King. I lose my Reason by this strange encounter!

Ther. Was't then a secret to my Cleomena, That her Clemanthis was the Prince of Scythia? I still believ'd that was his only Crime.

Cleo. By all my Joys I knew it not—but sure This is Enchantment; for it is as certain These Eyes beheld thee dead.

Pim. Ay, and so did I, I'll be sworn.

Ther. That must be poor Amintas in my Dress, Whose Story, when you know, you will bemoan.

Cleo. But oh my Life! the cruel Wound I gave thee, Let me be well assur'd it is not mortal, Or I am lost again.

King. The Surgeon gives me hopes, and 'twere convenient You should forbid him not to speak too much—

Enter a Soldier.

Sold. Arm, arm, great Sir, I think the Enemy Is rallying afresh, for the Plain is cover'd With numerous Troops, which swiftly make this way.

King. They dare not break the Truce.

Sold. I know not, Sir, but something of a King I heard them talk of—

Cleo. It is Vallentio that has kept his word— Receive 'em, Sir, as Friends, not Enemies; It is my Brother, who ne'er knew till now Ought of a peopled World.

King. I long to see that Monarch, whose Friendship I Must court for you, fair Princess: If you'll accept Thersander whom I offer'd, I do not doubt an happy Peace on both sides.

Cleo. Sir. 'tis an honour which we ought to sue for.

Ther. And 'tis to me a Blessing— I wanted Confidence to ask of Heaven.

Enter Ors. Val. Hon. Art. Ism. Geron. Soldiers, &c. Ors. drest gay with a Truncheon in his Hand, advances first, is met by the King, who gaze on each other.

Ors. If thou be'st he that art Orsames' Enemy, I do demand a Sister at thy Hands.

King. Art thou Orsames?

Ors. So I am call'd by all that yet have view'd me: —Look on me well— Dost see no marks of Grandure in my Face? Nothing that speaks me King?

King. I do believe thou art that King, and here [Gives him Cleo. I do resign that Sister thou demandest.

Ors. It is a Woman too! another Woman! I wou'd embrace thee if I durst approach thee.

Cleo. You need not fear, you may embrace your Sister— [Cleo. embraces him.

Ors. This is the kindest Women I e'er saw.

Cleo. Brother, behold this King no more your Enemy, Since I must pay him Duty as a Father.

Enter Queen, Olympia, Women.

Ors. Hah, Olympia! sure 'tis an airy Vision—

Ger. Approach her, Sir, and try.

Qu. Permit a wretched Mother here to kneel.

King. Rise, Madam, and receive me as your Friend; This pair of Lovers has united all our Interests. [Points to Cleo. and Thers.

Qu. Heavens! what's this I see, Clemanthis And the Prince of Scythia?

Ther. Yes, Madam, and a Man that humbly begs The happy Title of your Son—Honorius, Of you I ask the greatest Pardon— [Talks to Olympia.

Ors. I am a King, and do adore thee too, And thou shalt rule a World with me, my Fair; A Sword I'll give thee, with a painted Bow, Whence thou shalt shoot a thousand gilded Arrows.

Olym. What to do, Sir?

Ors. To save the expence of Cruelty; For they will kill as sure, but rightly aim'd; This noble Fellow told me so. [To Val.

Olym. Sir, I'll do any thing that you will have me: But now the Queen your Mother, Sir, expects you.

Ors. Instruct my Eyes, Olympia, for 'tis lately I've learnt of some such thing.

Olym. This, Sir, you ought to kneel to her.

Ors. Must I then kneel to ought but Heaven and thee? [Kneels.

Qu. My dear Orsames, let my Tears make way. Before I can assure thee of my Joy.

Ors. Gods! how obliging is this kind Concern! Not all my Passion for my fair Olympia Cou'd ever yet betray me to a Tear. [Weeps.

Qu. Thou'st greater need of Anger than of Tears, Having before thy Eyes thy worst of Enemies, One that has long depriv'd thee of a Crown, Through what she thought her Duty to the Gods; But now repents her superstitious Error, And humbly begs thy Pardon.

Ors. I will, if you'll implore Olympia but to love me.

Qu. I will, my Orsames; and 'tis the only Present I can make to expiate my Fault.

Ors. And I'll receive her as the only thing Can make me both a happy Subject and a King. Oh, Geron, still if this should prove a Dream!

Ger. Sir, Dreams of Kings are much less pleasant.

Enter Lysander.

Lys. Sir, there are without some Shepherdesses, Who say they wou'd present you [To Ther. Something that will not be unwelcome to your Highness.

Ther. Let them come in—

They seat themselves. Enter Amin. Ura. maskt, Shepherds, Shepherdesses, followed with Pipes, or Wind-Musick. They dance; after which Amin. kneels to the Prince, Ura. to the Princess.

—My dear Amintas, do I find thee live? Fortune requites my Sufferings With too large a share of Happiness.

Amin. Sir, I do live to die again for you.

Ther. This, my Divine, is he who had [To Cleo. The Glory to be bewail'd by you; for him you wept; For him had almost dy'd.

Amin. That Balm it was, that like the Weapon-salve Heals at a distance—

Cleo. But why, Amintas, did you name Thersander, When you were askt who wounded you?

Amin. Madam, if loss of Blood had given me leave, I wou'd have told you how I came so habited, And who I was, though not how I was wounded.

King. Still I am in a mist, and cannot see the happy path I tread.

Ther. Anon we will explain the Mystery, Sir.

Hon. Now, great Orsames, 'tis but just and fit That you receive the Rites of Coronation, Which are not to be paid you in a Camp; The Court will add more to that joyful Day.

King. And there we'll join our Souls as well as Swords, Our Interests as our Families.

Ors. I am content that thou should'st give me Laws: Come, my Vallentio, it shall ne'er be said I recompense thy Services With any thing less grateful than a Woman: —Here, I will chuse for thee— And when I know what 'tis I more can do, If there be ought beyond this Gift, 'tis thine. [Gives him Sem.

Ther. Scythia and Dacia now united are: The God of Love o'ercomes the God of War. After a Dance of Shepherds and Shepherdesses, the Epilogue is spoken by Mrs. Barry, as a Nymph; at his Royal Highness's second Exile into Flanders.



EPILOGUE.

_After our showing Play of mighty Pains, We here present you humble Nymphs and Swains. Our rustick Sports sometimes may Princes please, And Courts do oft divert in Cottages, And prize the Joys with some young rural Maid, On Beds of Grass beneath a lovely Shade, 'Bove all the Pride of City-Jilts, whose Arts Are more to gain your Purses than your Hearts; Whose chiefest Beauty lies in being fine; And Coyness is not Virtue, but Design. We use no Colours to adorn the Face, No artful Looks, nor no affected Grace, The neighbouring Stream serves for a Looking-glass. Ambition is not known within our Groves; Here's no Dispute for Empire, but for Loves; The humble Swain his Birth-right here enjoys, And fears no Danger from the publick Voice; No Wrong nor Insolence from busy Powers, No Rivals here for Crowns, but those of Flowers, His Country and his Flocks enjoy with ease, Ranges his native Fields and Groves in Peace; Nor forc'd by Arbitrary Votes to fly To foreign Shores for his Security. Our humble Tributes uncompell'd we pay, And cheerful Homage to the Lord of May; No Emulation breaks his soft Repose, Nor do his Wreaths or Virtues gain him Foes: No publick Mischiefs can disturb his Reign, And Malice would be busy here in vain. Fathers and Sons just Love and Duty pay; This knows to be indulgent, that t'obey. Here's no Sedition hatcht, no other Plots, But to entrap the Wolf that steals our Flocks. Who then wou'd be a King, gay Crowns to wear, Restless his Nights, thoughtful his Days with Care; Whose Greatness, or whose Goodness cant secure From Outrages which Knaves and Fools procure?

Greatness, be gone, we banish you from hence, The noblest State is lowly Innocence. Here honest Wit in Mirth and Triumph reigns, Musick and Love shall ever bless our Swains, And keep the Golden Age within our Woods and Plains_.



THE CITY HEIRESS; OR, SIR TIMOTHY TREAT-ALL.



ARGUMENT.

The scene is London. Sir Timothy Treat-all, an old seditious knight, that keeps open house for Commonwealthsmen and true Blue Protestants, has disinherited his nephew, Tom Wilding, a town gallant and a Tory. Wilding is pursuing an intrigue with Lady Galliard, a wealthy widow, and also with Chariot, heiress to the rich Sir Nicholas Get-all, recently deceased. Lady Galliard is further hotly wooed by Sir Charles Meriwill, a young Tory, but she favours Wilding. Sir Charles is encouraged in his suit by his roystering uncle, Sir Anthony. Wilding introduces his mistress Diana to Sir Timothy as the heiress Charlot; and at an entertainment given by Sir Timothy, Charlot herself appears, disguised as a Northern lass, to watch the progress of Tom's intrigue with the widow, who eventually yields to him. Sir Charles, none the less, backed by Sir Anthony, still persists, and after various passionate scenes forces her to consent to become his bride. Meanwhile Sir Timothy has arranged a marriage with Diana, whom he firmly believes to be Charlot. During the progress of the entertainment he is visited by a strange nobleman and his retinue, who offer him the crown of Poland and great honours. That night, however, his house is rifled by thieves and his money and papers stolen. He himself is pinioned hand and foot, the foreign lord bound fast in his own room, and all his followers secured. Sir Timothy having married Diana discovers that she is none other than his nephew's mistress, and, moreover, the Polish ambassador was Tom in masquerade, the attendants and burglars his friends, who by obtaining his treasonable correspondence are able effectually to silence the old knight. Wilding is united to Charlot, whilst Lady Galliard weds Charles Meriwill.



SOURCE.

The City Heiress is most manifestly borrowed from two main sources. Sir Anthony Meriwill and Charles are Durazzo and Caldoro from Massinger's The Guardian (licensed 31 October, 1633, 8vo, 1655). Mrs. Behn has transferred to her play even small details and touches. The burglary, that most wonderful of all burglaries, is taken and improved from Middleton's A Mad World, My Masters (4to, 1608), Act ii, where Sir Bounteous Progress is robbed by Dick Folly-Wit, his grandson, in precisely the same way as Sir Timothy is choused by Tom. On 4 February, 1715, Charles Johnson produced at Drury Lane his The Country Lasses; or, The Custom of the Manor, a rifacimento of Fletcher's The Custom of the Country and The City Heiress. It is a well-written, lively enough comedy, but very weak and anaemic withal when compared to Mrs. Behn. B. G. Stephenson, in his vivacious libretto to Cellier's tuneful opera, Dorothy, produced at the Gaiety Theatre, 25 September, 1886, has made great use of Johnson's play, especially Act i, where the gallants meet the two ladies disguised as country girls; the duel scenes of Act v; and the pseudo-burglary of Act iii. He even gives his comic sheriff's officer the name of Lurcher, who in Johnson is the rackety nephew that tricks his hospitable old uncle, Sir John English. The Biographia Dramatica states that Mrs. Behn 'introduced into this play (The City Heiress) a great part of the Inner Temple Masque by Middleton.' This charge is absolutely unfounded, and it would not be uninteresting to know how so complete an error arose. The two have nothing in common. It must be allowed that Mrs. Behn has displayed such wit and humour as amply to justify her plagiarisms. Sir Timothy Treat-all himself is, of course, Shaftesbury almost without disguise. There are a thousand telling hits at the President of the Council and his vices. He was also bitterly satirized in many other plays. In Nevil Payne's The Siege of Constantinople (1675) he appears as The Chancellor; 1680 in Otway's Shakespearean cento cum bastard classicism Caius Marius some very plain traits can be recognized in the grim Marius senior; in Southerne's The Loyal Brother (1682) Ismael, a villainous favourite; in Venice Preserved (1682) the lecherous Antonio; in the same year Banks caricatured him as a quite unhistorical Cardinal Wolsey, Virtue Betray'd; or, Anna Bullen; in Crowne's mordant City Politics (1683) the Podesta of a most un-Italian Naples; the following year Arius the heresiarch in Lee's Constantine the Great; in the operatic Albion and Albanius (1685), Dryden does not spare even physical infirmities and disease with the crudest yet cruellest exhibition, and five years later he attacked his old enemy once more as Benducar in that great tragedy Don Sebastian.

THEATRICAL HISTORY.

The City Heiress; or, Sir Timothy Treat-all was produced at the Duke's House, Dorset Garden, in 1682. Downes specially mentions it as having been 'well acted', and it was indeed an 'all star' cast. It had a tremendous ovation but in spite of its great merit did not become a stock play, probably owing to the intensely political nature of much of its satirical wit, a feature necessarily ephemeral. It seems, however, to have been presented from time to time, and there was a notable revival on 10 July, 1707, at the Haymarket, for the benefit of Husband and Pack. Sir Timothy was played by Cross; Tom Wilding, Mills; Sir Anthony, Bullock; Foppington, Pack; Lady Galliard, Mrs. Bradshaw; Charlot, Mrs. Bicknall; Clacket, Mrs. Powell. It met with a very favourable reception.

To the Right Honourable Henry Earl of Arundel, and Lord Mowbray.

MY LORD,

'Tis long that I have with great impatience waited some opportunity to declare my infinite Respect to your Lordship, coming, I may say, into the World with a Veneration for your Illustrious Family, and being brought up with continual Praises of the Renowned Actions of your glorious Ancestors, both in War and Peace, so famous over the Christian World for their Vertue, Piety, and Learning, their elevated Birth, and greatness of Courage, and of whom all our English History are full of the Wonders of their Lives: A Family of so Ancient Nobility, and from whom so many Heroes have proceeded to bless and serve their King and Country, that all Ages and all Nations mention 'em even with Adoration: My self have been in this our Age an Eye and Ear-witness, with what Transports of Joy, with what unusual Respect and Ceremony, above what we pay to Mankind, the very Name of the Great Howards of Norfolk and Arundel, have been celebrated on Foreign Shores! And when any one of your Illustrious Family have pass'd the Streets, the People throng'd to praise and bless him as soon as his Name has been made known to the glad Croud. This I have seen with a Joy that became a true English heart, (who truly venerate its brave Country-men) and joyn'd my dutiful Respects and Praises with the most devout; but never had the happiness yet of any opportunity to express particularly that Admiration I have and ever had for your Lordship and your Great Family. Still, I say, I did admire you, still I wish'd and pray'd for you; 'twas all I cou'd or durst: But, as my Esteem for your Lordship daily increased with my Judgment, so nothing cou'd bring it to a more absolute height and perfection, than to observe in these troublesome times, this Age of Lying, Peaching, and Swearing with what noble Prudence, what steadiness of Mind, what Loyalty and Conduct you have evaded the Snare, that 'twas to be fear'd was laid for all the Good, the Brave, and Loyal, for all that truly lov'd our best of Kings and this distracted Country. A thousand times I have wept for fear that Impudence and Malice wou'd extend so far as to stain your Noble and ever-Loyal Family with its unavoidable Imputatious; and as often for joy, to see how undauntedly both the Illustrions Duke your Father, and your Self, stem'd the raging Torrent that threatned, with yours, the ruin of the King and Kingdom; all which had not power to shake your Constancy or Loyalty: for which, may Heaven and Earth reward and bless you; the noble Examples to thousands of failing hearts, who from so great a President of Loyalty, became confirm'd. May Heaven and Earth bless you for your pious and resolute bravery of Mind, and Heroick honesty, when you cry'd, Not Guilty; that you durst, like your great self, speak Conscientious Truths in a Juncto so vitious, when Truth and Innocence was criminal: and I doubt not but the Soul of that great Sufferer bows down from Heaven in gratitude for that noble service done it. All these and a thousand marks you give of daily growing Greatness; every day produces to those like me, curious to learn the story of your Life and Actions, something that even adds a Lustre to your great Name, which one wou'd think you'd be made no more splendid: some new Goodness, some new act of Loyalty or Courage, comes out to cheer the World and those that admire you. Nor wou'd I be the last of those that dayly congratulate and celebrate your rising Glory; nor durst I any other way approach you with it, but this humble one, which carries some Excuse along with it.

Proud of the opportunity then, I most humbly beg your Lordships' patronage of a Comedy, which has nothing to defend it, but the Honour it begs, and nothing to deserve that Honour, but its being in every part true Tory! Loyal all-over! except one Knave, which I hope no body will take to himself; or if he do, I must e'en say with Hamlet,

—Then let the strucken Deer go weep—

It has the luck to be well received in the Town; which (not for my Vanity) pleases me, but that thereby I find Honesty begins to come in fashion again, when Loyalty is approv'd, and Whigism becomes a Jest where'er 'tis met with. And, no doubt on't, so long as the Royal Cause has such Patrons as your Lordship, such vigorous and noble Supporters, his Majesty will be great, secure and quiet, the Nation flourishing and happy, and seditious Fools and Knaves that have so long disturb'd the Peace and Tranquility of the World, will become the business and sport of Comedy, and at last the scorn of that Rabble that fondly and blindly worshipt 'em; and whom nothing can so well convince as plain Demonstration, which is ever more powerful and prevailent than Precept, or even Preaching it self. If this have edifi'd effectual, 'tis all I wish; and that your Lordship will be pleas'd to accept the humble Offering, is all I beg, and the greatest Glory I care shou'd be done,

MY LORD, Your Lordship's most Humble and most Obedient Servant, A. BEHN.



THE CITY HEIRESS; or, Sir Timothy Treat-all.



PROLOGUE,

Written by Mr. Otway, Spoken by Mrs. Barry.

How vain have proved the Labours of the Stage, In striving to reclaim a vitious Age! Poets may write the Mischief to impeach, You care as little what the Poets teach, As you regard at Church what Parsons preach. But where such Follies, and such Vices reign, What honest Pen has Patience to refrain? At Church, in Pews, ye most devoutly snore And here, got dully drunk, ye come to roar: Ye go to Church to glout, and ogle there, And come to meet more loud convenient here. With equal Zeal ye honour either Place, And run so very evenly your Race, Y' improve in Wit just as you do in Grace. It must be so, some Daemon has possest Our Land, and we have never since been blest. Y' have seen it all, or heard of its Renown, In Reverend Shape it staled about the Town, Six Yeomen tall attending on its Frown. Sometimes with humble Note and zealous Lore, 'Twou'd play the Apostolick Function o'er: But, Heaven have mercy on us when it swore. Whene'er it swore, to prove the Oaths were true, Out of its much at random Halters flew Round some unwary Neck, by Magick thrown, Though still the cunning Devil sav'd its own: For when the Inchantment could no longer last, The subtle Pug most dextrously uncas'd, Left awful Form for one more seeming pious, And in a moment vary'd to defy us; From silken Doctor home-spun Ananias: Left the leud Court, and did in City fix, Where still, by its old Arts, it plays new Tricks, And fills the Heads of Fools with Politicks. This Daemon lately drew in many a Guest, To part with zealous Guinea for—no Feast. Who, but the most incorrigible Fops, For ever doomed in dismal Cells, call'd Shops, To cheat and damn themselves to get their Livings, Wou'd lay sweet Money out in Sham-Thanksgivings? Sham-Plots you may have paid for o'er and o'er; But who e'er paid for a Sham-Treat before? Had you not better sent your Offerings all Hither to us, than Sequestrators Hall? I being your Steward, Justice had been done ye; I cou'd have entertain'd you worth your Money.



DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

MEN.

Sir Timothy Treat-all, an old seditious Knight, that keeps open House for Commonwealthsmen Mr. Nokes. and true blue Protestants, Uncle to T. Wilding, Tom Wilding, a Tory, his discarded Nephew, Mr. Bctterton. Sir Anthony Meriwill, an old Tory Knight of Mr. Lee. Devonshire, Sir Charles Meriwill, his Nephew, a Tory also, in love with L. Galliard, and Friend to Mr. Williams. Wilding, Dresswell, a young Gentleman, Friend to Mr. Bowman. Wilding, Foppington, a Hanger-on on Wilding, Mr. Jevon. Jervice, Man to Sir Timothy. Laboir, Man to Tom Wilding. Boy, Page to Lady Galliard. Boy, Page to Diana. Guests, Footmen, Musick, &c.

WOMEN.

Lady Galliard, a rich City-Widow, in love with Mrs. Barry. Wilding, Charlot, The City-Heiress, in love with Wilding, Mrs. Butler. Diana, Mistress to Wilding, and kept by him, Mrs. Corror. Mrs. Clacket, a City Baud and Puritan, Mrs. Novice. Mrs. Closet, Woman to Lady Galliard, Mrs. Lee. Mrs. Sensure, Sir Timothy's Housekeeper. Betty, Maid to Diana. Maid at Charlot's lodging.

SCENE, Within the Walls of London.



ACT I.

SCENE I. The Street.

_Enter Sir_ Timothy Treat-all, _follow'd by_ Tom Wilding bare, Sir_ Charles Meriwill, Foppington, _and Footman with a Cloke_.

Sir Tim. Trouble me no more: for I am resolv'd, deaf and obdurate, d'ye see, and so forth.

Wild. I beseech ye, Uncle, hear me.

Sir Tim. No.

Wild. Dear Uncle—

Sir Tim. No.

Wild. You will be mortify'd—

Sir Tim. No.

Wild. At least hear me out, Sir.

Sir Tim. No, I have heard you out too often, Sir, till you have talkt me out of many a fair Thousand; have had ye out of all the Bayliffs, Serjeants, and Constables Clutches about Town, Sir; have brought you out of all the Surgeons, Apothecaries, and pocky Doctors Hands, that ever pretended to cure incurable Diseases; and have crost ye out of the Books of all the Mercers, Silk-men, Exchange-men, Taylors, Shoemakers, and Sempstresses; with all the rest of the unconscionable City-tribe of the long Bill, that had but Faith enough to trust, and thought me Fool enough to pay.

Sir Char. But, Sir, consider, he's your own Flesh and Blood.

Sir Tim. That's more than I'll swear.

Sir Char. Your only Heir.

Sir Tim. That's more than you or any of his wise Associates can tell, Sir.

Sir Char. Why his wise Associates? Have you any Exception to the Company he keeps? This reflects on me and young Dresswell, Sir, Men both of Birth and Fortune.

Sir Tim. Why, good Sir Charles Meriwill, let me tell you, since you'll have it out, That you and young Dresswell are able to debauch, destroy, and confound all the young imitating Fops in Town.

Sir Char. How, Sir!

Sir Tim. Nay, never huff, Sir; for I have six thousand Pound a Year, and value no Man: Neither do I speak so much for your particular, as for the Company you keep, such Tarmagant Tories as these, [To Fop.] who are the very Vermin of a young Heir, and for one tickling give him a thousand bites.

Fop. Death! meaning me, Sir?

Sir Tim. Yes, you, Sir. Nay, never stare, Sir; I fear you not; No Man's hectoring signifies this—in the City, but the Constables: no body dares be saucy here, except it be in the King's name.

Sir Char. Sir, I confess he was to blame.

Sir Tim. Sir Charles, thanks to Heaven, you may be leud, you have a plentiful Estate, may whore, drink, game, and play the Devil: your Uncle, Sir Anthony Meriwill, intends to give you all his Estate too. But for such Sparks as this, and my Fop in Fashion here, why, with what Face, Conscience, or Religion, can they be leud and vitious, keep their Wenches, Coaches, rich Liveries, and so forth, who live upon Charity, and the Sins of the Nation?

Sir Char. If he hath youthful Vices, he has Virtues too.

Sir Tim. Yes, he had, but I know not, you have bewitch'd him Amongst ye. [weeping. Before he fell to Toryism, he was a sober, civil Youth, and had some Religion in him, wou'd read ye Prayers Night and Morning with a laudable Voice, and cry Amen to 'em; 'twou'd have done one's Heart good to have heard him—wore decent Clothes, was drunk but on Sundays and Holidays; and then I had Hopes of him. [Still weeping.

Wild. Ay, Heaven forgive me.

Sir Char. But, Sir, he's now become a new Man, is casting off all his Women, is drunk not above five or six times a week, swears not above once in a quarter of an Hour, nor has not gam'd this two Days—

Sir Tim. 'Twas because the Devil was in's Pocket then.

Sir Char.—Begins to take up at Coffee-houses, talks gravely in the City, speaks scandalously of the Government, and rails most abominably against the Pope and the French King.

Sir Tim. Ay, ay, this shall not wheedle me out of one English Guinea; and so I told him yesterday.

Wild. You did so, Sir.

Sir Tim. Yes; by a good Token you were witty upon me, and swore I lov'd and honoured the King no where but on his Coin.

Sir Char. Is it possible, Sir.

Wild. God forgive me, Sir; I confess I was a little overtaken.

Sir Tim. Ay, so it shou'd seem: for he mistook his own Chamber, and went to bed to my Maid's.

Sir Char. How! to bed to your Maid's! Sure, Sir, 'tis scandal on him.

Sir Tim. No, no, he makes his brags on't, Sir. Oh, that crying Sin of Boasting! Well fare, I say, the Days of old Oliver, he by a wholesom Act made it death to boast; so that then a Man might whore his Heart out, and no body the wiser.

Sir Char. Right, Sir, and then the Men pass'd for sober religious Persons, and the Women for as demure Saints—

Sir Tim. Ay, then there was no scandal; but now they do not only boast what they do, but what they do not.

Wild. I'll take care that fault shall be mended, Sir.

Sir Tim. Ay, so will I, if Poverty has any Feats of Mortification; and so farewel to you, Sir. [Going.

Wild. Stay, Sir, are you resolv'd to be so cruel then, and ruin all my Fortunes now depending?

Sir Tim. Most religiously—

Wild. You are?

Sir Tim. I am.

Wild. Death, I'll rob.

Sir Tim. Do and be hang'd.

Wild. Nay, I'll turn Papist.

Sir Tim. Do and be damn'd.

Sir Char. Bless me, Sir, what a Scandal would that be to the Family of the Treat-alls!

Sir Tim. Hum! I had rather indeed he turn'd Turk or Jew, for his own sake; but as for scandalizing me, I defy it: My Integrity has been known ever since Forty one; I bought three Thousand a year in Bishops Lands, as 'tis well known, and lost it at the King's return; for which I'm honour'd by the City. But for his farther Satisfaction, Consolation, and Destruction, know, That I Sir Timothy Treat-all, Knight and Alderman, do think my self young enough to marry, d'ye see, and will wipe your Nose with a Son and Heir of my own begetting, and so forth. [Going away.

Wild. Death! marry!

Sir Char. Patience, dear Tom, or thou't spoil all.

Wild. Damn him, I've lost all Patience, and can dissemble no longer, though I lose all—Very good, Sir; harkye, I hope she's young and handsome; or if she be not, amongst the numerous lusty-stomacht Whigs that daily nose your publick Dinners, some maybe found, that either for Money, Charity, or Gratitude, may requite your Treats. You keep open House to all the Party, not for Mirth, Generosity or good Nature, but for Roguery. You cram the Brethren, the pious City-Gluttons, with good Cheer, good Wine, and Rebellion in abundance, gormandizing all Comers and Goers, of all Sexes, Sorts, Opinions and Religions, young half-witted Fops, hot-headed Fools, and Malecontents: You guttle and fawn on all, and all in hopes of debauching the King's Liege-people into Commonwealthsmen; and rather than lose a Convert, you'll pimp for him. These are your nightly Debauches—Nay, rather than you shall want it, I'll cuckold you my self in pure Revenge.

Sir Tim. How! Cuckold his own natural Uncle!

Sir Char. Oh, he cannot be so profane.

Wild. Profane! why he deny'd but now the having any share in me; and therefore 'tis lawful. I am to live by my Wits, you say, and your old rich good-natur'd Cuckold is as sure a Revenue to a handsome young Cadet, as a thousand Pound a Year. Your tolerable Face and Shape is an Estate in the City, and a better Bank than your Six per Cent, at any time.

Sir Tim. Well, Sir, since Nature has furnisht you so well, you need but up and ride, show and be rich; and so your Servant, witty Mr. Wilding. [Goes out. He looks after him.

Sir Char. Whilst I am labouring another's good, I quite neglect my own. This cursed, proud, disdainful Lady Galliard, is ever in my Head; she's now at Church, I'm sure, not for Devotion, but to shew her Charms, and throw her Darts amongst the gazing Croud; and grows more vain by Conquest. I'm near the Church, and must step in, though it cost me a new Wound. [Wild, stands pausing.

Wild. I am resolv'd—Well, dear Charles, let's sup together to night, and contrive some way to e reveng'd of this wicked Uncle of mine. I must leave thee now, for I have an Assignation here at Church.

Sir Char. Hah! at Church!

Wild. Ay, Charles with the dearest She-Saint, and I hope Sinner.

Sir Char. What, at Church? Pox, I shall be discover'd now in my Amours. That's an odd place for Love-Intrigues.

Wild. Oh, I am to pass for a sober, discreet Person to the Relations; but for my Mistress, she's made of no such sanctify'd Materials; she is a Widow, Charles, young, rich, and beautiful.

Sir Char. Hah! if this shou'd prove my Widow, now. [Aside.

Wild. And though at her own dispose, yet is much govern'd by Honour, and a rigid Mother, who is ever preaching to her against the Vices of Youth, and t'other end of the Town Sparks; dreads nothing so much as her Daughter's marrying a villanous Tory. So the young one is forc'd to dissemble Religion, the best Mask to hide a kind Mistress in.

Sir Char. This must be my Lady Galliard. [Aside.

Wild. There is at present some ill understanding between us; some damn'd Honourable Fop lays siege to her, which has made me ill received; and I having a new Intrigue elsewhere, return her cold Disdain, but now and then she crosses my Heart too violently to resist her. In one of these hot Fits I now am, and must find some occasion to speak to her.

Sir Char. By Heaven, it must be she—I am studying now, amongst all our She-Acquaintance, who this shou'd be.

Wild. Oh, this is of Quality to be conceal'd; but the dearest loveliest Hypocrite, white as Lillies, smooth as Rushes, and plump as Grapes after a Shower, haughty her Mein, her Eyes full of Disdain, and yet bewitching sweet; but when she loves soft, witty, wanton, all that charms a Soul, and but for now and then a fit of Honour, Oh, damn the Nonsense! wou'd be all my own.

Sir Char. 'Tis she, by Heaven! [Aside.] Methinks this Widow shou'd prove a good Income to you, as things now stand between you and your Uncle.

Wild. Ah, Charles, but I am otherways dispos'd of. There is the most charming pretty thing in nature fallen in love with this Person of mine, a rich City-Heiress, Charles, and I have her in possession.

Sir Char. How can you love two at once? I've been as wild and as extravagant, as Youth and Wealth cou'd render me; but ne'er arrived to that degree of Leudness, to deal my Heart about: my Hours I might, but Love shou'd be intire.

Wild. Ah, Charles, two such bewitching Faces wou'd give thy Heart the lye:—But Love divides us, and I must into Church. Adieu till Night. [Exit.

Sir Char. And I must follow, to resolve my Heart in what it dreads to learn. Here, my Cloke. [Takes his Cloke from his Man, and puts it on.] Hah, Church is done! See, they are coming forth!

Enter People cross the Stage, as from Church; amongst 'em Sir Anthony Meriwill, follow'd by Sir Timothy Treat-all.

Hah, my Uncle! He must not see me here. [Throws his Cloke over his Face.

Sir Tim. What my old Friend and Acquaintance, Sir Anthony Meriwill!

Sir Anth. Sir Timothy Treat-all!

Sir Tim. Why, how long have you been in Town, Sir?

Sir Anth. About three days, Sir.

Sir Tim. Three days, and never came to dine with me! 'tis unpardonable! What, you keep close to the Church, I see: You are for the Surplice still, old Orthodox you; the Times cannot mend you, I see.

Sir Anth. No, nor shall they mar me, Sir.

Sir Char. They are discoursing; I'll pass by. [Aside. [Ex. Sir Charles.

Sir Anth. As I take it, you came from Church too.

Sir Tim. Ay, needs must when the Devil drives. I go to save my Bacon, as they say, once a Month, and that too after the Porridge is serv'd up.

Sir Anth. Those that made it, Sir, are wiser than we. For my part, I love good wholesom Doctrine, that teaches Obedience to the King and Superiors, without railing at the Government, and quoting Scripture for Sedition, Mutiny and Rebellion. Why here was a jolly Fellow this Morning made a notable Sermon. By George, our Country-Vicars are mere Scholars to your Gentlemen Town-Parsons! Hah, how he handled the Text, and run Divisions upon't! 'twould make a Man sin with moderation, to hear how he claw'd away the Vices of the Town, Whoring, Drinking, and Conventicling, with the rest of the deadly number.

Sir Tim. Good lack! an he were so good at Whoring and Drinking, you'd best carry your Nephew, Sir Charles Meriwill, to Church; he wants a little documentizing that way.

Sir Anth. Hum! you keep your old wont still; a Man can begin no Discourse to you, be it of Prester John, but you still conclude with my Nephew.

Sir Tim. Good Lord! Sir Anthony, you need not be so purty; what I say, is the Discourse of the whole City, how lavishly you let him live, and give ill Examples to all young Heirs.

Sir Anth. The City! The City's a grumbling, lying, dissatisfy'd City, and no wise or honest Man regards what it says. Do you, or any of the City, stand bound to his Scrivener or Taylor? He spends what I allow him, Sir, his own; and you're a Fool, or Knave, chuse ye whether, to concern your self.

Sir Tim. Good lack! I speak but what wiser Men discourse.

Sir Anth. Wiser Men! wiser Coxcombs. What, they wou'd have me train my Nephew up, a hopeful Youth, to keep a Merchant's Book, or send him to chop Logick in an University, and have him returned an arrant learned Ass, to simper, and look demure, and start at Oaths and Wenches, whilst I fell his Woods, and grant Leases: And lastly, to make good what I have cozen'd him of, force him to marry Mrs. Crump, the ill-favour'd Daughter of some Right Worshipful.—A Pox of all of such Guardians!

Sir Tim. Do, countenance Sin and Expenccs, do.

Sir Anth. What Sin, what Expences? He wears good Clothes, why, Trades-men get the more by him; he keeps his Coach, 'tis for his Ease; A Mistress, 'tis for his Pleasure; he games, 'tis for his Diversion: And where's the harm of this? is there ought else you can accuse him with?

Sir Tim. Yes,—a Pox upon him, he's my Rival too. [Aside. Why then I'll tell you, Sir, he loves a Lady.

Sir Anth. If that be a Sin, Heaven help the Wicked!

Sir Tim. But I mean honourably—

Sir Anth. Honourably! why do you know any Infirmity in him, why he shou'd not marry? [Angrily.

Sir Tim. Not I, Sir.

Sir Anth. Not you, Sir? why then you're an Ass, Sir—But is this Lady young and handsom?

Sir Tim. Ay, and rich too, Sir.

Sir Anth. No matter for Money, so she love the Boy.

Sir Tim. Love him! No, Sir, she neither does, nor shall love him.

Sir Anth. How, Sir, nor shall love him! By George, but she shall, and lie with him too, if I please, Sir.

Sir Tim. How, Sir! lie with a rich City-Widow, and a Lady, and to be married to a fine Reverend old Gentleman within a day or two?

Sir Anth. His Name, Sir, his Name; I'll dispatch him presently. [Offers to draw.

Sir Tim. How, Sir, dispatch him!—Your Servant, Sir. [Offers to go.

Sir Anth. Hold, Sir! by this abrupt departure, I fancy you the Boy's Rival: Come, draw. [Draws.

Sir Tim. How, draw, Sir!

Sir Anth. Ay, draw, Sir; not my Nephew have the Widow!

Sir Tim. With all my Soul, Sir; I love and honour your Nephew. I his Rival! alas, Sir, I'm not so fond of Cuckoldom. Pray, Sir, let me see you and Sir Charles at my House, I may serve him in this business; and so I take my leave, Sir—Draw quoth-a! Pox upon him for an old Tory-rory. [Aside.

[Exit.

Enter as from Church, L. Galliard, Closet, and Footman: Wilding passes carelessly by her, Sir Charles Meriwill following, wrapt up in his Cloke.

Sir Anth. Who's here? Charles muffled in a Cloke peering after a Woman? My own Boy to a Hair! She's handsom too. I'll step aside; for I must see the meaning on't. [Goes aside.

L. Gal. Bless me! how unconcern'd he pass'd!

Clos. He bow'd low, Madam.

L. Gal. But 'twas in such a fashion, as exprest Indifferency, much worse than Hate from Wilding.

Clos. Your Ladyship has us'd him ill of late; yet if your Ladyship please, I'll call him back.

L. Gal. I'll die first—Hah, he's going! Yet now I think on't I have a Toy of his, which to express my scorn, I'll give him back now—this Ring.

Clos. Shall I carry it, Madam?

L. Gal. You'll not express Disdain enough in the Delivery; and you may call him back.

[Clos. goes to Wild.

Sir Char. By Heaven, she's fond of him. [Aside.

Wild. Oh, Mrs. Closet! is it you?—Madam, your Servant: By this Disdain, I fear your Woman, Madam, has mistaken her Man. Wou'd your Ladyship speak with me?

L. Gal. Yes.—But what? the God of Love instruct me. [Aside.

Wild. Command me quickly, Madam; for I have business.

L. Gal. Nay, then I cannot be discreet in Love. [Aside. —Your business once was Love, nor had no idle hours To throw away on any other thought; You lov'd, as if you had no other Faculties, As if you'd meant to gain eternal Bliss, By that Devotion only: And see how now you're chang'd.

Wild. Not I, by Heaven; 'tis you are only chang'd. I thought you'd lov'd me too, curse on the dull mistake! But when I beg'd to reap the mighty Joy That mutual Love affords, You turn'd me off from Honour, That Nothing, fram'd by some old sullen Maid, That wanted Charms to kindle Flames when young.

Sir Anth. By George, he's i'th' right. [Aside.

Sir Char. Death! can she hear this Language? [Aside.

L. Gal. How dare you name this to me any more? Have you forgot my Fortune, and my Youth, My Quality, and Fame?

Wild. No, by Heaven, all these increase my Flame.

L. Gal. Perhaps they might, but yet I wonder where You got the boldness to approach me with it.

Wild. Faith, Madam, from your own encouragement.

L. Gal. From mine! Heavens, what Contempt is this?

Wild. When first I paid my Vows, (good Heaven forgive me) They were for Honour all; But wiser you, thanks to your Mother's care too, Knowing my Fortune an uncertain hope, My Life of Scandal, and my leud Opinion, Forbad me wish that way; 'twas kindly urg'd; You cou'd not then forbid my Passion too, Nor did I ever from your Lips or Eyes Receive the cruel Sentence of my Death.

Sir Anth. Gad, a fine Fellow this!

L. Gal. To save my Life, I wou'd not marry thee.

Wild. That's kindly said. But to save mine, thou't do a kinder thing; —I know thou wo't.

L. Gal. What, yield my Honour up! And after find it sacrific'd anew, And made the scorn of a triumphing Wife!

Sir Anth. Gad, she's i'th' right too! a noble Girl I'll warrant her.

L. Gal. But you disdain to satisfy these fears; And like a proud and haughty Conqueror, Demand the Town, without the least Conditions.

Sir Char. By Heaven, she yields apace. [Aside.

Sir. Anth. Pox on't, wou'd I had ne'er seen her; now I have Legions of small Cupids at Hot-cockles in my Heart.

Wild. Now I am pausing on that word Conditions. Thou say'st thou wou't not have me marry thee; That is, as if I lov'd thee for thy Eyes And put 'em out to hate thee; Or like our Stage-smitten Youth, who fall in Love with a Woman for acting finely, and by taking her off the Stage, deprive her of the only Charm she had, Then leave her to ill Luck.

Sir Anth. Gad, he's i'th' right again too! a rare Fellow!

Wild. For, Widow, know, hadst thou more Beauty, yet not all of 'em were half so great a Charm as they not being mine.

Sir Anth. Hum! how will he make that out now?

Wild. The stealths of Love, the midnight kind Admittance, The gloomy Bed, the soft breath'd murmuring Passion; Ah, who can guess at Joys thus snatch'd by parcels? The difficulty makes us always wishing, Whilst on thy part, Fear makes still some resistance; And every Blessing seems a kind of Rape.

Sir Anth. H'as don't!—A Divine Fellow that; just of my Religion. I am studying now whether I was never acquainted with his Mother. [L. Gal. walks away. Wild. follows.

L. Gal. Tempt me no more! what dull unwary Flame Possest me all this while! Confusion on thee, [In Rage. And all the Charms that dwell upon thy Tongue. Diseases ruin that bewitching Form, That with the soft feign'd Vows debaucht my Heart.

Sir Char. Heavens! can I yet endure! [Aside.

L. Gal. By all that's good, I'll marry instantly; Marry, and save my last Stake, Honour, yet, Or thou wilt rook me out of all at last.

Wild. Marry! thou canst not do a better thing; There are a thousand Matrimonial Fops, Fine Fools of Fortune, Good-natur'd Blockheads too, and that's a wonder.

L. Gal. That will be manag'd by a Man of Wit.

Wild. Right.

L. Gal. I have an eye upon a Friend of yours.

Wild. A Friend of mine! then he must be my Cuckold.

Sir Char. Very fine! can I endure yet more? [Aside.

L. Gal. Perhaps it is your Uncle.

Wild. Hah, my Uncle! [Sir Charles makes up to 'em.

Sir Anth. Hah, my Charles! why, well said, Charles, he bore up briskly to her.

Sir Char. Ah, Madam, may I presume to tell you—

Sir Anth. Ah, Pox, that was stark naught! he begins like a Fore-man o'th' Shop, to his Master's Daughter.

Wild. How, Charles Meriwill acquainted with my Widow!

Sir Char. Why do you wear that scorn upon your Face? I've nought but honest meaning in my Passion, Whilst him you favour so profanes your Beauties, In scorn of Marriage and Religious Rites, Attempts the ruin of your sacred Honour.

L. Gal. Hah, Wilding boast my Love! [Aside.

Sir Anth. The Devil take him, my Nephew's quite spoil'd! Why, what a Pox has he to do with Honour now?

L. Gal. Pray leave me, Sir.—

Wild. Damn it, since he knows all, I'll boldly own my flame. You take a liberty I never gave you, Sir.

Sir Char. How, this from thee! nay, then I must take more. And ask you where you borrow'd that Brutality, T' approach that Lady with your saucy Passion.

Sir Anth. Gad, well done, Charles! here must be sport anon.

Wild. I will not answer every idle Question.

Sir Char. Death, you dare not.

Wild. How, dare not!

Sir Char. No, dare not; for if you did—

Wild. What durst you, if I did?

Sir Char. Death, cut your Throat, Sir. [Taking hold on him roughly.

Sir Anth. Hold, hold, let him have fair play, and then curse him that parts ye. [Taking 'em asunder, they draw.

L. Gal. Hold, I command ye, hold!

Sir Char. There rest my Sword to all Eternity. [Lays his Sword at her Feet.

L. Gal. Now I conjure ye both, by all your Honour, If you were e'er acquainted with that Virtue, To see my Face no more, Who durst dispute your Interest in me thus, As for a common Mistress, in your Drink.

[She goes out, and all but Wild. Sir Anth. and Sir Char, who stands sadly looking after her.

Sir Anth. A Heavenly Girl!—Well, now she's gone, by George, I am for disputing your Title to her by dint of Sword.

Sir Char. I wo'not fight.

Wild. Another time will decide it, Sir. [Wild, goes out.

Sir Anth. After your whining Prologue, Sir, who the Devil would have expected such a Farce?—Come, Charles, take up thy sword, Charles; and d'ye hear forget me this Woman.—

Sir Char. Forget her, Sir! there never was a thing so excellent!

Sir Anth. You lye, Sirrah, you lye, there's a thousand As fair, as young, and kinder by this day. We'll into th' Country, Charles, where every Grove Affords us rustick Beauties, That know no Pride nor Painting, And that will take it and be thankful, Charles; Fine wholesom Girls that fall like ruddy Fruit, Fit for the gathering, Charles.

Sir Char. Oh, Sir, I cannot relish the coarse Fare. But what's all this, Sir, to my present Passion?

Sir Anth. Passion, Sir! you shall have no Passion, Sir.

Sir Char. No Passion, Sir! shall I have Life and Breath?

Sir Anth. It may be not, Sirrah, if it be my will and pleasure. —Why how now! saucy Boys be their own Carvers?

Sir Char. Sir, I am all Obedience. [Bowing and sighing.

Sir Anth. Obedience! Was ever such a Blockhead! Why then, if I command it, you will not love this Woman?

Sir Char. No, Sir.

Sir Anth. No, Sir! But I say, Yes, Sir, love her me; and love her me like a Man too, or I'll renounce ye, Sir.

Sir Char. I've try'd all ways to win upon her Heart, Presented, writ, watcht, fought, pray'd, kneel'd, and wept.

Sir Anth. Why, there's it now; I thought so: kneel'd and wept! a Pox upon thee—I took thee for a prettier Fellow— You shou'd have huft and bluster'd at her door, Been very impudent and saucy, Sir, Leud, ruffling, mad; courted at all hours and seasons; Let her not rest, nor eat, nor sleep, nor visit. Believe me, Charles, Women love Importunity. Watch her close, watch her like a Witch, Boy, Till she confess the Devil in her,—Love.

Sir Char. I cannot, Sir, Her Eyes strike such an awe into my Soul—

Sir Anth. Strike such a Fiddle-stick.—Sirrah, I say, do't; what, you can towse a Wench as handsomely—You can be leud enough upon occasion. I know not the Lady, nor her Fortune; but I'm resolv'd thou shalt have her, with practising a little Courtship of my Mode.—Come—Come, my Boy Charles, since thou must needs be doing, I'll shew thee how to go a Widow-wooing.



ACT II.

SCENE I. A Room.

Enter Charlot, Foppington, and Clacket.

Charl. Enough, I've heard enough of Wilding's Vices, to know I am undone. [Weeps. —Galliard his Mistress too? I never saw her, but I have heard her fam'd for Beauty, Wit, and Fortune: That Rival may be dangerous.

Fop. Yes, Madam, the fair, the young, the witty Lady Galliard, even in the height of his Love to you; nay, even whilst his Uncle courts her for a Wife, he designs himself for a Gallant.

Charl. Wondrous Inconstancy and Impudence!

Mrs. Clack. Nay, Madam, you may rely upon Mr. Foppington's Information; therefore if you respect your Reputation, retreat in time.

Charl. Reputation! that I forfeited when I ran away with your Friend, Mr. Wilding.

Mrs. Clack. Ah, that ever I shou'd live to see [Weeps] the sole Daughter and Heir of Sir Nicholas Gett-all, ran away with one of the leudest Heathens about Town!

Charl. How, your Friend, Mr. Wilding, a Heathen; and with you too, Mrs. Clacket! that Friend, Mr. Wilding, who thought none so worthy as Mrs. Clacket, to trust with so great a Secret as his flight with me; he a Heathen!

Mrs. Clack. Ay, and a poor Heathen too, Madam. 'Slife, if you must marry a Man to buy him Breeches, marry an honest Man, a Religious Man, a Man that bears a Conscience, and will do a Woman some Reason—Why, here's Mr. Foppington, Madam; here's a Shape, here's a Face, a Back as strait as an Arrow, I'll warrant.

Charl. How! buy him Breeches! Has Wilding then no Fortune?

Fop. Yes, Faith, Madam, pretty well; so, so, as the Dice run; and now and then he lights upon a Squire, or so, and between fair and foul Play, he makes a shift to pick a pretty Livelihood up.

Charl. How! does his Uncle allow him no present Maintenance?

Fop. No, nor future Hopes neither: Therefore, Madam, I hope you will see the Difference between him and a Man of Parts, that adores you. [Smiling and bowing.

Charl. If I find all this true you tell me, I shall know how to value my self and those that love me.—This may be yet a Rascal.

Enter Maid.

Maid. Mistress, Mr. Wilding's below. [Exit.

Fop. Below! Oh, Heaven, Madam, do not expose me to his Fury, for being too zealous in your Service. [In great Disorder.

Charl. I will not let him know you told any thing, Sir.

Fop. Death! to be seen here, would expose my Life. [To Clacket.

Mrs. Clack. Here, here, step out upon the Stair-case, and slip into my Chamber. [Going out, returns in fright.

Fop. Owns, he's here; lock the Door fast; let him not enter.

Mrs. Clack. Oh, Heavens, I have not the Key! hold it, hold it fast, sweet, sweet Mr. Foppington. Oh, should there be Murder done, what a Scandal wou'd that be to the House of a true Protestant! [Knocks.

Charl. Heavens! what will he say or think, to see me shut in with a Man?

Mrs. Clack. Oh, I'll say you're sick, asleep, or out of Humour.

Charl. I'd give the World to see him. [Knocks.

Wild. [Without,] Charlot, Charlot! am I deny'd an entrance? By Heaven, I'll break the Door. [Knocks again; Fop. still holding it.

Fop. Oh, I'm a dead Man, dear Clacket! [Knocking still.

Mrs. Clack. Oh, hold, Sir, Mrs. Charlot is very sick.

Wild. How, sick, and I kept from her!

Mrs. Clack. She begs you'll come again an Hour hence.

Wild. Delay'd! by Heaven, I will have entrance.

Fop. Ruin'd! undone! for if he do not kill me, he may starve me.

Mrs. Clack. Oh, he will not break in upon us! Hold, Sir, hold a little; Mrs. Charlot is just—just—shifting her self, Sir; you will not be so uncivil as to press in, I hope, at such a Time.

Charl. I have a fine time on't, between ye, to have him think I am stripping my self before Mr. Foppington—Let go, or I'll call out and tell him all.

[Wild, breaks open the Door and rushes in: Fop. stands close up at the entrance till he is past him, then venturing to slip out, finds Wild, has made fast the Door: so he is forc'd to return again and stand close up behind Wild. with signs of Fear.

Wild. How now, Charlot, what means this new Unkindness? what, not a Word?

Charl. There is so little Musick in my Voice, you do not care to hear it: you have been better entertain'd, I find, mightily employ'd, no doubt.

Wild. Yes, faith, and so I have, Charlot: damn'd Business, that Enemy to Love, has made me rude.

Charl. Or that other Enemy to Love, damn'd Wenching.

Wild. Wenching! how ill hast thou tim'd thy Jealousy! What Banker, that to morrow is to pay a mighty Sum, wou'd venture out his Stock to day in little Parcels, and lose his Credit by it?

Charl. You wou'd, perfidious as you are, though all your Fortune, all your future Health, depended on that Credit. [Angry.

Wild. So, hark ye, Mrs. Clacket, you have been prating I find in my Absence, giving me a handsom Character to Charlot—You hate any good thing shou'd go by your own Nose. [Aside to Clacket.

Mrs. Clack. By my Nose, Mr. Wilding! I defy you: I'd have you to know, I scorn any good thing shou'd go by my Nose in an uncivil way.

Wild. I believe so.

Mrs. Clack. Have I been the Confident to all your Secrets this three years, in Sickness and in Health, for richer, for poorer; conceal'd the Nature of your wicked Diseases, under the honest Name of Surfeits; call'd your filthy Surgeons, Mr. Doctor, to keep up your Reputation; civilly receiv'd your t'other end of the Town young Relations at all Hours—

Wild. High!

Mrs. Clack. Been up with you, and down with you early and late, by Night and by Day; let you in at all Hours, drunk and sober, single and double; and civilly withdrawn, and modestly shut the Door after me?

Wild. What! The Storm's up, and the Devil cannot lay it.

Mrs. Clack. And I am thus rewarded for my Pains! [Weeps.

Wild. So Tempests are allay'd by Showers of Rain.

Mrs. Clack. That I shou'd be charg'd with speaking ill of you, so honest, so civil a Gentleman—

Charl. No, I have better Witness of your Falshood.

Fop. Hah, 'Sdeath, she'll name me!

Wild. What mean you, my Charlot? Do you not think I love you?

Charl. Go ask my Lady Galliard, she keeps the best Account of all your Sighs and Vows, And robs me of my dearest softer Hours. [Kindly to him.

Mrs. Clack. You cannot hold from being kind to him. [Aside.

_Wild. _Galliard_! How came she by that Secret of my Life? [_Aside_.] Why, ay, 'tis true, I am there sometimes about an Arbitration, about a Suit in Law, about my Uncle.

Charl. Ay, that Uncle too— You swore to me you were your Uncle's Heir; But you perhaps may chance to get him one, If the Lady prove not cruel.

Wild. Death and the Devil, what Rascal has been prating to her! [Aside.

Charl. Whilst I am reserv'd for a dead Lift, if Fortune prove unkind, or wicked Uncles refractory: Yet I cou'd love you though you were a Slave, [In a soft Tone to him. And I were Queen of all the Universe.

Mrs. Clack. Ay, there you spoil'd all again—you forgot your self.

Charl. And all the World when he looks kindly on me. But I'll take Courage and be very angry. [Aside. Nor do your Perjuries rest here; you're equally as false to Galliard, as to me; false for a little Mistress of the Town, whom you've set up in spite to Quality. [Angry.

Mrs. Clack. So, that was home and handsom.

Wild. What damn'd Informer does she keep in pension?

Charl. And can you think my Fortune and my Youth Merits no better Treatment? [Angry. How cou'd you have the Heart to use me so? [Soft to him. I fall insensibly to Love and Fondness. [Aside.

Wild. Ah, my dear Charlot! you who know my Heart, can you believe me false?

Charl. In every Syllable, in every Look; Your Vows, your Sighs, and Eyes, all counterfeit. You said you lov'd me, where was then your Truth? You swore you were to be your Uncle's Heir; Where was your Confidence of me the while. To think my Generosity so scanted, To love you for your Fortune? —How every Look betrays my yielding Heart! [Aside. No, since Men are grown so cunning in their Trade of Love, the necessary Vice I'll practise too, And chaffer with Love-Merchants for my Heart. Make it appear you are your Uncle's Heir, I'll marry ye to morrow. Of all thy Cheats, that was the most unkind, Because you thought to conquer by that Lye. To night I'll be resolv'd.

Wild. Hum! to night!

Charl. To night, or I will think you love me for my Fortune; Which if you find elsewhere to more advantage, I may unpitied die—and I shou'd die If you should prove untrue. [Tenderly to him.

Mrs. Clack. There you've dasht all again.

Wild. I'm resolv'd to keep my Credit with her— Here's my Hand; This Night, Charlot, I'll let you see the Writings. —But how? a Pox on him that knows for Thomas. [Aside.

Charl. Hah! that Hand without the Ring! Nay, never study for a handsom Lye.

Wild. Ring? Oh, ay, I left it in my Dressing-room this Morning.

Charl. See how thou hast inur'd thy Tongue to falshood! Did you not send it to a certain Creature They call Diana, From off that Hand that plighted Faith to me?

Wild. By Heaven, 'tis Witchcraft all; Unless this Villain Foppington betray me. Those sort of Rascals would do any thing For ready Meat and Wine—I'll kill the Fool—hah, here! [Turns quick, and sees him behind him.

Fop. Here, Lord! Lord! Where were thy Eyes, dear Wilding?

Wild. Where they have spy'd a Rascal. Where was this Property conceal'd?

Fop. Conceal'd! What dost thou mean, dear Tom? Why, I stood as plain as the Nose on thy Face, mun.

Wild. But 'tis the ungrateful Quality of all your sort to make such base returns. How got this Rogue Admittance, and when in, The Impudence to tell his treacherous Lyes?

Fop. Admittance! why thou art stark mad: Did not I come in with you, that is, follow'd you?

Wild. Whither?

Fop. Why, into the House, up stairs, stood behind you when you swore you wou'd come in, and follow'd you in!

Wild. All this, and I not see!

Fop. Oh, Love's blind; but this Lady saw me, Mrs. Clacket saw me— Admittance quotha!

Wild. Why did you not speak?

Fop. Speak! I was so amaz'd at what I heard, the villanous Scandals laid on you by some pick-thank Rogue or other, I had no Power.

Wild. Ay, thou know'st how I am wrong'd.

Fop. Oh, most damnably, Sir!

Wild. Abuse me to my Mistress too!

Fop. Oh, Villains! Dogs!

Charl. Do you think they have wrong'd him, Sir? For I'll believe you.

Fop. Do I think, Madam? Ay, I think him a Son of a Whore that said it; and I'll cut his Throat.

Mrs. Clack. Well, this Impudence is a heavenly Virtue.

Wild. You see now, Madam, how Innocence may suffer.

Charl. In spite of all thy villanous dissembling, I must believe, and love thee for my quiet.

Wild. That's kind; and if before to morrow I do not shew you I deserve your Heart, kill me at once by quitting me—Farewel—I know where both my Uncle's Will and other Writings lie, by which he made me Heir to his whole Estate. My Craft will be in catching; which if past, Her Love secures me the kind Wench at last. [Aside. [Goes out with Fop.

Mrs. Clack. What if he should not chance to keep his Word now?

Charl. How, if he shou'd not! by all that's good, if he shou'd not, I am resolv'd to marry him however. We two may make a pretty Shift with three thousand Pound a year; yet I wou'd fain be resolv'd how Affairs stand between the old Gentleman and him. I wou'd give the World to see that Widow too, that Lady Galliard.

Mrs. Clack. If you're bent upon't, I'll tell you what we'll do, Madam; There's every Day mighty Feasting here at his Uncle's hard by, and you shall disguise your self as well as you can, and so go for a Niece of mine I have coming out of Scotland; there you will not fail of seeing my Lady Galliard, though, I doubt, not Mr. Wilding, who is of late discarded.

Charl. Enough; I am resolv'd upon this Design; let's in and practise the northern Dialect.

[Ex. both.

SCENE II. The Street.

Enter Wilding and Foppington.

Wild. But then Diana took the Ring at last?

Fop. Greedily, but rail'd, and swore, and ranted at your late Unkindness, and wou'd not be appeas'd.

Enter Dresswell.

Wild. Dresswell, I was just going to see for thee.

Dres. I'm glad, dear Tom, I'm here to serve thee.

Wild. And now I've found thee, thou must along with me.

Dres. Whither? but I'll not ask, but obey.

Wild. To a kind Sinner, Frank.

Dres. Pox on 'em all; prithee turn out those petty Tyrants of thy Heart, and fit it for a Monarch, Love, dear Wilding, of which them never knew'st the Pleasure yet or not above a day.

Wild. Not knew the Pleasure! Death, the very Essence the first Draughts of Love. Ah, how pleasant 'tis to drink when a Man's a dry! The rest is all but dully sipping on.

Dres. And yet this Diana, for thither thou art going, thou hast been constant to this three or four Years.

Wild. A constant Keeper thou mean'st; which is indeed enough to get the Scandal of a Coxcomb: But I know not, those sort of Baggages have a kind of Fascination so inticing—and faith, after the Fatigues of formal Visits to a Man's dull Relations, or what's as bad, to Women of Quality; after the busy Afflictions of the Day, and the Debauches of the tedious Night, I tell thee, Frank, a Man's best Retirement is with a soft kind Wench. But to say Truth, I have a farther Design in my Visit now. Thou know'st how I stand past hope of Grace, excommunicated the Kindness of my Uncle.

Dres. True.

Wild. My leud Debauches, and being o'th' wrong Party, as he calls it, is now become an irreconcilable Quarrel, so that I having many and hopeful Intrigues now depending, especially those of my charming Widow, and my City-Heiress, which can by no means be carried on without that damn'd necessary call'd ready Mony; I have stretcht my Credit, as all young Heirs do, till 'tis quite broke. New Liveries, Coaches, and Clothes must be had, they must, my Friend.

Dres. Why do'st thou not in this Extremity clap up a Match with my Lady Galliard? or this young Heiress you speak of?

Wild. But Marriage, Frank, is such a Bugbear! And this old Uncle of mine may one day be gathered together, and sleep with his Fathers, and then I shall have six thousand Pound a Year, and the wide World before me; and who the Devil cou'd relish these Blessings with the clog of a Wife behind him?—But till then, Money must be had, I say.

Fop. Ay, but how, Sir?

Wild. Why, from the old Fountain, Jack, my Uncle; he has himself decreed it: He tells me I must live upon my Wits, and will, Frank.

Fop. Gad, I'm impatient to know how.

Wild. I believe thee, for thou art out at Elbows; and when I thrive, you show it i'th' Pit, behind the Scenes, and at Coffee-houses. Thy Breeches give a better account of my Fortune, than Lilly with all his Schemes and Stars.

Fop. I own I thrive by your influence, Sir.

Dres. Well, but to your Project, Friend, to which I'll set a helping Hand, a Heart, a Sword, and Fortune.

Wild. You make good what my Soul conceives of you. Let's to Diana then, and there I'll tell thee all. [Going out, they meet Diana, who enters with her Maid Betty, and Boy, looks angrily. —Diana, I was just going to thy Lodgings!

Dia. Oh, las, you are too much taken up with your rich City-Heiress.

Wild. That's no cause of quarrel between you and I, Diana: you were wont to be as impatient for my marrying, as I for the Death of my Uncle; for your rich Wife ever obliges her Husband's Mistress; and Women of your sort, Diana, ever thrive better by Adultery than Fornication.

Dia. Do, try to appease the easy Fool with these fine Expectations—No, I have been too often flatter'd with the hopes of your marrying a rich Wife, and then I was to have a Settlement; but instead of that, things go backward with me, my Coach is vanish'd, my Servants dwindled into one necessary Woman and a Boy, which to save Charges, is too small for any Service; my twenty Guineas a Week, into forty Shillings; a hopeful Reformation!

Wild. Patience, Diana, things will mend in time.

Dia. When, I wonder? Summer's come, yet I am still in my embroider'd Manteau, when I'm drest, lin'd with Velvet; 'twould give one a Fever but to look at me: yet still I am flamm'd off with hopes of a rich Wife, whose Fortune I am to lavish.—But I see you have neither Conscience nor Religion in you; I wonder what a Devil will become of your Soul for thus deluding me! [Weeps.

Wild. By Heaven, I love thee!

Dia. Love me! what if you do? how far will that go at the Exchange for Point? Will the Mercer take it for current Coin?—But 'tis no matter, I must love a Wit with a Pox, when I might have had so many Fools of Fortune: but the Devil take me, if you deceive me any longer. [Weeping.

Wild. You'll keep your word, no doubt, now you have sworn.

Dia. So I will. I never go abroad, but I gain new Conquests. Happy's the Man that can approach nearest the Side-box where I sit at a Play, to look at me; but if I deign to smile on him, Lord, how the overjoy'd Creature returns it with a Bow low as the very Benches; Then rising, shakes his Ears, looks round with Pride, to see who took notice how much he was in favour with charming Mrs. Dy.

Wild. No more, come, let's be Friends, Diana; for you and I must manage an Uncle of mine.

Dia. Damn your Projects, I'll have none of 'em.

Wild. Here, here's the best softner of a Woman's Heart; 'tis Gold, two hundred Pieces: Go, lay it out, till you shame Quality into plain Silk and Fringe.

Dia. Lord, you have the strangest power of persuasion! Nay, if you buy my Peace, I can afford a Pennyworth.

Wild. So thou canst of anything about thee.

Dia. Well, your Project, my dear Tommy?

Wild. Thus then—Thou, dear Frank, shalt to my Uncle, tell him, that Sir Nicholas Gett-all, as he knows, being dead, and having left, as he knows too, one only Daughter his whole Executrix, Mrs. Charlot, I have by my civil and modest Behaviour, so won upon her Heart, that two Nights since she left her Father's Country-house at Lusum in Kent, in spite of all her strict Guards, and run away with me.

Dres. How, wilt thou tell him of it, then?

Wild. Hear me—That I have hitherto secur'd her at a Friend's House here in the City; but diligent search being now made, dare trust her there no longer: and make it my humble Request by you, my Friend, (who are only privy to this Secret) that he wou'd give me leave to bring her home to his House, whose very Authority will defend her from being sought for there.

Dres. Ay, Sir, but what will come of this, I say?

Wild. Why, a Settlement; you know he has already made me Heir to all he has, after his decease: but for being a wicked Tory, as he calls me, he has after the Writings were made, sign'd, and seal'd, refus'd to give 'em in trust. Now when he sees I have made my self Master of so vast a Fortune, he will immediately surrender; that reconciles all again.

Dres. Very likely; but wo't thou trust him with the Woman, Thomas.

Wild. No, here's Diana, who, as I shall bedizen, shall pass for as substantial an Alderman's Heiress as ever fell into wicked Hands. He never knew the right Charlot, nor indeed has any body ever seen her but an old Aunt and Nurse, she was so kept up—And there, Diana, thou shall have a good opportunity to lye, dissemble, and jilt in abundance, to keep thy hand in ure. Prithee, dear Dresswell, haste with the News to him.

Dres. Faith, I like this well enough; this Project may take, and I'll about it. [Goes out.

Wild. Go, get ye home, and trick and betauder your self up like a right City-Lady, rich, but ill-fashion'd; on with all your Jewels, but not a Patch, ye Gypsy, nor no Spanish Paint d'ye hear.

Dia. I'll warrant you for my part.

Wild. Then before the old Gentleman, you must behave your self very soberly, simple, and demure, and look as prew as at a Conventicle; and take heed you drink not off your Glass at Table, nor rant, nor swear: one Oath confounds our Plot, and betrays thee to be an arrant Drab.

Dia. Doubt not my Art of Dissimulation.

Wild. Go, haste and dress— [Ex. Dian. Bet. and Boy.

Enter Lady Gall, and Closet, above in the Balcony; Wild. going out, sees them, stops, and reads a Paper.

Wild. Hah, who's yonder? the Widow! a Pox upon't, now have I not power to stir; she has a damn'd hank upon my Heart, and nothing but right down lying with her will dissolve the Charm. She has forbid me seeing her, and therefore I am sure will the sooner take notice of me. [Reads.

Clos. What will you put on to night, Madam? You know you are to sup at Sir Timothy Treat-all's.

L. Gal. Time enough for that; prithee let's take a turn in this Balcony, this City-Garden, where we walk to take the fresh Air of the Sea-coal Smoak. Did the Footman go back, as I ordered him, to see how Wilding and Sir Charles parted?

CIos. He did, Madam, and nothing cou'd provoke Sir Charles to fight after your Ladyship's strict Commands. Well, I'll swear he's the sweetest natur'd Gentleman—has all the advantages of Nature and Fortune: I wonder what Exception your Ladyship has to him.

L. Gal. Some small Exception to his whining Humour; but I think my chiefest dislike is, because my Relations wish it a Match between us. It is not hate to him, but natural contradiction. Hah, is not that Wilding yonder? he's reading of a Letter sure.

Wild. So, she sees me. Now for an Art to make her lure me up: for though I have a greater mind than she, it shall be all her own; the Match she told me of this Morning with my Uncle, sticks plaguily upon my Stomach; I must break the Neck on't, or break the Widow's Heart, that's certain. If I advance towards the Door now, she frowningly retires; if I pass on, 'tis likely she may call me. [Advances.

L. Gal. I think he's passing on, Without so much as looking towards the Window.

Clos. He's glad of the excuse of being forbidden.

L. Gal. But, Closet, know'st thou not he has abus'd my Fame, And does he think to pass thus unupbraided? Is there no Art to make him look this way? No Trick—Prithee feign to laugh. [Clos. laughs.

Wild. So, I shall not answer to that Call.

L. Gal. He's going! Ah, Closet, my Fan!— [Lets fall her Fan just as he passes by; he takes it up, and looks up. Cry mercy, Sir, I am sorry I must trouble you to bring it.

Wild. Faith, so am I; and you may spare my Pains, and send your Woman for't, I'm in haste.

L. Gal. Then the quickest way will be to bring it. [Goes out of the Balcony with Closet.

Wild. I knew I should be drawn in one way or other.



SCENE III. Changes to a Chamber.

Enter L. Galliard, Wilding, Closet. To them Wilding, delivers the Fan, and is retiring.

L. Gal. Stay, I hear you're wondrous free of your Tongue, when 'tis let loose on me.

Wild. Who, I, Widow? I think of no such trifles.

L. Gal. Such Railers never think when they're abusive; but something you have said, a Lye so infamous!

Wild. A Lye, and infamous of you! impossible! What was it that I call'd you, Wise or Honest?

L. Gal. How can you accuse me with the want of either?

Wild. Yes, of both: Had you a grain of Honesty, or intended ever to be thought so, wou'd you have the impudence to marry an old Coxcomb, a Fellow that will not so much as serve you for a Cloke, he is so visibly and undeniably impotent?

L. Gal. Your Uncle you mean.

Wild. I do, who has not known the Joy of Fornication this thirty Year, and now the Devil and you have put it into his Head to marry, forsooth. Oh, the Felicity of the Wedding-Night!

L. Gal. Which you, with all your railing Rhetorick, shall not have power to hinder.

Wild. Not if you can help it; for I perceive you are resolved to be a leud incorrigible Sinner, and marry'st this seditious doting Fool my Uncle, only to hang him out for the sign of the Cuckold, to give notice where Beauty is to be purchas'd, for fear otherwise we should mistake, and think thee honest.

L. Gal. So much for my want of Honesty; my Wit is the part of the Text you are to handle next.

Wild. Let the World judge of that by this one Action: This Marriage undisputably robs you both of your Reputation and Pleasure. Marry an old Fool, because he's rich! when so many handsome proper younger Brothers wou'd be glad of you.

L. Gal. Of which hopeful number your self are one.

Wild. Who, I! Bear witness, Closet; take notice I'm upon my Marriage, Widow, and such a Scandal on my Reputation might ruin me; therefore have a care what you say.

L. Gal. Ha, ha, ha, Marriage! Yes, I hear you give it out, you are to be married to me: for which Defamation, if I be not reveng'd, hang me.

Wild. Yes, you are reveng'd; I had the fame of vanquishing where'er I laid my Seige, till I knew thee, hard-hearted thee; had the honest Reputation of lying with the Magistrates Wives, when their Reverend Husbands Were employ'd in the necessary Affairs of the Nation, seditiously petitioning: and then I was esteemed; but now they look on me as a monstrous thing, that makes honourable Love to you. Oh, hideous, a Husband Lover! so that now I may protest, and swear, and lye my Heart out, I find neither Credit nor Kindness; but when I beg for either, my Lady Galliard's thrown in my Dish: Then they laugh aloud, and cry, who wou'd think it of gay, of fine Mr. Wilding? Thus the City She-wits are let loose upon me, and all for you, sweet Widow: but I am resolv'd I will redeem my Reputation again, if never seeing you, nor writing to you more, will do it. And so farewel, faithless and scandalous honest Woman.

L. Gal. Stay, Tyrant.

Wild. I am engag'd.

L. Gal. You are not.

Wild. I am, and am resolv'd to lose no more time on a peevish Woman, who values her Honour above her Lover. [He goes out.

L. Gal. Go, this is the noblest way of losing thee.

Clos. Must I not call him back?

L. Gal. No, if any honest Lover come, admit him; I will forget this Devil. Fetch me some Jewels; the Company to night at Sir Timothy's may divert me. [She sits down before her Glass.

Enter Boy.

Boy. Madam, one, Sir Anthony Meriwill, wou'd speak with your Ladyship.

L. Gal. Admit him; sure 'tis Sir Charles his Uncle; if he come to treat a Match with me for his Nephew, he takes me in a critical Minute. Wou'd he but leave his whining, I might love him, if 'twere but in Revenge.

Enter Sir Anthony Meriwill and Sir Charles.

Sir. Anth. So, I have tutor'd the young Rogue, I hope he'll learn in time. Good Day to your Ladyship; Charles [putting him forward] my Nephew here, Madam—Sirrah—notwithstanding your Ladyship's Commands— Look how he stands now, being a mad young Rascal!—Gad, he wou'd wait on your Ladyship—A Devil on him, see if he'll budge now—For he's a brisk Lover, Madam, when he once begins. A Pox on him, he'll spoil all yet.

L. Gal. Please you sit, Sir.

Sir Char. Madam, I beg your Pardon for my Rudeness.

L. Gal. Still whining?— [Dressing her self carelesly.

Sir Anth. D'ye hear that, Sirrah? oh, damn it, beg Pardon! the Rogue's quite out of's part.

Sir Char. Madam, I fear my Visit is unseasonable.

Sir Anth. Unseasonable! damn'd Rogue, unseasonable to a Widow?—Quite out.

L. Gal. There are indeed some Ladies that wou'd be angry at an untimely Visit, before they've put on their best Faces, but I am none of those that wou'd be fair in spite of Nature, Sir—Put on this Jewel here. [To Clos.

Sir Char. That Beauty needs no Ornament, Heaven has been too bountiful.

Sir Anth. Heaven! Oh Lord, Heaven! a puritanical Rogue, he courts her like her Chaplain. [Aside, vext.

L. Gal. You are still so full of University Complements—

Sir Anth. D'ye hear that, Sirrah?—Ay, so he is, indeed, Madam—To her like a Man, ye Knave. [Aside to him.

Sir Char. Ah, Madam, I am come—

Sir Anth. To shew your self a Coxcomb.

L. Gal. To tire me with Discourses of your Passion— Fie, how this Curl fits! [Looking in the Glass.

Sir Char. No, you shall hear no more of that ungrateful Subject.

Sir Anth. Son of a Whore, hear no more of Love, damn'd Rogue! Madam, by George, he lyes; he does come to speak of Love, and make Love, and to do Love, and all for Love—Not come to speak of Love, with a Pox! Owns, Sir, behave your self like a Man; be impudent, be saucy, forward, bold, touzing, and leud, d'ye hear, or I'll beat thee before her: why, what a Pox! [Aside to him, he minds it not.

Sir Char. Finding my Hopes quite lost in your unequal Favours to young Wilding, I'm quitting of the Town.

L. Gal. You will do well to do so—lay by that Necklace, I'll wear Pearl to day. [To Clos.

Sir Anth. Confounded Blockhead!—by George, he lyes again, Madam. A Dog, I'll disinherit him. [Aside.] He quit the Town, Madam! no, not whilst your Ladyship is in it, to my Knowledge. He'll live in the Town, nay, in the Street where you live; nay, in the House; nay, in the very Bed, by George; I've heard him a thousand times swear it. Swear it now, Sirrah: look, look, how he stands now! Why, dear Charles, good Boy, swear a little, ruffle her, and swear, damn it, she shall have none but thee. [Aside to him.] Why, you little think, Madam, that this Nephew of mine is one of the maddest Fellows in all Devonshire.

L. Gal. Wou'd I cou'd see't, Sir.

Sir Anth. See't! look ye there, ye Rogue—Why, 'tis all his Fault, Madam. He's seldom sober; then he has a dozen Wenches in pay, that he may with the more Authority break their Windows. There's never a Maid within forty Miles of Meriwill-Hall to work a Miracle on, but all are Mothers. He's a hopeful Youth, I'll say that for him.

Sir Char. How I have lov'd you, my Despairs shall witness: for I will die to purchase your Content. [She rises.

Sir Anth. Die, a damn'd Rogue! Ay, ay, I'll disinherit him: A Dog, die, with a Pox! No, he'll be hang'd first, Madam.

Sir Char. And sure you'll pity me when I'm dead.

Sir Anth. A curse on him; pity, with a Pox. I'll give him ne'er a Souse.

L. Gal. Give me that Essence-bottle. [To Clos.

Sir Char. But for a Recompence of all my Sufferings—

L. Gal. Sprinkle my Handkerchief with Tuberose. [To Clos.

Sir Char. I beg a Favour you'd afford a Stranger.

L. Gal. Sooner, perhaps. What Jewel's that? [To Clos.

Clos. One Sir Charles Merwill—

L. Gal. Sent, and you receiv'd without my Order! No wonder that he looks so scurvily. Give him the Trifle back to mend his Humour.

Sir Anth. I thank you, Madam, for that Reprimand. Look in that Glass, Sir, and admire that sneaking Coxcomb's Countenance of yours: a pox on him, he's past Grace, lost, gone: not a Souse, not a Groat; good b'ye to you, Sir. Madam, I beg your Pardon; the next time I come a wooing, it shall be for my self, Madam, and I have something that will justify it too; but as for this Fellow, if your Ladyship have e'er a small Page at leisure, I desire he may have Order to kick him down Stairs. A damn'd Rogue, to be civil now, when he shou'd have behav'd himself handsomely! Not an Acre, not a Shilling—buy Sir Softhead. [Going out meets Wild, and returns.] Hah, who have we here, hum, the fine mad Fellow? so, so, he'll swinge him, I hope; I'll stay to have the pleasure of seeing it done.

Enter Wilding, brushes by Sir Charles.

Wild. I was sure 'twas Meriwill's Coach at Door. [Aside.

Sir Char. Hah, Wilding!

Sir Anth. Ay, now, Sir, here's one will waken ye, Sir. [To Sir Char.

Wild. How now, Widow, you are always giving Audience to Lovers, I see.

Sir Char. You're very free, Sir.

Wild. I am always so in the Widow's Lodgings, Sir.

Sir Anth. A rare Fellow!

Sir Char. You will not do't elsewhere?

Wild. Not with so much Authority.

Sir Anth. An admirable Fellow! I must be acquainted with him.

Sir Char. Is this the Respect you pay Women of her Quality?

Wild. The Widow knows I stand not much upon Ceremonies.

Sir Anth. Gad, he shall be my Heir. [Aside still.

L. Gal. Pardon him, Sir, this is his Cambridge Breeding.

Sir Anth. Ay, so 'tis, so 'tis, that two Years there quite spoil'd him.

L. Gal. Sir, if you've any further Business with me, speak it; if not, I'm going forth.

Sir Char. Madam, in short—

Sir Anth. In short to a Widow, in short! quite lost.

Sir Char. I find you treat me ill for my Respect; And when I court you next, I will forget how very much I love you.

Sir Anth. Sir, I shall be proud of your farther Acquaintance; for I like, love, and honour you. [To Wild.

Wild. I'll study to deserve it, Sir.

Sir Anth. Madam, your Servant. A damn'd sneaking Dog, to be civil and modest with a Pox! [Ex. Sir Char, and Sir Anth.

L. Gal. See if my Coach be ready. [Ex. CIos.

Wild. Whether are you janting now?

L. Gal. Where you dare not wait on me, to your Uncle's to Supper.

Wild. That Uncle of mine pimps for all the Sparks of his Party; There they all meet and bargain without Scandal: Fops of all sorts and sizes you may chuse, Whig-land offers not such another Market.

Enter Closet.

Clos. Madam, here's Sir Timothy Treat-all come to wait on your Ladyship to Supper.

Wild. My Uncle! Oh, damn him, he was born to be my Plague: not— Disinheriting me had not been so great a Disappointment; and if he sees me here, I ruin all the Plots I've laid for him. Ha, he's here.

Enter Sir Tim.

Sir Tim. How, my Nephew Thomas here!

Wild. Madam, I find you can be cruel too, Knowing my Uncle has abandon'd me.

Sir Tim. How now, Sir, what's your Business here?

Wild. I came to beg a Favour of my Lady Galliard, Sir, knowing her Power and Quality here in the City.

Sir Tim. How a Favour of my Lady Galliard! The Rogue said indeed he would cuckold me. [Aside.] Why, Sir, I thought you had been taken up with your rich Heiress?

Wild. That was my Business now, Sir: Having in my possession the Daughter and Heir of Sir Nicholas Gett-all, I would have made use of the Authority of my Lady Galliard's House to have secur'd her, till I got things in order for our Marriage; but my Lady, to put me off, cries I have an Uncle.

L. Gal. A well contrived Lye. [Aside.

Sir Tim. Well, I have heard of your good Fortune; and however a Reprobate thou hast been, I'll not shew my self so undutiful an Uncle, as not to give the Gentlewoman a little House-room: I heard indeed she was gone a week ago, And, Sir, my House is at your Service.

Wild. I humbly thank you, Sir. Madam, your Servant. A pox upon him and his Association. [Goes out.

Sir Tim. Come, Madam, my Coach waits below.

[Exit.



ACT III.

SCENE I. A Room.

Enter Sir Timothy Treat-all, and Jervice.

Sir Tim. Here, take my Sword, Jervice. What have you inquir'd, as I directed you, concerning the rich Heiress, Sir Nicholas Get-all's Daughter?

Jer. Alas, Sir, inquir'd! why, 'tis all the City-News that she's run away with one of the maddest Tories about Town.

Sir Tim. Good Lord! Ay, ay, 'tis so; the plaguy Rogue my Nephew has got her. That Heaven shou'd drop such Blessings in the Mouths of the wicked! Well, Jervice, what Company have we in the House, Jervice?

Jer. Why, truly, Sir, a fine deal, considering there's no Parliament.

Sir Tim. What Lords have we, Jervice?

Jer. Lords, Sir, truly none.

Sir Tim. None! what, ne'er a Lord! some mishap will befall me, some dire mischance! Ne'er a Lord! ominous, ominous! our Party dwindles daily. What, nor Earl, nor Marquess, nor Duke, nor ne'er a Lord! Hum, my Wine will lie most villanously upon my Hands to Night. Jervice, what, have we store of Knights and Gentlemen?

Jer. I know not what Gentlemen there be, Sir; but there are Knights, Citizens, their Wives and Daughters.

Sir Tim. Make us thankful for that; our Meat will not lie upon our Hands then, Jervice: I'll say that for our little Londoners, they are as tall Fellows at a well-charg'd Board as any in Christendom.

Jer. Then, Sir, there's Nonconformist-Parsons.

Sir Tim. Nay, then we shall have a clear Board; for your true Protestant Appetite in a Lay-Elder, does a Man's Table Credit.

Jer. Then, Sir, there's Country Justices and Grand-Jury-Men.

Sir Tim. Well enough, well enough, Jervice.

Enter Mrs. Sensure.

Sen. An't like your Worship, Mr. Wilding is come in with a Lady richly drest in Jewels, mask'd, in his Hand, and will not be deny'd speaking with your Worship.

Sir Tim. Hah, rich in Jewels! this must be she. My Sword again, Jervice.—Bring 'em up, Sensure.—Prithee how do I look to Night, Jervice? [Setting himself.

Jer. Oh, most methodically, Sir.

Enter Wild, with Diana, and Betty.

Wild. Sir, I have brought into your kind protection the richest Jewel all London can afford, fair Mrs. Charlot Gett-all.

Sir Tim. Bless us, she's ravishing fair! Lady, I had the honour of being intimate with your worthy Father. I think he has been dead—

Dia. If he catechize me much on that point, I shall spoil all. [Aside. Alas, Sir, name him not; for if you do, [weeping. I'm sure I cannot answer you one Question.

Wild. For Heaven sake, Sir, name not her Father to her; the bare remembrance of him kills her. [Aside to him.

Sir Tim. Alas, poor Soul! Lady, I beg your Pardon. How soft-hearted she is! I am in love; I find already a kind of tickling of I know not what, run frisking through my Veins. [Aside.

Bet. Ay, Sir, the good Alderman has been dead this twelve-month just, and has left his Daughter here, my Mistress, three thousand Pound a Year. [Weeping.

Sir Tim. Three thousand Pound a Year! Yes, yes, I am in love. [Aside.

Bet. Besides Money, Plate, and Jewels.

Sir Tim. I'll marry her out of hand, [Aside.] Alas, I cou'd even weep too; but 'tis in vain. Well, Nephew, you may be gone now; for 'tis not necessary you shou'd be seen here, d'ye see. [Pushing him out.

Wild. You see, Sir, now, what Heaven has done for me; and you have often told me, Sir, when that was kind you wou'd be so. Those Writings, Sir, by which you were so good to make me Heir to all your Estate, you said you wou'd put into my possession, whene'er I made it appear to you I could live without 'em, or bring you a Wife of Fortune home.

Sir Tim. And I will keep my word; 'tis time enough. [Putting him out.

Wild. I have, 'tis true, been wicked; but I shall now turn from my evil ways, establish my self in the religious City, and enter into the Association. There want but these same Writings, Sir, and your good Character of me.

Sir Tim. Thou shalt have both, all in good time, Man: Go, go thy ways, and I'll warrant thee for a good Character, go.

Wild. Ay, Sir, but the Writings, because I told her, Sir, I was your Heir; nay, forc'd to swear too, before she wou'd believe me.

Sir Tim. Alas, alas! how shreudly thou wert put to't!

Wild. I told her too, you'd buy a Patent for me; for nothing woos a City-Fortune like the hopes of a Ladyship.

Sir Tim. I'm glad of that; that I can settle on her presently. [Aside.

Wild. You may please to hint something to her of my godly Life and Conversation; that I frequent Conventicles, and am drunk no where but at your true Protestant Consults and Clubs, and the like.

Sir Tim. Nay, if these will please her, I have her for certain. [Aside. Go, go, fear not my good word.

Wild. But the Writings, Sir—

Sir Tim. Am I a Jew, a Turk? Thou shalt have any thing, now I find thee a Lad of Parts, and one that can provide so well for thy Uncle. [Aside. [Puts him out, and addresses himself to the Lady.

Wild. Wou'd they were hang'd that trust you, that have but the art of Legerdemain, and can open the Japan-Cabinet in your Bed-chamber, where I know those Writings are kept. Death, what a disappointment's here! I wou'd ha' sworn this Sham had past upon him. [Aside.] But, Sir, shall I not have the Writings now?

Sir Tim. What, not gone yet! for shame, away; canst thou distrust thy own natural Uncle? Fie, away, Tom, away.

Wild. A Plague upon your damn'd Dissimulation, that never failing Badge of all your Party, there's always mischief at the bottom on't; I know ye all; and Fortune be the Word. When next I see you, Uncle, it shall cost you dearer. [Exit.

Enter Jervice.

Jer. An't please your Worship, Supper's almost over, and you are askt for.

Sir Tim. They know I never sup; I shall come time enough to bid 'em welcome. [Exit Jer.

Dia. I keep you, Sir, from Supper, and better Company.

Sir Tim. Lady, Were I a Glutton, I cou'd be satisfy'd With feeding on those two bright starry Eyes.

Dia. You are a Courtier, Sir; we City-Maids do seldom hear such Language; in which you shew your kindness to your Nephew, more than your thoughts of what my Beauty merits.

Sir Tim. Lord, Lord, how innocent she is! [Aside.] My Nephew, Madam? yes, yes, I cannot chuse but be wondrous kind upon his score.

Dia. Nay, he has often told me, you were the best of Uncles, and he deserves your goodness, so hopeful a young Gentleman.

Sir Tim. Wou'd I cou'd see't. [Aside.

Dia. So modest.

Sir Tim. Yes, ask my Maids. [Aside.

Dia. So civil.

Sir Tim. Yes, to my Neighbours Wives. [Aside.] But so, Madam, I find by this high Commendation of my Nephew, your Ladyship has a very slender opinion of your devoted Servant the while: or else, Madam, with this not disagreeable Face and Shape of mine, six thousand Pound a year, and other Virtues and Commodities that shall be nameless, I see no reason why I shou'd not beget an Heir of my own Body, had I the helping hand of a certain victorious Person in the World, that shall be nameless. [Bowing and smirking.

Dia. Meaning me, I am sure; if I shou'd marry him now, and disappoint my dear Inconstant with an Heir of his own begetting, 'twou'd be a most wicked Revenge for past Kindnesses. [Aside.

Sir Tim. I know your Ladyship is studying now who this victorious Person shou'd be, whom I dare not name: but let it suffice, she is, Madam, within a Mile of an Oak.

Dia. No, Sir, I was considering, if what you say be true, How unadvisedly I have lov'd your Nephew, Who swore to me he was to be your Heir.

Sir Tim. My Heir, Madam! am I so visibly old to be so desperate? No, I'm in my years of desires and discretion, And I have thoughts, durst I but utter 'em; But modestly say, Mum—

Dia. I took him for the hopefullest Gentleman—

Sir Tim. Let him hope on, so will I; and yet, Madam, in consideration of your Love to him, and because he is my Nephew, young, handsome, witty, and so forth, I am content to be so much a Parent to him, as if Heaven please,—to see him fairly hang'd.

Dia. How, Sir! [In amaze.

Sir Tim. He has deserv'd it, Madam: First, for lampooning the Reverend City with its noble Government, with the Right Honourable Gown-men; libelling some for Feasting, and some for Fasting, some for Cuckolds, and some for Cuckold-makers; charging us with all the seven deadly Sins, the Sins of our Fore-fathers, adding seven score more to the number; the Sins of Forty-One reviv'd again in Eighty-One, with Additions and Amendments; for which, though the Writings were drawn, by which I made him my whole Executor, I will disinherit him. Secondly, Madam, he deserves hanging for seducing, and most feloniously bearing away a young City-Heiress.