bilk a Whore without remorse; break Windows, and not pay for ’em; drink your Bottle without asking Questions; kill your Man without letting him draw; play away your Money without fear of your Spouse, and stop her Mouth by undermining her Nose?

Sir Morg. Come, come, look you, Cousin, one word of Advice now I’m sober; what the Devil should provoke thee and me to put ourselves on our twelve Godfathers for a Frolick? We who have Estates. I shou’d be loth to leave the World with a scurvy Song, composed by the Poet Sternhold.

Enter at the Door Sir Rowland, hearkning.

Or why, d’ye see, shou’d I expose my Noddle to the Billmen in Flannel, and lie in the Roundhouse, when I may go to bed in a whole skin with my Lady Wife?

Sir Mer. Gad, Sir Morgan, thou hast sometimes pretty smart satirical Touches with thee; use but Will’s Coffee-house a little, and with thy Estate, and that Talent, thou mayst set up for a Wit.

Sir Morg. Mercy upon me, Sir Merlin, thou art stark mad: What, I a Wit! I had rather be one of your Rakehells: for, look ye, a Man may swear and stare, or so; break Windows, and Drawers Heads, or so; unrig a needy Whore, and yet keep one’s Estate: but should I turn Wit, ’twere impossible; for a Wit with an Estate is like a Prisoner among the Cannibals.

Sir Mer. How so, good Sir Morgan?

Sir Morg. Why, the needy Rogues only feed him with Praise, to fatten him for their Palates, and then devour him.

Sir Mer. I applaud your choice, Cousin; for what Man of Bravery wou’d not prefer a Rake to a Wit? The one enjoys the Pleasures the other can only rail at; and that not out of Conscience, but Impotence: for alas! a Wit has no quarrel to Vice in Perfection, but what the Fox had to the Grapes; he can’t play away his hundred Pound at sight; his Third Day won’t afford it; and therefore he rails at Gamesters; Whores shun him, as much as Noblemen, and for the same cause, Money; those care not to sell their Carcases for a Sonnet, nor these to scatter their Guineas, to be told an old Tale of a Tub, they were so well acquainted with before.

Sir Morg. What’s that, Sir Merlin?

Sir Mer. Why, their Praise;—for the Poet’s Flattery seldom reaches the Patron’s Vanity; and what’s too strong season’d for the rest of the World, is too weak for their Palates.

Sir Morg. Why, look ye, Cousin, you’re a shreud Fellow: Whence learn’d you this Satire? for I’m sure ’tis none of thy own; for I shou’d as soon suspect thee guilty of good Nature, as Wit.

Sir Mer. I scorn it; and therefore I confess I stole the Observation from a Poet; but the Devil pick his Bones for diverting me from the noble Theme of Rakehells.

Sir Morg. Noble Theme, Sir Merlin! look ye, d’ye see: Don’t mistake me, I think ’tis a very scurvy one; and I wou’d not have your Father know that you set up for such a Reprobate; for Sir Rowland would certainly disinherit thee.

Sir Mer. O, keep your musty Morals to your self, good Country Couz; they’ll do you service to your Welch Criminals, for stealing an Hen, or breaking up a Wenches Inclosure, or so, Sir Morgan; but for me, I despise ’em: I have not been admitted into the Family of the Rakehellorums for this, Sir: Let my Father drink old Adam, read the Pilgrim’s Progress, The Country Justice’s Calling, or for a Regale, drink the dull Manufacture of Malt and Water; I defy him; he can’t cut off the Entail of what is settled on me: and for the rest, I’l trust Dame Fortune; and pray to the Three Fatal Sisters to cut his rotten Thred in two, before he thinks of any such Wickedness.

Enter Sir Rowland in a great Rage.

Sir Row. Will you so, Sir? Why, how now, Sirrah! get you out of my House, Rogue; get out of my Doors, Rascal. Beats him.

Enter Lady Blunder.

L. Blun. Upon my Honour now, Brother, what’s the matter? Whence this ungenerous Disturbance?

Sir Row. What’s the matter! the disturbance! Why, Sister, this Rogue here—this unintelligible graceless Rascal here, will needs set up for a Rakehell, when there’s scarce such a thing in the Nation, above an Ale-draper’s Son; and chuses to be aukardly out of fashion, merely for the sake of Tricking and Poverty; and keeps company with the senseless, profane, lazy, idle, noisy, groveling Rascals, purely for the sake of spending his Estate like a notorious Blockhead: But I’ll take care he shall not have what I can dispose of—You’ll be a Rake-hell, will you?

L. Blun. How, Cousin! Sure you’ll not be such a filthy beastly thing, will you?

Sir Mer. Lord, Aunt, I only go to the Club sometimes, to improve my self in the Art of Living, and the Accomplishments of a fine Gentleman.

Sir Row. A fine Gentleman, Sot, a fine Coxcomb! Beats him.

Sir Morg. Hold, hold, good Uncle; my Cousin has been only drawn in, a little or so, d’ye see, being Heir to a good Estate; and that’s what his Club wants, to pay off old Tavern Scores, and buy Utensils for Whores in Fashion.

Sir Row. My Estate sold to pay Tavern-Scores, and keep nasty Whores!

L. Blun. Whores! ay, filthy Creatures; do they deal in Whores? Pray, Cousin, what’s a Rake-hell?

Sir Row. A Rake-hell is a Man that defies Law and good Manners, nay, and good Sense too; hates both Morality and Religion, and that not for any Reason (for he never thinks) but merely because he don’t understand ’em: He’s the Whore’s Protection and Punishment, the Baud’s Tool, the Sharper’s Bubble, the Vintner’s Property, the Drawer’s Terror, the Glasier’s Benefactor; in short, a roaring, thoughtless, heedless, ridiculous, universal Coxcomb.

Sir Mer. O Lord, Aunt, no more like him than an Attorney’s like an honest Man. Why, a Rake-hell is—

Sir Row. What, Sirrah! what, you Rebel? Strikes him.

L. Blun. Nay, good Brother, permit my Nephew to tell us his Notion.

Sir Mer. Why, Aunt, I say a Rake-hell is your only Man of Bravery; he slights all the Force of Fortune, and sticks at no Hazard—plays away his hundred Pounds at sight, pays a Lady’s Bill at sight, drinks his Bottle without equivocation, and fights his Man without any Provocation.

Sir Row. Nay then, Mr. Rogue, I’ll be sworn thou art none: Come, Sir, will you fight, Sir? will you fight, Sir? Ha! Draws his Sword.

Sir Mer. Fight, Sir! fight, Sir!

Sir Row. Yes, fight, Sir: Come, spare your Prayers to the three Fatal Sisters, and cut my Thred thy self, thou graceless reprobate Rascal—Come, come on, you Man of Bravery.

Runs at Sir Merlin, who retires before him: Sir Morgan holds Sir Rowland.

Sir Mer. Oh, good Sir, hold: I recant, Sir, I recant.

Sir Row. Putting up. Well, I’m satisfy’d thou’lt make no good Rake-hell in this Point, whatever you will in the others. And since Nature has made thee a Coward, Inclination a Coxcomb, I’ll take care to make thee a Beggar; and so thou shalt be a Rake-hell but in Will, I’ll disinherit thee, I will, Villain.

L. Blun. What, disinherit your eldest Son, Brother?

Sir Mer. Ay, Aunt, his very Heir apparent? Aunt, to show you how the old Gentleman has misrepresented us, give me leave to present you a Dance I provided to entertain your Son with, in which is represented all the Beauties of our Lives.

L. Blun. Oh! by all means, Cousin, by all means.

Sir Mer. What hoa! Roger, bring in the Dancers.

Here the Dance, representing Rake-hells, Constable, Watch, &c.

Enter Philip.

Phil. Sir, who do’s your Worship think is arriv’d?

Sir Row. My Son George, I hope, come in the Nick.

Phil. Even so, Sir, from Paris— Exit.

Sir Row. The Prodigal return’d! then kill the fatted Calf.

Enter George drest like a Prentice.

—My own dear Boy, thou art welcome to my Arms, as e’er thy Mother was; for whose dear sake I pardon all thy Follies. George Kneels.

Sir Mer. Ay, Sir, I had a Mother too, or I’m bely’d— Weeping.

Pox take him that he should come just in the nick, as the old Fellow says— Aside.

Sir Row. Yes, you had a Mother, whom in my Youth I was compel’d to marry; and, Gad, I think, I got thee with as ill a Will; but George and my Olivia in heat of Love, when my desire was new. But harkye, Boy George, you have cost me a damn’d deal of Money, Sirrah; but you shall marry, and redeem all, George.

Geo. What you please, Sir; to study Virtue, Duty and Allegiance, shall be my future Business.

Sir Row. Well said, George, here’s a Boy now.

Sir Mer. Virtue and Allegiance! Lord, Lord, how came so sneaking a fellow to spend five thousand Pounds of his Master’s Cash?

Sir Row. She’s rich, George, but something homely.

Geo. She’ll not be proud then, Sir.

Sir Row. Not much of her Beauty—she’s of a good staid Age too, about some fourscore.

Geo. Better still, Sir, I shall not fear Cuckoldom.

Sir Row. For that I cannot answer; but she has two thousand a year. I mean to settle my Family, and then—marry my self, George.

L. Blun. What, to this old Lady’s Grand-daughter? Methinks she’s more fit for your Son, Sir Rowland, and the old Lady for you.

Sir Row. No, no, the young Rogues can help themselves with Mistresses; but ’tis well if an old Man can keep his Wife to himself—I’ve invited ’em to Dinner to day, and see, they are come.

Enter Lady Youthly, led by her Chaplain [Mr. Twang], and leaning on a Staff, and Teresia.

L. Youth. Where’s Sir Rowland Marteen? Oh, your Servant, Sir, I am come. Runs against George.

Twang. Your Ladyship is mistaken, this is not Sir Rowland, but a handsome proper young Man.

L. Youth. A young Man! I cry your mercy heartily—Young Man, I alighted in the Sun, and am almost blind.

Geo. With wondrous old Age. Aside.

L. Youth. Good lack, Sir Rowland, that I should mistake a young Man so!

Sir Row. Ay, Madam, and such a young Man too.

L. Youth. Ay, ay, I see him now. Puts on her Spectacles.

Geo. S’death, what a Sepulcher is here to bury a Husband in? How came she to escape the Flood? for sure she was not born since. Aside.

Sir Row. This is the lusty Lad, my Son George, I told your Ladyship of.

L. Youth. Cot so, cot so, is it so, Sir? I ask your Pardon, Sir. Mr. Twang, take a survey of him, and give me your Opinion of his Person and his Parts.

Twang. Truly, Madam, the young Man is of a comely Personage and Lineaments.

L. Youth. Of what, Sir?—Lord, I have such a Cold. Coughs.

Geo. Which she got when the Picts went naked.

L. Blun. Madam, you have a Power over Sir Rowland; pray intreat him to take his Son, Sir Merlin, into Grace again. To Teresia.

Ter. That, Sir, you must grant me; pray let me know the Quarrel. Sir Rowland seems to tell.

Geo. By Heaven, she’s fair as the first ruddy Streaks of opening Day. Looking on Teresia.

Young as the budding Rose, soft as a Cupid, but never felt his Dart, she is so full of Life and Gaiety. Pray, Madam, who is that Lady? To Lady Blun.

L. Blun. The Grandchild of your Mistress, and your Mother that must be.

Geo. Then I shall cuckold my Father, that’s certain. Aside.

Sir Row. For your sake, Madam, once again I re-establish him in my family; but the first Fault cashiers him—Come, let’s in—Here, my Lady Youthly, take George by the hand; but have a care of the young Rogue, if he comes once to touch so brisk a Widow, he sets her Heart on fire.

Geo. Which will burn like a snuff of a Candle; no body will be able to endure it. Aside.

—So Fortune, I see, provides for me: