THE Dutch Lover: A COMEDY, ACTED AT THE DVKES THEATRE.
Written by Mrs. A. Bhen.
LONDON: Printed for Thomas Dring, at the Sign of the Harrow at Chancery-lane end, over against the Inner Temple Gate in Fleet-street. 1673.
Good, Sweet, Honey, Sugar-candied READER.
WHich I think is more than any one has call'd you yet.) I must have a word or two with you before you do advance into the Treatis [...]; but 'tis not to beg your pardon for diverting you from your affairs, by such an idle Pamphlet as this is, for I presume you have not much to do, and therefore are to be obliged to me for keeping you from worse imployment, and if you have a better, you may get you gone about your business: but if you will mispend your time, pray lay the fault upon your self; for I have dealt pretty fairly in the matter, and told you in the Title [...]age what you are to expect within. Indeed, had I hung out a sign of the Immortality of the Soul, of the Mystery of Godliness, or of Ecclesiastical Policie, and then had treated you with Indiscerpibility, and Essential Spissitude (words, which though [...] am no competent Iudge of, for want of Languages, yet I fancy strongly ought to mean just nothing) with a company of Apocryphal midnight tales cull'd out of the choicest insignificant Authors; If I had only prov'd in Folio that Apollonius was a naughty Knave, or had presented you with two or three of the worst principles transcrib'd out of the peremptory and ill natur'd, (though prettily ingenious) [Page] Doctor of Mal [...]sbury undigest [...]d, and ill manag'd by a silly, saucy, ignorant, imp [...]rtinent, ill educated Chaplain, I were then indeed sufficiently in fault; but having inscrib'd Comedy on the beginning of my Book, you may guess pretty near what peny-worths you are like to have, and ware your money a [...]d your time accordingly.
I would not yet be understood to lessen the dignity of Playes, for surely they deserve a place among the middle, if not the better sort of Books; for I have heard that most of that which bears the name of Learning, and which has abus'd such quantities of Ink and Paper, and continually imploys so many ignorant, unhappy souls for ten, twelve, twenty years in the Vniversity (who yet poor wretches think they are doing something all the while) as Logick, &c. and several other things (that shall be nameless, lest I should mispel them) are much more absolutely nothing than the errantest Play that e're was writ. Take notice, Reader, I do not assert this purely upon my own knowledge; but I think I have known it very fully prov'd, both sides being fairly heard, and seen some ingenious opposers of it most abominably baff [...]ed in the Argument: Some of which I have got so perfectly by rote, that if this were a proper place for it, I am apt to think my self could almost make it clear; and as I would not undervalue Poetry, so neither am I altogether of their judgement, who believe no wisdom in the world beyond it. I have often heard indeed (and read) how much the World was anciently oblig'd to it for most of that which they call'd Science, which my want of letters [...]akes me less assur'd of than others happily may be: [Page] but I have heard some wise men say, that no considerable part of useful knowledge was this way communicated, and on the other way, that it hath serv'd to propagate so many idle superstitions, as all the benefits it hath or can be guilty of, can never make sufficient amends for, which unaided by the unluckey charms of Poetry, could never have possest a thinking Creature such as man. However true this is, I am my self well able to affirm that none of all o [...]r English Poets, and least th [...] Dramatique (so I think you call them) can be justly charg'd with too gr [...]at reformation of mens minds or mann [...]rs, and for that I may appeal to general experiment, if th [...]se who are the most [...]ssiduous Disciples of the Stage, do not make the f [...]ndest [...]nd the lewdest crew about this Town; for if you sho [...]ld unhappily converse them through the year, you will not find one dram of sence amongst a Club of them, unless you will allow for such a little Link-Bays Ribaldry, thick larded with unseasonable [...]aths, & impudent defiance of God, and all things serious; and that at such a senceless damn'd unthinking rate, as, if 'twere well distributed, would spoil near half the Apothecaries trade, and save the sober people of the Town the charge of Vomits; And it was smartly said, (how prudently I cannot t [...]ll) by a late learned Doctor, who, though himself no great asserter of a Deity, (as you'l believe by that which follows) yet was observed to be continually perswading of this sort of men (if I for once may call them so) of the necessity and truth of our Religion; and being ask'd how he came to bestir himself so much this way, made answer, that it was because their ignorance [Page] and indiscreet debauch made them a scandal to the profession of Atheism. And for their wisdom and design, I never knew it reach beyond the invention of some notable expedient, for the speedier ridding them of their estate, (a devilish [...]l [...]g to Wit and Parts) than other grouling Mortal [...] know, or battering half a dozen fair new Windows in a Morning after their debauch, whils [...] the dull unj [...]nt [...]e R [...]seal they belong to is fast asleep. But I'l proceed no farther in their chara [...]ter, because that miracle of Wit (in spight of Academick frippery) the mighty Echard hath already done it to my satisfaction; and who [...]ver undertakes a Suppliment to any thing he hath discourst, had better for their reputation be doing nothing.
Besides, this Theam is worn too threa [...]-bare by the whiffling would-be Wits of the Town, and of both the stone-blind-eyes of the Kingdom. And therefore to return to that which I before was speaking of, I will have leave to say that in my judgement the increasing number of our latter Plays have not done much more towards the amending of mens Morals, or their Wit, than [...]ath the frequent Preaching, which this last age hath been pester'd with, (indeed without all Controversie they have done less har [...]) nor can I once imagine what temptation any one can have to expect it from them: for, sure I am, no Play was ever writ with that design. If you consider Tragedy, you'l find their best of characters unlikely patterns for a wise man to pursue: For he that is the Knight of the Play, no sublunary feats must serve his Dulcinea; for if he can't bestrid the Moon, he'l ne'er make good his business to the end, and if he chance to [Page] be offended, he must without considering right or wrong confound all things he meets, and put you half a score likely tall fellows into each pocket; and truly if he come not something near this pitch, I think the Tragedies not worth a farthing; for Playes were certainly intended for the exercising of mens passions, not their understandings, and he is infinitely far from wise, that will bestow one moments private meditation on such things: And as for Comedie, the finest folks you meet with there, are still unfitter for your imitation, for though within a leaf or two of the Prologue, you are told that they are people of Wit, good H [...]mour, good Manners, and all that: yet if the Authors did not kindly add their proper names, you'd never know them by their characters; for whatsoe'er's the matter, it hath happen'd so spightfully in several Playes, which ha [...]e been prettie well receiv'd of late, that ev [...]n th [...]se persons that were meant to be the ingenious Censors of the Play, have either prov'd the most debauch'd, or most un [...]ittie people in the Companie: nor is this error very lamentable, since as I take it Comedie was never meant, either for a converting or confirming Ordinance: In short, I think a Play the best divertisement that wise men have; but I do also think them nothing so, who do discourse as formallie about the rules of it, as if 'twere the grand affair of humane life. This being my opinion of Plays, I studied only to make this as entertaining as I could, which whether I have been successful in, my gentle Reader, you may for your shilling judge. To [...]ell you my thoughts of it, were to little purpose, for were they very ill, you may be sure I would not have exp [...]s'd [Page] it; nor did I so till I had first consulted most of those who have a reputation for judgement of this kind; who were at least so civil (if not kind) to it as did incourage me to venture it upon the Stage, and in the Press: Nor did I take their single word for it, but us'd their reasons as a confirmation of my own.
Indeed that day 'twas Acted first, there comes me into the Pit, a long, lither, phlegmatick, [...]hite, ill-favour'd, wretched Fop, an officer in Masquerade newly transported with a Scarfe & Feather out of France, a sorry Animal that has nought else to shield it from the uttermost contempt of all mankind, but that respect which [...]e afford to Rats and Toads, which though we do not well allow to live, yet whe [...] considered as a part of Gods Creation, we make honourable mention of them. A thing, Reader—but no more of such a Smelt: This thing, I tell ye, opening that which serves it for a mouth, out issued such a noise as this to those that sate about it, that they were to expect a woful Play, God damn him, for it was a womans. Now how this came about I am not sure, but I suppose he brought it piping hot from some, who had with him the reputation of a villanous Wit: for Creatures of his size of sence talk without all imagination, such scraps as they pick up from other folks. I would not for a world be taken arguing with such a propertie as this, but if I thought there were a man of any tolerable parts, who could upon mature deliberation disting [...]sh well his right-hand from his left, and justly state the difference between the number of sixteen and two, yet had this prejudice upon him; I would take a little [Page] pains to make him know how much he errs. For waving the examination, [...]hy women having equal education with men, were not as capable of knowledge, of whatever sort as well as they: I'l only say as I have touch'd before, that Plays have no great room for that which is mens great advantage over women, that is Learning: We all well know that the immortal Shakespears Playes (who was not guilty of much more of this than often falls to womens share) have better pleas'd the World than Johnsons works, though by the way 'tis said that Benjamin was no such Rabbi neither, for I am inform'd his Learning was but Grammer high; (sufficient indeed to rob poor Salust of his best Orations) and it hath been observ'd, that they are apt to admire him most confoundedly, who have just such a scantling of it [...] as he had; and I have seen a man the most severe of Johnsons Sect, sit with his Hat remov'd less than a hairs breadth from one sullen posture for almost three hours at the Al [...]hymist; who at that excellent Play of Harry the Fourth (which yet I hope is far enough from Farce) hath very hardly kept his Doublet whole; but affectation hath always had a greater share both in the actions and discourse of men than truth and judgement have: and for our Modern ones, except our most unimitable Laureat, I dare to say I know of none that write at such a formidable rate, but that a woman may well hope to reach their great [...]st hights. Then for their musty rules of Vnity, and God knows what besides, if they meant any thing, they are enough intelligable, and as practible by a woman; but really methinks they that disturb their heads with [Page] any other rules of Playes besides the making them pleasant, and avoiding of scurrility, might much better be imploy'd in studying how to improve mens too too imperfect knowledge of that ancient English Game; which hight long Laurence: And if Comedy should be the Picture of ridiculous mankind, I wonder any one should think it such a sturdy task, whilst we are furnish'd with such precious Originals as him, I lately told you of; if at least that Character do not dwindle into Farce, and so become too mean an entertainment for th [...]se persons who are us'd to think. Reader, I have a complaint or two to make to you, and I have done; Know then this Play was hugely injur'd in the Acting, for 'twas done so imperfectly as never any was before, which did more harm to this than it could have done to any of another sort; the Plot being busie (though I think not intricate) and so requiring a continual attention, which being in [...]errupted by the intolerable negligence of some that acted in it, must needs much spoil the beauty on't. My Dutch Lover spoke but little of what I intended for him, but supply'd it with a deal of idle stuff, which I was wholly unacquainted with, till I had heard it first from him; so that Iack pudding ever us'd to do: which though I knew before, I gave him yet the part, because I knew him so acceptable to most o'th' lighter [...]eriwigs about the Town, and he indeed did vex me so, I could almost be angry [...] Yet, but Reader, you remember, I suppose, a fusty piece of Latine that has past from hand to hand this thousand years they say (and how much longer I can't tell) in favour of the dead▪ I intended him a habit much more notably ridiculous, [Page] which if [...] it can ever be important was so here, for many of the Scenes in the three last Acts depended upon the mistakes of the Colonel for Haunce, which the ill-favour'd likeness of their Habits is suppos'd to cause. Lastly, my Epilogue was promis'd me by a Person who had surely made it good, if any, but he failing of his word, deputed one, who has made it as you see, and to make out your penyworth you have it here. The Prologue is by misfortune lost. Now, Reader, I have eas'd my mind of all I had to say, and so sans farther complyment, Adieu.
- AM [...]rosio, A Nobleman of Spain.
- Marcel, His Son.
- Silvio, Supposed bastard Son to Ambrosio.
- Antonio, A German that has debauch'd Hippolyta.
- Alonzo, A Flaunders Colonel contracted to Hippolyta. and newly arrived at Madrid.
- Lovis, His friend.
- Carlo, Father to Lovis, and Euphemia.
- Haunce van Ezel, A Dutch Fop contracted to Euphemia, newly arrived at Madrid.
- Gload, His Cash-keeper.
- Pedro, An old servant to Alonzo.
- Euphemia, In love with Alonzo.
-
Daughters to Ambrosio.
- Hippolyta, In love with Antonio
- Cleonte, In love with Silvio
- Clarinda, Sister unknown to Alonzo in love with Marcel.
- Dormida, Her Governess.
- Francisca, Woman to Cleonte.
-
Two Maids to Euphemia.
- Olinda,
- Dorice,
THE Dutch Lover.
ACT I.
SCENE I.
DEar Alonzo! I shall love a Church the better this month for giving me a sight of thee, whom I so little expected in this part of the World, and less in so sanctifi'd a place. What affair could be powerful enough to draw thee from the kind obliging Ladies of B [...]abant?
First the sudden orders of my Prince Don Iohn, and next a fair Lady.
A Lady! can any of this Country relish with a man that has been us'd to the freedom of those of Bruxels, from whence I suppose you are now arriv'd?
This morning landed, from such a storm, as set us all to making vows of conversion, (upon good conditions) and that indeed brought me to Church.
In that very storm I landed too, but with less sen [...]e of danger than you, being diverted with a pleasant fellow that came along with me, and who is defign'd to marry a sister of mine against my will—And now I think of him, Gload, [Page 2] where hast thou left this Master of thine?
At the Inne, Sir, in as lamentable a pickle, as if he were still in the storm; recruiting his emptyed stomach with Brandy, and railing against all women-kind for your sisters sake, who has made him undertake this voyage.
Well, I'l come to him, go home before.
Prethee what thing is this?
Why, 'tis the Cashier to this Squire I spoke of, a man of business, and as wise as his Master, but the graver Coxcomb of the two. But this Lady, Alonzo, who is this Lady thou speak'st of? shall not I know her? we were wont to divide the spoils of Beauty, as well as those of war between us.
O but this is no such prise, thou wouldst hardly share this with the danger, there's Matrimony in the case.
Nay, then keep her to thy self, only let me know who 'tis that can debauch thee to that scandalous way of life; is she fair? will she recompence the folly?
Faith I know not, I never saw her yet, but 'tis the sister of Marcell, whom we both knew last Summer in Flandens, and where he and I contracted such a friendship, that without other consideration he promis'd me Hippolyta, for that's his sisters name.
But wo't thou really marry her?
I consider my advantage in being allied to so considerable a man as Ambrosio, her father; I being now so unhappy as not to know my Birth or Parents.
I have often heard of some such thing, but durst not ask the truth of it.
'Tis so, all that I know of myself is, that a Spanish Souldier, who brought me up in the Army, dying, confest I was not his son, (which till then I believed) and a [...] the age of twelve left me to shift for my self; the fortune he inricht me with was his Horse and Arms, with a few documents how to use them, as I had seen him do with good success: This servant, and a Crucifix of value.
And from one degre [...] to another, I arriv'd to what you knew me, Colonel of the Princes Regiment, and the glory of his favour▪
Honour is the Child of Vertue, and finds an owner every where.
Oh, Sir, you are a Courtier, and have much the odds of a Souldier in parlies of this nature: But hither I am come—
To be undone; faith thou lookst ill upon [...]t.
I confess I am not altogether so brisk as I should have been upon another occasion; you know Lovis I have been us'd to Christian liberty, and hate this formal courtship. Pox on't, wou'd 'twere over.
Where all parties are agreed, there's little need of that; and the Ladies of Spain, whatever gravity they assume, are as ready as any you ever met withal.
But there's a damn'd custom that does not at all agree with men so frank and gay as thou and I; there's a deal of danger in the atchievement, which some say hightens the pleasure, but I am of another opinion.
Sir, there is a female in a vail has follow'd us ever since we came from Church.
Some amorous adventure: See she
advances: Prethee retire, there may be danger in it.
Oh then, I must by no means leave you.
Which of these two shall I chuse?
Sir, you appear a stranger.
We are both so Lady.
I shall spoil all, and bring
the wrong. Sir, you should be a Cavalier, that—
Would gladly obey your orders.
Nay, I find 'tis all one to you, which you chuse, so you have one of us; but would not both do better?
No, Sir, my commission's but to one.
Fix and proceed then, let me be the man.
What shall I do? they are both well:
but I'l e'en chuse, as 'twere, for my self; and hang me if I know which that shall be.
Sir, there is [Page 4] a Lady of quality and beauty, who guessing you to be men of honour, has sent me to one of you.
Me I am sure.
Me, me, he's ingag'd already.
That's foul play Lovis.
Well, I must have but one, and therefore I'l wink and chuse.
I'l not trust blind fortune.
Prethee Lovis let thee and I agree upon the matter, and I find the Lady will be reasonable; cross or pile who shall go.
Go, Sir, whither?
To the Lady that—
Sent for neither of us that I can hear of yet.
You will not hear me out, but I'l end the difference by chusing you, Sir; and if you'l follow me
at a distance, I will conduct you where this Lady is.
Fair guide march on, I'l follow thee.
You are not mad, Sir, 'tis some abuse, and dangerous.
Be not envious of my happiness: Forbear a wench, for fear of danger!
Have a care, 'tis some plot.
Where did this Lady see us, we are both strangers in the City?
No matter where.
At Church, Sir, just now.
I, I at Church, at Church, enough.
What's her name?
Away, thou art fuller of questions than a Fortune-teller: Come let's be gone.
Sure you do not mean to keep your word, Sir?
Not keep my word, Lovis! What wicked life hast thou known me lead, should make thee suspect I should not. When I have made an interest in her, and find her worth communicating, I will be just upon honour.—Go, go.
Well, go your ways, if marriage do not tame you, you are past all hopes: but pray, Sir, let me see you at my lodgings, the Golden Fleece here at the gate.
I'l attend thee there, and tell thee my adventure: Farewel.
Pedro, go you and inquire for the house of Don Ambrosio, and tell him I will wait on him in the evening, by that time I shall get my self in order.
SCENE II.
I know of none, nor other remedie for you than loving less.
That methinks you might do even in the presence of Marcell. A brother is allow'd to love a sister.
Why, quarrel with him, Sir, you know you are so much dearer to my Lord your Father than he is, that should he perceive a difference between ye, he would soon dismiss him the house; and 'twere but reason, Sir, for I am sure Don Marcel loves you not.
That I excuse, since he the lawful heir to all my Fathers Fortunes, sees it every day ready to be sacrific'd to me, who can pretend no title to't, but the unaccountable love my Father bears me.
Can you dissemble, Sir?
The worst of any man, but would indeavour it, if it could any ways advance my love.
That would not incense him, for her he is to marry; but 'tis the fair Clarinda has his heart.
DOrmida will have [...]e tell you what effects your vows have made, and how easily they have drawn from me a consent to see you, as you desir'd this night in my chamber: you have sworn to marry me, and love will have me credit you, and then methinks I ought not to deny you any thing, nor question your Vertue. Dormida will wait to throw you down the key, when all are in bed, that will conduct you to
Sir, there is without a servant of Don Alonzo 's, who says his Master will be here to night.
A Bordello; forwards pray.
Yes, at the corner of St. Iero [...]s; where after seeing many faces which pleas'd me not, I would have took my leave; but the Matron of the house, a ki [...]d obliging Lady, seeing me so nice, and of quality (though disguis'd) told me she had a beauty, such an one, as had Counte D [...] Oliveris in his height of power seen, he would have purchast at any rate. I grew impatient to see this fine thing, and promis'd largly; then leading me into a room as gay, and as perfum'd as an Altar upon a Holy-day, I saw seated upon a Couch of state—
What ho! Biscay, Surgeon; on your lives a Surgeon: where be these rascals?
SCENE III.
OLinda stays long, I hope she has over-took the Cavalier, Lord how I am concern'd! if this [Page 11] should be love now, I were in a fine condition, at least if he be marryed, or a lover: Oh that fear! hang me, if it has not disorder'd me all over. But see, where she comes with him too.
Here he is, Madam, I hope 'tis the right man.
Madam, you see what haste I make to obey your kind commands.
'Twas as kindly done, Sir; but I fear when you know to what end 'tis, you'l repent your haste.
'Tis very likely; but if I do, you are not the first of your sex that has put me to repentance: but lift up your vail, and if your face be good—
Stay you're too hasty.
Nay, let's have fair play on both sides, I'l hide nothing from you.
I have a question or two to ask you first,
I can promise nothing till I see my reward. I am a base barterer, here's one for t'other; you saw your man and lik'd him, and if I like you when I see you—
But if you do not, must all my liking be cast away?
As for that, trust to my good nature; a frank wench has hitherto taken me as much as beauty. And one proof you have already given of that, in this kind invitation; come, come do not loose my little new-gotten good opinion of thee, by being coy and peevish.
You are strangely impatient, Sir.
O you should like me the better for that, 'tis a sign of youth and fire.
But, Sir, before I let you see my face—
I hope I must not promise you to like it.
No, that were too unreasonable; but I must know whether you are a lover.
What an idle question's that to a brisk young fellow? a Lover, yes, and that as often as I see a new face.
That I'l allow.
That's kindly said; and now do I find I shall be in [Page 12] love with thine, a [...] soon as I see't, for I am half so with thy humour already.
Are you not marryed, Sir?
Marryed!
Now I dread his answer.
Yes, marryed.
Why I hope you make no scruple of conscience to be kind to a marryed man.
Now do I find, you hope I am a Curtizan that come to bargain for a night or two; but if I possess you it must be for ever.
For ever let it be then, come let's begin on any terms.
I cannot blame you, Sir, for this mistake, since what I've rashly done, has given you cause to think I am not vertuous.
Faith, Madam, man is a strange ungovern'd thing; yet I in the whole course of my life have taken the best care I could to make as few mistakes as possible, and treating all women-kind alike we seldom err; for where we find one as you profess to be, we happily light on a hundred of the sociable and reasonable sort.
But sure you are so much a Gentleman that you may be convinc'd.
Faith if I be mistaken, I cannot devise what other use you can make of me.
In short this; I must leave you instantly; and will only tell you I am the sole Daughter of a rich Parent, young, and as I am told not unhandsome; I am contracted to a man I never saw, nor I am sure shall not like when I do see, he having more vice and folly than his fortune will excuse, though a great one: and I had rather dye than marry him.
I understand you, and you would have me dispatch this man.
I am not yet so wicked. The Church is the only▪ place I am allow'd to go to, and till now could never see the man that was perfectly agreeably to me: Thus vailed, I'l venture to tell you so.
What the devil will this come too? her meen and [Page 13] shape are strangely graceful, and her discourse is free and natural: What a damn'd defeat is this, that she should be honest now?
Well, Sir, what answer? I see he is uneasie
Why, as I was saying, Madam, I am a stranger.
I like you the better for that▪
But, Madam, I am a man unknown, unown'd in the world; and much unworthy the honour you do me.— Would I were well rid of her, and yet I find a damnable inclination to stay too.
Will nothing but Matrimony serve your turn, Madam? pray use a young Lover as kindly as you can.
Nothing but that will do, and that must be done.
Must! 'slife this is the first of her sex that ever was before-hand with me, and yet that I should be forc'd to deny her too.
I fear his answer, Olinda.
At least 'tis but making a discovery of your beauty, and then you have him sure.
Madam, 'tis a matter of moment, and requires deliberation; besides I have made a kind of promise—
Never to marry?
No faith, 'tis not so well: but since now I find we are both in haste, I am to be marryed.
This I am sure is an excuse; but I'l fit him for't.
To be marryed said you? that word has kill'd me, Oh I feel it drill,
Sure she does but counterfeit, and now I'l play my part. Madam, Madam!
What wonderous thing is that! I should not look upon't, it changes nature in me.
Have you no pitty, Sir? come nearer pray.
Sure there's witchcraft in that face, it never could have seiz'd me thus else, I have lov'd a thousand times, yet never felt such joyful pains before.
Come nearer, Sir, you'l do a Lady no good at that distance. Speak to her, Sir.
Prethee instruct me in them, I'l say any thing, do any thing, and suffer all the wounds her eyes can give.
May I believe all this? for that we easily do in things we wish.
Command me things impossible▪ to all sense but a Lovers, I will do't: to shew the truth of this, I could even give you the last proof of it, and take you at your word, to marry you.
O wonderous reformation! marry me!
How do you mock my grief!
What a strange dissembling thing is man! to put me off too, you were to be married.
Hah, I had forgot Hip [...]olyta.
See Olinda, the miracle increases, he can be serious too. How do you, Sir?
What means he? I fear he is in earnest.
'Tis nothing but his aversion to marriage, which most young men dread now-a-days.
I must have this stranger, or I must dye; for whatever face I put upon't, I am far gone in love, but I must hide it.
Well, since I have mist my aim, you shall never boast my death; I'l cast my self away upon the next handsome young fellow I meet, though I dye for't; and so farewel to you loving, Sir.
Stay, do not marry, as you esteem the life of him that shall possess you.
Sure you will not kill him.
By Heaven I will.
O I'l trust you, Sir: Farewel, farewel.
Well, Since you are so resolv'd (and so in love) I'l give you leave to see me once more at a house at the corner of St. Ieroms, where this Maid shall give you entrance.
Why, that's generously said.
As soon as 'tis dark you may venture.
ACT II.
SCENE I.
But to be thus in love, is't not a wonder Lovis?
No, Sir, it had been much a greater, if you had stay'd a night in Town without being so; and I shall see this wonder as often as you see a new face of a pretty woman.
I do not say that I shall lose all passion, for the fair [Page 17] sex hereafter; but on my conscience this amiable stranger has given me a deeper wound than ever I received from any before.
Well, you remember the bargain.
What bargain?
To communicate; you understand.
There's the Devil on't, she is not such a prise: Oh were she not honest! friend.
Is it so to do? what, you pretend to be a lover, and she honest, now only to deprive me of my part, remember this Alonzo.
Hey day! what stuffs here? nay, now I see thou art quite gone indeed.
You cannot marry her.
I would not willingly, though I think I'm free: For Pedro went to Marcel to tell him I was arriv'd, and would wait on him; but was treated more like a spy, than a messenger of love: they sent no answer back, which I tell you Lovis angers me: 'twas not the entertainment I expected from my brave friend Marcel. But now I am for the fair stranger, who by this expects me.
'Tis Alonzo, Oh how he animates my rage! and turns me over to revenge, upon Hippolyta and her [...]false lover.
Who's this that walks before us?
I care not, nothing shall hinder my design, I'l go though I make my passage through his heart.
Gods! is not that the Maid that first conduct [...]d me to the fair thing that rob'd me of my heart?
SCENE II.
BY Heavens 'tis she: Vile strumpet!
Alas, this is not he whom I expected.
Marcel! I had rather have incounter'd my evil Angel than thee.
I do believe thee, base ungenerous coward.
Oh do not ask, but let us quickly leave this dangerous place.
Truth is, not daring to trust my friends or relations with a secret that so nearly concern'd me, as the meeting you, and hearing of a new come Curtizan living in this house, I sent her word I would make her a visit, knowing she would gladly receive it from a Maid of my quality: When I came, I told her my business, and very frankly she offer'd me her house and service.
Perhaps you'l like me the worse for this bold venture, but when you consider my promis'd husband is every day expected, you will think it but just to secure my self any way.
You could not give me a greater proof than this of what you say, you bless me with your Love.
I will not question but you are in earnest; at least if any doubt remain, these will resolve it.
What are these, Madam?
Letters, Sir, I intercepted from the Father of my design'd Husband out of Flanders to mine.
What use can I make of them?
Only this: put your self into a equipage very ridiculous, and pretend you are my foolish lover arriv'd from Flanders, call your self Ha [...]nce van Erel, and give my Father these, as for the rest I'l trust your wit,
Two great evils, if I had but the grace to chu [...]e the least now, that is, lo [...] her.
I'l give you but to night to consider it.
Short warning this: but I am damnably in love, and [...]annot withstand temptation.
I had forgot to tell you my name's Euph [...]ia, my Father's you will find on the Letters▪ and pray show your love in your haste. Farewel.
Stay fair Euph [...]ia, and let me pay my thanks, and tell you that I must obey you.
That's bravely said, nor will I ask one question about you, not only to return the bounty, but to avoid all things that look like the approaches to a marryed life. If fortune will put us together, let her e'en provide for us.
I [...]ust be gone: [...]arewel, and pray make haste,
There's no resisting those looks, Euphemia: One more to fortifie me well; For I shall have need of every aid in this case.
SCENE III.
COme let us has [...]e, I [...]ear we are pursu'd.
Ah whither shall we fly?
We are near the gate, and must secure our selves with the darkness of the night in St. Peters Grove, we dare not venture into any house.
Can'st thou not see hi [...] yet?
Good lack-a-day what an impatient thing is a young Girl in love?
Nay, good Dormida, let not want of sleep make the [...] testy.
In good time are you [...]y Governess, or I yours? that you are giving me instructions, go get you in, or I shall lay down my office.
Nay, wait a little longer, I'm sure he will come.
You are sure! you have wonderous skill indeed in the hu [...]ours of men: how came you to [...]e so well acquainted with them? you scarce ever saw any bu [...] Do [...] M [...]r [...]el, and him too but through a gra [...]e [...]r window, [...] [...]t Church, and yet you are sure. I am a little the eld [...] of the two, and hav [...] manag'd as many intrigues of this kin [...] as any woman, and [Page 23] never found a constant just man, as they [...]ay, of a thous [...]nd, and yet you are sure.
Why is it possible Marcel should be [...]alse?
Marcel! no, no, sweet-heart, he is that man of a thousand.
But if he should, you have undone me, by telling me so many pretty things of him.
Still you question my ability, which by no means I can indure; get you in I say.
Do not speak so loud, you will wake my mother.
At your instructions again; do you question my conduct and management of this affair: go watch for him your self: I'l have no more to do with you ba [...]k nor edge.
Will you be so barbarous to leave me to my self, after having made it your business this three months to solicit a heart which was but too ready to yield before; af [...]er having sworn to me how honourable all his inten [...] were; nay, made me write to him to come to night? And now when I have done this, and am all trembling with fear and shame (and yet an infinite desire to see him too)
thou wilt abandon me: go, when such as you oblige, 'tis but to be insolent with the more fredom.
What you are angry I'l warrant?
I will punish my self to pay thee back, and will not see Marcel.
What a pettish fool is a Maid in love at fifteen, how unmanageable? but I'l forgive all, go ge [...] you in, I'l watch for your lover; I would not have you disoblige a man of his pretensions, and quality for all the world.
Now do I want Lovis extremely, to consult with him about this business: For I am afraid the divel, or love, or both are so great with me, that I must [...]arry this fair Inchantress, which is very unluckily; but, since Ambrosio and Marcel refuse to see me, I hold my self no longer ingag'd in hono [...]r to Hippolyta.
above. Whist, whist, Sir, Sir.
Whose there?
'Tis I, your servant, Sir; oh you are a fine spark, are you not, to make so fair a creature wait so long for you? there, there's the key, open the door softly and come in.
What's this? but I'l ask no questions: so fair a creature said she? Now if 'twere to save my life cannot I forbear, I must go in: Should Euphemia know this, she would call it levity and inconstance; but I plead necessity, and will be judg'd by the amorous men, and not the jealous women: For certain this Lady, who e're she be, designs me a more speedy favour than I can hope from Euphemia, and on easier terms too: this is the door, that must conduct to the languishing Venus.
SCENE IV.
NOw am I in a worse condition than before, can neither advance nor retreat; I do not like this [Page 25] groping alone in the dark thus; whereabouts am I? I dare not call: were this fair thing she spoke of but now, half so impatient as I, she would bring a light and conduct me.
'Tis wondrous dark.
Hah! a mans voice that way; that's not so well, it may be some Lover, Husband or Brother; none of which are to be trusted in this case, therefore I'l stand upon my guard.
This is not just ye gods to punish me, and let the Traytor scape unknown too: Me thought 'twas Silvio's voice, or else a sudden thought of jealousie come into my head, would make me think so.
I tell you I did hear the noise of fighting.
Why, between whom should it be? I'l be sworn Marcel came in alone.
Marcel! and wounded too, oh I am lost.
Keep your false tears to bath your lovers wounds, For I perhaps have given some—Thou old assistant to her lust, whose greatest sin is wishing, tell me who 'twas thou didst procure for her.
Alas! I cannot imagine who it should be, unless Don Silvio, who has sometimes made addresses to her: But oh the house is up, Madam, we are undone; let's flie for heavens sake.
Oh Marcel, can you believe—
Come, come, I'l not be undone for your fidle fadles, I'l lay it all on you if I be taken.
Sot that I was, I could not guess at this to day, by his anger at the Letter I foolishly shew'd him, he is my rival, [Page 26] and 'tis with him she's fled; and I'l indeavour to pursu [...] them.
But oh my strength complys with their
design, and shamefully retires to give them leave to play their amorous game out.
SCENE V.
Hah, Ladys from the same house! these are birds that I have frighted from their nests I am sure: I'l profer my service to them.
Oh, Sir, as you are a Gentleman assist a pair of Virgins.
What's this, a mumping Matron? I hope the others young, or I have offer'd my service to little purpose.
Madam, I will, but know not where to carry ye; my lodging is an Inn, and is neither safe nor honourable: but fortune fares no less than protect the fair, and I'l venture my life in your protection and service.
SCENE VI.
FRancisca, thou art dull to night.
You will not give me leave to talk.
Not thy way indeed, hast thou no storys but of love, and of my Brother Silvio?
None that you wish to hear: But I'l do what you please, so you will not oblige me to [...]igh for you.
Then prethee sing to me.
What Song, a merry or a sad?
Please thy own humour, for then thou'lt sing best.
Well, Madam, I'l obey you and please my self.
My Brother Silvio, at this late hour, and in my lodgings too! How do you, Sir? are you not well?
I cannot sleep, my wounds do rage and burn so, as they put me past all power of rest.
Can you believe it sia to love a Brother? it is not so▪ in nature.
By this she understands him, curse on her innocence, 'Tis fuel to his flame—
Madam, there is below a Lady who desires to speak with the Mistress of the house.
At this hour a Lady! who can it be?
I know not, but she seems of quality.
Is she alone?
Attended by a Gentleman and an old woman.
Perhaps some one that needs a kind assistance? my father is in bed, and I'l venture to know their business: Bring her up.
'Twere good you should retire, Sir.
I will, but have a care of me, Cleonte,
Is't me you would command?
I know not what to say, I'm so disorder'd.
What Troops of beauties she has! sufficient to take whole Cities in.—Madam, I beg—
What, Sir?
That you would receive into protection—
What pray, Sir?
Would you would give me leave to say a heart, that your fair eyes have lately made unfit for its old quarters.
I rather think you m [...]n [...]is Lady, Sir▪
She's heavenly fair too, and [...] surpris'd my heart, just as 'twas going to the others bosom, and rob'd her at least of one half o [...] it.
Madam, a wanderer; a po [...] lost thing, that none will own or pity.
That's sad indeed; but who e'er you are, since you belong to this fair Maid, you [...]l find a welcome every where.
What must I call your Sister, Sir, when I would pay my duty?
There I am routed again with ano [...]her hard question.
Madam, [...]y name's Clarinda.
Madam, I' [...] take my leave, and wish the heart I leave with you to night, may perswad [...] yo [...] [...]o suffer my visits to morrow, till when I shall do no [...]hing b [...]t languish.
I know not what los [...] you have suffe [...]'d to night▪ but since your fair Sisters p [...]esence with us allows it, you need not doub [...] a w [...]lcome▪
Madam, pray [...], for Don Marcel is come into the house all bloudy, inrag'd against somebody.
I'm troubled at his hurt, but cannot fear his rage. Good night, Sir.
They are gone; now had I as much mind to have kist the others hand, but that 'twas not a ceremony due to a Sister: what the Devil came into my head to say she was so? nothing but the natural itch of talking and lying; they are very fair; but what's that to me, Euphemia surpasses both: but a pox of her terms of marriage, I'l set that to her beauty, and then these get the day, as far as natural necessity goes: but I'l home and sleep upon't, and yield to what's most powerful in the morning.
SCENE VII.
SUre I shall know this house again to morrow,
I wonder what should be become of Alonzo, I do not like these night-works of his.—Whose there?
Lovis!
Alonzo!
The same, where hast thou been▪
In search of you this two hours.
O I have been taken up with new adventures, since I saw thee; but prethee what became of thine? for me thought it was a likely woman.
Faith, Sir, I thought I had got a Prize; but a pox on't, when I came into the Street, e'er she had recover'd breath to tell me who she was, the Cavalier you rescu'd from Marcel laid claim to her; thank'd me for her preservation and vanisht. I hope you had better luck with your Female, whose face I had not the good fortune to see.
Not so good as I could have wish [...], for she stands [...]till on her honourable terms.
Of Matrimony, ha, ha, a very Jilt, I'l warrant her; Come, come, you shall see her no more.
Faith, I fear I must.
To what purpose?
To perswade her to reason.
That you'l soon do, when she finds you will not bit [...] at t'other bait.
The worst is, if I see her again, it must be at her fathers house; and so transform'd from man to beast—I must appear like a ridiculous lover▪ she expects ou [...] of Flanders.
A very cheat, a trick to draw thee in; be wise i [...] time.
No on my conscience she's in earnest, she told me her name, and his I am to represent.
What is't, I pray?
Haunce van Ezel▪
Hah; her name too, I beseech you?
Euphemia! and such a creature 'tis—
'Sdeath my Sister all this while: This has call'd up all that's Spaniard in me, and makes me raging mad▪
But do you love her, Sir?
Most desperately, beyond all senc [...] or reason▪
Any thing but that—But thou know'st, my [...] elsewhere; and I have hope [...] that yet she'l be wi [...] ▪ and yield on more pleasant terms.
I could be angry now▪ [...] to blame him for this.
Sir, I believe by your treatment from Ambrosio and [...], you may come off there easily.
That will not satisfie [...] love; that I have [...] own inconstancie, not theirs; besides this may [...] say.
But does Euphemia love you?
'Faith, I think she has too much wit to dissem [...], [Page 34] and too much b [...]auty to need that Art.
Then you must marry her.
Not if I can avoid it.
I know this Lady, Sir, and know her to be worth your love; I have it in my power too, to serve you, if you proceed suddenly, which you must do or lose her; for this Flandrian Boor your Rival is already arriv'd, and designs to [...]orrow to make his first address to Euphemia.
Oh he must not, shall not see her.
How will you hinder him?
With this.
Where is this Riual? tell me: Conduct me to him straight; I find my love above the common [...]ate, and cannot brook this Rival.
So, this blows the [...]lame—His life will be no hindrance to you in this affair, if you design to love on.
Dost know him?
Yes, he is a pleasant original for you to be copy'd by: [...] is the same Fopp▪ I told you was to marry my Sister, and who came along with me to Madrid.
How! Euphemia thy Sister?
Yen, isdend is she, and whom my Father de [...]igns to cast away upon this half man, half fool; but I find she has wit to make a better choice; she yet [...]nows nothing of my arrival, and till you resolve what to do, shall not; and my [...] man does nothing without me.
If thou hast the management of him, he's likely to [...]hrive.
[...] no [...] in his Amour, [...] you please: In short, Sir, if you do really love my Sister, I am content to be so ungracious a child to contribute to the cheating my Father of this same hopeful son he expects, and put you upon him▪ bu [...] what you do, must be speedily then.
I am oblig'd to thee for this frank offer, and will be instructed by thee.
If you're resolv'd, I'l warrant you success.
I [...] I [...]m [...]solv'd in spight of all [...]y i [...]linations to libertinism.
W [...]ll, Si [...], I'l g [...]t you such a suit then, as that our Hero mak [...] his first approach in, as ridiculously gay as his humour, which you must assume to [...].
Content.
To night I must pay my duty to my Fath [...]r, and will prepare your way, and acquaint my sister with it: 'tis but a frolick if we succeed not.
God a mercy lad, let's ab [...]ut it then e'er we sleep, lest I change my resolution before morning.
ACT III.
SCENE I.
VEry Haunce all over, the Taylor has play'd his part, play but yours as well, and I'l warrant you the w [...]nch.
But pre [...]hee, why need I act the fool thus, sinc [...] Haunce was never seen here?
To make good the character I always gave of him to my Father; but here he comes, pray be very rude, and very impertinent.
Lord, Lord, how shall I look thus damnably set out, and thus in lore▪
This, Sir, is Monsieur Haunce, your son that must be.
[...]e [...]o lo [...] [...]ano [...] sig [...] ▪ I [...] your name Don Carlo? and are you the gravity of this House? and the Father of Dona Euphe [...]i [...] [...] and are you—
'Tis so negotiated—and if all circumstances con [...]urr —For, Sir, you must conceive, the consequence of so grand a conjunction—
Less of your complyments, Sir, and more of your Daughter, I beseech you. 'Shart what a formal coxcomb 'tis!
Prethee give him way.
By this light I'l lose thy sister first? Why who can indure the grave approaches to the matter? 'Dslise, I would have it as I would my fate, sudden and unexpected.
Pray how long have you been landed?
So, now shall I be plagu'd with nothing but wise questions, to which I am able to make no answer.
Have you no letters from my very good friend your Father?
What if I have not? cannot I be admitted to your Daughter without a pass?
O lack, Sir—
But to let you see I come with full power (though I am old enough to recommend my self) here is my commission for what I do.
I remember amongst his other faults, my son writ me word he had courage: if so, I shall consider what to do.
Sir, I find by these your Father's letters, you are not yet arriv'd.
I know that, Sir, but I wa [...] told I should express my love in my haste: therefore outsailing the Pacquet, I was the welcome messenger my self; and since I am so forward, I beseech you, Sir—
Now dare not I proceed, he har so credulous a consenting face.
Spare your words, I understand their meaning, a [Page 37] prudent man speaks least, as the Spaniard has it; and since you are so forward, as you were saying, I shall not be backward, but as your Father adviseth here, hasten the uniting of our Families, with all celerity; for delay in these affairs, is but to prolong time▪ as the wise man says▪
You are much in the right, Sir. But my wife, I desire to be better acquainted with her.
She shall be forth-coming, Sir▪ Had you a good passage? for the seas and winds regard no mans necessity.
No, no, a very ill one: your Daughter, Sir.
Pray how long were you a [...] sea?
Euphemia, Sir, Euphemia, your daughter. This Don's fuller of questions than of proverbs, and that's a wonder.
They say Flanders is a very fine Country, I never saw it; but—
Nor 'tis no matter, sir, if you never do, so I saw your Daughter. He'l catechise me home to my Dutch Parents by and by, of which I can give him no more account than—
Are they as dissatisfied with their new Governour, as they were with Don Iohn? for they love change.
A po [...] of their government, I tell you I love your Daughter.
I fear 'tis so, he is valiant, and what a dangerous quality is that in Spain? 'tis well he's rich.
Pray, Sir, keep him not long in discourse, the sea has made him unfit for—
Any thing but seeing my Mistress.
I'l have mercy upon thee, and fetch her to thee.
Sir, you must know, that we suffer not our women in Spain to converse so frequently with your sex, and that through a cautious—well consider'd prudent—consideration.
But, Sir, do you consider what an impatient thing a young lover is, or is it so long since you were one your self, you have forgot it? 'Tis well he wanted words: But [Page 38] yonder's Euphemia, whose
beauty is sufficient to excuse every defect in the whole Family, though each were a mortal sin: and now 'tis impossible to guard my self longer from those fair eyes.
I must not urge him to speak much before Euphe [...]ia▪ lest she discover he wants wit by his much tongue:
There's my daughter, Sir, go and salute her.
Oh, I thank you for that, Sir.
You must be bold, Sir.
Well, Sir, since you command me—
I did not [...]ean kissing by saluting.
I cry you mercy, Sir, so I understood you.
Fie upon't, that he should be no more a Master of civility.
I fear, Sir, my sister will never like this humour in her Lover; he wants common conversation.
Conversation—ye foolish boy, he has money and needs none of your conversation. And yet if I thought he were valiant—
I hope, Sir, he does but boast of more of that than he really has.
That fault I my self have been guilty of, and can excuse; but the thing it self I shall never indure: you know I was forc'd to send you abroad, because I thought you addicted to that. I shall never sleep [...]in [...]quiet—Valiant! that's such a thing to be rich or wise, and valiant.
Colonel, pray to the business, for I fear you will betray your self.
But look upon his wealth Euphemia, and you will find those advantages there which are wanting in his person: But I think the man's well.
Sir, there be many Spaniards born that are as rich [...] [...]e, and have wit too.
She [...] ever very ave [...]se to this mar [...]age.
This man [...] Spaniard, his mother was o [...]e, and my first Mistress, and she I can tell you was a great fortune—
I, Sir, but he is such a fool—
You are a worse, to find sault with that in a husband.
Stand aside, sir, are you [...] your Daughter or I?
I was inclining her—
You inclining her! an old man want's Rhetorick; set me to her.
This capricious humour was tolerable in him, whilst I believ'd it the effects o [...]r folly, but now 'tis that of valour: Oh I tremble at the sight of him.
Now I see you are a Cavalier of your word.
Faith Euphemia, you might have believ'd, and taken me upon better terms, if you had so pleas'd▪ To marry you is but an ill-favour'd proof to give you of my [...].
Do you repent it▪
Would to God 'twere come but to that, I wa [...] just upon the point of it when you enter'd. But I know not what the Divel there is in that [...] of yours, but it has debauch'd every [...]ober thought about me. Faith, do not let us marry yet.
If we had not proceeded too far to retreat, I should be content.
What shall I come to? all on the sudden to leave delicious whoring, drinking and fighting, and be condemn'd to a dull honest Wife. Well, if it he my ill fortune, may this curse light on thee that hast brought me to't: may I love thee even after we are married to that troublesome degree, that I may grow most damnable jealous of thee, and keep thee [...]rom the fight of all mankind, but thy own natural husband, that so thou mayst be depriv'd of the greatest pleasure of this life▪ the blessing of change.
I am sorry to find so much ill nature in you, would you have the c [...]nscience to tye me to harder cond [...]tions than I would you?
Nay, I do [...]or think I shall be so wickedly loving; [Page 40] but I am resolv'd to [...]arry thee and try▪
My Father, Sir▪ on with your disguis [...] ▪
Well, Sir, how do you like my Daughter?
So, so, she'l serve for a Wife.
But do you find he [...] willing to be so?
'Tis not, a half [...] peny matter for that, as long as my Father and you are agreed upon the matter.
Well Euphemia, setting all foolish modesty aside, how do you like this man?
As one, whom in obedience to you, I am content to cast my self away upon.
How seems his humour to you?
Indifferent, Sir, he is not very courtly, something rough and hasty.
I fear she has found his ill quality of valour too, and since 'tis certain 'tis so, why should it be said that I ruin'd a child to satisfie my appetite of riches?
Come Daughter, can you love him, or can you not? For I'l make but short work on't; you are my Daughter, and have a fortune great enough to inrich any man; and I'm resolv'd to put no force upon your inclinations.
How's this! nay, then 'tis time I left dissembling.
Sir, this bounty in you has strangely overcome me, and makes me asham'd to have withstood your will so long.
Do not dissemble with me, I say do not; for I am resolv'd you shall be happy.
Sir, my obedience shall—
No more of your ob [...]dience: I say again do not dissemble, for I'm not pleas'd with your obedience.
This alteration is very strange and sudden; pray Heaven he have not found the cheat.
Love, Sir, they say will come after marriage; pray let me try it.
Few have found it so; nor shall you experience [...] so dear a rate as your ruin.
But, Sir, methinks I am grown to love him more since he spoke to me, than before.
The effects of your obedience again.
This is a strange alteration, Sir; not all my tears and prayers before I saw him could prevail with you. I beseech you, Sir, believe me.
Nor should now, had I not another reason for't.
Oh, I fear.—But, Sir—
Go to, I'l be better satisfi'd e'er I proceed farther; both of your inclinations, and his courage.
Do you consider his wealth, Sir?
That shall not now befriend him.
Sir, I bar whispering; 'tis not in my bargain nor civil: I'l have fair play for my money.
I am only knowing my Daughters pleasure, she is a little peevish, as Virgins use in such cases, but would that were all, and I'd indeavour to reconcile her.
I thank you, Sir; in the mean time I'l take a walk for an hour or two, to get me a better stomach both to my Dinner and Mistress.
Do so, Sir. Come Euphemia, I will give you a proof of my indulgence, thou shalt marry no valiant fools, valiant quoth ye. Come, come—had he been peaceable and rich—Come, come—
Well, now I'l go look after my Dutchman, lest he surprise us here, which must not be; where shall I find you?
I'l wait upon my Prince, and then on you here.
Do so, and carry on this humour.
SCENE II.
Sir, if I may advise, take t'other turn in the Grove, for I find by my nose you want more airing.
How sirrah! by your nose? have a care, you know 'tis ill jesting with me when I'm angry.
Which is as often as you are drunk, I find it has the same effects on me too; but truly, Sir, I meant no other than that you smell a little of the vessel, a certain sour remains of a storm about you.
Ah, ah, do not name a storm to me, unless thou wilt have the effects on't in thy face.
Sha, sha, bear up, Sir, bear up.
Salerimente, a sea phrase too! why ye rascal, I tell you I can indure nothing that puts me in mind of that element.
The sight of Donna Euphemia will—
Hold, hold, let me consider whether I can indure to hear her nam'd or not; for I think I am so throughly mortifi'd, I shall hardly relish woman-kind again this—two hours.
You a man of courage, and talk thus?
Courage? why what dost thou call courage? Hector himself would not have chang'd his ten years siege for our ten days storm at Sea—a storm—a hundred thousand fighting men are nothing to't; City's sackt by fire nothing; 'tis a resistless coward that attaques a man at disadvantage; an unaccountable magick that first conjures down a mans courage, and then plays the Divel over him. And in fine, it is a storm—
Good lack that it should be all these terrible, things and yet that we should outbrave it.
No god a mercy to our courages though, I tell you that now Gload; but like an angry wench, when it had huft and bluster'd it self weary, it lay still again.
Hold, hold, Sir, you know we are to make visits to Ladies, Sir; and this replenishing of our spirits, as you call it, Sir, may put us out of case.
Thou art a fool, I never made love so well as when [Page 43] I was drunk, it improves my parts, and makes me witty; that is, it makes me say any thing that comes next, which passes now-a-days for wit; and when I'm very drunk, I'l home and dress me, and the Divels in't, if she resist me so qualified, and so drest.
Truly, Sir, those are things that do not properly belong to you.
Your reason, yo [...]r reason, we shall have thee witty too in thy drink, hah?
Why, I say, Sir, none but a Cavalier ought to be soundly drunk, or wear a sword and feather; and a cloak and band were fitter for a M [...]rchant.
Salerimente, I'l beat any Don in Spain that does but think he has more right to any sort of debauchery, or gallantry than I, I tell you that now Gload.
Do you remember, Sir, how you were wont to go at home? when instead of a Periwig, you wore a slink, greasie hair of your own, through which a pair of large thin souses appear'd, to support a formal hat, on end thus—
Ha, ha, ha, the Rogue improves upon't.
A Coller in stead of a Cravat twelve inches high; with a blew, stiff, starcht, lawn Band, set in print like your Whiskers; a Dublet with small Skirts hookt to a pair of wide-kneed Briches, which dangled half way over a leg, all to be dash'd and durty'd as high as the gartering.
Ha, ha, ha, very well, proceed.
Your hands defil'd with counting of damn'd durty money, never made other use of gloves, than continually to draw them through—thus—till they were dwindled into the scantling of a Cats-gut.
Ha, ha, ha, a pleasant rascal.
A cloak, half a yard shorter than the Breeches, not through lin'd, but fac'd as far as 'twas turn'd back, with a pair of frugal butter [...]ams, which was always manag'd—thus—
Well, Sir, have you done, that I may show you this Merchant revers'd?
Presently, Sir; only a little touch at your debauchery, which unless it be in damn'd Brandy, you dare not go to the expence of. Perhaps at a wedding, or some treat where your purse is not concern'd, you would most insatiably tipple, otherwise your two stivers Club is the highest you dare go, where you will be condemn'd for a prodigal (even by your own conscience) if you add two more extraordinary to the sum, and at home sit in the chi [...]ney corner, cursing the face of Duke de Alva upon the Juggs, for laying an imposition on Beer: And now, Sir, I have done.
And dost thou not know when one of those thou hast described, goes but half a league out of Town, that he is so transform'd from the Merchant to the Gallant in all points, that his own Parents, nay, the Divel himself cannot know him? Not a young English Squire, newly come to an estate, above the management of his wit, has better horses, gayer cloathes, swears, drinks, and does every thing with a better grace than he: Damns the stingy Cabal of the two Stiver Club, and puts the young King of Spain and his Mistress together in a Romer of a Pottle, and in pure gallantry breaks the Glasses over his head, scorning to drink twice in the same; and a thousand things full as heroick and brave I could tell you of this same Holy-day Squire. But come, t'other turn, and t'other sope, and then for Donna Euphemia. For I find I begin to be reconcil'd to the sex.
But, Sir, if I might advise, let's e'en sleep first.
Away you fool, I hate the sober Spanish way of making love, that's unattended with Wine and Musick, give me a wench that will out-drink the Dutch, out-dance the French, and out—out—kiss the English.
Sir, that's not the fashion in Spain.
Hang the fashion; I [...]l manage her that must be my wife as I please, or I'l beat her into fashion.
What beat a woman, Sir?
Sha, all's one for that, if I am provok'd, anger will have its effects on whomsoe'er it lig [...]t; so said Van T [...]mp, when he took his Mistress a cuff o'th' ear for finding [Page 45] fault with an ill-fashion'd leg he made her; I lik'd his humour well, therefore come thy ways.
SCENE III.
Prethee friend do not trouble your self with ours, but follow your own; my man is a little sawcie in his drink indeed, but I am sober enough to understand how things go.
Leave us then.
Leave us then—good words, good words, friend, for look ye I am in a notable humour at present, and will be intreated.
Yes, Sir, we will be intreated.
Pray leave us then.
That's something—but hark ye friend, say a man had a mind to put in for a share with you.
Rude slaves leave us.
Ha slaves!
Slaves said you, Sir? hah—
Oh, as you're a Gentleman assis me.
Assist thee? this fellow looks as he would not have his abilities call'd in question; otherwise I am amorous enough to do thee a kindness.
Sir, you mistake me; this is a ravisher—
A ravisher! ha, ha, ha, dost like him the worse for that? no, no, I beg your pardon, Madam.
Have you no manhood, Sir?
She is in earnest: now if I durst sta [...], how I would domineer over my Master; I never tri'd perhaps, I may be valiant thus inspir'd. Lady, I am your champion, who dares ravish you o [...] me either?
Rascal unhand her.
How, how Gload ingag'd [...] [...]ay I scorn to be outdone by my man. Sirrah, march off with the baggage; whilst I secure the enemy.
Rash man what mean you?
I say stand off, and let him go quietly away with the wench, or look you—
Unmanner'd fool, I will chastise thy boldness.
How, how, hast thou no other weapon?
No, if I had, thou durst not have incounter'd me.
I scorn thy words, and therefore there lyes my sword; and since you dare me at my own weapon, I tell you I am as good at snick a snee as the best Don of you all—
Can I indure this affront?
The best way to make a coward fight, is to leave him in danger—Come Lady—
Thou base unmanner'd fool; how darst thou offer at a Gentleman, with so despis'd a thing as that?
Despis'd a thing? talk not so contemptibly of this weapon: I say do not, but come on if you dare.
Injustice! can such a dog, and such a weapon vanquish me?
Beg your life; for I scorn to stain my victory in blood—that I learnt out of Pharamond.
He does not merit life, could not defend it against so poor and base a thing as thou: Had but Marcel left me my sword—
O then I perceive you are us'd to be vanquish'd, and therefore I scorn to kill thee, live, live.
How the rascal triumphs ouer me.
And now like a generous enemy, I will conduct thee to my Tent, and have thy wounds drest—
That too I had out of Pharamond.
What if I take the offer of this sott? so I may [...]ee [...]ippalyta again. But I forget—
Will you accept my offer?
For some reasons I dare not venture into the Town.
My lodging is at St. Peters gate, hard by; and on the Parol of a man of Prowess you shall be safe and free— Pharamond again.
Not so, for though the captive ought to follow the victor, yet I'l not trust my enemy at my back-side.
Politicks too—
you must command—
SCENE IV.
My Lord, she will, I have at last prevail'd, to what intent she knows not; this is an hour wherin you'l scarce be interrupted: the amorous entertainment you have prepared for her, will advance your design; such objects heighten the desire: is all ready on your part?
It is, and I'm prepar'd for all the resistance she can make, and am resolv'd to satisfie my insupportable flame, since there's no other hopes left me.
She's coming, Sir, retire.
Oh how he kills me: Well, at least this pleasure I have whilst I am dying; that when he possesses the fair Cleonte, he for ever r [...]ines his interest in her heart, and must find nothing but her mortal hate and scorn.
Francisca, why art thou so earnest for my coming into the Garden so early?
Because, Madam, here without interruption you may learn what the Lady Clarinda has to tell you.
Is that all? go wait upon her hither then.
Yes, when you'r more pleasant affair is dispatch'd, I will—
No, look on my eyes Cleonte, and thou shalt see them flame with a strange wicked fire.
She's gone—and now
my hot fit abates—she is my [...]ister—that is▪ my Fathers Daughter—but—what if his Wife deceiv'd him—or perhaps—(which is the likelier thing) my Mother play'd the false one—for 'twas her trade to do so—and I'm not son to Ambrosio—Oh that she were in being to confess this truth, for sure 'tis tr [...]th, then I might love and might enjoy Cleonte—injoy Cleonte!
Oh that thought! what fire it kindles in my veins, and now my cold fit's gone.—I'l after her
—no, let me pause a while—
I'm reconcil'd to you, since your Brother Silvio would have it so.
My blood flows to my face, to hear him nam'd.
Let there be no more differences between you: But [Page 55] Silvio has of late been discontent, keeps home▪ and shuns the conversation, which youth delights in; goes not to Court as he was wont: Prethee Marcel learn thou the cause of it.
I do believe I shall my Lord,—too soon.
I'm now going to my Villa, and shall not return till night: by the way I mean to visit your wife that was design'd to be, the rich Flavia, and see if I can again reconcile her to you; for your neglect has been great, and her anger is just.
I rather wish it should continue, Sir, for I have yet no inclinations to marry.
No more, I'l have it so, if I can.
I'm silent, Sir.
I am satisfi'd you knew not of my Brothers being in the Garden.
Clarinda with my sister! and in our house! she's very fair—and yet how dull and blasted all her Beautys seem, when they approach the fair Cleontes—I cannot shun a tedious compliment: to see the fair Clarinda
here, is a happiness beyond my hope; I'm glad to see her kind to the sister, who always treated the Brother with so much scorn and rigour.
Silvio! sure I'm betray'd.
It was by his contrivance that she came,
do not excuse him, but send her quickly from you, les [...] [Page 56] you become as infamous as she—
Oh how I hate her now I know my Brother Silvi [...] loves her.
How every gesture shows his passion, whilst she seems pleas'd to hear to him. I can indure no more—
What will you do?
What mean you by this rude address, Marcel?
I'l tell you, Sir, anon. Go get you in.
Well, Sir, your business now?
It is not safe to tell you here, though I have hardly patience to stay till thou meet me in St. Peters Grove.
I will not fail you, Sir, an hour hence.
I dare not in this rage return to upbraid Clarinda, lest I do things, that mis-become man.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
HOld, hold, I do not like the salutation▪ I receive from all I meet in this house.
Why, Sir, methinks they are very familiar scabs all.
Salerimente, they all salute me as they were my old acquaintance, Your servant Myn heer Haunce, crys one; your [Page 57] servant Monsieur Haunce, crys another.
Your servant, Sir, you come now indeed like a Bridegroom all beset with dance and fiddle.
Bridegroom, ha, ha, ha, dost hear Gload? 'tis true [...]aith. But how the Divel came he to know it, man, hah?
My Master, Sir, was just as king for you, he longs to speak with you.
Ha, ha, with me, Sir, why? ha, ha, who the pox am I?
You, Sir, why who should you be?
Who should I be? why who should I be?
Myn heer Haunce van Ezel, Sir.
Ha, ha, ha, well guest, i'faith now.
Why how should they guess otherwise, coming so attended with Musick, as prepar'd for a wedding.
Ha, ha, ha, says thou so? faith 'tis a good device to [...]ave the charges of the first complements: Hah, but hark ye, hark ye, friend, are you sure this is the house of Don Carlo?
Why, Sir, have you forgot it?
Forgot it, ha, ha, dost hear Gload? forgot it! why how the Divel should I remember it?
Sir, I believe this is some new fashion'd civilitie in Spain to know every man before he sees him.
No, no, you fool, they never change their fashion in Spain, man.
I mean their manner of address, Sir.
It may be so, I'l see farther. Friend, is Don Carlo within?
He has not been out since, Sir.
Since ha, ha, ha, since when? hah.
Since you saw him, Sir.
Salerimente, will you make me mad? Why you damnable rascal, when did I see him? hah.
Here comes my Master himself, Sir,
let him inform you, if you grow so hot upon the question.
How now son, what angry? you have e'en tyr'd your [Page 58] self with walking, and are out of humour.
Look there again—the old man's mad too: why how the pox should he know I have been walking?—indeed, Sir—I have, as you say, been walking,
—and am—as you say, out of humour—But under favour, Sir, who are you? sure 'tis the old
Conjurer, and those were his little imps I met.
Sure son you should be a wit by the shortness of your memory.
By the goodness of yours, you should be none, ha, ha, ha. Did not I meet with him there Gload, hah? But pray refresh my memory, and let me know you, I come to seek a father amongst you here, one Don Carlo.
Am not I the man, Sir?
How the Divel should I know that now, unless by instinct?
The old man is mad, and must be humour'd.
Cry you mercy, Sir, I vow I had quite forgot you▪ Sir I hope Donna Euphemia—
Oh, Sir, she's in much a better humour than when you saw her last, complys with our desires more than I could hope or wish.
Why look here again—I ask'd after her health, not her humour.
I know not what arts you have made use of, but she's strangely taken with your conversation and person.
Truly, Sir, you are mightily beholden to her, that she should have all this good will to your person and conversation before she sees you.
I, so I am, therefore, Sir, I desire to see your Daughter, for I shall hardly be so generous as she has been, and be quits with her before I see her.
Why, Sir, I hope you lik'd her when you saw her last.
Stark mad—I saw her last! why, what the Divel do you mean, I never saw her in all my life, man. Stark mad, as I am true Dutch—
A lover always thinks the time tedio [...]s: But here's my Daughter.
I, one of these must be she: but 'tis a wonder I should not know which is she by instinct.
This is not Alonzo—has he betray'd me?
Go, Sir, she expects you.
Your pardon, Sir, let her come to me, if she will, I'm sure she knows me better than I do her.
How should she know you, Sir?
How? by instinct, you fool, as all the rest of the house does: Don't you fair Mistress?
I know you—
Yes, you know me; you need not be so coy mun, the old man has told me all.
What has he told you? I am ruin'd.
Faith, much more than I believ'd, for he was very full of his new fashion'd Spanish civilitie, as they call it: but ha, ha, I hope, fair Mistress, you do not take after him?
What if I do, Sir?
Why then I had as leeve marry a steeple with an perpetual ring of bells.
Let me advise you, Sir, methinks you might make a handsomer speech for the first, to so pretty a Lady— Fakes an I were to do't—
I had a rare speech for her thou knowest, and an entertainment besides, that was, though I say it, unordinary: but a pox of this new way of civilitie as thou call'st it, it has put me quite beside my part.
Though you are out of your complementing part, I am not out of my dancing one, and therefore that part of your entertainment, I'l undertake for. 'Slife, Sir, would you disappoint all our Ships company—
That's according as I find this proud tit in humour▪
And why so coy? pray why all this di [...]imulation? Come, come, I have told him your mind▪ and do intend [Page 60] to make you both happy immediately.
How, Sir, immediately?
Yes, indeed, nay, if you have deceiv'd me, and dissembled with me, when I was so kind, I'l show you trick for trick i saith—
What shall we do Olinda?
Why marry Don Alonzo, Madam.
Do not rally, this is no time for mirth.
Fie upon't, Madam, that you should have so little courage; your Father takes this fellow to be Alonzo.
What counsel are you giving there, hah?
Only taking leave of our old acquaintance, since you talk of marrying us so soon.
What acquaintance pray?
Our Maiden-heads, Sir.
Ha, ha, ha, a pleasant wench faith now; I believe you would be content to part with yours with less warning.
On easie terms perhaps, but this marrying I do not like; 'tis like going a long voyage to Sea, where after a while, even the calms are distasteful, and the storm's dangerous: one seldom sees a new object, 'tis still a deal of Sea, Sea; Husband, Husband, every day—till one's cloy'd with it.
A mad Girl this, son.
I, Sir, but I wish she had left out the simile, it made my stomach wamble.
Pray, Sir, let you the Maid alone as an utensil belonging to my place and office, and meddle you with the Mistress▪
Faith now thou hast the better bargain of the two: my Mistress looks so scurvily and civil, that I don't know what to say to her—Lady—hang't, that look has put me quite out again.
To her, son, to her—
Hark ye Lady—Well what's next now? Oh pox quite out, quite out; tell me whether the old man ly'd or no, when he told me you lov'd me.
I love you—
Look you there now how she looks again.
She's only bashful, Sir, before me, therefore if you please to take a small collation, that has waited within for you this three hours
That's strange now, that any thing should wait me, who was no more expected here than Bethlehem Gaber: Faith now Lady, this Father of yours is very simple.
To take you for his son.
I meant to have surpriz'd you▪ I vow before you had dreamt of me, and when I came you all knew me as well as if you had cast a Figure for me.
Well son, you'l follow.
You will not leave me alone, Sir, with a man?
Go your ways, go your ways—I shall know more of your
secrets before night yet, you little pouting hypocrite you.
You know my secrets! why who are you?
Ha, ha, ha, that's a very good one faith now: who am I, quoth thou, why there [...]s not a child▪ thus high in all your Fathers house would have askt me so simple a question.
Madam, I find by his man, this is your expected lover, whom you must flatter, or you are undone, 'tis Haunce van Ezel.
The fopp himself.
Oh, do you know me now?
'Tis impossible.
This is an extreme the other way now.
Impossible, ha, ha, ha! No, no, poor thing do not doubt thy happiness: for look ye, to confirm you, here are my Bills of Exchange with my own natural name to them, if you can read written hand—
Not love you, I'l swear you lye now, you little Jade, I am now in Masquerade, and you cannot judge of me; but I am Book-keeper and Casheer to my Master, and my love will turn to account, I'l warrant you.
Fakes to entertain your Lady, we have brought the [Page 62] whole Ships company too in Masquerade.
That indeed will be very proper at this time of the day, and the first visit too.
Shaw, that's nothing, you little think what blades we are mun—Sir, I'l call in the fiddles and the company.
Well remember'd, faith now I had e'en forgot it.
What's the meaning of this?
To show you the difference between the damnable dull gravity of the Spanish, and brisk gaiety of the Dutch. Come, come begin all.
Nay, I'l show you what I can do too, come Gload.
There's for you now, and yet you have not seen half my good qualities; I can sing the newest Ballad that has been made, so I can.
Be these your friends, Sir? they look as if you had ransack'd a Hoy for them.
How? look on them well, they are all States, or States-fellows, I tell you that now, and they can bear witness who I am too.
Now I'm convinc'd, and am sorry I doubted my happiness so long: I had such a Character of you.
Of me, oh Lord, I vow now—as they say—I don't know—ha, ha,—
I heard you were the most incorrigible fool, the most intolerable fop▪
Ha, ha, ha, do you hear Gload?—who I a fop? I vow they were mistaken in me, for I am counted as pretty a Merchant as any walks the change; can write a very plain hand, and cast account as well as—My man Gload— can't I, sirrah?
Yes indeed, forsooth, can he.
Agad, a fool, a fop, quoth ye—
By all means flatter him, Madam.
I'm satisfi'd, Sir.
I care not whether you are or no, for I shall have you whether you will or no, mun.
'Tis very likely; but there is a certain troublesome fellow in love with me, that has made me vow when ever I marry to ask him leave.
How, ask his leave? I scorn to ask any bodies leave, I tell you that, though 'twere my Mistress—
I cannot marry you then.
How not marry me? look here now
Gload, can't you marry, and let no living soul know't?
Oh no, Sir, I love your life better, which would be indanger'd.
Why what a cursed [...]ustom you have in Spain, a man can neither marry, nor console his Neighbours Wife without having his throat cut? Why what if he will not give you leave?
Why then you must fight him.
How! fight him, I fight him!
Why yes, Sir, you know you can fight, you try'd but this very morning—
Softly you damn'd Rogue, not a word of my prowess aloud. Salerimente, I shall be put to fight when I am sober, shall I, for your damn'd prating, ye rascal?
I am glad you have that good quality.
I, Madam—my Master—has many more: But if you please to tell him his Rivals name.
I'l have your ears for this sirrah, the next time I'm soundly drunk, and you know that won't be long.
Lord, Madam, my man knows not what he says.
Ye rascal say I have no courage—or I will drink my self to the miracle of valour, and exercise it all on thee.
I know what I do, Sir, you had courage this morning, is the fit over?
Have I not slept since you rogue, have I not?
I have a trick to save your honour, Sir, and therefore I will stand in't you have courage.
A pox of your trick, the rogue knows I dare not [Page 64] chastise him now, for fear they should think I have valour.
Madam, my Master's modest, but tell him who 'tis he must fight with—
Oh, for a Tun of Rhenish—that I might abundantly beat thee—
Your Rival's name's Alonzo, Sir.
Oh the Divel, a thundring name too; but will this same — Alonzo make no allowance for necessity—I vow 'tis pure necessity in me to marry you, the old men being agreed upon the matter, I am but an instrument—alas, not I,
A very Tool, as they say, so I am.
Lord, Sir, why do you cry? I meant no harm.
No harm you rascal—to say I am valiant.
Why yes, Sir, and if you would say so too, at worst 'twas but getting Don Lovis to have fought for you; you know that's a small courtesie to a friend.
Faith now thou art in the right, he'l do his business for him, I'l warrant him.
Nay then, Madam, I have courage, and will to this Don— this Alonzo you speak of; and if he do not resign you, and consign you too, I'l make him; yes, make him, do ye see— If Lovis should refuse me now—
Shaw, Sir, he makes nothing to kill a man, ten or twenty.
Well, since you are so resolv'd, my Bro [...]her will tell you where to find this Alonzo; and tell him I must marry you to day, for I am resolv'd not to lye alone to night.
What would not a man do for so kind a Mistress?
Well, get you about it straight then, lest my Fathers coming prevent it.
I am gone—But if Lovis should fail—
He would beat you, if he thought you doubted him.
I'l keep my fears then to my self.
SCENE II.
Gload, if it 'twere possible I could be sober and valiant at once, I should now be provok'd to exercise it; for I cannot find Lovis, and then how I shall come off, the Lord knows. And then again, for leting the Lady go, whom I rescu'd in the Grove this morning.
Should I disobey a Lady, Sir? for she commanded me to let her go so soon as she came into the gate. And, Sir, look here comes Don Lovis.
Oh Brother Lovis, where the Divel have you been all this day, I stay'd for you to go with me to your sisters, as long as flesh and blood could forbear.
Why have you been there without me.
Yes marry have I, Sir.
I am undone then—
I needed no recommendations mun, for when I came they were all as well acquainted with me—I never saw them before, but by the way, they are all no wiser than they should be; except your sister, who is the pretty'st, loving, sweet rogue—
How's this?
But have you seen my Sister?
Seen her, yes, and will marry her too mun before night, and she were a thousand sisters—But hark ye Lovis, the business is this—you must know that before I marry her, I am to seek out a certain fellow, they call—they call Alonzo, I, I, Alonzo—a pox on him, a troublesome rascal they say he is, and his leave, it seems, must be askt to marry your sister.
Well, Sir, and what if he will not give you leave?
Why then you must know I am to get him very well favour'dly beaten.
Sure this is the coxcomb himself.
Now for your sisters sake, who loves me, poor thing; I will not run the danger of beating him my self, but must desire that small courtesie of thee.
How! I beat him?
You beat him, yes you; what a pox do you scruple such a kindness to a friend; I know you make no more of killing a man next your heart in a morning, than I do of eating a pickled Herring.
But she desir'd you to do't.
That's all one so it be done mun: besides why should I run my self into premunire when I need not; your Father is bound by agreement to mine, to deliver me the wares (that in his Daughter) safe and sound; and I have no more to do, but to protest against him in case of non-performance. 'Twill be a dear comodity to me at this rate.
Well, Sir, I'l see what may be done.
Spoke like a friend now: well, you must about it instantly, for I must be married to day.
Must you so, Sir?—
Yes marry must I, Sir,—who the divels this now?
That same Alonzo whom you inquire for.
Are you so, Sir?—Why what then, Sir?— Lovis, Lovis.
What then, Sir; then I tell you, I will not be beaten.
Look ye here now— Lovis.
Ha, ha, ha, canst thou be angry with him?
I, can you be angry with me?
I know not why an Ass should have more privilege than any other rude beast.
Ha, ha, ha, this humour's so pleasant in thee, I wish thou wouldst pursue it a little— Haunce, bear up to him, he's but a meer huff, ha, ha, ha.
I, Sir, as long as Don Lovis is here, you may say what you will.
May I so?—and why, Sir?—am I, Sir,—an Ass, Sir?
'Sdeath you rascal, do you question me?
Oh hold, Sir, hold, not I, God forbid I should question it, Lovis—is it indeed Alon [...]o, hah?
Yes indeed is it.
And wilt thou not do so much as to beat him for me a little?
Not I, I dare not, he's a terrible man.
Why look you here now you damn'd rogue,
have not you serv'd me finely, hah?
Why, Sir, 'tis but crying peccavi.
Peccavi, and be hang'd to you—Lord, Sir,
why are you so angry, I came but to ask you a civil question, from my wife that must be?
You must ask me leave, first.
Yes, yes, Sir, so she said mun; for she must marry me to night.
Yes, you shall have it with this—too
Why look you
[Page 68] here now, here's damn'd doings. For my part I declare it here upon my death-bed, I am forc'd to what I do, and you kill me against my will.
Dost think we are not discover'd in our design? I'd kill the dog if I thought we were.
I believe not, and perceive by my Sisters message, that we are to come to her, and prevent this fellows marrying her.
Well, Sir, I'l spare your life, and give your Mistress leave to marry to night.
How, Sir, to night?—But is he in earnest Lovis?
In very good earnest.
Tan, ta, ra, ra, ra—hay boys, what a night we'l have on't Gload; for fiddles and dancing.
Tell your Mistress I will dispatch a little affairs and wait on her.
And pray▪ Sir, may I have leave to marry the Maid too.
We'l consider on't.
I am not such a fool to venture though, till I know the coast is clear, for his very looks are terrible, but go you Gload and tell her what he says.
With me, Sir?
Yes, please you to walk a little this way, Sir.
Well, make you sure of fiddles, for look ye, we'l appear to night like our selves.
It shall be done, Sir.
I am a stranger and a Gentleman▪ And have an humble sute to you.
You may command me any thing.
Sir, there is a Gentleman, if I may call him so, that dares do ill: h [...]s put a base affront upon a Lady—a [Page 69] Lady whom all brave men are bound to vindicate: I've writ him here a challenge, and only beg you'l give it him, I will attend you in St. Peter's Grove, where I desire the perfidious Antonio (for that's his name, to whom this is directed) to meet me.
I'm pleas'd to see this gallantry in a man so young, and will serve you in this, or whatever else you shall command. But where is this Antonio?
That I'l inquire of these. Sir, pray can you give any account of the Cavalier
you fought with this morning in St. Peters Grove, that had a Lady with him?
So, now perhaps I shall be hang'd for that.
I fight, Sir, I never fought in my life, nor saw no man, not I.
Sha, you may confess it, Sir, there's no Law against killing in Spain.
How? have you murther'd him?
This rogue has a mind to have me dispatch'd,
Hold, Sir, the man's as well and alive as you are, and is now at my lodgings; look ye here's the dagger I disarm'd him off—but that I do not love to boast.
It is the same.
Sir, I shall not fail to wait on you with the Answer I receive—
I humbly thank you, Sir.
So prethee, dear Lovis, go make my excuse to your Sister for a moment, and let h [...]r get all things ready against I come; let the Priest too wait, for I see my destiny, which I can no longer prevent, draws on a pace.
Come, Sir, you must conduct me to Antonio.
SCENE III.
Hast thou forgot thy last nights treachery? how like a thief thou stol'st into her lodging.
Thou hast more wit than he then I find: Your quarrel, Sir, may a man have leave to inqui [...]e into't.
This is that Silvio; that Noble Youth my Brother, whom thou hast often heard me name.
An excellant▪ character for an enemy, Noble and Brother: for shame put up your swords, and I'l be judge betweeen ye.
The case is soon decided; I will not t [...]ll you with how tedious a courtship I won the heart, as I thought, of a young beauty in this Town—And y [...]terday receiv'd a Billet from her, to wait on her at night, to receive the r [...]compence of all my pains and sufferings—In this extasie of joy I show'd him the paper; and he getting thither before me, robb'd me of my prize.
Not content with this, most treacherosly, hid in the shades of night, he met me in the Hall of this false woman, and stabb'd me, which did secure his flight with her; and would'st thou have me put this injury up?
I dare do any thing, but break my word, as thou hast basely done with me—But I am now in haste, and should be glad to know where to meet you anon.
I'l wait on you at the farthe [...] side of this Grove by the River.
I will not fail you—
Come, Sir, till I can better prove you are my Rival I will believe you are my friend and brother.
I humbly thank you, Sir, and should be glad to know how I might pay my gratitude.
My duty ends not here; I have a sword to serve you.
You shame me with this generosity, but, Sir, I hope my own will be sufficient in so good a cause.
The enemy appears, Sir,—and since you are so good, I beg you would retire behind those trees; for if he see us both, since he is single, he will suspect some treachery.
I Desire you to meet me in St. Peters Grove, with your sword in your hand about an hour hence; you will guess my business▪ when you know my name to be
Who the Divel's tha [...] young Bully that takes my name and my concerns upon him?
What, dost thou faint already?—Hah, the pretty talking youth I saw but now!
Alas, how dost thou?
I understand not ridling, but whoever thou be'st, man or woman, thou'rt worth our care.—
She faints—come let us bear her hence.
To pay my humble thanks; could you have mercy too, to [Page 78] pardon me—you might redeem my soul.
ACT V.
SCENE I.
FEar not, I'l use my interest both with your Mother and my Father, to set your heart at rest, Whose pain I feel by something in my own.
The Gods reward your bounty, fair Cleonte.
I, I, Madam, I beseech you make our peace with my good Lady her Mother, what ever becomes of the rest, for she'l e'en dye with grief—
Madam, I might have had: but he was lost ere I was born.
Madam, you must know, my Lady Octavia, for that's her name, was in her youth the very flower of Beauty and Vertue: Oh such a face and shape, had you but seen her—And though I say it, Madam, I thought my self too somebody then.
Thou art tedious: Madam, 'tis true my Mother had the reputation of both those attractions, which gain'd her m [...]ny Lovers: amongst the rest, Don Manual, and Don Alonzo, were most worthy her esteem.
I, Madam, Don Alonzo, there was a man for you, so obliging and so bountiful.—Well, I'l give you an Argument of both to me: for you must know I was a Beauty then, and worth obliging.
And he was the man my Lady lov'd, though Don Manual were the richer: but to my own story—
Forward Clarinda.
I, Madam; but had you seen Don Alonzo's rage, and how my Lady took this disappointment—But I who was very young, and very pretty as I told you before—
To her afflicted Mother: But as I told you Madam, I was then in my prime—
I will secure your fear— Francisca, send for Father Ioseph to me, and conduct these Gentlemen to the Lodgings next the Garden.
Prethee Marcel, are thee and I awake, or do we dream? thou, that thou art in thy Fathers House; and I, that I see those two fair women there. Pray lovely fugitive, how come you hither?
Yes surely, Sir; for 'twere pity you should have bestow'd your heart on a shadow, and I well remember you gave it one of us last night.
A dream, a dream, but are you indeed the same fair person, and is this the same house too?
I am afraid your heart's not worth the keeping, since you took no better notice where you dispos'd of it.
Faith, Madam, you wrong a poor Lover, who has languish'd in search of it all this live-long day.
Brother, I beseech you, receive the innocent Clarinda, who, I fear, will have the greatest cause of complaint against you.
But pray, fair one, let you and I talk a little about that same heart you put me in mind of just now.
Surely that's my old Mistress Dormida; twenty years has not made so great an alteration in that ill-favour'd face of hers, but I can find a Lover there.
This is news indeed; 'tis fit I keep this secret no longer from my Master. Don Manual being dead, my vow's exspir'd.
I was oblig'd by vow, Sir, to Don Alonzo my dead Master, not to restore you till Don Manual's death; believing it a happiness too great for his Rival, for so he was upon your Mothers score.
Have I a Mother living?
Here in Madrid, Sir, and that fair maid's your Sister.
I scarce can credit thee, but that I know thee honest.
To confirm that belief, Sir, here are the writings of twelve thousand crowns a year, left you by your Foster
Father, the brave Alonzo, whose name he gave you too.
I am convinc'd—How now Marcel, what all in tears? why who the Divel would love in earnest? Come, come, make me judge between you.
Vows! dost think the Gods regard the vows of Lovers? they are things made in necessity, and ought not to be kept, nor punish'd when broken: if they were— Heaven have mercy on me poor sinner.
My Father return'd!
Sir, this is the gallant man that was desig [...]'d to be your son-in-Law.
And that you were not so, Sir, was my misfortune only.
To convince you of that, Alonzo, I know my father will bestow this other sister on you; more fair and young, and equally as rich.
How, his Sister! Fool, that I was, I could not gues [...] at this; and now have I been lying and swearing all this while how much I lov'd her. Well, take one time with another, a man falls into more danger by this amorous humour, than he gets good turns by it.
Pardon me, Sir, I knew not you had design'd her elsewhere —Dear Alonzo, my Father—
I, Sir, I am much oblig'd to him. Oh Pox would I were well with Euphemia.
I protest I could wish—
I, so could I, Sir, that you had made a better judgement of my humour: all must out, I have no other way to avoid this complement else. Why look ye Marcel—your Sister is—Pox I am ill at dissimulation, and therefore in plain terms, I am to be marryed this very evening to another.
This was happy, and has sav'd me an excuse.
But are you in earnest, Sir? how is it possible, being so lately come into Madrid?
Destiny, destiny, Marcel, which there was no avoiding, tho' I mist of Hippolyta.
Who is it prethee?
A woman I hope, of which indeed I would have been better assur'd; but she was wilful. She's call'd Euphemia.
Our next neighbour, the Daughter of old Carlo.
The same.
Thou art happy to make so good a progress in so short a time, but I am—
Not so miserable as you believe. Come, come, you shall marry Clarinda.
'Tis impossible.
Where's the hindrance.
Her want of fortune; that's enough, friend.
Stand by and expect the best.—
Sir, I have an humble sute to you.
I should be infinitely pleas'd you could ask me any thing in my power, but, Sir, this daughter I had dispos'd of, before I knew you would have mist of Hippolyta.
Luckyer than I expected.
Sir, that was an honour I could not merit, and am contented with my fate: But my request is, that you would receive into your family a Sister of mine, whom I would bestow on Don Marcel.
Hah, what mean you, Sir! a Sister of yours?
Yes, she will not be unwelcome▪—This is she.
This is the daughter to Octavia—Her Mother was a Lady whom once I did adore, and 'twas her fault she was not more happy with me, than with Don Manual. Nor have I so wholly forgot that flame, but I might be inclin'd to your proposal: But, Sir, she wants a fortune.
That I'l supply.
You supply, Sir? on what kind scorce, I pray?
And I with joys beyound expression, Sir, receive her.
Pedro, there rests no more than that you wait on my Mother, and let her know all that has happend to my self and sister, and that I'l pay my duty to her ere I sleep.
The very joy to find her Son again, will get my pardon too, and then perhaps Pedro and I may renew our old amours.
Sir, I have another request to make.
You must command, Sir.
That is, that you will permit this fair company to honour me this evening at my Father-in-laws Don Carlo.
How, has Don Carlo married the Lady Octavia?
No, Sir, but a worse matter than that, I am to marry his Daughter.
Oh, Sir, Euphemia has too much beauty and vertue to make you doubt your happiness.
Well, Sir, I must venture that. But your company I'l expect, the Ladies may clap on their Vizards, and make a Masquerading night on't: though such freedoms are not very usual in Spain; we that have seen the world, may absolve one another.
My Garden joyns to that of Don Carlo▪ and that way we will wait on you, as soon as I have dispatcht a small affair.
Your humble Servant, Sir.
Sister, go you and prepare my Father to receive Hippolyta, whilst I go see them married.
Yes, Sir, nor knows of that vile message which I brought you.
Your Father was the mighty favourite, the Conte De Olivaris; your Mother, Spains celebrated Beauty, Donna Margarita Spiniola, by whom your Father had two natural Sons, Don Lovis de Harro, and your self Don Roderigo. The story of his disgrace you know with all the world; 'twas then he being banisht from the Court, he left you to my care then very young. I receiv'd you as my own, and as more than such educated you, and as your Father oblig'd me to do, brought you always up about their Majesties—For he hoped if you had beauty and merits, you might inherit part of that glory he lost.
This is wondrous—
This truth you had not known [...]o soon, had you not made as great an interest at Court as any man so young ever did: and if I had not acquitted my self in all points as became the friend of so great and brave a man, as Conte de Olivaris, the Fortune he left you was two millions of Crowns.
No, Sir, but one whom long since I design'd your wife, if you are pleas'd to think her worthy of it.
Without her, Sir, I do despise my being: And do receive her as a blessing, sent from heaven to make my whole life happy.
What [...]ay you, Cleonte?
Sir, I must own a joy greater than is fit for a Virgin to express.
Generous Don Roderigo, receive me as your friend, and pardon all the fault you found in me as a brother.
Be ever dear unto my soul, Marcel.
Now is the time to present Hippolyta and Antonio to my Father, whilst his humour is so good. And you, dear Brother, I must beg to joyn with us in so just a cause.
You need not doubt my power, and less my will.
Do you prepare him then, whilst I bring them in: For by this I know my Confessor has made them one.
SCENE II.
BUt is the Bride-chamber drest up, and the bed made as it ought to be?
As for the making, 'tis as it use to be, only the Velvet Furniture.
As it use to be? oh ignorance! I see these young wenches are not arriv'd yet to bare imagination: Well, I must order it my self, I see that.
Why Olinda, I hope they will not go just to bed upon their marrying without some signs of a wedding, as Fidles and Dancing, and so forth.
Good Lord, what joys you have found out for the first night of a young Bride and Bridegroom. Fidles and Dancing, ha, ha, ha! they'l be much merryer by themselves that Fidles and Dancing can make them, you fool.
Bless me! what is't I see?
Why? what the Divel means she? Look about me Gload, and see what I have that's so terrible.
Oh, I have no power to stir, it is a sprite.
What does she mean now Gload?
She desires to be satisfi'd whether we be flesh and blood, Sir, I believe.
Dost see nothing that's divel-wise about me?
No indeed, Sir, not I.
Why then the wench is tippled, that's all, a small [...]ult.
In the name of goodness, Sir, what are you?
I, I, Sir, 'tis that she desires to know.
Who are you, Sir?
Why who should I be but he that's to be your Master anon?
Yes, who should he be but Myn heer Haunce Van Ezel?
What, did you come in at the door?
Yes marry did I, what do you think I creep in like a [...]apland witch through the key holes?
Nay, nay, this cannot be the Bridegroom.
No, for 'tis but a moment since we left him, you know in my Ladies Chamber.
Very drunk by this good light.
And therefore it cannot be My [...]heer Haunce.
What a Divel will you perswade me out of my Christian name?
The Priest has yet scarce done his office, who is marrying him above to my Lady.
Salerimente, here's brave doing, to marry me, and never give me notice; or thou art damnable drunk, or very mad.
Yes, and I am married to you too, am I not?
You? we know neither of you.
Ha, ha ha, here's a turn for you.
Why, Olinda, Dorice, Olinda, where be these mad Girls? 'tis almost night, and nothing in order. Why what now? Who's here?
So the old man's possest too—Why what a Divel ails you, Sir?
From whence come you, Sir? and what are you?
Gload, let's be gone, for we shall be transmigra [...]ed into some strange shapes anon, for all the house is inchanted. Who am I, quoth ye? before I came you all knew me; and now you are very well acquainted with me, you have forgot me.
If you be my son Haunce, how▪ came you here?
If I be your son Haunce? where should I be else?
Above with your Wife, not below amongst the Maids.
What wife? what wife? ha, ha, ha, do not provoke me, lest I take you a slap in the face, I tell you that now.
Oh I find by his humour this is he, and I am finely cheated and abus'd. I'l up and know the truth.
And so will I.
Why, but Mistress Olinda, you have not indeed forgot me, have you?
For my lover I have, but perhaps I may call you to mind as my servant hereafter.
Since you'r so proud and so fickle, you shall stand hereafter as a Cipher with me: and I'l begin upon a new account with this pretty Maid, what say you forsooth?
I am willing enough to get a husband as young as I am.
Why, that's well said, give your hand upon the bargain —God ha' mercy with all my heart i'fais.
Oh I am cheated, undone, abus'd.
How, Sir, and where?
Nay, I know not how, or where; but so I am; and when I find it, I'l turn you all out of doors. Who are you, Sir? quickly tell me.
If you be in such haste, take the shortest account▪ I am your son.
I mean, Sir, what's your name, and which of you is Haunce van Ezel?
I, which of us is Haunce van Ezel, tell us that, Sir; we shall handle ye, i' faith, now—
He, Sir, can best inform you.
Who, I! I know no more than the great Turk, not I, which of us is me; my hat, my feather; my sute, and my Garniture all over faith now; and I believe this is me, for I'l trust my eyes before any other sense about me. What sayst thou now Gload? guess which of us is thy own natural Master now if thou canst.
Which, Sir?—why—let me see—let me see,
[...]akes I cannot tell, Sir.
Come, come, the cheat is plain, and I'l not be fob'd off, therefore tell me who you are, Sir.
One that was very unwilling to have put this trick [Page 95] upon you, if I could have perswaded Euphemia to have been kind on any other terms, but nothing would down with her but Matrimony.
How long have you known her?
Faith, Sir, too long by at least an hour.
I say again what are you, Sir?
A man I am, and they call me Alonzo.
How! I hope not the great fighting Colonel, whom my son serv'd as a Voluntier in Fland [...]rs.
Even he, Sir.
Worse and worse, I shall grow mad, to think that in spight of all my care, Euphemia should marry with so notorious a man of war.
How! is this Alonzo, and am I cozen'd? pray tell me truly, are you not me indeed?
All over, Sir, only the inside a little less fool.
So here's fine jugling—are not you a rare Lady, hah?—
I assure you, Sir, if this man had not past for you, I had never had him.
Had him! O you are a flattering thing, I durst ha' sworn you could no more ha' been without me, than a Barbers▪ Shop without a Fiddle, so I did: Oh what a damnable voyage have I back again without a wife too.—
If that be all, we'l get you one before you go: that shall be my care.
A pox of your care; well, I will get my self most soundly drunk to night, to be reveng'd of these two damnable Dons. Come Gload, let us about something in order to't.
Pray, Sir, be perswaded, he's worth your owning.
Tell not me of [...]wning: what fortune has he?
His Horse and Arms, the favour of his Prince and his pay.
His Horse and Arms I wholly dislike as impliments of war, and that same Princely favour, as you call it, will buy no Lands, and his Pay he shall have when he can get it.
But, Sir, his coming to Madrid was to take possession of a place the Prince has promis'd him.
Has promis'd him? what! I shall marry my Daughter to the promises of ere a Prince in Christendom, shall I? No, no; promises, quoth ye?
Well, Sir, will this satisfie you?
If it should not, let us consider what next to do.
No consideration Euphemia; not so much as that we are married, lest it lesse [...] our joys.
12000 Crowns a year!—Sir, I cry you mercy, and wish you joy with my Daughter▪
So his courage will down with him now.
To satisfie you farther, Sir, read this.
And now Euphemia prepare your self to receive some gallant friends of mine, whom you must be acquainted with, and who design to make a merry night on't.
A whole night Alonzo?
By no means Euphemia, for the first too, which if the thoughts of its being part of my duty do not hinder, will be pleasant enough to me.
So considerable an office at Court too!—Let me imbrace you, Sir; and tell you how happy I am in so brave a Son-in-law.
With that assurance, Sir, I'l take a more than ordinary freedom with you, and teach Euphemia a franker way of living, than what a native Spaniard would have allow'd her.
She shall be what sort of wife you'l have her.
What Musi [...]k's that?
It waits upon some Ladies and Gentlemen who ask for you, Sir.
Wait them in, they are those f [...]iends of mine I told you off.
Well, the Divel's in't if we shall not appear ridiculous enough, hah Gload?
I, Sir, the more ridiculous the better.
I was always of that mind.—Ha, hay Boys, who be all these Dons and Donna's?—Harkye Lovis, I hope the Wife you promis'd me is amongst these fair Ladies, for so I guess they are both, fair and Ladies.
You guess right, Sir.
Now Ladies and Gentlewomen command your Musick, and do what likes you best.
Here's the Lady I recommend to you, take her, Sir, be thankful.
This is the fool that I am to manage.
And this my lott.
There is within a young Father ready to joyn your hands: take this opportunity, and make sure of a Wife.
I warrant you, Sir.
Your Mother, Sir, whom I found more dead than living for the loss of your Sister, was very near dying outright with joy to hear of your arrival, and most impatiently expects you.
And are we all forgiven Pedro?
Yes, you and I are like to be fellow Servants together again, Dormida.
And fellow Lovers too I hope, Pedro.
The Divel's in't if age have not allai'd flames of all sorts in thee: but if you contribute to my allowance—
Thou knowst I could never keep any thing from thee Pedro.
Come Ladies, there is a small Banquet attends you in the next room.
We'l wait on you, Sir.
Hold, hold, and give me joy too, for I am Married, if she has not mistaken her man again and I my woman.
No, you are the man I look for, and I no cheat, having all about me that you look for too, but Money.
How Olinda!
Yes indeed, Sir, I serv'd my Lady first, and then thought it no offence to take the reward due to that service.
Here's a Spanish trick for you now, to marry a Wife before one sees her.
What Dorice Married too?
After your example, Madam.
Yes indeed, forsooth, and I have made bold too after the example of my Master.
Now do they all expect I should be dissatisfied; but, Gentlemen, in sign and token that I am not, I'l have one more merry frisk before we part, 'tis a witty wench; faith and troth after a month 'tis all one whose who; therefore come on Gload.
Monsieur Haunce, I see you are a man of Gallantry. Come let us in, I know every man here desires to make this night his own, and sacrifice it to pleasure.