Boy. What, is my master mad, trow?

[LOVEBY snatches up the hat, looks in it hastily, and sees nothing but the paper.

Low. Now, the devil take the devil! A plague! was ever man served so as I am! [Throws his hat upon the ground.] To break the bands of amity for one hundred pieces! Well, it shall be more out of thy way than thou imaginest, devil: I'll turn parson, and be at open defiance with thee: I'll lay the wickedness of all people upon thee, though thou art never so innocent; I'll convert thy bawds and whores; I'll Hector thy gamesters, that they shall not dare to swear, curse, or bubble; nay, I'll set thee out so, that thy very usurers and aldermen shall fear to have to do with thee.

[A noise within of ISABELLA and FRANCES.

Enter FRANCES, thrusting back ISABELLA and TIMOROUS.

Franc. How now, what's the matter?

Isa. Nay, sweet mistress, be not so hard-hearted; all I desire of you is but harbour for a minute: you cannot, in humanity, deny that small succour to a gentlewoman.

Franc. A gentlewoman! I thought so; my house, affords no harbour for gentlewomen: you are a company of proud harlotries: I'll teach you to take place of tradesmen's wives, with a wannion to you.

Lov. How's this! Madam Isabella!

Isa. Mr Loveby! how happy am I to meet with you in my distress!

Lov. What's the matter, madam?

Isa. I'll tell you, if this gentlewoman will give me leave.

Franc. No, gentlewoman, I will not give you leave; they are such as we maintain your pride, as they say. [ISABELLA and LOVEBY whisper.] Our husbands trust you, and you must go before their wives. I am sure my good-man never goes to any of your lodgings, but he comes home the worse for it, as they say.

Lov. Is that all? pr'ythee, good landlady, for my sake entertain my friends.

Franc. If the gentleman's worship had come alone, it may be I might have entertained him; but for your minion!

Enter NONSUCH, FAILER, BURR, and Officers. Cry within, Here, here.

Fail. My lord, arrest Sir Timorous upon a promise of marriage to your daughter, and we'll witness it.

Tim. Why, what a strange thing of you's this, madam Isabella, to bring a man into trouble thus!

Fail. You are not yet married to her?

Tim. Not that I remember.

Isa. Well, Failer, I shall find a time to reward your diligence.

Lov. If the knight would have owned his action, I should have taught some of you more manners, than to come with officers into my lodging.

Franc. I'm glad with all my heart this minx is prevented of her design: the gentleman had got a great catch of her, as they say. His old father in the country would have given him but little thanks for it, to see him bring down a fine-bred woman, with a lute, and a dressing-box, and a handful of money to her portion.

Isa. Good Mistress Whatdeelack! I know your quarrel to the ladies; do they take up the gallants from the tradesmen's wives? Lord, what a grievous thing it is, for a she citizen to be forced to have children by her own husband!

Franc. Come, come, you're a slanderful huswife, and I squorn your harlotry tricks, that I do, so I do.

Isa. Steeple-hat your husband never gets a good look when he comes home, except he brings a gentleman to dinner; who, if he casts an amorous eye towards you, then, "Trust him, good husband, sweet husband, trust him for my sake: Verily the gentleman's an honest man, I read it in his countenance: and if you should not be at home to receive the money, I know he will pay the debt to me." Is't not so, mistress?

Enter BIBBER in slippers, with a skein of silk about his neck.

Franc. Will you see me wronged thus, under my own roof, as they say, William?

Isa. Nay, 'tis very true, mistress: you let the men, with old compliments, take up new clothes; I do not mean your wife's clothes, Mr Merchant-Tailor.

Bib. Good, i'faith! a notable smart gentlewoman!

Isa. Look to your wife, sir, or, in time, she may undo your trade; for she'll get all your men-customers to herself.

Bib. An' I should be hanged, I can forbear no longer. [He plucks out his measure, and runs to ISABELLA, to take measure of her.

Isa. How now! what means Prince Pericles by this?

Bib. [On his knees.] I must beg your ladyship e'en to have the honour to trust you but for your gown, for the sake of that last jest, flowered sattin, wrought tabby, silver upon any grounds; I shall run mad if I may not trust your ladyship.

Franc. I think you are mad already, as they say, William: You shall not trust her—

[Plucks him back.

Bib. Let me alone, Frances: I am a lion when I am angered.

Isa. Pray do not pull your lion by the tail so, mistress—In these clothes, that he now takes measure of me for, will I marry Sir Timorous; mark that, and tremble, Failer.

Fail. Never threaten me, madam; you're a person I despise.

Isa. I vow to gad, I'll be even with you, sir.

[Exit.

Non. [To the Bailiff's.]—And when you have arrested him, be sure you search him for my gold.

Bailiffs. [To LOVEBY.] We arrest you, sir, at my Lord Nonsuch's suit.

Lov. Me, you rascals!

Non. Search him for my gold; you know the marks on't.

Lov. If they can find any marked or unmarked gold about me, they'll find more than I can. You expect I should resist now; no, no; I'll hamper you for this.

Bail. There's nothing to be found about him.

Fail. 'Tis no matter, to prison with him; there all his debts will come upon him.

Lov. What, hurried to durance, like a stinkard!

Job. Now, as I live, a pleasant gentleman; I could find in my heart to bail him; but I'll overcome myself, and steal away. [Is going.

Bail. Come, sir, we must provide you of another lodging; but I believe you'll scarce like it.

Lov. If I do not, I ask no favour; pray turn me out of doors.

Bib. Turn him out of doors! What a jest was there? Now, an' I should be hanged, I cannot forbear bailing him: Stay, officers, I bail him body and soul for that jest.

Fail. Let us begone in time, Burr.

[Exeunt BURR, FAILER, and TIMOROUS.

Franc. You shall not bail him.

Bib. I know I am a rogue to do it; but his wit has prevailed upon me, and a man must not go against his conscience. There, officers.

Lov. to Non. Old man, if it were not for thy daughter—

Non. Well, well; take your course, sir.

[Exeunt NONSUCH and Bailiffs.

Lov. Come, Will, I'll thank thee at the tavern. Frances, remember this the next time you come up to make my bed.

Franc. Do your worst, I fear you not, sir. This is twice to day, William; to trust a gentlewoman, and bail a ragamuffin: I am sure he called you cuckold but yesterday, and said he would make you one.

Lov. Look you, Frances, I am a man of honour, and, if I said it, I'll not break my word with you.

Bib. There he was with you again, Frances: An excellent good jest, i'faith la.

Franc. I'll not endure it, that I won't, so I won't: I'll go to the justice's worship, and fetch a warrant for him.

Lov. But, landlady, the word cuckold will bear no action in the law, except you could prove your husband prejudiced by it. Have any of his customers forsook him for't? Or any mercer refused to trust him the less, for my calling him so?

Franc. Nay, I know not for the mercers; perhaps the citizens may take it for no slander among one another, as they say: but for the gentlemen—

Lov. Will, have they forsaken thee upon it?

Bib. No, I assure you, sir.

Lov. No, I warrant 'em: A cuckold has the signification of an honest well-meaning citizen; one, that is not given to jealousies or suspicions; a just person to his wife, &c.; one that, to speak the worst of him, does but to her, what he would be content should be done to her by other men.

Franc. But that another man should be the father of his children, as they say; I don't think that a civil thing, husband.

Lov. Not civil, landlady! why all things are civil, that are made so by custom.

Bib. Why may not he get as fine children as I, or any man?

Franc. But if those children, that are none of yours, should call you father, William!

Bib. If they call me father, and are none of mine, I am the more beholden to 'em.

Franc. Nay, if that be your humour, husband, I am glad I know it, that I may please you the better another time, as they say. [Exit FRANCES.

Bib. Nay, but Frances, Frances! 'tis such another woman. [Exit BIBBER.

Lov. 'Tis such another man:—My coat and sword, boy, I must go to Justice Trice's; bring the women; and come after me. [Exit LOVEBY.



ACT IV. SCENE I.

A Table set with Cards upon it.

TRICE walking: Enter Servant.

Serv. Sir, some company is without upon justice-business.

Trice. Saucy rascal, to disturb my meditations. [Exit Servant.—Ay, it shall be he: Jack Loveby, what think'st thou of a game at piquet, we two, hand to fist? you and I will play one single game for ten pieces: 'Tis deep stake, Jack, but 'tis all one between us two: You shall deal, Jack:—Who I, Mr Justice! that's a good one; you must give me use for your hand then; that's six i'the hundred.—Come, lift, lift;—mine's a ten; Mr Justice:—mine's a king; oh ho, Jack, you deal. I have the advantage of this, i'faith, if I can keep it. [He deals twelve a piece, two by two, and looks on his own cards.] I take seven, and look on this—Now for you, Jack Loveby.

Enter LOVEBY behind.

Lov. How's this? Am I the man he fights with?

Trice. I'll do you right, Jack; as I am an honest man, you must discard this; there's no other way: If you were my own brother, I could do no better for you.—Zounds, the rogue has a quint-major, and three aces younger hand.—[Looks on the other cards.] Stay; what am I for the point? But bare forty, and he fifty-one: Fifteen, and five for the point, twenty, and three by aces, twenty-three; well, I am to play first: one, twenty-three; two, twenty-three; three, twenty-three; four, twenty-three;—Pox on't, now I must play into his hand: five:—now you take it, Jack;—five, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, and the cards forty.

Lov. Hitherto it goes well on my side.—

Trice. Now I deal: How many do you take, Jack? All. Then I am gone: What a rise is here! Fourteen by aces, and a sixieme-major; I am gone, without looking into my cards.—[Takes up an ace and bites it.] Ay, I thought so: If ever man play'd with such cursed fortune, I'll be hanged, and all for want of this damned ace—there's your ten pieces, with a pox to you, for a rooking beggarly rascal as you are.

LOVEBY enters.

Lov. What occasion have I given you for these words, sir? Rook and rascal! I am no more rascal than yourself, sir.

Trice. How's this! how's this!

Lov. And though for this time I put up, because I am a winner— [Snatches the gold.

Trice. What a devil do'st thou put up? Not my gold, I hope, Jack?

Lov. By your favour, but I do; and 'twas won fairly: a sixieme, and fourteen by aces, by your own confession,—What a pox, we don't make childrens' play, I hope?

Trice. Well, remember this, Jack; from this hour I forswear playing with you when I am alone; what, will you bate me nothing on't?

Lov. Not a farthing, Justice; I'll be judged by you; if I had lost, you would have taken every piece on't: What I win, I win—and there's an end.

Enter Servant.

Serv. Sir, these people stay without, and will not be answered.

Trice. Well, what's their business?

Serv. Nay, no great matter; only a fellow for getting a wench with child.

Trice. No great matter, say'st thou? 'Faith, but it is. Is he a poor fellow, or a gentleman?

Serv. A very poor fellow, sir.

Trice. Hang him, rogue; make his mittimus immediately; must such as he presume to get children?

Lov. Well considered: A poor lousy rascal, to intrench upon the game of gentlemen! He might have passed his time at nine-pins, or shovel-board; that had been fit sport for such as he: Justice, have no mercy on him.

Trice. No, by the sword of justice will I not.

Lov. Swear'st thou, ungracious boy[A]? That's too much, on the other hand, for a gentleman. I swear not, I drink not, I curse not, I cheat not; they are unnecessary vices: I save so much out of those sins, and take it out in that one necessary vice of wenching.

[Footnote A: Henry IV. Part 1. Act ii. Scene 4.]

Enter LOVEBY'S Boy.

Boy. Sir, the parties are without, according to your order.

Lov. 'Tis well; bring 'em in, boy.

Enter Lady Du LAKE, and two or three Whores.

Justice, I recommend this ancient gentlewoman, with these virtuous ladies, to thy patronage; for her part, she is a person of exemplary life and behaviour; of singular conduct to break through, and patience to bear the assaults of fortune: A general benefactress of mankind, and, in fine, a promoter of that great work of nature, love.

Trice. Or, as the vulgar translation hath it, a very sufficient and singular good bawd: Is't not so, boy?

Lov. Ay, boy: Now for such a pettifogging fellow as thy clerk to persecute this lady; pr'ythee think on't: Tis a grievance of the free-born subject.

L. Du Lake. To see the ingratitude of this generation! That I, that have spent my youth; set at nought my fortune; and, what is more dear to me, my honour, in the service of gentlemen; should now, in my old age, be left to want and beggary, as if I were the vilest and most unworthy creature upon God's earth! [Crying.

Lov. Nay, good mother, do not take it so bitterly.

L. Du Lake. I confess, the unkindness of it troubles me.

Lov. Thou shalt not want, so long as I live.—Look, here's five pieces of cordial gold, to comfort thy heart with: I won it, e'en now, off Mr Justice; and I dare say he thinks it well bestowed.

Trice. My money's gone to very pious uses.

L. Du Lake. [Laying her hand on LOVEBY'S head.] Son Loveby, I knew thy father well; and thy grandfather before him. Fathers they were both to me; and I could weep for joy to see how thou tak'st after them. [Weeping again.] I wish it lay in my power too to gratify this worthy Justice in my vocation.

Trice. 'Faith, I doubt I am past that noble sin.

Lov. Pr'ythee, good magistrate, drink to her, and wipe sorrow from her eyes.

Trice. Right reverend, my service to you in canary. [She drinks after him, and stays at half a glass.

L. Du Lake. 'Tis a great way to the bottom; but heaven is all-sufficient to give me strength for it. [Drinks it up.] Why, God's blessing on your heart, son Trice! I hope 'tis no offence to call you son? hem!—hem!—Son Loveby, I think my son Trice and I are much of the same years: let me see, son, if nature be utterly extinct in you: Are you ticklish, son Trice? [Tickles him.

Trice. Are you ticklish, Mother Du Lake?

[Tickles her sides. She falls off her chair; he falls off his to her; they roll one over the other.

Lov. I would have all London now show me such another sight of kindness in old age. [They help each other up.] Come, a dance, a dance; call for your clerk, Justice; he shall make one, in sign of amity. Strike up, fidlers!

[They dance a round dance, and sing the tune.

Enter ISABELLA and CONSTANCE.

Isa. Are you at that sport, i'faith? Have among you, blind harpers. [She falls into the dance.

[At the dance's ending, LOVEBY sees CONSTANCE.

Trice. Is she come? A pox of all honest women at such a time!

Lov. If she knows who these are, by this light, I am undone.

Const. Oh, servant! I come to mind you of your promise. Come, produce my hundred pounds; the time's out I set you.

Lov. Not till dark night, upon my reputation! I have not yet spoke with the gentleman in the black pantaloons; you know he seldom walks abroad by day-light. Dear madam, let me wait on you to your coach; and, if I bring it not within this hour, discard me utterly.

Const. You must give me leave to salute the company. What are they?

Lov. Persons of quality of my acquaintance; but I'll make your excuse to 'em.

Const. Nay, if they are persons of quality, I shall be rude to part from 'em so abruptly.

Lov. Why so?—the devil owed me a shame; and now he has paid me. I must present 'em, whate'er come on't. [Aside.]—This, madam, is my Lady Du Lake—the Lady Springwell—the Lady Hoyden.

[She and ISABELLA salute them.

Isa. What a whiff was there came from my Lady Hoyden; and what a garlic breath my Lady Springwell had!

Trice. Ha, ha, ha, ha!

Lov. Do not betray me, Justice; if you do—[Aside.

Isa. Oh, are you thereabouts, sir? then I smell a rat, i'faith; but I'll say nothing. [Aside.

Const. Ladies, I am an humble servant to you all; and account it my happiness to have met with so good company at my cousin Trice's.

Trice. Ha, ha, ha!

L. Du Lake. Are these two ladies of your acquaintance, son Loveby?

Lov. Son, quoth a'! a pox of our relation! [Aside.

L. Du Lake. I shall be glad to be better known to your ladyships.

Const. You too much honour your servants, madam.

Isa. How Loveby fidges up and down! In what pain he is! well, if these be not they, they call whores, I'll be hanged, though I never saw one before. [Aside.

Lov. Will your ladyship please to go, madam?

Const. I must beg the favour of these ladies first, that I may know their lodgings, and wait on them.

L. Du. Lake. It will be our duty to pay our respects first to your ladyship.

Const. I beg your ladyship's pardon, madam—

L. Du Lake. Your ladyship shall excuse us, madam—

Isa. Trice. Ha, ha, ha!

Low. Ah, devil grin you! [Aside.

Trice. I must go out, and laugh my belly-full.

[Exit TRICE.

Const. But in earnest, madam, I must have no denial; I beseech your ladyship instruct me, where I may tender my devoirs.

L. Du Lake. Since your ladyship commands me, madam, I dare disobey no longer. My lodgings are in St Lucknor's Lane, at the Cat and Fiddle.

Const. Whereabouts is that lane, servant?

Lov. Faith, madam, I know not that part o'the town.—Lord, how I sweat for fear! [Aside.

Const. And yours, madam, where, I beseech your ladyship?

2 Whore. In Dog and Bitch yard, an't please your ladyship.

3 Whore. And mine in Sodom, so like your ladyship.

Const. How, Loveby! I did not think you would have used me thus?

Lov. I beseech your ladyship, but hear my justification as I lead you.

Const. By no means, sir; that were such a rudeness to leave persons of quality, to wait upon me: Unhand me, sir.

Isa. Ha, ha, ha!—[Exeunt CONST. ISA.

Lov. I am ruined! for ever ruined. Plague, had you no places in the town to name, but Sodom, and Lucknor's Lane, for lodgings!

L. Du Lake. If any prejudice arise from it, upon my honour, son, 'twas by mistake, and not intended you: I thought she desired to have been admitted of the quality.

Lov. I was curst, when I had first to do with you.

[Kicks them.

L. Du Lake. Well, I thank heaven, that has indued me with such patience.

[Exeunt all but LOVEBY and his Boy.

Lov. I have made a fair hand on't to-day;—both lost my mistress, and hear no news from my friend below: The world frowns upon me, and the devil and my mistress have forsaken me: My godfathers and godmothers have promised well for me: Instead of renouncing them, they have renounced me.

Boy. Sir, I saw my Lady Constance smile as she went out: I am confident she's angry but from the teeth outwards: you might easily make fair weather with her, if you could get the money you promised her, but there's the devil—

Lov. Where is he, boy? shew me him quickly.

Boy. Marry, God bless us! I mean, sir, there's the difficulty.

Lov. Damned rogue, to put me in hope so—

Enter BIBBER at the other end.

Lov. Uds so, look where Bibber is: Now I think on't, he offered me a bag of forty pounds, and the lease of his house yesterday: But that's his pocky humour; when I have money, and do not ask him, he will offer it; but when I ask him, he will not lend a farthing.—Turn this way, sirrah, and make as though we did not see him.

Bib. Our gentleman, I think, a-talking with his boy there.

Lov. You understand me?—

Boy. I warrant you, sir.

Lov. No news yet; what an unlucky rascal 'tis! if the rogue should hereafter be reduced to the raiment of his own shreds, I should not pity him.

Bib. How's this!

Lov. Now is this rascal hunting after jests, to make himself the greatest to all that know him.

Bib. This must be me.

Boy. I can hear neither tale nor tidings of him: I have searched him in all his haunts; amongst his creditors; and in all companies where they are like to break the least jest. I have visited the coffee-houses for him; but among all the news there, I heard none of him.

Bib. Good, i' faith.

Lov. Where's the warrant? I'll put in my own name, since I cannot find him.

Boy. Sir, I gave it a scrivener at next door, because I could not write, to fill up the blank place with Mr Bibber's name.

Lov. What an unlucky vermin 'tis! now, for an hundred pound, could I have gratified him with a waiter's place at the custom-house, that had been worth to him an hundred pound a-year upon the nail.

Bib. Could you so, could you so, sir? give me your hand, and I thank you heartily, Mr Loveby.

Lov. Art thou honest Will? faith, 'tis not worth thy thanks, till it be done: I wish I had the money for thee.

Bib. How much is't, sir?

Lov. An hundred pounds would do it.

Bib. Let me see: forty, I have already by me; take that in part, sir;—and that, and the lease of my house, would over-do it.

Lov. By all means thy lease, Will: ne'er scruple at that; hang a piece of parchment, and two bits of soft wax! thou shalt do't, thou shalt, boy.

Bib. Why, then I will, sir:—But stay, stay: now I think on't, Frances has one hundred and twenty pieces of old grandam-and-aunt gold left her, that she would never let me touch: if we could get that, Mr Loveby! but she'll never part with it.

Lov. Tis but saying the place is for her; a waiting woman's place in the custom-house: Boy, go, and tell her on't immediately. [Exit Boy

Bib. Hold a little; she has been very desirous to get a place in court, that she might take place as the queen's servant.

Lov. She shall have a dresser's place, if thou'lt keep counsel. The worst on't is, I have never a warrant ready.

Bib. 'Tis all one for that, sir; she can neither write nor read; 'tis but my telling her 'tis a warrant, and all's well. I can't but laugh to think how she'll be choused.

Lov. And you too: [Aside.] Mum, she's here, Will.

Enter FRANCES.

Franc. A waiting-woman's place in the custom-house! there's news for me! thank you, kind Mr Loveby; you have been instrumental, I hear, of my preferment.

Lov. No, 'tis a dresser's place at court, landlady.

Franc. O gemini! that's better news.

Bib. Aye, but you must make haste and fetch an hundred pieces: I can assure you five hundred are bidden for it: And the courtiers are such slippery youths, they are ever for the fairest chapman.

Franc. I'll fetch it presently;—oh how my heart quops now, as they say: I'll fetch it presently: Sweet Mr Loveby, if the business can be done, it shall be a good thing in your worship's way, I promise you: O the father! that it could be done: O sweet father! [Loveby plucks out a paper.

Lov. Here, Mr Bibber, pray put in Madam Bibber's name into the warrant.

Bib. Madam Bibber! there's joy!—I must call you wife no more, 'tis Madam Bibber now.

Franc. Pray read it, Mr Bibber.

Bib. An order for the admission of the illustrious lady, Madam Bibber, into her majesty's service.

Franc. Pray give me the paper, I'll have nobody touch it but myself; I am sure my money pays for it, as they say. These are the finest words; Madam Bibber! pray, chicken, shew me where Madam is written, that I may kiss it all over. I shall make bold now to bear up to those flirting gentlewomen, that sweep it up and down with their long tails. I thought myself as good as they, when I was as I was; but now I am as I am.

Lov. Good landlady, dispatch, and bring the money—

Franc. Truly, in the place of a dresser, I dare be bold to say, as they say, I shall give their majesties worships good content: I'll go fetch it.

[Exit FRANCES.

Bib. We must keep the poor soul in ignorance as long as we can, sir; for when she has once smoked it, I have no other way but to retreat into the body of my janizaries, my journey-men; and never come out into her presence more. Where will you be at nine o'clock, sir, that we may rejoice over our good fortune?

Lov. Call me at my Lord Nonsuch's house, and I'll go with you.

Bib. We'll have the fiddles, and triumph, i'faith.

[Exit BIBBER.

Lov. Lord, how eager this vermin was to cheat himself! Well, I'll after; I long to finger these Jacobus's: Perhaps they may make my peace again with my mistress.

[Exit LOVEBY.

SCENE II.

Enter FAILER and NONSUCH. [CONSTANCE and ISABELLA listening.]

Fail. I vow to gad, my lord, Sir Timorous is the most dejected person in the world, and full of regret for what is past. 'Twas his misfortune to be drawn in by such a person as Madam Isabella.

Non. Tis well his estate pleads for him; he should ne'er set foot more within my doors else.

Fail. I'll be security for him for time to come: Leave it to me to get the licence: All I desire is, your daughter may be ready to-morrow morning.

Non. Well, let me alone with her.

[Exeunt FAILER and NONSUCH.

Isa. You heard the dreadful sound, to-morrow, cousin.

Const. I would not throw myself away upon this fool, if I could help it.

Isa. Better marry a tertian ague than a fool, that's certain; there's one good day and night in that.

Const. And yet thou art mad for him thyself.

Isa. Nay, the fool is a handsome fool, that's somewhat; but 'tis not that; 'tis a kind of fancy I have taken to a glass coach, and six Flanders mares; rich liveries, and a good fortune.

Const. Pr'ythee do not mind me of 'em; for though I want 'em not, yet I find all women are caught with gaieties: One grain more would turn the balance on his side; I am so vexed at the wild courses of this Loveby.

Isa. Vexed? why vexed? the worst you can say of him is, he loves women: And such make the kindest husbands, I'm told. If you had a sum of money to put out, you would not look so much whether the man were an honest man, (for the law would make him that) as if he were a good sufficient pay-master.

Enter SETSTONE.

Const. As I live, thou art a mad girl.

Set. She must be used as mad folks are then; had into the dark and cured.

Const. But all this is no comfort to the word, to-morrow.

Isa. Well, what say you, if I put you to-night into the arms of Loveby?

Const. My condition's desperate, and past thy physic.

Isa. When physic's past, what remains but to send for the divine? here's little Nicodemus, your father's chaplain: I have spoke with him already; for a brace of angels he shall make all sure betwixt you without a license; aye, and prove ten at night a more canonical hour than ten i'the morning.

Const. I see not which way thou can'st perform it; but if thou do'st, I have many admirations in store for thee. [Whispers.

Isa. Step in, and get a cushion underneath your apron.

Const. O, I must be with child, it seems!

Isa. And Loveby shall bring you to bed to-night, if the devil be not in the dice: away, make haste;—[Exit CONSTANCE.] Setstone, be not you far off: I shall have need of you too: I hear my uncle coming—Methinks I long to be revenged of this wicked elder, for hindering of my marriage to-day: Hark you, Setstone— [Whispers;

Set. Tis impossible, madam; 'twill never take.

Isa. I warrant you; do not I know him? he has not brains enough, if they were buttered, to feed a blackbird—Nay, no replies—out of what I have said, you may instruct my cousin too.

[Exit SETSTONE.

Enter NONSUCH.

Isa. Oh, are you there, sir? Faith, it was kindly done of you to hinder me of a good husband this afternoon: And but for one thing, I would resolve to leave your house.

Non. I'm glad there's any thing will stay thee.

Isa. If I stay, 'tis for love of my cousin Constance, not of you: I should be loth to leave her in this sad condition.

Non. What condition?

Isa. Nay, I know not; she has not worn her busk this fortnight. I think she's grown fat o'the sudden.

Non. O devil, devil! what a fright I'm in!

Isa. She has qualms too every morning: ravens mightily for green fruit; and swoons at the sight of hot meat.

Non. She's with child: I am undone! I am undone!

Isa. I understand nothing of such matters: She's but in the next room; best call her, and examine her about it.

Non. Why Constance, Constance!

Enter CONSTANCE, as with child.

Isa. Now for a broad-side; turn your prow to him, cousin.

[To her.

Non. Now, gentlewoman! is this possible?

Const. I do not reach your meaning, sir.

Non. Where have you been of late?

Const. I seldom stir without you, sir: These walls most commonly confine me.

Non. These walls can get no children; nor these hangings; though there be men wrought in 'em.

Isa. Yet, by your favour, nuncle, children may be wrought behind the hangings.

Non. O Constance, Constance! How have my grey hairs deserved this of thee? Who got that belly there?

Const. You, I hope, sir.

Non. Tell me the truth, for I will know it; come, the story.

Const. The story's quickly told, sir; I am with child.

Non. And who is the father?

Const. I do not know, sir.

Non. Not know! went there so many to't?

Const. So far from that, that there were none at all, to my best knowledge, sir.

Non. Was't got by miracle? Who was the father?

Const. Who got your money, sir, that you have lost?

Non. Nay, Heaven knows who got that.

Const. And, Heaven knows who got this: for, on my conscience, he, that had your money, was the father on't.

Non. The devil it was as soon.

Const. That's all I fear, sir.

Isa. 'Tis strange;—and yet 'twere hard, sir, to suspect my cousin's virtue, since we know the house is haunted.

Non. 'Tis true, that nothing can be laid, though under lock and key, but it miscarries.

Isa. 'Tis not to be believed, what these villainous spirits can do: they go invisible.

Const. First, they stole away my prayer-book; and, a little after that, a small treatise I had against temptation; and when they were gone, you know, sir—

Isa. If there be such doings, pray heaven we are not all with child. 'Tis certain, that none live within these walls, but they have power of: I have reared Toby, the coachman, any time this fortnight.

Non. Out, impudence! A man with child! why 'tis unnatural.

Isa. Ay, so is he that got it.

Non. Thou art not in earnest?

Isa. I would I were not:—Hark! I hear him groan hither. Come in, poor Toby.

Enter TOBY, the coachman, with an urinal.

Non. How now! what have you there, sirrah?

Tob. An't please your worship, 'tis my water. I had a spice o'the new disease here i'the house; and so carried it to master doctor.

Non. Well; and what did he say to you?

Tob. He told me very sad news, an' please you: I am somewhat bashful to speak on't.

Isa. Out with it, man.

Tob. Why, truly, he told me, the party that owned the water was with child.

Isa. I told you so, uncle.

Non. To my best remembrance, I never heard of such a thing before.

Tob. I never stretch out myself to snap my whip, but it goes to the heart of me.

Isa. Alas, poor Toby!

Non. Begone, and put off your livery, sirrah!—You shall not stay a minute in my service.

Tob. I beseech your good worship, be good to me; 'twas the first fault I ever committed in this kind. I have three poor children by my wife; and if you leave me to the wide world, with a new charge upon myself—

Non. Begone! I will not hear a word.

Tob. If I must go, I'll not go alone: Ambrose Tinis, the cook, is as bad as I am.

Non. I think you'll make me mad. Call the rascal hither! I must account with him on another score, now I think on't.

Enter AMBROSE TINIS.

Non. Sirrah, what made you send a pheasant with one wing to the table yesterday?

Amb. I beseech your worship to pardon me; I longed for't.

Isa. I feared as much.

Amb. And I beseech your worship let me have a boy, to help me in the kitchen; for I find myself unable to go through with the work. Besides, the doctor has warned me of stooping to the fire, for fear of a mischance.

Non. Why, are you with child, sirrah?

Amb. So he tells me; but, if I were put to my oath, I know not that ever I deserved for't.

Non. Still worse and worse. And here comes Setstone groaning.

Enter SETSTONE.

Set. O, sir! I have been so troubled with swooning fits; and have so longed for cherries!

Non. He's poopt too.

Isa. Well, this is not the worst yet: I suspect something more than I will speak of.

Non. What dost thou suspect, ha!

Isa. Is not your lordship with child, too?

Non. Who, I with child! marry, heaven forbid! What dost thou see by me, to ground it on?

Isa. You're very round of late;—that's all, sir.

Non. Round! that's only fat, I hope. I have had a very good stomach of late, I'm sure.

Isa. Alas, and well you may;—You eat for two, sir.

Non. Setstone, look upon me, and tell me true: Do you observe any alteration in me?

Set. I would not dishearten your ladyship—your lordship, I would say—but I have observed, of late, your colour goes and comes extremely. Methinks your lordship looks very sharp, and bleak i'the face, and mighty puffed i'the body.

Non. O, the devil! Wretched men, that we are all! Nothing grieves me, but that, in my old age, when others are past child-bearing, I should come to be a disgrace to my family.

Const. How do you, sir? Your eyes look wondrous dim. Is not there a mist before 'em?

Isa. Do you not feel a kicking in your belly—When do you look, uncle?

Non. Uh, uh!—Methinks, I am very sick o'the sudden.

Isa. What store of old shirts have you against the good time? Shall I give you a shift, uncle?

Non. Here's like to be a fine charge towards! We shall all be brought to-bed together! Well, if I be with devil, I will have such gossips: an usurer, and a scrivener, shall be godfathers.

Isa. I'll help you, uncle; and Sawney's two grannies shall be godmothers. The child shall be christened by the directory; and the gossips' gifts shall be the gude Scotch kivenant.

Const. Set. Non. Tob. Amb. Uh! uh! uh!

Isa. What rare music's here!

Non. Whene'er it comes from me, 'twill kill me; that's certain.

Set. Best take a vomit.

Isa. An't come upward, the horns will choke him.

Non. Mass! and so they will.

Isa. Your only way, is to make sure o'the man-midwife.

Non. But my child's dishonour troubles me the most. If I could but see her well married, before I underwent the labour and peril of child-bearing!—What would you advise, niece?

Isa. That which I am very loth to do. Send for honest Jack Loveby, and let him know the truth on't: He's a fellow without a fortune, and will be glad to leap at the occasion.

Non. But why Loveby, of all the world? 'Tis but staying 'till to-morrow, and then Sir Timorous will marry her.

Const. Uh!—I swell so fast, I cannot hide it 'till to-morrow.

Isa. Why, there's it now!

Non. I'll send for the old alderman, Getwell, immediately: He'll father the devil's bastard, I warrant you.

Isa. Fie, uncle! my cousin's somewhat too good yet for an alderman. If it were her third child, she might hearken to you.

Non. Well, since it must be so, Setstone, go you to Loveby; make my excuse to him for the arrest, and let him know, what fortune may attend him.

Isa. Mr Setstone, pray acquaint him with my cousin's affection to him; and prepare him to father the cushion underneath her petticoat.

[Aside to SETSTONE. Exit.]

Set. I'll bring him immediately.

Isa. When he comes, uncle, pray cover your great belly with your hat, that he may not see it.

Non. It goes against my heart to marry her to this Loveby; but, what must be, must be.

Enter LOVEBY.

Const. O, Mr Loveby! The welcomest man alive! You met Setstone, I hope, that you came so opportunely?

Lov. No, faith, madam; I came of my own accord.

Isa. 'Tis unlucky; he's not prepared.

Lov. Look you, madam, I have brought the hundred pounds; the devil was as punctual as three o' clock at a playhouse. Here; 'tis right, I warrant it, without telling: I took it upon his word.

[Gives it.

Const. Your kindness shall be requited, servant: But I sent for you upon another business. Pray, cousin, tell it him, for I am ashamed to do't.

Lov. Ha! 'tis not that great belly, I hope. Is't come to that?

Isa. Hark you, Mr Loveby; a word with you.

Lov. A word with you, madam: Whither is your cousin bound?

Isa. Bound, sir?

Lov. Ay, bound: Look you, she's under sail, with a lusty fore-wind.

Non. I sent for you, sir; but, to be plain with you, 'twas more out of necessity than love.

Lov. I wonder, my lord, at your invincible ill-nature. You forget the arrest, that I passed by: But this it is to be civil to unthankful persons; 'tis feeding an ill-natured dog, that snarls while he takes victuals from your hand.

Non. All friends! all friends! No ripping up old stories; you shall have my daughter.

Lov. Faith, I see your lordship would let lodgings ready furnished; but I am for an empty tenement.

Non. I had almost forgot my own great belly. If he should discover that too! [Claps his hat before it.

Isa. [To Lov.] You will not hear me, sir. 'Tis all roguery, as I live.

Lov. Flat roguery, I'll swear! If I had been father on't, nay, if I had but laid my breeches upon the bed, I would have married her: But I see we are not ordained for one another.

[Is going.

Non. I beseech you, sir.

Lov. Pray cover, my lord.

Isa. He does his great belly, methinks.

Non. I'll make it up in money to you.

Lov. That cannot tempt me. I have a friend, that shall be nameless, that will not see me want; and so, your servant.

[Exit LOVEBY.

Isa. I'll after, and bring him back.

Non. You shall not stir after him;—Does he scorn my daughter?

Isa. Lord, how fretful you are! This breeding makes you so peevish, uncle.

Non. 'Tis no matter, she shall straight be married to Sir Timorous.

Const. I am ruined, cousin.

[Aside.

Isa. I warrant you.—My lord, I wish her well married to Sir Timorous; but Loveby will certainly infect him with the news of her great belly.

Non. I'll dispatch it, ere he can speak with him.

Isa. Whene'er he comes, he'll see what a bona roba she is grown.

Non. Therefore, it shall be done i'the evening.

Isa. It shall, my lord.

Const. Shall it?

[Aside.

Isa. Let me alone, cousin.—And to this effect she shall write to him, that, to conform to your will, and his modesty, she desires him to come hither alone this evening.

Non. Excellent wench!—I'll get my chaplain ready.

[Exit NONSUCH.

Const. How can you hope to deceive my father?

Isa. If I don't, I have hard luck.

Const. You go so strange a way about, your bowl must be well bias'd to come in.

Isa. So plain a ground, there's not the least rub in't. I'll meet Sir Timorous in the dark; and, in your room, marry him.

Const. You'll be sure to provide for one.

Isa. You mistake me, cousin:—Oh! here's Setstone again.

Enter SETSTONE.

Mr Jeweller, you must again into your devil's shape, and speak with Loveby. But pray be careful not to be discovered.

Set. I warrant you, madam. I have cozened wiser men than he in my own shape; and, if I cannot continue it in a worse, let the devil, I make bold with, e'en make as bold with me.

Isa. You must guide him, by back ways, to my uncle's house, and so to my cousin's chamber, that he may not know where he is when he comes there. The rest I'll tell you as we go along.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

Enter TIMOROUS; after him BURR and FAILER.

Tim. Here, here, read this note; there's news for us.

Fail. Let me see't. [Reads.

Sir Timorous, Be at the garden-door at nine this evening; there I'll receive you with my daughter. To gratify your modesty I designed this way, after I had better considered on it: and pray leave your caterpillars, Burr and Failer, behind you. Yours, Nonsuch.

There is some trick in this, whate'er it be. But this word, caterpillars—You see, Burr, Sir Timorous is like to be lured from us. [Aside.

Burr. Is there no prevention? [Aside.

Fail. One way there is.—Sir Timorous, pray walk a turn, while Burr and I confer a little upon this matter.—Look you, Burr, there is but one remedy in nature, I vow to gad; that is, for you to have a new Sir Timorous, exceeding this person in bounty to you. Observe, then; in Sir Timorous' place will I go, and, egad, I'll marry my lady Constance; and then, from the bowels of friendship, bless thee with a thousand pounds, besides lodging and diet for thy life, boy.

Burr. Umph, very well thought on.—No, sir! you shall trust to my bounty; I'll go in his place. Murmur or repine, speak the least word, or give thy lips the least motion, and I'll beat thee till thou art not in condition to go.

Fail. I vow to gad, this is extreme injustice.—Was it not my invention?

Burr. Why, dost thou think thou art worthy to make use of thy own invention?—Speak another word, d'ye see!—Come, help me quickly to strip Sir Timorous; his coat may conduce to the deceit.—Sir Timorous, by your leave. [Fatts on him.

Tim. O, Lord! what's the matter?—Murder? murder!

Burr. D'ye open? I have something in my pocket that will serve for a gag, now I think on't.

[Gags, and binds him.

So, lie there, knight. Come, sir, and help to make me Sir Timorous; and, when I am married, remember to increase your manners with my fortune.—Yet we'll always drink together. [Exeunt.



ACT V. SCENE I.

Enter CONSTANCE, ISABELLA, and NONSUCH.

Const. This is just the knight's hour; and lovers seldom come after their time.

Non. Good night, daughter; I'll to bed, and give you joy to-morrow morning. [Exit.

Isa. I'm glad he's gone: What, your train takes?

Const. Yes, yes; Loveby will come: Setstone has been with him in disguise; and promised him golden mountains, if he will not be wanting to his own fortune.

Isa. Is your habit provided too?

Const. All is ready.

Isa. Away then; for this is the place where we must part like knights errant, that take several paths to their adventures.

Const. 'Tis time, for I hear somebody come along the alley; without question 'tis Timorous. Farewell; the chaplain stays for me in the chamber.

Isa. And I'll post after you to matrimony; I have laid a fresh parson at the next stage, that shall carry me tantivy.

[Exit CONSTANCE.

Enter BURR with TIMOROUS'S coat on.

Burr. My lady Constance!

Isa. The same: Sir Timorous?

Burr. The same.

Isa. Sir Timorous takes me for my cousin.

[Aside.

Burr. My lady Constance mistakes me for the knight.

[Aside.

Isa. Here, sir; through the dark walk: 'tis but a little way about—He's my own beyond redemption—

[Aside.

Burr. The Indies are mine; and a handsome lady into the bargain.

[Excunt.

Enter FAILER, dogging them, as they go off.

Fail. He shall be hanged, ere he shall get her. Thus far I have dogged them, and this way I am sure they must pass, ere they come to the house. The rogue had got the old dog-trick of a statesman; to fish things out of wiser heads than his own, and never so much as to take notice of him that gave the counsel—

Enter ISABELLA and BURR again.

Now, if I can but give her the hint without his knowledge!—Madam—my lady Constance!

Isa. What voice is that?

Fail. A word in private, or you are undone—Pray step aside.

Burr. Where are you, madam?

Isa. Immediately, Sir Timorous.

Fail. You are mistaken, madam; 'tis not Sir Timorous, but Burr in his clothes; he has stripped the knight, gagged him, and locked him up.

Isa. Failer?

Fail. The same. I could not but prevent your unhappiness, though I hazard my person in the discovery, I vow to gad, madam.

Burr. Who's that talks to you, my lady Constance?

Isa. A maid of my acquaintance, that's come to take her leave of me before I marry; the poor soul does so pity me.

Burr. How will that maid lie, thinking of you and me to-night!

Isa. Has he the key about him? [To FAILER.

Fail. I think so, madam.

Isa. Could not you possibly pick his pocket, and give me the key? then let me alone to release Sir Timorous; and you shall be witness of the wedding.

Fail. Egad, you want your cousin Isabella's wit to bring that to pass, madam.

Isa. I warrant you, my own wit will serve to fool Burr—and you too, or I am much deceived. [Aside.

Fail. I am a little apprehensive of the rascal's fingers, since I felt them last; and yet my fear has not power to resist the sweet temptation of revenge; I vow to gad I'll try, madam.

Isa. Never fear; let me alone to keep him busy.

Burr. Come, madam, and let me take off these tasteless kisses the maid gave you; may we not join lips before we are married?

Isa. No; fie, Sir Timorous.

[They struggle a little, and in that time FAILER picks his pocket of the key.

Fail. I have it—here it is—now, shift for yourself, as I'll do; I'll wait you in the alley.

[Exit.

Isa. Sir Timorous, pray go into my chamber, and make no noise till I return; I'll but fetch the little man of God, and follow you in a twinkling.

Burr. There's no light, I hope?

Isa. Not a spark.

Burr. For to light me to the mark—

[Exit.

Isa. What a scowering have I 'scaped to-night! Fortune, 'tis thou hast been ingenious for me! Allons, Isabella! Courage! now to deliver my knight from the enchanted castle.

[Exit.

Enter LOVEBY, led by SETSTONE, antickly habited; with a torch in one hand, and a wand in the other.

Lov. What art thou, that hast led me this long hour through lanes and alleys, and blind passages?

Set. I am thy genius; and conduct thee to wealth, fame, and honour; what thou comest to do, do boldly; fear not; with this rod I charm thee; and neither elf nor goblin now can harm thee.

Lov. Well, march on; if thou art my genius, thou art bound to be answerable for me; I'll have thee hanged, if I miscarry.

Set. Fear not, my son.

Lov. Fear not, quotha! then, pr'ythee, put on a more familiar shape:—one of us two stinks extremely: Pr'ythee, do not come so near me; I do not love to have my face bleached like a tiffany with thy brimstone.

Set. Fear not, but follow me.

Lov. 'Faith, I have no great mind to't; I am somewhat godly at present; but stay a month longer, and I'll be proud, and fitter for thee. In the mean time, pr'ythee, stay thy stomach with some Dutchman; an Hollander, with butter, will fry rarely in hell.

Set. Mortal, 'tis now too late for a retreat; go on, and live; step back, and thou art mine.

Lorn. So I am, however, first or last; but for once I'll trust thee. [Exeunt.

SCENE II.

_The scene opens, and discovers CONSTANCE, and a Parson by her; she habited like Fortune.

Enter again_.

Set. Take here the mighty queen of good and ill, Fortune; first marry, then enjoy thy fill Of lawful pleasures; but depart ere morn; Slip from her bed, or else thou shalt be torn Piecemeal by fiends; thy blood caroused in bowls, And thy four quarters blown to the top of Paul's.

Lov. By your favour, I'll never venture. Is marrying the business? I'll none, I thank you.

[Here CONSTANCE whispers SETSTONE.

Set. Fortune will turn her back if twice denied.

Lav. Why, she may turn her girdle too on t'other side[A]. This is the devil; I will not venture on her.

[Footnote A: A usual expression of indifference for a man's displeasure.]

Set. Fear not; she swears thou shalt receive no harm.

Lov. Ay, if a man durst trust her; but the devil is got into such an ill name of lying—

Set. Whene'er you are not pleased, it shall be lawful to sue out your divorce.

Lov. Ay, but where shall I get a lawyer? there you are aforehand with me; you have retained most of them already. For the favours I have received, I am very much her servant; but, in the way of matrimony, Mr Parson there can tell you 'tis an ordinance, and must not be entered into without mature deliberation; besides, marriages, you know, are made in heaven; and that I am sure this was not.

Set. She bids you then, at least, restore that gold, which she, too lavishly, poured out on you, unthankful man.

Lov. Faith, I have it not at present; 'tis all gone, as I am a sinner; but, 'tis gone wickedly; all spent in the devil her father's service.

Set. Where is the grateful sense of all your favours? Come, fiends, with flesh-hooks, tear the wretch in pieces, And bear his soul upon your leather wings, Below the fountain of the dark abyss.

Lov. What, are you a-conjuring? If you are good at that sport, I can conjure as well as you—[Draws his sword.

Const. Hold; for Heaven's sake, hold! I am no spirit; touch but my hand; ghosts have no flesh and blood. [Discovering.

Lov. My lady Constance! I began to suspect it might be a trick, but never could imagine you the author. It seems you are desirous I should father this hans en kelder here?

Const. I know not how, without a blush, to tell you, it was a cheat I practised for your love.

Set. A mere tympany, sir, raised by a cushion; you see 'tis gone already.

Const. Setstone was sent to have acquainted you; but, by the way, unfortunately missed you.

Lev. Twas you, then, that supplied me all this while with money? pretty familiar, I hope to make thee amends ere I sleep to-night. Come, parson, pr'ythee make haste and join us. I long to be out of her debt, poor rogue.

[The parson takes them to the side of the stage; they turn their backs to the audience, while he mumbles to them.

Set. I'll be the clerk; Amen—give you joy, Mr Bridegroom, and Mrs Bride.

Lov. Const. Thanks, honest Setstone.

[BIBBER, FRANCES, and music without—they play.

Music. God give your worship a good even, Mr Loveby.

Const. Hark! what noise is that! Is this music of your providing, Setstone?

Set. Alas, madam, I know nothing of it.

Lov. We are betrayed to your father; but the best on't is, he comes too late to hinder us—fear not, madam, I'll bear you through them all.

[As they rush out, BIBBER, FRANCES, and Music are entering in; BIBBER and FRANCES are beaten down.—Exeunt LOVEBY; CONSTANCE, SETSTONE, and Parson.

All cry out. Oh the devil! the devil! the devil!

Bib. Lord bless us, where are you, Frances!

Fran. Here, William! this is a judgment, as they say, upon you, William, for trusting wits, and calling gentlemen to the tavern, William.

Bib. No; 'twas a judgment upon you, for desiring preferment at court, Frances. Let's call up the watch, and Justice Trice, to have the house searched.

Fran. Ay, ay; there's more devils there, I warrant you. [Exeunt.

Enter LOVEBY, CONSTANCE, and SETSTONE again.

Lov. It was certainly Will Bibber and his wife, with music; for, now I remember myself, I 'pointed him this hour at your father's house: but we frighted them worse than they frighted us.

Const. Our parson ran away too, when they cried out the devil!

Lov. He was the wiser; for if the devil had come indeed, he has preached so long against him, it would have gone hard with him.

Set. Indeed, I have always observed parsons to be more fearful of the devil than other people.

Lov. Oh, the devil's the spirit, and the parson's the flesh; and betwixt those two there must be a war; yet, to do them both right, I think in my conscience they quarrel only like lawyers for their fees, and meet good friends in private, to laugh at their clients.

Const. I saw him run in at my cousin Isabella's chamber door, which was wide open; I believe she's returned: We'll fetch a light from the gallery, and give her joy.

Lov. Why, is she married, madam?

Const. I'll tell you as we go. [Exeunt.

SCENE III.

BURR and the Parson enter, meeting in the dark.

Burr. My lady Constance, are you come again? That's well; I have waited sufficiently for you in the dark.

Par. Help, help, help, good Christian people! the devil, the devil's here.

Burr. 'Tis I, madam; what do you mean?

Par. Avoid, Satan! avoid, avoid.

Burr. What have I here, the hairy woman?

Enter LOVEBY, and CONSTANCE with the light.

Ha! yonder's my lady Constance! who have I got? a stone priest, by this good light. How's this, Loveby too!

Lov. Burr a-beating my reverend clergy? What makes you here at this unseasonable hour? I'll know your business. [Draws.

Burr. Will you, sir? [They fight.

Const. Set. Par. Help, murder, murder!

Enter, at one door, TRICE drunk, with the Watch; BIBBER and FRANCES following; at the other, NONSUCH and Servants, and FAILER.

Non. Murder, murder! beat down their weapons. Will you murder Sir Timorous, Mr Loveby?—[They disarm both.] Sir Timorous?—ha, Burr! Thieves, thieves!—sit down, good Mr Justice, and take their examinations. Now I shall know how my money went.

Trice. They shall have justice, I warrant them. [Goes to sit, and misses the chair.

Bib. The justice is almost dead drunk, my lord.

Fran. But an't please your worship, my lord, this is not the worst sight that we have seen here to-night in your worship's house; we met three or four hugeous ugly devils, with eyes like saucers, that threw down my husband, that threw down me, that made my heart so panck ever since, as they say!—

Non. The devil again in my house?

Lov. Nay, here he was, that's certain; he brought me hither, I know not how myself, and married me; Mr Setstone there can justify it: But the best is, I have a charm about me, that will lay him yet ere midnight.

Fail. And I vow to gad, my lord, I know as little how I came hither as any man.

Burr. Nor I.

Trice. Nor I.

Lot. No, I dare swear do'st thou not, Mr Justice.

Trice. But I wonder how the devil durst come into our ward, when he knows I have been at the duties of—my family—this evening.

Enter one of the Watch, with TIMOROUS and ISABELLA.

Watch. An please your worship, I met this couple in the street late, and so, seeing them to be a man and woman, I brought them along with me, upon suspicion of felony together.

Fran. This is the proud minx, that sought shelter in my house this afternoon, Mr Justice.

Fail. Sir Timorous and Madam Isabella! I vow to gad, we are undone, Burr.—

Isa. Do not you know me, Mr Justice?

Lov. Justice is blind, he knows nobody.

Isa. My name is Isabella.

Fran. No, thy name is Jezebella; I warrant you, there's none but rogues and papists would be abroad at this time of night.

Bib. Hold, Frances.—

Trice. She's drunk, I warrant her, as any beast. I wonder, woman, you do not consider what a crying sin drunkenness is: Whom do you learn it from in our parish? I am sure you never see me worse.

Isa. Burr and Failer, acknowledge yourselves a couple of recreant knights: Sir Timorous is mine: I have won him in fair field from you.

Const. Give you joy, cousin, give you joy!

Lov. Married!

Isa. And in Diana's grove, boy.

Lov. Why, 'tis fine, by Heaven; 'tis wondrous fine; as the poet goes on sweetly.

Tim. I am sure they had gagged me, and bound me, and stripped me almost stark naked, and locked me up as fast as a butterfly, 'till she came and made me a man again; and therefore I have reason to love her the longest day I have to live.

Isa. Ay, and the longest night too, or you are to blame. And you have one argument I love you, if the proverb be true, for I took you almost in your bare shirt.

Burr. So much for us, Failer!

Const. Well, my lord, it had as good out at first as at last: I must beg your lordship's blessing for this gentleman and myself. [Both kneel.

Non. Why, you are not married to him, I hope! he's married to the devil.

Lov. 'Twas a white devil of your lordship's getting, then; Mr Setstone and the reverend here can witness it.

Set. Par. We must speak truth, my lord.

Non. Would I had another child for your sake! you should ne'er see a penny of my money.

Lov. Thank you, my lord; but methinks 'tis much better as it is.

Isa. Come, nuncle, 'tis in vain to hold out, now 'tis past remedy: 'Tis like the last act of a play, when people must marry; and if fathers will not consent then, they should throw oranges at them from the galleries. Why should you stand off, to keep us from a dance?

Non. But there's one thing still that troubles me; that's her great belly, and my own too.

Const. Nay, for mine, my lord, 'tis vanished already; 'twas but a trick to catch the old one.

Lov. But I'll do my best; she shall not be long without another.

Isa. But as for your great belly, nuncle, I know no way to rid you on't, but by taking out your guts.

Lov. 'Tis such a pretty smart rascal, 'tis well I am pleased with my own choice: but I could have got such Hectors, and poets, and gamesters, out of thee!—

Const. No, no; two wits could never have lived well together; want would have so sharpened you upon one another.

Isa. A wit should naturally be joined to a fortune; by the same reason your vintners feed their hungry wines.

Const. And if Sir Timorous and I had married, we two fortunes must have built hospitals with our money; we could never have spent it else.

Lov. Or what think you of paying courtiers' debts with it?

Isa. Well, to shew I am in charity with my enemies, I'll make a motion: While we are in town, let us hire a large house, and live together: Burr and Failer—

Fail. Shall be utterly discarded; I knew 'twould come to that, I vow to gad.

Isa. Shall be our guests.

[BURR and FAILER throw up their caps, and cry, Vive Madam ISABELLA!

Lov. And Bibber shall make our wedding clothes without trusting.

Bib. No, henceforward I'll trust none but landed men, and such as have houses and apple-trees in the country, now I have got a place in the custom-house.

Fran. Nothing vexes me, but that this flirting gentlewoman should go before me; but I'll to the herald's office, and see whether the queen's majesty's dresser, should not take place of any knight's wife in Christendom.

Bib. Now all will out—no more, good Frances.

Fran. I will speak, that I will, so I will: What! shall I be a dresser to the queen's majesty, and nobody must know on't? I'll send Mr Church-warden word on't; and, gentlemen, when you come to St Bride's church (if ever you come to church, gentlemen), you shall see me in the pew that's next the pulpit; thank Mr Loveby's worship for it.

Lov. Spare your thanks, good landlady; for the truth is, they came too late, the place is gone; and so is yours, Will; but you shall have two hundred pounds for one, if that will satisfy you.

Fran. This is bitter news, as they say.

Lov. Cheer up thy wife, Will. Where are the fiddles? A dance should do it.

Bib. I'll run and call them.

Isa. I have found out that, will comfort her: Henceforward I christen her by the name of Madam Bibber.

All. A Madam Bibber, a Madam Bibber!

Fran. Why, I thank you, sweet gentlemen and ladies; this is a cordial to my drooping spirits: I confess I was a little eclipsed; but I'll cheer up with abundance of love, as they say. Strike up, fiddles.

Lov. That's a good wench.

DANCE.

Trice. This music and a little nod has recovered me. I'll in, and provide for the sack posset.

Non. To bed, to bed; 'tis late. Son Loveby, get me a boy to-night, and I'll settle three thousand a-year upon him the first day he calls me grandsire.

Lov. I'll do my best, To make the bargain sure before I sleep. Where love and money strike, the blow goes deep.

[Exeunt omnes.



EPILOGUE,

WHEN IT WAS FIRST ACTED.

The Wild Gallant has quite played out his game; He's married now, and that will make him tame; Or if you think marriage will not reclaim him, The critics swear they'll damn him, but they'll tame him. Yet, though our poet's threatened most by these, They are the only people he can please: For he, to humour them, has shown to-day, That which they only like, a wretched play: But though his play be ill, here have been shown The greatest wits, and beauties of the town; And his occasion having brought you here, You are too grateful to become severe. There is not any person here so mean, But he may freely judge each act and scene: But if you bid him chuse his judges, then, He boldly names true English gentlemen: For he ne'er thought a handsome garb or dress So great a crime, to make their judgment less: And with these gallants he these ladies joins, To judge that language, their converse refines. But if their censures should condemn his play, Far from disputing, he does only pray He may Leander's destiny obtain: Now spare him, drown him when he comes again.



EPILOGUE,

WHEN REVIVED.

Of all dramatic writing, comic wit, As 'tis the best, so 'tis most, hard to hit. For it lies all in level to the eye, Where all may judge, and each defect may spy. Humour is that, which every day we meet, And therefore known as every public street; In which, if e'er the poet go astray, You all can point, 'twas there he lost his way. But, what's so common, to make pleasant too, Is more than any wit can always do. For 'tis like Turks, with hen and rice to treat; To make regalios out of common meat. But, in your diet, you grow savages: Nothing but human flesh your taste can please; And, as their feasts with slaughtered slaves began, So you, at each new play, must have a man. Hither you come, as to see prizes fought; If no blood's drawn, you cry, the prize is naught. But fools grow wary now; and, when they see A poet eyeing round the company, Straight each-man for himself begins to doubt; They shrink like seamen when a press comes out. Few of them will be found for public use, Except you charge an oaf upon each house, Like the train bands, and every man engage For a sufficient fool, to serve the stage. And when, with much ado, you get him there, Where he in all his glory should appear, Your poets make him such rare things to say, That he's more wit than any man i' th' play: But of so ill a mingle with the rest, As when a parrot's taught to break a jest. Thus, aiming to be fine, they make a show, As tawdry squires in country churches do. Things well considered, 'tis so hard to make A comedy, which should the knowing take, That our dull poet, in despair to please, Does humbly beg, by me, his writ of ease. 'Tis a land-tax, which he's too poor to pay; You therefore must some other impost lay. Would you but change, for serious plot and verse, This motely garniture of fool and farce, Nor scorn a mode, because 'tis taught at home, Which does, like vests, our gravity become, Our poet yields you should this play refuse: As tradesmen, by the change of fashions, lose, With some content, their fripperies of France, In hope it may their staple trade advance.



THE RIVAL LADIES,

A TRAGI-COMEDY



THE RIVAL LADIES.

This play, like that which preceded it, is a drama of intrigue, borrowed from the Spanish, and claiming merit only in proportion to the diversity and ingenuity of the incidents represented. On this point every reader can decide for himself; and it would be an invidious task to point out blemishes, where, to own the truth, there are but few beauties. The ease with which the affections of almost every female in the drama are engrossed by Gonsalvo, and afterwards transferred to the lovers, upon whom the winding up of the plot made it necessary to devolve them, will, it is probable, strike every reader as unnatural. In truth, when the depraved appetite of the public requires to be gratified by trick and bustle, instead of nature and sentiment, authors must sacrifice the probable, as well as the simple, process of events.

The author seems principally to have valued himself on this piece, because it contains some scenes executed in rhyme, in what was then called the heroic manner. Upon this opinion, which Dryden lived to retract, I have ventured to offer my sentiments in the Life of the Author. In other respects, though not slow in perceiving and avouching his own merit, our author seems to consider the "Rival Ladies" as no very successful dramatic effort.

The "Rival Ladies" is supposed to have been first acted in 1663, and was certainly published in the year following. Of its success we know nothing particular. It is probable, the flowing verse, into which some part of the dialogue is thrown, with the strong point and antithesis, which distinguishes Dryden's works, and particularly his argumentative poetry, tended to redeem the credit of the author of the "Wild Gallant."



THE RIGHT HONOURABLE ROGER, EARL OF ORRERY[1].

[Footnote 1: This distinguished person was fifth son of Richard Boyle, known by the title of the great Earl of Cork. His first title was Lord Broghill, under which he distinguished himself in Ireland. Cromwell, although his lordship was a noted royalist, and in actual correspondence with the exiled monarch, had so much confidence in his honour and talents, that he almost compelled him to act as lord lieutenant of that kingdom, under the stipulation that he was to come under no oaths, and only to act against the rebel Irish, then the common enemy. He was instrumental in the restoration, and created earl of Orrery by Charles II, in 1660, He deserved Dryden's panegyric in every respect, except as a poet—the very character, however, in which he is most complimented, and perhaps was best pleased to be so. He wrote, 1st, The Art of War—2d, Parthenissa, a romance—3d, Some Poems—4th; Eight Plays—5th, State Tracts.]

My Lord,

This worthless present was designed you long before it was a play; when it was only a confused mass of thoughts, tumbling over one another in the dark; when the fancy was yet in its first work, moving the sleeping images of things towards the light, there to be distinguished, and then either chosen or rejected by the judgment; it was yours, my lord, before I could call it mine. And, I confess, in that first tumult of my thoughts, there appeared a disorderly kind of beauty in some of them, which gave me hope, something, worthy my lord of Orrery, might be drawn from them: But I was then in that eagerness of imagination, which, by overpleasing fanciful men, flatters them into the danger of writing; so that, when I had moulded it into that shape it now bears, I looked with such disgust upon it, that the censures of our severest critics are charitable to what I thought (and still think) of it myself: It is so far from me to believe this perfect, that I am apt to conclude our best plays are scarcely so; for the stage being the representation of the world, and the actions in it, how can it be imagined, that the picture of human life can be more exact than life itself is? He may be allowed sometimes to err, who undertakes to move so many characters and humours, as are requisite in a play, in those narrow channels which are proper to each of them; to conduct his imaginary persons through so many various intrigues and chances, as the labouring audience shall think them lost under every billow; and then, at length, to work them so naturally out of their distresses, that, when the whole plot is laid open, the spectators may rest satisfied, that every cause was powerful enough to produce the effect it had; and that the whole chain of them was with such due order linked together, that the first accident would naturally beget the second, till they all rendered the conclusion necessary.

These difficulties, my lord, may reasonably excuse the errors of my undertaking; but for this confidence of my dedication, I have an argument, which is too advantageous for me not to publish it to the world. It is the kindness your lordship has continually shown to all my writings. You have been pleased, my lord, they should sometimes cross the Irish seas, to kiss your hands; which passage (contrary to the experience of others) I have found the least dangerous in the world. Your favour has shone upon me at a remote distance, without the least knowledge of my person; and (like the influence of the heavenly bodies) you have done good, without knowing to whom you did it. It is this virtue in your lordship, which emboldens me to this attempt; for, did I not consider you as my patron, I have little reason to desire you for my judge; and should appear with as much awe before you in the reading, as I had when the full theatre sat upon the action. For, who could so severely judge of faults as he, who has given testimony he commits none? Your excellent poems have afforded that knowledge of it to the world, that your enemies are ready to upbraid you with it, as a crime for a man of business to write so well. Neither durst I have justified your lordship in it, if examples of it had not been in the world before you; if Xenophon had not written a romance, and a certain Roman, called Augustus Caesar, a tragedy, and epigrams. But their writing was the entertainment of their pleasure; yours is only a diversion of your pain. The muses have seldom employed your thoughts, but when some violent fit of the gout has snatched you from affairs of state; and, like the priestess of Apollo, you never come to deliver his oracles, but unwillingly, and in torment. So that we are obliged to your lordship's misery for our delight: You treat us with the cruel pleasure of a Turkish triumph, where those, who cut and wound their bodies, sing songs of victory as they pass, and divert others with their own sufferings. Other men endure their diseases; your lordship only can enjoy them. Plotting and writing in this kind are certainly more troublesome employments than many which signify more, and are of greater moment in the world: The fancy, memory, and judgment, are then extended (like so many limbs) upon the rack; all of them reaching with their utmost stress at nature; a thing so almost infinite and boundless, as can never fully be comprehended, but where the images of all things are always present. Yet I wonder not your lordship succeeds so well in this attempt; the knowledge of men is your daily practice in the world; to work and bend their stubborn minds, which go not all after the same grain, but each of them so particular a way, that the same common humours, in several persons, must be wrought upon by several means. Thus, my lord, your sickness is but the imitation of your health; the poet but subordinate to the statesman in you; you still govern men with the same address, and manage business with the same prudence; allowing it here (as in the world) the due increase and growth, till it comes to the just height; and then turning it when it is fully ripe, and nature calls out, as it were, to be delivered. With this only advantage of ease to you in your poetry, that you have fortune here at your command; with which wisdom does often unsuccessfully struggle in the world. Here is no chance, which you have not foreseen; all your heroes are more than your subjects, they are your creatures; and though they seem to move freely in all the sallies of their passions, yet you make destinies for them, which they cannot shun. They are moved (if I may dare to say so) like the rational creatures of the Almighty Poet, who walk at liberty, in their own opinion, because their fetters are invisible; when, indeed, the prison of their will is the more sure for being large; and, instead of an absolute power over their actions, they have only a wretched desire of doing that, which they cannot chuse but do[1].

[Footnote 1: The earl of Orrery was author of several plays. If the reader is not disposed to admit, that his habit of composing them, when tormented by the gout, enhanced their value, it may be allowed to apologise for their faults.]

I have dwelt, my lord, thus long upon your writing, not because you deserve not greater and more noble commendations, but because I am not equally able to express them in other subjects. Like an ill swimmer, I have willingly staid long in my own depth; and though I am eager of performing more, yet am loth to venture out beyond my knowledge: for beyond your poetry, my lord, all is ocean to me. To speak of you as a soldier, or a statesman, were only to betray my own ignorance; and I could hope no better success from it, than that miserable rhetorician had, who solemnly declaimed before Hannibal, of the conduct of armies, and the art of war. I can only say, in general, that the souls of other men shine out at little crannies; they understand some one thing, perhaps, to admiration, while they are darkened on all the other parts; but your lordship's soul is an entire globe of light, breaking out on every side; and, if I have only discovered one beam of it, it is not that the light falls unequally, but because the body, which receives it, is of unequal parts.

The acknowledgment of which is a fair occasion offered me, to retire from the consideration of your lordship to that of myself. I here present you, my lord, with that in print, which you had the goodness not to dislike upon the stage; and account it happy to have met you here in England; it being, at best, like small wines, to be drunk out upon the place, and has not body enough to endure the sea.

I know not whether I have been so careful of the plot and language as I ought; but, for the latter, I have endeavoured to write English, as near as I could distinguish it from the tongue of pedants, and that of affected travellers. Only I am sorry, that (speaking so noble a language as we do) we have not a more certain measure of it, as they have in France, where they have an academy erected for that purpose, and endowed with large privileges by the present king. I wish we might at length leave to borrow words from other nations, which is now a wantonness in us, not a necessity; but so long as some affect to speak them, there will not want others, who will have the boldness to write them.

But I fear, lest, defending the received words, I shall be accused for following the new way, I mean, of writing scenes in verse. Though, to speak properly, it is not so much a new way amongst us, as an old way new revived; for, many years before Shakspeare's plays, was the tragedy of Queen Gorboduc, in English verse, written by that famous Lord Buckhurst, afterwards earl of Dorset, and progenitor to that excellent person, who (as he inherits his soul and title) I wish may inherit his good fortune[1]. But, supposing our countrymen had not received this writing till of late; shall we oppose ourselves to the most polished and civilised nations of Europe? Shall we, with the same singularity, oppose the world in this, as most of us do in pronouncing Latin? Or do we desire that the brand, which Barclay has (I hope unjustly) laid upon the English, should still continue? Angli suos ac sua omnia impense mirantur; caeteras nationes despectui habent. All the Spanish and Italian tragedies, I have yet seen, are writ in rhyme. For the French, I do not name them, because it is the fate of our countrymen to admit little of theirs among us, but the basest of their men, the extravagancies of their fashions, and the frippery of their merchandise. Shakspeare (who, with some errors not to be avoided in that age, had undoubtedly a larger soul of poesy than ever any of our nation) was the first who, to shun the pains of continual rhyming, invented[A] that kind of writing which we call blank verse, but the French, more properly, prose mesure; into which the English tongue so naturally slides, that, in writing prose, it is hardly to be avoided. And therefore, I admire some men should perpetually stumble in a way so easy, and, inverting the order of their words, constantly close their lines with verbs, which, though commended sometimes in writing Latin, yet we were whipt at Westminster if we used it twice together. I knew some, who, if they were to write in blank verse, Sir, I ask your pardon, would think it sounded more heroically to write, Sir, I your pardon ask. I should judge him to have little command of English, whom the necessity of a rhyme should force often upon this rock; though sometimes it cannot easily be avoided; and indeed this is the only inconvenience with which rhyme can be charged. This is that which makes them say, rhyme is not natural; it being only so, when the poet either makes a vicious choice of words, or places them, for rhyme sake, so unnaturally as no man would in ordinary speaking; but when it is so judiciously ordered, that the first word in the verse seems to beget the second, and that the next, till that becomes the last word in the line, which, in the negligence of prose, would be so; it must then be granted, rhyme has all the advantages of prose, besides its own. But the excellence and dignity of it were never fully known till Mr Waller taught it; he first made writing easily an art; first shewed us to conclude the sense, most commonly in distichs, which, in the verse of those before him, runs on for so many lines together, that the reader is out of breath to overtake it. This sweetness of Mr Waller's lyric poesy was afterwards followed in the epic by Sir John Denham, in his Cooper's-Hill, a poem which, your Lordship knows, for the majesty of the style, is, and ever will be, the exact standard of good writing. But if we owe the invention of it to Mr Waller, we are acknowledging for the noblest use of it to Sir William D'Avenant, who at once brought it upon the stage, and made it perfect, in the Siege of Rhodes.

[Footnote 1: The tragedy of Ferrex and Perrex (which is the proper title) was written by Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, afterwards earl of Dorset, and Thomas Norton, a barrister at law. In Sackville's part of the play, which comprehends the two last acts, there is some poetry worthy of the author of the sublime Introduction to the Mirror of Magistrates. While both the authors were out of England, one William Griffiths published a spurious copy, under the title of Gorboduc, the name of one of the principal personages, who is not, however, queen, but king, of England, But, what was a wider mistake, considering Dryden's purpose of mentioning the work, it is not written in rhyme, but in blank verse, excepting the choruses, which are in stanzas of six lines. The name of the queen is Videna. Sir Philip Sydney says, "Gorboduc is full of stately speeches and well sounding phrases, climbing up to the height of Seneca his style, and as full of notable morality, which it doth most delightfully teach, and thereby obtain the very end of poetry."]

[Footnote A: This is a mistake. Marlow, and several other dramatic authors, used blank verse before the days of Shakspeare.]

The advantages which rhyme has over blank verse are so many, that it were lost time to name them. Sir Philip Sidney, in his Defence of Poesy, gives us one, which, in my opinion, is not the least considerable; I mean the help it brings to memory, which rhyme so knits up, by the affinity of sounds, that, by remembering the last word in one line, we often call to mind both the verses. Then, in the quickness of repartees (which in discoursive scenes fall very often), it has so particular a grace, and is so aptly suited to them, that the sudden smartness of the answer, and the sweetness of the rhyme, set off the beauty of each other. But that benefit which I consider most in it, because I have not seldom found it, is, that it bounds and circumscribes the fancy. For imagination in a poet is a faculty so wild and lawless, that, like an high-ranging spaniel, it must have clogs tied to it, lest it out-run the judgment. The great easiness of blank verse renders the poet too luxuriant; he is tempted to say many things, which might better be omitted, or at least shut up in fewer words; but when the difficulty of artful rhyming is interposed, where the poet commonly confines his sense to his couplet, and must contrive that sense into such words, that the rhyme shall naturally follow them, not they the rhyme; the fancy then gives leisure to the judgment to come in, which, seeing so heavy a tax imposed, is ready to cut off all unnecessary expences. This last consideration has already answered an objection which some have made, that rhyme is only an embroidery of sense, to make that, which is ordinary in itself, pass for excellent with less examination. But certainly, that, which most regulates the fancy, and gives the judgment its busiest employment, is like to bring forth the richest and clearest thoughts. The poet examines that most, which he produceth with the greatest leisure, and which, he knows, must pass the severest test of the audience, because they are aptest to have it ever in their memory; as the stomach makes the best concoction, when it strictly embraces the nourishment, and takes account of every little particle as it passes through. But, as the best medicines may lose their virtue, by being ill applied, so is it with verse, if a fit subject be not chosen for it. Neither must the argument alone, but the characters and persons, be great and noble; otherwise, (as Scaliger says of Claudian) the poet will be ignobitiore materia depressus. The scenes, which, in my opinion, most commend it, are those of argumentation and discourse, on the result of which the doing or not doing some considerable action should depend.

But, my lord, though I have more to say upon this subject, yet I must remember, it is your lordship to whom I speak; who have much better commended this way by your writing in it, than I can do by writing for it. Where my reasons cannot prevail, I am sure your lordship's example must. Your rhetoric has gained my cause; at least the greatest part of my design has already succeeded to my wish, which was to interest so noble a person in the quarrel, and withal to testify to the world how happy I esteem myself in the honour of being,

MY LORD,

Your Lordship's most humble, and most obedient servant, JOHN DRYDEN.



PROLOGUE

'Tis much desired, you judges of the town Would pass a vote to put all prologues down; For who can show me, since they first were writ, They e'er converted one hard-hearted wit? Yet the world's mended well; in former days Good prologues were as scarce as now good plays. For the reforming poets of our age, In this first charge, spend their poetic rage: Expect no more when once the prologue's done; The wit is ended ere the play's begun. You now have habits, dances, scenes, and rhymes; High language often; ay, and sense, sometimes. As for a clear contrivance, doubt it not; They blow out candles to give light to th' plot. And for surprise, two bloody-minded men Fight till they die, then rise and dance again. Such deep intrigues you're welcome to this day: But blame yourselves, not him who writ the play; Though his plot's dull, as can be well desired, Wit stiff as any you have e'er admired: He's bound to please, not to write well; and knows, There is a mode in plays as well as clothes; Therefore, kind judges—

Second Prologue enters.

2.—Hold; would you admit For judges all you see within the pit?

1. Whom would he then except, or on what score?

2. All, who (like him) have writ ill plays before; For they, like thieves condemned, are hangmen made, To execute the members of their trade. All that are writing now he would disown, But then he must except—even all the town; All cholerick, losing gamesters, who, in spite, Will damn to day, because they lost last night; All servants, whom their mistress' scorn upbraids; All maudlin lovers, and all slighted maids; All, who are out of humour, or severe; All, that want wit, or hope to find it here.



DRAMATIS PERSONAE

DON GONSALVO DE PERALTA, a young gentleman newly arrived from the Indies, in love with JULIA. DON RODORIGO DE SYLVA, in love with the same lady. DON MANUEL DE TORRES, brother to JULIA.

JULIA, elder sister to DON MANUEL, promised to RODORIGO. HONORIA, younger sister to DON MANUEL, disguised in the habit of a man, and going by the name of HIPPOLITO, in love with GONSALVO. ANGELINA, sister to DON RODORIGO, in man's habit, likewise in love with GONSALVO, and going by the name of AMIDEO.

Servants, Robbers, Seamen, and Masquers.

SCENE—Alicant.



THE RIVAL LADIES.

ACT I.

SCENE I—A Wood.

Enter GONSALVO and a Servant.

Gon. Nay, 'twas a strange as well as cruel storm, To take us almost in the port of Sevile, And drive us up as far as Barcelona; The whole plate fleet was scattered, some part wrecked; There one might see the sailors diligent To cast o'erboard the merchant's envied wealth, While he, all pale and dying, stood in doubt, Whether to ease the burden of the ship, By drowning of his ingots, or himself.

Serv. Fortune, sir, is a woman everywhere, But most upon the sea.

Gons. Had that been all, I should not have complained; but, ere we could Repair our ship, to drive us back again, Was such a cruelty—

Serv. Yet that short time you staid at Barcelona You husbanded so well, I think you left A mistress there.

Gons. I made some small essays Of love; what might have been I cannot tell: But, to leave that, upon what part of Spain Are we now cast?

Serv. Sir, I take that city to be Alicant.

Gons. Some days must of necessity be spent In looking to our ship; then back again For Sevile.

Serv. There you're sure you shall be welcome.

Gons. Aye, if my brother Rodoric be returned From Flanders; but 'tis now three years since I Have heard from him, and, since I saw him, twelve.

Serv. Your growth, and your long absence in the Indies, Have altered you so much, he'll scarcely know you.

Gons. I'm sure I should not him, and less my sister; Who, when I with my uncle went this voyage, Was then one of those little prating girls, Of whom fond parents tell such tedious stories: Well, go you back.

Serv. I go, sir.

Gons. And take care None of the seamen slip ashore.

Serv. I shall, sir. [Exit Servant.

Gons. I'll walk a little while among these trees, Now the fresh evening air blows from the hills, And breathes the sweetness of the orange flowers Upon me, from the gardens hear the city.

Robbers within.

1 Rob. I say, make sure, and kill him.

Hip. For heaven's dear sake have pity on my youth.

[Within.

Gons. Some violence is offered in the wood By robbers to a traveller: Whoe'er Thou art, humanity obliges me To give thee succour.

Hip. Help! ah cruel men! [Within.

Gons. This way, I think, the voice came; 'tis not far. [Exit.

The SCENE draws, and discovers HIPPOLITO bound to a tree, and two Robbers by him with drawn swords.

2 Rob. Strip him, and let him go.

1 Rob. Dispatch him quite; off with his doublet quickly.

Hip. Ah me, unfortunate!

Enter GONSALVO, seizes the sword of one of them, and runs him through; then, after a little resistance, disarms the other.

2 Rob. If you have mercy in you, spare my life; I never was consenting to a deed So black as murder, though my fellow urged me: I only meant to rob, and I am punished Enough, in missing of my wicked aim.

Gons. Do they rob angels here? This sweet youth has A face so like one, which I lately saw, It makes your crime of kin to sacrilege: But live; and henceforth Take nobler courses to maintain your life: Here's something that will rescue you from want, 'Till you can find employment. [Gives him gold, and unbinds HIPPOLITO.

Hip. What strange adventure's this! How little hoped I, When thus disguised I stole from Barcelona, To be relieved by brave Gonsalvo here? [Aside.

2 Rob. That life, you have preserved, shall still be yours; And that you may perceive, how much my nature Is wrought upon by this your generous act, That goodness, you have shown to me, I'll use To others for your sake, if you dare trust me A moment from your sight.

Gons. Nay, take your sword; I will not so much crush a budding virtue, As to suspect. [Gives him his sword. Exit Robber. —Sweet youth, you shall not leave me, Till I have seen you safe.

Hip. You need not doubt it: Alas! I find I cannot, if I would: I am but freed to be a greater slave: [Aside. How much am I obliged, sir, to your valour!

Gons. Rather to your own sweetness, pretty youth; You must have been some way preserved, though I Had not been near; my aid did but prevent Some miracle more slowly setting out To save such excellence.

Hip. How much more gladly could I hear those words, If he, that spoke them, knew he spoke to me! [Aside.

Enter the Robber again with Don MANUEL, and JULIA, bound.

My brother and my sister prisoners too! They cannot sure discover me through this Disguise; however, I'll not venture it. [Steps behind the trees.

2 Rob. This gentleman and lady [To GONS. privately. My fellows bound. [Exit Robber.

Man. We must prepare to die; This is the captain of the Picarons.

Jul. Methinks he looks like one; I have a strange Aversion to that man; he's fatal to me.

Gons. I ne'er saw excellence in womankind [Stares on her. Till now, and yet discern it at the first: Perfection is discovered in a moment; He, that ne'er saw the sun before, yet knows him.