The Beaux Stratagem.

A COMEDY.

As it is acted at the QUEEN's THEATRE IN THE HAY-MARKET.

ADVERTISEMENT.

THE Reader may find some Faults in this Play, which my Illness prevented the amending of, but there is a great Amends made in the Representation, which cannot be match'd, no more than the friendly and indefatigable Care of Mr. Wilks, to whom I chiefly owe the Success of the Play.

George Farquhar.

PROLOGUE.

[Spoken by Mr. WILKS.]
When Strife disturbs or Sloth Corrupts an Age,
Keen Satyr is the Business of the Stage.
When the Plain-Dealer writ, he lash'd those Crimes
Which then infested most--The Modish Times:
But now, when Faction sleeps and Sloth is fled,
And all our Youth in Active Fields are bred;
When thro' GREAT BRITAIN's fair extensive Round,
The Trumps of Fame the Notes of UNION sound;
When ANNA's Scepter points the Laws their Course,
And Her Example gives her Precepts Force:
There scarce is room for Satyr, all our Lays
Must be, or Songs of Triumph, or of Praise:
But as in Grounds best cultivated, Tares
And Poppies rise among the Golden Ears;
Our Products so, fit for the Field or School,
Must mix with Nature's Favourite Plant--A Fool:
A Weed that has to twenty Summer's ran,
Shoots up in Stalk, and Vegetates to Man.
Simpling our Author goes from Field to Field,
And culls such Fools, as may Diversion yield;
And, Thanks to Nature, there's no want of those,
For Rain, or Shine, the thriving Coxcomb grows.
Follies, to Night we shew, ne'er lash'd before,
Yet, such as Nature shews you every Hour;
Nor can the Picture's give a Just Offence,
For Fools are made for Jests to Men of Sense.

AN EPILOGUE, Design'd to be spoke in the Beaux Stratagem.If to our Play Your Judgment can't be kind,
Let its expiring Author Pity find.
Survey his mournful Case with melting Eyes,
Nor let the Bard be dam'd before he dies.
Forbear you Fair on his last Scene to frown,
But his true Exit with a Plaudit Crown;
Then shall the dying Poet cease to Fear,
The dreadful Knell, while your Applause he hears.
At Leuctra so, the Conqu'ring Theban dy'd,
Claim'd his Friend's Praises, but their Tears deny'd:
Pleas'd in the Pangs of Death he greatly Thought
Conquest with loss of Life but cheaply bought.
The Difference this, the Greek was one wou'd fight
As brave, tho' not so gay as Serjeant Kite;
Ye Sons of Will's what's that to those who write?
To Thebes alone the Grecian ow'd his Bays,
You may the Bard above the Hero raise,
Since yours is greater than Athenian Praise.

Dramatis Personæ.MEN. WOMEN.

Aimwell, Gentleman of broken Fortunes, the first as Master, and the second as Servant.	Mr. Mills.
Archer, Gentleman of broken Fortunes, the first as Master, and the second as Servant.	Mr. Wilks.
Count Bellair, A French Officer, Prisoner at Litchfield.	Mr. Bowman.
Sullen, A Country Blockhead, brutal to his Wife.	Mr. Verbruggen.
Freeman, A Gentleman from London.	Mr. Keen.
Foigard, A Priest, Chaplain to the French Officers.	Mr. Bowen.
Gibbet, A High-way-man.	Mr. Cibber.
Hounstow, His Companion.
Bagshot, His Companion.
Bonniface, Landlord of the Inn.	Mr. Bullock.
Scrub, Servant to Mr. Sullen.	Mr. Norris.
Lady Bountiful, An old civil Country Gentlewoman, that cures all her Neighbours of all Distempers, and foolishly fond of her Son Sullen,	Mrs. Powel.
Dorinda, Lady Bountiful's Daughter.	Mrs. Bradshaw.
Mrs. Sullen, Her Daughter-in-law.	Mrs. Oldfield.
Gipsey, Maid to the Ladies.	Mrs. Mills.
Cherry, The Landlord's Daughter in the Inn.	Mrs. Bignal.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Bon.:

CHAMBERLAIN, Maid, Cherry, Daughter Cherry, all
asleep, all dead?

Cherry,:

Here, here, Why d'ye baul so, Father? d'ye think
we have no Ears?

Bon.:

You deserve to have none, you young Minx;--The
Company of the Warrington Coach has stood in the Hall this
Hour, and no Body to shew them to their Chambers.

Cher.:

And let 'em wait farther; there's neither Red-Coat in
the Coach, nor Footman behind it.

Bon.:

But they threaten to go to another Inn to Night.

Cher.:

That they dare not, for fear the Coachman should overturn
them to Morrow--Coming, coming: Here's the London
Coach arriv'd.

Bon.:

Welcome, Ladies.

Cher.:

Very welcome, Gentlemen--Chamberlain, shew the
Lyon and the Rose.

Bon.:

This way, this way, Gentlemen.

Aim.:

Set down the things, go to the Stable, and see my
Horses well rubb'd.

Arch.:

I shall, Sir.

Aim.:

You're my Landlord, I suppose?

Bon.:

Yes, Sir, I'm old Will. Bonniface, pretty well known
upon this Road, as the saying is.

Aim.:

O Mr. Bonniface, your Servant.

Bon.:

O Sir--What will your Honour please to drink, as the
saying is?

Aim.:

I have heard your Town of Litchfield much fam'd for
Ale, I think I'll taste that.

Bon.:

Sir, I have now in my Cellar Ten Tun of the best Ale
in Staffordshire; 'tis smooth as Oil, sweet as Milk, clear as Amber,
and strong as Brandy; and will be just Fourteen Year old
the Fifth Day of next March old Stile.

Aim.:

You're very exact, I find, in the Age of your Ale.

Bon.:

As punctual, Sir, as I am in the Age of my Children:
I'll shew you such Ale--Here, Tapster, broach Number 1706.
as the saying is;--Sir, you shall taste my Anno Domini;--I
have liv'd in Litchfield Man and Boy above Eight and fifty Years,
and I believe have not consum'd Eight and fifty Ounces of Meat.

Aim.:

At a Meal, you mean, if one may guess your Sense by
your Bulk.

Bon.:

Not in my Life, Sir, I have fed purely upon Ale; I
have eat my Ale, drank my Ale, and I always sleep upon Ale.

[Enter Tapster with a Bottle and Glass.]

Now, Sir, you shall see

[[filling it out]]
your Worship's Health;
ha! delicious, delicious,--fancy it Burgundy, only fancy it,
and 'tis worth Ten Shilling a Quart.

[
Aim.:
[Drinks.]]

'Tis confounded strong.

Bon.:

Strong! It must be so, or how should we be strong that
drink it?

Aim.:

And have you liv'd so long upon this Ale, Landlord?

Bon.:

Eight and fifty Years, upon my Credit, Sir; but it kill'd
my Wife, poor Woman, as the saying is.

Aim.:

How came that to pass?

Bon.:

I don't know how, Sir; she would not let the Ale take
its natural Course, Sir, she was for qualifying it every now and
then with a Dram, as the saying is; and an honest Gentleman
that came this way from Ireland, made her a Present of a dozen
Bottles of Usquebaugh--But the poor Woman was never well
after: But howe're, I was obliged to the Gentleman, you know.

Aim.:

Why, was it the Usquebaugh that kill'd her?

Bon.:

My Lady Bountyful said so,--She, good Lady, did
what could be done, she cured her of Three Tympanies, but
the Fourth carry'd her off; but she's happy, and I'm contented,
as the saying is.

Aim.:

Who's that Lady Bountyful, you mention'd?

Bon.:

Ods my Life, Sir, we'll drink her Health.

[[Drinks]]
My
Lady Bountyful is one of the best of Women: Her last Husband
Sir Charles Bountyful left her worth a Thousand Pound a Year;
and I believe she lays out one half on't in charitable Uses for the
Good of her Neighbours; she cures Rheumatisms, Ruptures, and
broken Shins in Men, Green Sickness, Obstructions, and Fits of
the Mother in Women;--The Kings-Evil, Chin-Cough, and
Chilblains in Children; in short, she has cured more People in
and about Litchfield within Ten Years than the Doctors have
kill'd in Twenty; and that's a bold Word.

Aim.:

Has the Lady been any other way useful in her Generation?

Bon.:

Yes, Sir, She has a Daughter by Sir Charles, the finest
Woman in all our Country, and the greatest Fortune. She has
a Son too by her first Husband Squire Sullen, who marry'd a fine
Lady from London t'other Day; if you please, Sir, we'll drink
his Health?

Aim.:

What sort of a Man is he?

Bon.:

Why, Sir, the Man's well enough; says little, thinks less,
and does--nothing at all, Faith: But he's a Man of a great Estate,
and values no Body.

Aim.:

A Sportsman, I suppose.

Bon.:

Yes, Sir, he's a Man of Pleasure, he plays at Whisk,
and smoaks his Pipe Eight and forty Hours together sometimes.

Aim.:

And marry'd, you say?

Bon.:

Ay, and to a curious Woman, Sir,--But he's a
--He wants it, here, Sir.

Aim.:

He has it there, you mean.

Bon.:

That's none of my Business, he's my Landlord, and so
a Man you know, wou'd not,--But--I cod, he's no better
than--Sir, my humble Service to you.

[[Drinks.]]
Tho' I value
not a Farthing what he can do to me; I pay him his Rent at
Quarter day, I have a good running Trade, I have but one
Daughter, and I can give her--But no matter for that.

Aim.:

You're very happy, Mr. Bonniface, pray what other
Company have you in Town?

Bon.:

A power of fine Ladies, and then we have the French
Officers.

Aim.:

O that's right, you have a good many of those Gentlemen:
Pray how do you like their Company?

Bon.:

So well, as the saying is, that I cou'd wish we had as
many more of 'em, they're full of Money, and pay double for
every thing they have; they know, Sir, that we pay'd good
round Taxes for the taking of 'em, and so they are willing to
reimburse us a little; one of 'em lodges in my House.

Arch.:

Landlord, there are some French Gentlemen below that
ask for you.

Bon.:

I'll wait on 'em;--Does your Master stay long in
Town, as the saying is?

Arch.:

I can't tell, as the saying is.

Bon.:

Come from London?

Arch.:

No.

Bon.:

Going to London, may hap?

Arch.:

No.

Bon.:

An odd Fellow this. I beg your Worship's Pardon, I'll
wait on you in half a Minute.

Aim.:

The Coast's clear, I see,--Now my dear Archer, welcome
to Litchfield.

Arch.:

I thank thee, my dear Brother in Iniquity.

Aim.:

Iniquity! prithee leave Canting, you need not change
your Stile with your Dress.

Arch.:

Don't mistake me, Aimwell, for 'tis still my Maxim,
that there is no Scandal like Rags, nor any Crime so shameful as
Poverty.

Aim.:

The World confesses it every Day in its Practice, tho'
Men won't own it for their Opinion: Who did that worthy
Lord, my Brother, single out of the Side-box to sup with him
t'other Night?

Arch.:

Jack Handycraft, a handsom, well dress'd, mannerly,
sharping Rogue, who keeps the best Company in Town.

Aim.:

Right, and pray who marry'd my Lady Manslaughter
t'other Day, the great Fortune?

Arch.:

Why, Nick Marrabone, a profess'd Pick-pocket, and a
good Bowler; but he makes a handsom Figure, and rides in his
Coach, that he formerly used to ride behind.

Aim.:

But did you observe poor Jack Generous in the Park last
Week?

Arch.:

Yes, with his Autumnal Perriwig, shading his melancholly
Face, his Coat older than any thing but its Fashion, with
one Hand idle in his Pocket, and with the other picking his
useless Teeth; and tho' the Mall was crowded with Company,
yet was poor Jack as single and solitary as a Lyon in a Desart.

Aim.:

And as much avoided, for no Crime upon Earth but the
want of Money.

Arch.:

And that's enough; Men must not be poor, Idleness is
the Root of all Evil; the World's wide enough, let 'em bustle;
Fortune has taken the weak under her Protection, but Men of
Sense are left to their Industry.

Aim.:

Upon which Topick we proceed, and I think luckily
hitherto: Wou'd not any Man swear now that I am a Man of
Quality, and you my Servant, when if our intrinsick Value were
known--

Arch.:

Come, come, we are the Men of intrinsick Value, who
can strike our Fortunes out of our selves, whose worth is independent
of Accidents in Life, or Revolutions in Government;
we have Heads to get Money, and Hearts to spend it.

Aim.:

As to our Hearts, I grant'ye, they are as willing Tits as
any within Twenty Degrees; but I can have no great opinion
of our Heads from the Service they have done us hitherto, unless
it be that they have brought us from London hither to Litchfield,
made me a Lord, and you my Servant.

Arch.:

That's more than you cou'd expect already. But what
Money have we left?

Aim.:

But Two hundred Pound.

Arch.:

And our Horses, Cloaths, Rings, &c. why we have
very good Fortunes now for moderate People; and let me tell
you, besides Thousand, that this Two hundred Pound, with the
experience that we are now Masters of, is a better Estate than the
Ten we have spent.--Our Friends indeed began to suspect that
our Pockets were low; but we came off with flying Colours,
shew'd no signs of want either in Word or Deed.

Aim.:

Ay, and our going to Brussels was a good Pretence
enough for our sudden disappearing; and I warrant you, our
Friends imagine that we are gone a volunteering.

Arch.:

Why Faith, if this Prospect fails, it must e'en come to

that, I am for venturing one of the Hundreds if you will upon
this Knight-Errantry; but in case it should fail, we'll reserve the
t'other to carry us to some Counterscarp, where we may die as
we liv'd in a Blaze.

Aim.:

With all my Heart; and we have liv'd justly, Archer, we
can't say that we have spent our Fortunes, but that we have enjoy'd
'em.

Arch.:

Right, so much Pleasure for so much Money, we have
had our Penyworths, and had I Millions, I wou'd go to the
same Market again. O London, London! well, we have had
our share, and let us be thankful; Past Pleasures, for ought I
know are best, such as we are sure of, those to come may disappoint
us.

Aim.:

It has often griev'd the Heart of me, to see how some
inhumane Wretches murther their kind Fortunes; those that by
sacrificing all to one Appetite, shall starve all the rest.--You shall
have some that live only in their Palates, and in their sense of
tasting shall drown the other Four: Others are only Epicures in
Appearances, such who shall starve their Nights to make a Figure
a Days, and famish their own to feed the Eyes of others: A contrary
Sort confine their Pleasures to the dark, and contract their
spacious Acres to the Circuit of a Muff-string.

Arch.:

Right; but they find the Indies in that Spot where they
consume 'em, and I think your kind Keepers have much the best
on't; for they indulge the most Senses by one Expence, there's
the Seeing, Hearing, and Feeling amply gratify'd; and some Philosophers
will tell you, that from such a Commerce there arises
a sixth Sense that gives infinitely more Pleasure than the other
five put together.

Aim.:

And to pass to the other Extremity, of all Keepers, I
think those the worst that keep their Money.

Arch.:

Those are the most miserable Wights in being, they
destroy the Rights of Nature, and disappoint the Blessings of
Providence: Give me a Man that keeps his Five Senses keen and
bright as his Sword, that has 'em always drawn out in their just
order and strength, with his Reason as Commander at the Head
of 'em, that detaches 'em by turns upon whatever Party of Pleasure
agreeably offers, and commands 'em to retreat upon the
least Appearance of Disadvantage or Danger:--For my part I
can stick to my Bottle, while my Wine, my Company, and my

Reason holds good; I can be charm'd with Sappho's singing
without falling in Love with her Face; I love Hunting, but
wou'd not, like Acteon, be eaten up by my own Dogs; I love a
fine House, but let another keep it; and just so I love a fine
Woman.

Aim.:

In that last particular you have the better of me.

Arch.:

Ay, you're such an amorous Puppy, that I'm afraid
you'll spoil our Sport; you can't counterfeit the Passion without
feeling it.

Aim.:

Tho' the whining part be out of doors in Town, 'tis
still in force with the Country Ladies;--And let me tell you
Frank, the Fool in that Passion shall outdoe the Knave at any time.

Arch.:

Well, I won't dispute it now, you Command for the
Day, and so I submit;--At Nottingham you know I am to
be Master.

Aim.:

And at Lincoln I again.

Arch.:

Then at Norwich I mount, which, I think, shall be our
last Stage; for if we fail there, we'll imbark for Holland, bid
adieu to Venus, and welcome Mars.

Aim.:

A Match!

[[Enter Bonniface.]]
Mum.

Bon.:

What will your Worship please to have for Supper?

Aim.:

What have you got?

Bon.:

Sir, we have a delicate piece of Beef in the Pot, and a
Pig at the Fire.

Aim.:

Good Supper-meat, I must confess,--I can't eat Beef,
Landlord.

Arch.:

And I hate Pig.

Aim.:

Hold your prating, Sirrah, do you know who you are?

Bon.:

Please to bespeak something else, I have every thing in
the House.

Aim.:

Have you any Veal?

Bon.:

Veal! Sir, we had a delicate Loin of Veal on Wednesday
last.

Aim.:

Have you got any Fish or Wildfowl?

Bon.:

As for Fish, truly Sir, we are an inland Town, and indifferently
provided with Fish, that's the Truth ont, and then
for Wildfowl,--We have a delicate Couple of Rabbets.

Aim.:

Get me the Rabbets fricasy'd.

Bon.:

Fricasy'd! Lard, Sir, they'll eat much better smother'd
with Onions.

Arch.:

Pshaw! damn your Onions.

Aim.:

Again, Sirrah!--Well, Landlord, what you please;
but hold, I have a small Charge of Money, and your House is
so full of Strangers, that I believe it may be safer in your Custody
than mine; for when this Fellow of mine gets drunk, he
minds nothing.--Here, Sirrah, reach me the strong Box.

Arch.:

Yes, Sir,--This will give us a Reputation.

[[Aside.]]

Aim.:

Here, Landlord, the Locks are sealed down both for
your Security and mine; it holds somewhat above Two hundred
Pound; if you doubt it, I'll count it to you after Supper;
but be sure you lay it where I may have it at a Minute's warning;
for my Affairs are a little dubious at present, perhaps I may be
gone in half an Hour, perhaps I may be your Guest till the best
part of that be spent; and pray order your Ostler to keep my
Horses always sadled; but one thing above the rest I must beg,
that you would let this Fellow have none of your Anno Domini,
as you call it;--For he's the most insufferable Sot.--Here,
Sirrah, light me to my Chamber.

Bon.:

Cherry, Daughter Cherry?

Cher.:

D'ye call, Father?

Bon.:

Ay, Child, you must lay by this Box for the Gentleman,
'tis full of Money.

Cher.:

Money! all that Money! why, sure Father the Gentleman
comes to be chosen Parliament-man. Who is he?

Bon.:

I don't know what to make of him, he talks of keeping
his Horses ready sadled, and of going perhaps at a minute's
warning, or of staying perhaps till the best part of this be spent.

Cher.:

Ay, ten to one, Father, he's a High-way-man.

Bon.:

A High-way-man! upon my Life, Girl, you have hit it,
and this Box is some new purchased Booty.--Now cou'd we find
him out, the Money were ours.

Cher.:

He don't belong to our Gang?

Bon.:

What Horses have they?

Cher.:

The Master rides upon a Black.

Bon.:

A Black! ten to one the Man upon the black Mare; and
since he don't belong to our Fraternity, we may betray him with
a safe Conscience; I don't think it lawful to harbour any Rogues
but my own.--Look'ye, Child, as the saying is, we must

go cunningly to work, Proofs we must have, the Gentleman's
Servant loves Drink, I'll ply him that way, and ten to one loves
a Wench; you must work him t'other way.

Cher.:

Father, wou'd you have me give my Secret for his?

Bon.:

Consider, Child, there's Two hundred Pound to Boot.


[[Ringing without.]]
Coming, coming.--Child, mind your
Business.

Cher.:

What a Rogue is my Father! my Father! I deny it.
--My Mother was a good, generous, free-hearted Woman,
and I can't tell how far her good Nature might have extended
for the good of her Children. This Landlord of mine, for I
think I can call him no more, would betray his Guest, and debauch
his Daughter into the bargain,--By a Footman too!

Arch.:

What Footman, pray, Mistress, is so happy as to be
the Subject of your Contemplation?

Cher.:

Whoever he is, Friend, he'll be but little the better for't.

Arch.:

I hope so, for I'm sure you did not think of me.

Cher.:

Suppose I had?

Arch.:

Why then you're but even with me; for the Minute I
came in, I was a considering in what manner I should make love
to you.

Cher.:

Love to me, Friend!

Arch.:

Yes, Child.

Cher.:

Child! Manners; if you kept a little more distance,
Friend, it would become you much better.

Arch.:

Distance! good night, Sauce-box.

Cher.:

A pretty Fellow! I like his Pride,--Sir, pray, Sir,
you see, Sir,

[[Archer returns.]]
I have the Credit to be intrusted
with your Master's Fortune here, which sets me a Degree above
his Footman; I hope, Sir, you an't affronted.

Arch.:

Let me look you full in the Face, and I'll tell you whether
you can affront me or no.--S'death, Child, you have
a pair of delicate Eyes, and you don't know what to do with 'em.

Cher.:

Why, Sir, don't I see every body?

Arch.:

Ay, but if some Women had 'em, they wou'd kill
every body.--Prithee, instruct me, I wou'd fain make Love
to you, but I don't know what to say.

Cher.:

Why, did you never make Love to any body before?

Arch.:

Never to a Person of your Figure, I can assure you,

Madam, my Addresses have been always confin'd to People within
my own Sphere, I never aspir'd so high before.

Cher.:

What can I think of this Man?

[[Aside.]]
Will you give
me that Song, Sir?

Arch.:

Ay, my Dear, take it while 'tis warm.

[[Kisses her]]

Death and Fire! her Lips are Honey-combs.

Cher.:

And I wish there had been Bees too, to have stung you
for your Impudence.

Arch.:

There's a swarm of Cupids, my little Venus, that has
done the Business much better.

Cher.:

This Fellow is misbegotten as well as I.

[[Aside.]]
What's
your Name, Sir?

Arch.:

Name! I gad, I have forgot it.

[[Aside.]]
Oh! Martin.

Cher.:

Where were you born?

Arch.:

In St. Martin's Parish.

Cher.:

What was your Father?

Arch.:

St. Martin's Parish.

Cher.:

Then, Friend, good night.

Arch.:

I hope not.

Cher.:

You may depend upon't.

Arch.:

Upon what?

Cher.:

That you're very impudent.

Arch.:

That you're very handsome.

Cher.:

That you're a Footman.

Arch.:

That you're an Angel.

Cher.:

I shall be rude.

Arch.:

So shall I.

Cher.:

Let go my Hand.

Arch.:

Give me a Kiss.

Cher.:

I'mm--My Father calls; you plaguy Devil, how
durst you stop my Breath so?--Offer to follow me one step,
if you dare.

Arch.:

A fair Challenge by this Light; this is a pretty fair
opening of an Adventure; but we are Knight-Errants, and so
Fortune be our Guide.

[The End of the First Act.]

ACT II.

[SCENE, A Gallery in Lady Bountyful's House.]


[Mrs. Sullen and Dorinda meeting.]

Dor.:

MORROW, my dear Sister; are you for Church this
Morning?

Mrs. Sull.:

Any where to Pray; for Heaven alone can help
me: But, I think, Dorinda, there's no Form of Prayer in the
Liturgy against bad Husbands.

Dor.:

But there's a Form of Law in Doctors-Commons; and I
swear, Sister Sullen, rather than see you thus continually discontented,
I would advise you to apply to that: For besides the
part that I bear in your vexatious Broils, as being Sister to the
Husband, and Friend to the Wife; your Example gives me such
an Impression of Matrimony, that I shall be apt to condemn
my Person to a long Vacation all its Life.--But supposing,
Madam, that you brought it to a Case of Separation, what can
you urge against your Husband? My Brother is, first, the most
constant Man alive.

Mrs. Sull.:

The most constant Husband, I grant'ye.

Dor.:

He never sleeps from you.

Mrs. Sull.:

No, he always sleeps with me.

Dor.:

He allows you a Maintenance suitable to your Quality.

Mrs. Sull.:

A Maintenance! do you take me, Madam, for an
hospital Child, that I must sit down, and bless my Benefactors for
Meat, Drink and Clothes? As I take it, Madam, I brought your
Brother Ten thousand Pounds, out of which, I might expect
some pretty things, call'd Pleasures.

Dor.:

You share in all the Pleasures that the Country affords.

Mrs. Sul.:

Country Pleasures! Racks and Torments! dost
think, Child, that my Limbs were made for leaping of Ditches,
and clambring over Stiles; or that my Parents wisely foreseeing
my future Happiness in Country-pleasures, had early instructed
me in the rural Accomplishments of drinking fat Ale, playing at
Whisk, and smoaking Tobacco with my Husband; or of spreading
of Plaisters, brewing of Diet-drinks, and stilling Rosemary-Water
with the good old Gentlewoman, my Mother-in-Law.

Dor.:

I'm sorry, Madam, that it is not more in our power to
divert you; I cou'd wish indeed that our Entertainments were
a little more polite, or your Taste a little less refin'd: But,
pray, Madam, how came the Poets and Philosophers that labour'd
so much in hunting after Pleasure, to place it at last in
a Country Life?

Mrs. Sull.:

Because they wanted Money, Child, to find out
the Pleasures of the Town: Did you ever see a Poet or Philosopher
worth Ten thousand Pound; if you can shew me such a
Man, I'll lay you Fifty Pound you'll find him somewhere within
the weekly Bills.--Not that I disapprove rural Pleasures, as
the Poets have painted them; in their Landschape every Phillis
has her Coridon, every murmuring Stream, and every flowry
Mead gives fresh Alarms to Love.--Besides, you'll find,
that their Couples were never marry'd:--But yonder I see
my Coridon, and a sweet Swain it is, Heaven knows.--Come,
Dorinda, don't be angry, he's my Husband, and your Brother;
and between both is he not a sad Brute?

Dor.:

I have nothing to say to your part of him, you're the
best Judge.

Mrs. Sull.:

O Sister, Sister! if ever you marry, beware of a
sullen, silent Sot, one that's always musing, but never thinks:
--There's some Diversion in a talking Blockhead; and since
a Woman must wear Chains, I wou'd have the Pleasure of hearing
'em rattle a little.--Now you shall see, but take this by
the way;--He came home this Morning at his usual Hour
of Four, waken'd me out of a sweet Dream of something else,
by tumbling over the Tea-table, which he broke all to pieces,
after his Man and he had rowl'd about the Room like sick Passengers
in a Storm, he comes flounce into Bed, dead as a Salmon
into a Fishmonger's Basket; his Feet cold as Ice, his Breath hot
as a Furnace, and his Hands and his Face as greasy as his Flanel
Night-cap.--Oh Matrimony!--He tosses up the
Clothes with a barbarous swing over his Shoulders, disorders the
whole Oeconomy of my Bed, leaves me half naked, and my
whole Night's Comfort is the tuneable Serenade of that wakeful
Nightingale, his Nose.--O the Pleasure of counting the
melancholly Clock by a snoring Husband!--But now, Sister,
you shall see how handsomely, being a well-bred Man, he will
beg my Pardon.

[Enter Sullen.]

Sull.:

My Head akes consumedly.

Mrs. Sull.:

Will you be pleased, my Dear, to drink Tea with us
this Morning? it may do your Head good.

Sull.:

No.

Dor.:

Coffee? Brother.

Sull.:

Pshaw.

Mrs. Sull.:

Will you please to dress and go to Church with me,
the Air may help you.

Sull.:

Scrub.

Scrub,:

Sir.

Sull.:

What Day o'th Week is this?

Scrub,:

Sunday, an't please your Worship.

Sull.:

Sunday! bring me a Dram, and d'ye hear, set out the
enison-Pasty, and a Tankard of strong Beer upon the Hall-Table,
I'll go to breakfast.

Dor.:

Stay, stay, Brother, you shan't get off so; you were very
naught last Night, and must make your Wife Reparation; come,
come, Brother, won't you ask Pardon?

Sull.:

For what?

Dor.:

For being drunk last Night.

Sull.:

I can afford it, can't I?

Mrs. Sull.:

But I can't, Sir.

Sull.:

Then you may let it alone.

Mrs. Sull.:

But I must tell you, Sir, that this is not to be born.

Sull.:

I'm glad on't.

Mrs. Sull.:

What is the Reason, Sir, that you use me thus inhumanely?

Sull.:

Scrub?

Scrub.:

Sir.

Sull.:

Get things ready to shave my Head.

Mrs. Sull.:

Have a care of coming near his Temples, Scrub, for
fear you meet something there that may turn the Edge of your
Razor.--Inveterate Stupidity! did you ever know so hard,
so obstinate a Spleen as his? O Sister, Sister! I shall never ha'
Good of the Beast till I get him to Town; London, dear London
is the Place for managing and breaking a Husband.

Dor.:

And has not a Husband the same Opportunities there
for humbling a Wife?

Mrs. Sull.:

No, no, Child, 'tis a standing Maxim in conjugal
Discipline, that when a Man wou'd enslave his Wife, he hurries
her into the Country; and when a Lady would be arbitrary
with her Husband, she wheedles her Booby up to Town.--A
Man dare not play the Tyrant in London, because there are so
many Examples to encourage the Subject to rebel. O Dorinda,
Dorinda! a fine Woman may do any thing in London: O'my
Conscience, she may raise an Army of Forty thousand Men.

Dor.:

I fancy, Sister, you have a mind to be trying your Power
that way here in Litchfield; you have drawn the French Count
to your Colours already.

Mrs. Sull.:

The French are a People that can't live without
their Gallantries.

Dor.:

And some English that I know, Sister, are not averse to
such Amusements.

Mrs. Sull.:

Well, Sister, since the Truth must out, it may do
as well now as hereafter; I think one way to rouse my Lethargick
sotish Husband, is, to give him a Rival; Security begets
Negligence in all People, and Men must be alarm'd to make 'em
alert in their Duty: Women are like Pictures of no Value in the
Hands of a Fool, till he hears Men of Sense bid high for the
Purchase.

Dor.:

This might do, Sister, if my Brother's Understanding
were to be convinc'd into a Passion for you; but I fancy there's
a natural Aversion of his side; and I fancy, Sister, that you
don't come much behind him, if you dealt fairly.

Mrs. Sull.:

I own it, we are united Contradictions, Fire and
Water: But I cou'd be contented, with a great many other Wives,
to humour the censorious Mob, and give the World an Appearance
of living well with my Husband, cou'd I bring him
but to dissemble a little Kindness to keep me in Countenance.

Dor.:

But how do you know, Sister, but that instead of rousing
your Husband by this Artifice to a counterfeit Kindness, he
should awake in a real Fury.

Mrs. Sull.:

Let him:--If I can't entice him to the one, I
wou'd provoke him to the other.

Dor.:

But how must I behave my self between ye.

Mrs. Sull.:

You must assist me.

Dor.:

What, against my own Brother!

Mrs. Sull.:

He's but half a Brother, and I'm your entire Friend:

If I go a step beyond the Bounds of Honour, leave me; till
then I expect you should go along with me in every thing, while
I trust my Honour in your Hands, you may trust your Brother's
in mine.--The Count is to dine here to Day.

Dor.:

'Tis a strange thing, Sister, that I can't like that Man.

Mrs. Sull.:

You like nothing, your time is not come; Love
and Death have their Fatalities, and strike home one time or
other:--You'll pay for all one Day, I warrant'ye.--But,
come, my Lady's Tea is ready, and 'tis almost Church-time.

[SCENE, The Inn.]


[Enter Aimwell dress'd, and Archer.]

Aim.:

And was she the Daughter of the House?

Arch.:

The Landlord is so blind as to think so; but I dare
swear she has better Blood in her Veins.

Aim.:

Why dost think so?

Arch.:

Because the Baggage has a pert Je ne scai quoi, she reads
Plays, keeps a Monkey, and is troubled with Vapours.

Aim.:

By which Discoveries I guess that you know more of her.

Arch.:

Not yet, Faith, the Lady gives her self Airs, forsooth,
nothing under a Gentleman.

Aim.:

Let me take her in hand.

Arch.:

Say one Word more o'that, and I'll declare my self,
spoil your Sport there, and every where else; look'ye, Aimwell,
every Man in his own Sphere.

Aim.:

Right; and therefore you must pimp for your Master.

Arch.:

In the usual Forms, good Sir, after I have serv'd my
self.--But to our Business:--You are so well dress'd,
Tom, and make so handsome a Figure, that I fancy you may do
Execution in a Country Church; the exteriour part strikes first,
and you're in the right to make that Impression favourable.

Aim.:

There's something in that which may turn to Advantage:
The Appearance of a Stranger in a Country Church draws
as many Gazers as a blazing Star; no sooner he comes into the
Cathedral, but a Train of Whispers runs buzzing round the Congregation
in a moment;--Who is he? whence comes he?
do you know him?--Then I, Sir, tips me the Verger with
half a Crown; he pockets the Simony, and Inducts me into the

best Pue in the Church, I pull out my Snuff-box, turn my self
round, bow to the Bishop, or the Dean, if he be the commanding
Officer; single out a Beauty, rivet both my Eyes to hers, set
my Nose a bleeding by the Strength of Imagination, and shew
the whole Church my concern by my endeavouring to hide it;
after the Sermon, the whole Town gives me to her for a Lover,
and by perswading the Lady that I am a dying for her, the Tables
are turn'd, and she in good earnest falls in Love with me?

Arch.:

There's nothing in this, Tom, without a Precedent;
but instead of riveting your Eyes to a Beauty, try to fix 'em upon
a Fortune, that's our Business at present.

Aim.:

Pshaw, no Woman can be a Beauty without a Fortune.
--Let me alone, for I am a Mark'sman.

Arch.:

Tom.

Aim.:

Ay.

Arch.:

When were you at Church before, pray?

Aim.:

Um--I was there at the Coronation.

Arch.:

And how can you expect a Blessing by going to Church
now?

Aim.:

Blessing! nay, Frank, I ask but for a Wife.

Arch.:

Truly the Man is not very unreasonable in his Demands.

Bon.:

Well Daughter, as the saying is, have you brought
Martin to confess?

Cher.:

Pray, Father, don't put me upon getting any thing out
of a Man; I'm but young you know, Father, and I don't understand
Wheedling.

Bon.:

Young! why you Jade, as the saying is, can any Woman
wheedle that is not young, you'r Mother was useless at
five and twenty; not wheedle! would you make your Mother
a Whore and me a Cuckold, as the saying is? I tell you his Silence
confesses it, and his Master spends his Money so freely, and
is so much a Gentleman every manner of way that he must be a
Highwayman.

Gib.:

Landlord, Landlord, is the Coast clear?

Bon.:

O, Mr. Gibbet, what's the News?

Gib.:

No matter, ask no Questions, all fair and honourable,
here, my dear Cherry

[[Gives her a Bag.]]
Two hundred Sterling

Pounds as good as any that ever hang'd or sav'd a Rogue; lay
'em by with the rest, and here--Three wedding or mourning
Rings, 'tis much the same you know--Here, two Silver-hilted
Swords; I took those from Fellows that never shew any
part of their Swords but the Hilts: Here is a Diamond Necklace
which the Lady hid in the privatest place in the Coach, but I
found it out: This Gold Watch I took from a Pawn-broker's
Wife; it was left in her Hands by a Person of Quality, there's
the Arms upon the Case.

Cher.:

But who had you the Money from?

Gib.:

Ah! poor Woman! I pitied her;--From a poor Lady
just elop'd from her Husband, she had made up her Cargo, and
was bound for Ireland, as hard as she cou'd drive; she told me
of her Husband's barbarous Usage, and so I left her half a
Crown: But I had almost forgot, my dear Cherry, I have a Present
for you.

Cher.:

What is't?

Gib.:

A Pot of Cereuse, my Child, that I took out of a Lady's
under Pocket.

Cher.:

What, Mr. Gibbet, do you think that I paint?

Gib.:

Why, you Jade, your Betters do; I'm sure the Lady that
I took it from had a Coronet upon her Handkerchief.--Here,
take my Cloak, and go, secure the Premisses.

Cher.:

I will secure 'em.

Bon.:

But, heark'ye, where's Hounslow and Bagshot?

Gib.:

They'll be here to Night.

Bon.:

D'ye know of any other Gentlemen o'the Pad on this
Road?

Gib.:

No.

Bon.:

I fancy that I have two that lodge in the House just now.

Gib.:

The Devil! how d'ye smoak 'em?

Bon.:

Why, the one is gone to Church.

Gib.:

That's suspitious, I must confess.

Bon.:

And the other is now in his Master's Chamber; he pretends
to be Servant to the other, we'll call him out, and pump
him a little.

Gib.:

With all my Heart.

Bon.:

Mr. Martin, Mr. Martin?

Gib.:

The Roads are consumed deep; I'm as dirty as old

Brentford at Christmas.--A good pretty Fellow that; who's
Servant are you, Friend?

Arch.:

My Master's.

Gib.:

Really?

Arch.:

Really.

Gib.:

That's much.--The Fellow has been at the Bar by
his Evasions:--But, pray, Sir, what is your Master's Name?

Arch.:

Tall, all dall;

[[sings and combs the Perrywig.]]
This is
the most obstinate Curl--

Gib.:

I ask you his Name?

Arch.:

Name, Sir,--Tall, all dal--I never ask'd him his
Name in my Life. Tall, all dall.

Bon.:

What think you now?

Gib.:

Plain, plain, he talks now as if he were before a Judge:
But, pray, Friend, which way does your Master travel?

Arch.:

A Horseback.

Gib.:

Very well again, an old Offender, right;--But, I
mean does he go upwards or downwards?

Arch.:

Downwards, I fear, Sir: Tall, all.

Gib.:

I'm afraid my Fate will be a contrary way.

Bon.:

Ha, ha, ha! Mr. Martin you're very arch.--This
Gentleman is only travelling towards Chester, and wou'd be
glad of your Company, that's all.--Come, Captain, you'll
stay to Night, I suppose; I'll shew you a Chamber--Come,
Captain.

Gib.:

Farewel, Friend--

Arch.:

Captain, your Servant.--Captain! a pretty Fellow;
s'death, I wonder that the Officers of the Army don't
conspire to beat all Scoundrels in Red, but their own.

Cher.:

Gone! and Martin here! I hope he did not listen; I
wou'd have the Merit of the discovery all my own, because I
wou'd oblige him to love me.

[[Aside.]]
Mr. Martin, who was
that Man with my Father?

Arch.:

Some Recruiting Serjeant, or whip'd out Trooper, I
suppose.

Cher.:

All's safe, I find.

Arch.:

Come, my Dear, have you con'd over the Catechise
I taught you last Night?

Cher.:

Come, question me.

Arch.:

What is Love?

Cher.:

Love is I know not what, it comes I know not how,
and goes I know not when.

Arch.:

Very well, an apt Scholar.

[[Chucks her under the Chin.]]

Where does Love enter?

Cher.:

Into the Eyes.

Arch.:

And where go out?

Cher.:

I won't tell'ye.

Arch.:

What are Objects of that Passion?

Cher.:

Youth, Beauty, and clean Linen.

Arch.:

The Reason?

Cher.:

The two first are fashionable in Nature, and the third
at Court.

Arch.:

That's my Dear: What are the Signs and Tokens of
that Passion?

Cher.:

A stealing Look, a stammering Tongue, Words improbable,
Designs impossible, and Actions impracticable.

Arch.:

That's my good Child, kiss me.--What must a Lover
do to obtain his Mistress.

Cher.:

He must adore the Person that disdains him, he must
bribe the Chambermaid that betrays him, and court the Footman
that laughs at him;--He must, he must--

Arch.:

Nay, Child, I must whip you if you don't mind your
Lesson; he must treat his--

Cher.:

O, ay, he must treat his Enemies with Respect, his
Friends with Indifference, and all the World with Contempt;
he must suffer much, and fear more; he must desire much, and
hope little; in short, he must embrace his Ruine, and throw
himself away.

Arch.:

Had ever Man so hopeful a Pupil as mine? come, my
Dear, why is Love call'd a Riddle?

Cher.:

Because being blind, he leads those that see, and tho'
a Child, he governs a Man.

Arch.:

Mighty well.--And why is Love pictur'd blind?

Cher.:

Because the Painters out of the weakness or privilege
of their Art chose to hide those Eyes that they cou'd not draw.

Arch.:

That's, my dear little Scholar, kiss me again.--And
why shou'd Love, that's a Child, govern a Man?

Cher.:

Because that a Child is the end of Love.

Arch.:

And so ends Love's Catechism.--And now, my Dear,
we'll go in, and make my Master's Bed.

Cher.:

Hold, hold, Mr. Martin,--You have taken a great
deal of Pains to instruct me, and what d'ye think I have learn't
by it?

Arch.:

What?

Cher.:

That your Discourse and your Habit are Contradictions,
and it wou'd be nonsense in me to believe you a Footman any
longer.

Arch.:

'Oons, what a Witch it is!

Cher.:

Depend upon this, Sir, nothing in this Garb shall ever
tempt me; for tho' I was born to Servitude, I hate it:--Own
your Condition, swear you love me, and then--

Arch.:

And then we shall go make the Bed.

Cher.:

Yes.

Arch.:

You must know then, that I am born a Gentleman, my
Education was liberal, but I went to London a younger Brother,
fell into the Hands of Sharpers, who stript me of my Money,
my Friends disown'd me, and now my Necessity brings me
to what you see.

Cher.:

Then take my Hand--promise to marry me before
you sleep, and I'll make you Master of two thousand
Pound.

Arch.:

How!

Cher.:

Two thousand Pound that I have this Minute in my
own Custody; so throw off your Livery this Instant, and I'll go
find a Parson.

Arch.:

What said you? A Parson!

Cher.:

What! do you scruple?

Arch.:

Scruple! no, no, but--two thousand Pound you
say?

Cher.:

And better.

Arch.:

S'death, what shall I do--but heark'e, Child, what
need you make me Master of your self and Money, when you
may have the same Pleasure out of me, and still keep your Fortune
in your Hands.

Cher.:

Then you won't marry me?

Arch.:

I wou'd marry you, but--

Cher.:

O sweet, Sir, I'm your humble Servant, you're fairly
caught, wou'd you perswade me that any Gentleman who cou'd
bear the Scandal of wearing a Livery, wou'd refuse two thousand
Pound let the Condition be what it wou'd--no, no, Sir,
--but I hope you'll Pardon the Freedom I have taken, since it
was only to inform my self of the Respect that I ought to pay
you.

Arch.:

Fairly bit, by Jupiter--hold, hold, and have you
actually two thousand Pound.

Cher.:

Sir, I have my Secrets as well as you--when you please
to be more open, I shall be more free, and be assur'd that I
have Discoveries that will match yours, be what they will--
in the mean while be satisfy'd that no Discovery I make shall
ever hurt you, but beware of my Father.--

Arch.:

So--we're like to have as many Adventures in our Inn,
as Don Quixote had in his--let me see,--two thousand
Pound! if the Wench wou'd promise to dye when the Money
were spent, I gad, one wou'd marry her, but the Fortune may
go off in a Year or two, and the Wife may live--Lord
knows how long? then an Inkeeper's Daughter; ay that's the
Devil--there my Pride brings me off.

End of the Second Act.

ACT III.

[SCENE continues.]


[Enter Mrs. Sullen, Dorinda.]

Mrs. Sull.:

Ha, ha, ha, my dear Sister, let me embrace thee,
now we are Friends indeed! for I shall have a Secret of yours,
as a Pledge for mine--now you'll be good for something, I
shall have you conversable in the Subjects of the Sex.

Dor.:

But do you think that I am so weak as to fall in Love
with a Fellow at first sight?

Mrs. Sull.:

Pshaw! now you spoil all, why shou'd not we be
as free in our Friendships as the Men? I warrant you the Gentleman
has got to his Confident already, has avow'd his Passion,
toasted your Health, call'd you ten thousand Angels, has run over
your Lips, Eyes, Neck, Shape, Air and every thing, in a Description
that warms their Mirth to a second Enjoyment.

Dor.:

Your Hand, Sister, I an't well.

Mrs. Sull.:

So,--she's breeding already--come Child up with
it--hem a little--so--now tell me, don't you like the
Gentleman that we saw at Church just now?

Dor.:

The Man's well enough.

Mrs. Sull.:

Well enough! is he not a Demigod, a Narcissus,
a Star, the Man i'the Moon?

Dor.:

O Sister, I'm extreamly ill.

Mrs. Sull.:

Shall I send to your Mother, Child, for a little of
her Cephalick Plaister to put to the Soals of your Feet, or shall
I send to the Gentleman for something for you?--Come,
unlace your Steas, unbosome your self--the Man is perfectly
a pretty Fellow, I saw him when he first came into
Church.

Dor.:

I saw him too, Sister, and with an Air that shone, methought
like Rays about his Person.

Mrs. Sull.:

Well said, up with it.

Dor.:

No forward Coquett Behaviour, no Airs to set him off,
no study'd Looks nor artful Posture,--but Nature did it all--

Mrs. Sull.:

better and better--one Touch more--come.--

Dor.:

But then his Looks--did you observe his Eyes?

Mrs. Sull.:

Yes, yes, I did--his Eyes, well, what of his
Eyes?

Dor.:

Sprightly, but not wandring; they seem'd to view, but
never gaz'd on any thing but me--and then his Looks so
humble were, and yet so noble, that they aim'd to tell me that
he cou'd with Pride dye at my Feet, tho' he scorn'd Slavery any
where else.

Mrs. Sull.:

The Physick works purely--How d'ye find your
self now, my Dear?

Dor.:

Hem! much better, my Dear--O here comes our
Mercury!

[[Enter Scrub.]]
Well Scrub, what News of the Gentleman?

Scrub.:

Madam, I have brought you a Packet of News.

Dor.:

Open it quickly, come.

Scrub.:

In the first place I enquir'd who the Gentleman was?
they told me he was a Stranger, Secondly, I ask'd what the
Gentleman was, they answer'd and said, that they never saw
him before. Thirdly, I enquir'd what Countryman he was,
they reply'd 'twas more than they knew. Fourthly, I demanded
whence he came, their Answer was, they cou'd not tell.
And Fifthly, I ask'd whither he went, and they reply'd they
knew nothing of the matter,--and this is all I cou'd learn.

Mrs. Sull.:

But what do the People say, can't they guess?

Scrub,:

why some think he's a Spy, some guess he's a Mountebank,
some say one thing, some another; but for my own part,
I believe he's a Jesuit.

Dor.:

A Jesuit! why a Jesuit?

Scrub.:

because he keeps his Horses always ready sadled, and
his Footman talks French.

Mrs. Sull.:

His Footman!

Scrub.:

Ay, he and the Count's Footman were Gabbering French
like two intreaguing Ducks in a Mill-Pond, and I believe they
talk'd of me, for they laugh'd consumedly.

Dor.:

What sort of Livery has the Footman?

Scrub.:

Livery! Lord, Madam, I took him for a Captain,
he's so bedizen'd with Lace, and then he has Tops to his Shoes,
up to his mid Leg, a silver headed Cane dangling at his Nuckles,
--he carries his Hands in his Pockets just so--

[[Walks in the French Air]]

and has a fine long Perriwig ty'd up in a Bag--
Lord, Madam, he's clear another sort of Man than I.

Mrs. Sull.:

That may easily be--but what shall we do
now, Sister?

Dor.:

I have it--This Fellow has a world of Simplicity, and
some Cunning, the first hides the latter by abundance--Scrub.

Scrub.:

Madam.

Dor.:

We have a great mind to know who this Gentleman is,
only for our Satisfaction.

Scrub.:

Yes, Madam, it would be a Satisfaction, no doubt.

Dor.:

You must go and get acquainted with his Footman, and
invite him hither to drink a Bottle of your Ale, because you're
Butler to Day.

Scrub.:

Yes, Madam, I am Butler every Sunday.

Mrs. Sull.:

O brave, Sister, O my Conscience, you understand
the Mathematicks already--'tis the best Plot in the World, your
Mother, you know, will be gone to Church, my Spouse will be
got to the Ale-house with his Scoundrels, and the House will be our
own--so we drop in by Accident and ask the Fellow some Questions
our selves. In the Countrey you know any Stranger is
Company, and we're glad to take up with the Butler in a Country
Dance, and happy if he'll do us the Favour.

Scrub.:

Oh! Madam, you wrong me, I never refus'd your Ladyship
the Favour in my Life.

Gip.:

Ladies, Dinner's upon Table.

Dor.:

Scrub, We'll excuse your waiting--Go where we
order'd you.

Scrub.:

I shall.

[SCENE changes to the Inn.]


[Enter Aimwell and Archer.]

Arch.:

Well, Tom, I find you're a Marksman.

Aim.:

A Marksman! who so blind cou'd be, as not discern
a Swan among the Ravens.

Arch.:

Well, but heark'ee, Aimwell.

Aim.:

Aimwel! call me Oroondates, Cesario, Amadis, all that
Romance can in a Lover paint, and then I'll answer. O Archer,
I read her thousands in her Looks, she look'd like Ceres in her

Harvest, Corn, Wine and Oil, Milk and Honey, Gardens,
Groves and Purling Streams play'd on her plenteous Face.

Arch.:

Her Face! her Pocket, you mean; the Corn, Wine
and Oil lies there. In short, she has ten thousand Pound, that's
the English on't.

Aim.:

Her Eyes--

Arch.:

Are Demi-Cannons to be sure, so I won't stand their Battery.

Aim.:

Pray excuse me, my Passion must have vent.

Arch.:

Passion! what a plague, d'ee think these Romantick Airs
will do our Business? Were my Temper as extravagant as yours,
my Adventures have something more Romantick by half.

Aim.:

Your Adventures!

Arch.:

Yes, The Nymph that with her twice ten hundred Pounds With brazen Engine hot, and Quoif clear starch'd
Can fire the Guest in warming of the Bed--

There's a Touch of Sublime Milton for you, and the Subject but
an Inn-keeper's Daughter; I can play with a Girl as an Angler
do's with his Fish; he keeps it at the end of his Line, runs it
up the Stream, and down the Stream, till at last, he brings it to
hand, tickles the Trout, and so whips it into his Basket.

Bon.:

Mr. Martin, as the saying is--yonder's an honest Fellow
below, my Lady Bountiful's Butler, who begs the Honour
that you wou'd go Home with him and see his Cellar.

Arch.:

Do my Baisemains to the Gentleman, and tell him I
will do my self the Honour to wait on him immediately.

Aim.:

What do I hear? soft Orpheus Play, and fair Toftida
sing?

Arch.:

Pshaw! damn your Raptures, I tell you here's a Pump
going to be put into the Vessel, and the Ship will get into Harbour,
my Life on't. You say there's another Lady very handsome
there.

Aim.:

Yes, faith.

Arch.:

I'am in love with her already.

Aim.:

Can't you give me a Bill upon Cherry in the mean time.

Arch.:

No, no, Friend, all her Corn, Wine and Oil is ingross'd
to my Market.--And once more I warn you to keep
your Anchorage clear of mine, for if you fall foul of me, by
this Light you shall go to the Bottom.--What! make

Prize of my litte Frigat, while I am upon the Cruise for you

Aim.:

Well, well, I won't--Landlord, have you any tolerable
Company in the House, I don't care for dining alone.

Bon.:

Yes, Sir, there's a Captain below; as the saying is, that
arrived about an Hour ago.

Aim.:

Gentlemen of his Coat are welcome every where; will
you make him a Complement from me, and tell him I should
be glad of his Company.

Bon.:

Who shall I tell him, Sir, wou'd.--

Aim.:

Ha! that Stroak was well thrown in--I'm only
a Traveller like himself, and wou'd be glad of his Company,
that's all.

Bon.:

I obey your Commands, as the saying is.

Arch.:

S'Death! I had forgot, what Title will you give your
self?

Aim.:

My Brother's to be sure, he wou'd never give me any
thing else, so I'll make bold with his Honour this bout--you
know the rest of your Cue.

Arch.:

Ay, ay.

Gib.:

Sir, I'm yours.

Aim.:

'Tis more than I deserve, Sir, for I don't know you.

Gib.:

I don't wonder at that, Sir, for you never saw me before,
I hope.

Aim.:

And pray, Sir, how came I by the Honour of seeing
you now?

Gib.:

Sir, I scorn to intrude upon any Gentleman--but my
Landlord--

Aim,:

O, Sir, I ask your Pardon, you're the Captain he told
me of.

Gib.:

At your Service, Sir.

Aim.:

What Regiment, may I be so bold?

Gib.:

A marching Regiment, Sir, an old Corps.

Aim.:

Very old, if your Coat be Regimental,

[[Aside]]
You
have serv'd abroad, Sir?

Gib.:

Yes, Sir, in the Plantations, 'twas my Lot to be sent into
the worst Service, I wou'd have quitted it indeed, but a Man
of Honour, you know--Besides 'twas for the good of my

Country that I shou'd be abroad--Any thing for the good
of one's Country--I'm a Roman for that.

Aim.:

One of the first, I'll lay my Life

[[Aside.]]
You found
the West Indies very hot, Sir?

Gib.:

Ay, Sir, too hot for me.

Aim.:

Pray, Sir, han't I seen your Face at Will's Coffeehouse?

Gib.:

Yes, Sir, and at White's too.

Aim.:

And where is your Company now, Captain?

Gib.:

They an't come yet.

Aim.:

Why, d'ye expect 'em here?

Gib.:

They'll be here to Night, Sir.

Aim.:

Which way do they march?

Gib.:

Across the Country--the Devil's in't, if I han't said
enough to encourage him to declare--but I'm afraid he's not
right, I must tack about.

Aim.:

Is your Company to quarter in Litchfield?

Gib.:

In this House, Sir.

Aim.:

What! all?

Gib.:

My Company's but thin, ha, ha, ha, we are but three,
ha, ha, ha.

Aim.:

You're merry, Sir.

Gib.:

Ay, Sir, you must excuse me, Sir, I understand the World,
especially, the Art of Travelling; I don't care, Sir, for answering
Questions directly upon the Road--for I generally ride
with a Charge about me.

Aim.:

Three or four, I believe.

Gib.:

I am credibly inform'd that there are Highway-men upon
this Quarter, not, Sir, that I cou'd suspect a Gentleman of
your Figure--But truly, Sir, I have got such a way of
Evasion upon the Road, that I don't care for speaking Truth to
any Man.

Aim.:

Your Caution may be necessary--Then I presume
you're no Captain?

Gib.:

Not I, Sir, Captain is a good travelling Name, and so I
take it; it stops a great many foolish Inquiries that are generally
made about Gentlemen that travel, it gives a Man an Air of
something, and makes the Drawers obedient--And thus far I
am a Captain, and no farther.

Aim.:

And pray, Sir, what is your true Profession?

Gib.:

O, Sir, you must excuse me--upon my Word, Sir,
I don't think it safe to tell you.

Aim.:

Ha, ha, ha, upon my word I commend you.

[[EnterBonniface .]]

Well, Mr. Bonniface, what's the News?

Bon.:

There's another Gentleman below, as the saying is, that
hearing you were but two, wou'd be glad to make the third Man
if you wou'd give him leave.

Aim.:

What is he?

Bon.:

A Clergyman, as the saying is.

Aim.:

A Clergyman! is he really a Clergyman? or is it only
his travelling Name, as my Friend the Captain has it.

Bon.:

O, Sir, he's a Priest and Chaplain to the French Officers
in Town.

Aim.:

Is he a French-man?

Bon.:

Yes, Sir, born at Brussels.

Gib.:

A French-man, and a Priest! I won't be seen in his
Company, Sir; I have a Value for my Reputation, Sir.

Aim.:

Nay, but Captain, since we are by our selves--Can
he speak English, Landlord.

Bon.:

Very well, Sir, you may know him, as the saying is, to
be a Foreigner by his Accent, and that's all.

Aim.:

Then he has been in England before?

Bon.:

Never, Sir, but he's a Master of Languages, as the saying
is, he talks Latin, it do's me good to hear him talk Latin.

Aim.:

Then you understand Latin, Mr. Bonniface?

Bon.:

Not I, Sir, as the saying is, but he talks it so very fast
that I'm sure it must be good.

Aim.:

Pray desire him to walk up.

Bon.:

Here he is, as the saying is.

Foig.:

Save you, Gentlemen's, both.

Aim.:

A French-man! Sir, your most humble Servant.

Foig.:

Och, dear Joy, I am your most faithful Shervant, and
yours alsho.

Gib.:

Doctor, you talk very good English, but you have a
mighty Twang of the Foreigner.

Foig.:

My English is very vel for the vords, but we Foregners
you know cannot bring our Tongues about the Pronunciation
so soon.

Aim.:

A Foreigner! a down-right Teague by this Light.


[[Aside.]]
Were you born in France, Doctor.

Foig.:

I was educated in France, but I was borned at Brussels,
I am a Subject of the King of Spain, Joy.

Gib.:

What King of Spain, Sir, speak.

Foig.:

Upon my Shoul Joy, I cannot tell you as yet.

Aim.:

Nay, Captain, that was too hard upon the Doctor, he's
a Stranger.

Foig.:

O let him alone, dear Joy, I am of a Nation that is not
easily put out of Countenance.

Aim.:

Come, Gentlemen, I'll end the Dispute.--Here, Landlord,
is Dinner ready?

Bon.:

Upon the Table, as the saying is.

Aim.:

Gentlemen--pray--that Door--

Foig.:

No, no fait, the Captain must lead.

Aim.:

No, Doctor, the Church is our Guide.

Gib.:

Ay, ay, so it is.--

[SCENE, Changes to a Gallery in LadyBountyful 's House.]


[Enter Archer and Scrub singing, and hugging one another, Scrub with a Tankard in his Hand, Gipsey listning at a distance.]

Scrub.:

Tall, all dall--Come, my dear Boy--Let's
have that Song once more.

Arch.:

No, no, we shall disturb the Family;--But will you
be sure to keep the Secret?

Scrub.:

Pho! upon my Honour, as I'm a Gentleman.

Arch.:

'Tis enough.--You must know then that my Master is
the Lord Viscount Aimwell; he fought a Duel t'other day in
London, wounded his Man so dangerously, that he thinks fit
to withdraw till he hears whether the Gentleman's Wounds be
mortal or not: He never was in this part of England before,
so he chose to retire to this Place, that's all.

Gip.:

And that's enough for me.

Scrub.:

And where were you when your Master fought?

Arch.:

We never know of our Masters Quarrels.

Scrub.:

No! if our Masters in the Country here receive a
Challenge, the first thing they do is to tell their Wives; the
Wife tells the Servants, the Servants alarm the Tenants, and in
half an Hour you shall have the whole County in Arms.

Arch.:

To hinder two Men from doing what they have no
mind for:--But if you should chance to talk now of my
Business?

Scrub.:

Talk! ay, Sir, had I not learn't the knack of holding
my Tongue, I had never liv'd so long in a great Family.

Arch.:

Ay, ay, to be sure there are Secrets in all Families.

Scrub.:

Secrets, ay;--But I'll say no more.--Come,
sit down, we'll make an end of our Tankard: Here--

Arch.:

With all my Heart; who knows but you and I may
come to be better acquainted, eh--Here's your Ladies
Healths; you have three, I think, and to be sure there must be
Secrets among 'em.

Scrub.:

Secrets! Ay, Friend; I wish I had a Friend--

Arch.:

Am not I your Friend? come, you and I will be sworn
Brothers.

Scrub.:

Shall we?

Arch.:

From this Minute.--Give me a kiss--And now
Brother Scrub--

Scrub.:

And now, Brother Martin, I will tell you a Secret that
will make your Hair stand on end:--You must know, that I
am consumedly in Love.

Arch.:

That's a terrible Secret, that's the Truth on't.

Scrub.:

That Jade, Gipsey, that was with us just now in the
Cellar, is the arrantest Whore that ever wore a Petticoat; and
I'm dying for love of her.

Arch.:

Ha, ha, ha--Are you in love with her Person, or
her Vertue, Brother Scrub?

Scrub.:

I should like Vertue best, because it is more durable
than Beauty; for Vertue holds good with some Women long,
and many a Day after they have lost it.

Arch.:

In the Country, I grant ye, where no Woman's Vertue
is lost, till a Bastard be found.

Scrub.:

Ay, cou'd I bring her to a Bastard, I shou'd have her
all to my self; but I dare not put it upon that Lay, for fear of
being sent for a Soldier.--Pray, Brother, how do you
Gentlemen in London like that same Pressing Act?

Arch.:

Very ill, Brother Scrub;--'Tis the worst that ever
was made for us: Formerly I remember the good Days,
when we cou'd dun our Masters for our Wages, and if they refused
to pay us, we cou'd have a Warrant to carry 'em before a

Justice; but now if we talk of eating, they have a Warrant
for us, and carry us before three Justices.

Scrub.:

And to be sure we go, if we talk of eating; for the
Justices won't give their own Servants a bad Example. Now this
is my Misfortune--I dare not speak in the House, while
that Jade Gipsey dings about like a Fury--Once I had the
better end of the Staff.

Arch.:

And how comes the Change now?

Scrub.:

Why, the Mother of all this Mischief is a Priest.

Arch.:

A Priest!

Scrub.:

Ay, a damn'd Son of a Whore of Babylon, that came
over hither to say Grace to the French Officers, and eat up our
Provisions--There's not a Day goes over his Head without
Dinner or Supper in this House.

Arch.:

How came he so familiar in the Family?

Scrub.:

Because he speaks English as if he had liv'd here all his
Life; and tells Lies as if he had been a Traveller from his Cradle.

Arch.:

And this Priest, I'm afraid has converted the Affections
of your Gipsey.

Scrub.:

Converted! ay, and perverted, my dear Friend:--For
I'm afraid he has made her a Whore and a Papist.--But this
is not all; there's the French Count and Mrs. Sullen, they're in
the Confederacy, and for some private Ends of their own to be
sure.

Arch.:

A very hopeful Family yours, Brother Scrub; I suppose
the Maiden Lady has her Lover too.

Scrub.:

Not that I know;--She's the best on 'em, that's the
Truth on't: But they take care to prevent my Curiosity, by giving
me so much Business, that I'm a perfect Slave.--What
d'ye think is my Place in this Family?

Arch.:

Butler, I suppose.

Scrub.:

Ah, Lord help you--I'll tell you--Of a Monday,
I drive the Coach; of a Tuesday, I drive the Plough; on
Wednesday, I follow the Hounds; a Thursday, I dun the Tenants;
on Fryday, I go to Market; on Saturday, I draw Warrants;
and a Sunday, I draw Beer.

Arch.:

Ha, ha, ha! if variety be a Pleasure in Life, you have
enough on't, my dear Brother--But what Ladies are those?

Arch.:

Ours, ours; that upon the right Hand is Mrs. Sullen,
and the other is Mrs. Dorinda.--Don't mind 'em, sit still,
Man--

[Enter Mrs. Sullen, and Dorinda.]

Mrs. Sull.:

I have heard my Brother talk of my Lord Aimwell,
but they say that his Brother is the finer Gentleman.

Dor.:

That's impossible, Sister.

Mrs. Sull.:

He's vastly rich, but very close, they say.

Dor.:

No matter for that; if I can creep into his Heart, I'll
open his Breast, I warrant him: I have heard say, that People
may be guess'd at by the Behaviour of their Servants; I cou'd
wish we might talk to that Fellow.

Mrs. Sull.:

So do I; for, I think he's a very pretty Fellow:
Come this way, I'll throw out a Lure for him presently.

Arch.:

Corn, Wine, and Oil, indeed--But, I think, the
Wife has the greatest plenty of Flesh and Blood; she should be
my Choice--Ah, a, say you so--Madam--Your
Ladyship's Glove.

Mrs. Sull.:

O, Sir, I thank you--what a handsom Bow
the Fellow has?

Dor.:

Bow! why I have known several Footmen come down
from London set up here for Dancing-Masters, and carry off the
best Fortunes in the Country.

[
Arch.:
[Aside.]]

That Project, for ought I know, had been
better than ours, Brother Scrub--Why don't you introduce
me.

Scrub.:

Ladies, this is the strange Gentleman's Servant that
you see at Church to Day; I understood he came from London,
and so I invited him to the Cellar, that he might show me the
newest Flourish in whetting my Knives.

Dor.:

And I hope you have made much of him?

Arch.:

O yes, Madam, but the Strength of your Ladyship's
Liquour is a little too potent for the Constitution of your humble
Servant.

Mrs. Sull.:

What, then you don't usually drink Ale?

Arch.:

No, Madam, my constant Drink is Tea, or a little Wine
and Water; 'tis prescrib'd me by the Physician for a Remedy
against the Spleen.

Scrub.:

O la, O la!--a Footman have the Spleen.--

Mrs. Sull.:

I thought that Distemper had been only proper to
People of Quality.

Arch.:

Madam, like all other Fashions it wears out, and so
descends to their Servants; tho' in a great many of us, I believe
it proceeds from some melancholly Particles in the Blood, occasion'd
by the Stagnation of Wages.

Dor.:

How affectedly the Fellow talks--How long, pray,
have you serv'd your present Master?

Arch.:

Not long; my Life has been mostly spent in the Service
of the Ladies.

Mrs. Sull.:

And pray, which Service do you like best?

Arch.:

Madam, the Ladies pay best; the Honour of serving
them is sufficient Wages; there is a Charm in their looks that
delivers a Pleasure with their Commands, and gives our Duty
the Wings of Inclination.

Mrs. Sull.:

That Flight was above the pitch of a Livery; and,
Sir, wou'd not you be satisfied to serve a Lady again?

Arch.:

As a Groom of the Chamber, Madam, but not as a
Footman.

Mrs. Sull.:

I suppose you serv'd as Footman before.

Arch.:

For that Reason I wou'd not serve in that Post again;
for my Memory is too weak for the load of Messages that the Ladies
lay upon their Servants in London; my Lady Howd'ye, the
last Mistress I serv'd call'd me up one Morning, and told me,
Martin, go to my Lady Allnight with my humble Service; tell
her I was to wait on her Ladyship yesterday, and left word with
Mrs. Rebecca, that the Preliminaries of the Affair she knows of,
are stopt till we know the concurrence of the Person that I know
of, for which there are Circumstances wanting which we shall
accommodate at the old Place; but that in the mean time there
is a Person about her Ladyship, that from several Hints and Surmises,
was accessary at a certain time to the disappointments that
naturally attend things, that to her knowledge are of more Importance.

Mrs. Sull., Dor.:

Ha, ha, ha! where are you going, Sir?

Arch.:

Why, I han't half done.--The whole Howd'ye was
about half an Hour long; so I hapned to misplace two Syllables,
and was turn'd off, and render'd incapable--

Dor.:

The pleasantest Fellow, Sister, I ever saw.--But,
Friend, if your Master be marry'd,--I presume you still serve
a Lady.

Arch.:

No, Madam, I take care never to come into a marry'd
Family; the Commands of the Master and Mistress are always
so contrary, that 'tis impossible to please both.

Dor.:

There's a main point gain'd.--My Lord is not marry'd,
I find.

[[Aside.]]

Mrs. Sul.:

But, I wonder, Friend, that in so many good Services,
you had not a better Provision made for you.

Arch.:

I don't know how, Madam.--I had a Lieutenancy
offer'd me three or four Times; but that is not Bread, Madam
--I live much better as I do.

Scrub.:

Madam, he sings rarely.--I was thought to do
pretty well here in the Country till he came; but alack a day,
I'm nothing to my Brother Martin.

Dor.:

Does he? Pray, Sir, will you oblige us with a Song?

Arch.:

Are you for Passion, or Humour?

Scrub,:

O le! he has the purest Ballad about a Triflle--

Mrs. Sull.:

A Trifle! pray, Sir, let's have it.

Arch.:

I'm asham'd to offer you a Trifle, Madam: But since
you command me--

Mrs. Sull.:

Very well, Sir, we're obliged to you.--Something
for a pair of Gloves.

Arch.:

I humbly beg leave to be excused: My Master, Madam,
pays me; nor dare I take Money from any other Hand without
injuring his Honour, and disobeying his Commands.

Dor.:

This is surprising: Did you ever see so pretty a well
bred Fellow?

Mrs. Sull.:

The Devil take him for wearing that Livery.

Dor.:

I fancy, Sister, he may be some Gentlemen, a Friend of
my Lords, that his Lordship has pitch'd upon for his Courage,
Fidelity, and Discretion to bear him Company in this Dress,
and who, ten to one was his Second too.

Mrs. Sull.:

It is so, it must be so, and it shall be so:--For I
like him.

Dor.:

What! better than the Count?

Mrs. Sull.:

The Count happen'd to be the most agreeable Man
upon the Place; and so I chose him to serve me in my Design
upon my Husband.--But I shou'd like this Fellow better in a
Design upon my self.

Dor.:

But now, Sister, for an Interview with this Lord, and
this Gentleman; how shall we bring that about?

Mrs. Sull.:

Patience! you Country Ladies give no Quarter, if
once you be enter'd.--Wou'd you prevent their Desires, and
give the Fellows no wishing-time.--Look'ye, Dorinda, if
my Lord Aimwell loves you or deserves you, he'll find a way to
see you, and there we must leave it.--My Business comes now
upon the Tapis--Have you prepar'd your Brother?

Dor.:

Yes, yes.

Mrs. Sull.:

And how did he relish it?

Dor.:

He said little, mumbled something to himself, promis'd
to be guided by me: But here he comes--

Sull.:

What singing was that I heard just now?

Mrs. Sull.:

The singing in you're Head, my Dear, you complain'd
of it all Day.

Sull.:

You're impertinent.

Mrs. Sull.:

I was ever so, since I became one Flesh with you.

Sull.:

One Flesh! rather two Carcasses join'd unnaturally together.

Mrs. Sull.:

Or rather a living Soul coupled to a dead Body.

Dor.:

So, this is fine Encouragement for me.

Sull.:

Yes, my Wife shews you what you must do.

Mrs. Sull.:

And my Husband shews you what you must suffer.

Sull.:

S'death, why can't you be silent?

Mrs. Sull.:

S'death, why can't you talk?

Sull.:

Do you talk to any purpose?

Mrs. Sull.:

Do you think to any purpose?

Sull.:

Sister, heark'ye;

[[Whispers.]]
I shan't be home till it be
late.

Mrs. Sull.:

What did he whisper to ye?

Dor.:

That he wou'd go round the back way, come into the
Closet, and listen as I directed him.--But let me beg you
once more, dear Sister, to drop this Project; for, as I told you
before, instead of awaking him to Kindness, you may provoke
him to a Rage; and then who knows how far his Brutality may
carry him?

Mrs. Sull.:

I'm provided to receive him, I warrant you: But
here comes the Count, vanish.

[Exit Dorinda.]

[Enter Count Bellair]

Don't you wonder, Monsieur le Count, that I was not at Church
this Afternoon?

Count.:

I more wonder, Madam, that you go dere at all, or
how you dare to lift those Eyes to Heaven that are guilty of so
much killing.

Mrs. Sull.:

If Heaven, Sir, has given to my Eyes with the Power
of killing, the Virtue of making a Cure, I hope the one may
atone for the other.

Co.:

O largely, Madam; wou'd your Ladyship be as ready to
apply the Remedy as to give the Wound?--Consider, Madam,
I am doubly a Prisoner; first to the Arms of your General, then
to your more conquering Eyes; my first Chains are easy, there
a Ransom may redeem me, but from your Fetters I never shall
get free.

Mrs. Sull.:

Alass, Sir, why shou'd you complain to me of
your Captivity, who am in Chains my self? you know, Sir,
that I am bound, nay, most be tied up in that particular that
might give you ease: I am like you, a Prisoner of War--Of
War indeed:--I have given my Parole of Honour; wou'd
you break yours to gain your Liberty?

Co.:

Most certainly I wou'd, were I a Prisoner among the
Turks; dis is your Case; you're a Slave, Madam, Slave to the
worst of Turks, a Husband.

Mrs. Sull.:

There lies my Foible, I confess; no Fortifications,
no Courage, Conduct, nor Vigilancy can pretend to defend a
Place, where the Cruelty of the Governour forces the Garrison
to Mutiny.

Co.:

And where de Besieger is resolv'd to die before de Place--
Here will I fix;

[[Kneels.]]
With Tears, Vows, and Prayers assault
your Heart, and never rise till you surrender; or if I must
storm--Love and St. Michael--And so I begin the Attack--

Mrs. Sull.:

Stand off--Sure he hears me not--And I cou'd almost
wish he--did not.--The Fellow makes love very
prettily.

[[Aside.]]
But, Sir, why shou'd you put such a Value upon
my Person, when you see it despis'd by one that knows it so
much better.

Co.:

He knows it not, tho' he possesses it; if he but knew the
Value of the Jewel he is Master of, he wou'd always wear it next
his Heart, and sleep with it in his Arms.

Mrs. Sull.:

But since he throws me unregarded from him.

Count.:

And one that knows your Value well, comes by, and
takes you up, is it not Justice.

Sull.:

hold, Villain, hold.

[
Mrs. Sull.:
Presenting a Pistol.]]

Do you hold.

Sull.:

What! Murther your Husband, to defend your Bully.

Mrs. Sull.:

Bully! for shame, Mr. Sullen; Bullies wear long
Swords, the Gentleman has none, he's a Prisoner you know--
I was aware of your Outrage, and prepar'd this to receive your
Violence, and, if Occasion were, to preserve my self against the
Force of this other Gentleman.

Count.:

O Madam, your Eyes be bettre Fire Arms than your
Pistol, they nevre miss.

Sull.:

What! court my Wife to my Face!

Mrs. Sull.:

Pray, Mr. Sullen, put up, suspend your Fury for a
Minute.

Sull.:

To give you time to invent an Excuse.

Mrs. Sull.:

I need none.

Sull.:

No, for I heard every Sillable of your Discourse.

Coun,:

Ay! and begar, I tink de Dialogue was vera pretty.

Mrs. Sull.:

Then I suppose, Sir, you heard something of your
own Barbarity.

Sull.:

Barbarity! oons what does the Women call Barbarity?
do I ever meddle with you?

Mrs. Sull.:

No.

Sull.:

As for you, Sir, I shall take another time.

Count.:

Ah, begar, and so must I.

Sull.:

Look'e, Madam, don't think that my Anger proceeds
from any Concern I have for your Honour, but for my own,
and if you can contrive any way of being a Whore without
making me a Cuckold, do it and welcome.

Mrs. Sull.:

Sir, I thank you kindly, you wou'd allow me the
Sin but rob me of the Pleasure--No, no, I'm resolv'd never
to venture upon the Crime without the Satisfaction of seeing
you punish'd for't.

Sull.:

Then will you grant me this, my Dear? let any Body
else do you the Favour but that French-man, for I mortally hate
his whole Generation.

Count.:

Ah, Sir, that be ungrateful, for begar, I love some
of your's, Madam.--

[[Approaching her.]]

Mrs. Sull.:

No, Sir.--

Count.:

No, Sir,--Garzoon, Madam, I am not your Husband.

Mrs. Sull.:

'Tis time to undeceive you, Sir,--I believ'd your
Addresses to me were no more than an Amusement, and I hope
you will think the same of my Complaisance, and to convince
you that you ought, you must know, that I brought you hither
only to make you instrumental in setting me right with my Husband,
for he was planted to listen by my Appointment.

Count.:

By your Appointment?

Mrs. Sull.:

Certainly.

Count.:

And so, Madam, while I was telling twenty Stories to
part you from your Husband, begar, I was bringing you together
all the while.

Mrs. Sull.:

I ask your Pardon, Sir, but I hope this will give
you a Taste of the Vertue of the English Ladies.

Count.:

Begar, Madam, your Vertue be vera Great, but Garzoon
your Honeste de vera little.

Mrs. Sull.:

Nay, now you're angry, Sir.

Count.:

Angry! fair Dorinda

[[Sings Dorinda the Opera Tune, and addresses to Dorinda,]]

Madam, when your Ladyship want
a Fool, send for me, fair Dorinda, Revenge, &c.

Mrs. Sull.:

There goes the true Humour of his Nation, Resentment
with good Manners, and the height of Anger in a Song,
--Well Sister, you must be Judge, for you have heard the
Trial.

Dor.:

And I bring in my Brother Guilty.

Mrs. Sull.:

But I must bear the Punishment,--'Tis hard Sister.

Dor.:

I own it--but you must have Patience.

Mrs. Sull.:

Patience! the Cant of Custom--Providence sends
no Evil without a Remedy--shou'd I lie groaning under a Yoke
I can shake off, I were accessary to my Ruin, and my Patience
were no better than self-Murder.

Dor.:

But how can you shake off the Yoke--Your Divisions
don't come within the Reach of the Law for a Divorce.

Mrs. Sull.:

Law! what Law can search into the remote Abyss
of Nature, what Evidence can prove the unaccountable, Disaffections
of Wedlock--can a Jury sum up the endless Aversions
that are rooted in our Souls, or can a Bench give Judgment upon
Antipathies.

Dor.:

They never pretended Sister, they never meddle but in
case of Uncleanness.

Mrs. Sull.:

Uncleanness! O Sister, casual Violation is a transient
Injury, and may possibly be repair'd, but can radical Hatreds
be ever reconcil'd--No, no, Sister, Nature is the first Lawgiver,
and when she has set Tempers opposite, not all the golden Links
of Wedlock, nor Iron Manacles of Law can keep 'um fast.

End of the Third Act.

ACT IV.

[SCENE continues.]


[Enter Mrs. Sullen.]

Mrs. Sull.:

WERE I born an humble Turk, where Women
have no Soul nor Property there I must sit contented
--But in England, a Country whose Women are it's
Glory, must Women be abus'd, where Women rule, must Women
be enslav'd? nay, cheated into Slavery, mock'd by a Promise
of comfortable Society into a Wilderness of Solitude--
I dare not keep the Thought about me--O, here comes
something to divert me--

Wom.:

I come an't please your Ladyships, you're my Lady
Bountiful, an't ye?

Mrs. Sull.:

Well, good Woman go on.

Wom.:

I come seventeen long Mail to have a Cure for my Husband's
sore Leg.

Mrs. Sull.:

Your Husband! what Woman, cure your Husband!

Wom.:

Ay, poor Man, for his Sore Leg won't let him stir from
Home.

Mrs. Sull.:

There, I confess, you have given me a Reason.
Well good Woman, I'll tell you what you must do--You
must lay your Husbands Leg upon a Table, and with a Choping-knife,
you must lay it open as broad as you can, then you must
take out the Bone, and beat the Flesh soundly with a rowling-pin,
then take Salt, Pepper, Cloves, Mace and Ginger, some
sweet Herbs, and season it very well, then rowl it up like Brawn,
and put it into the Oven for two Hours.

Wom.:

Heavens reward your Ladyship--I have two little Babies
too that are pitious bad with the Graips, an't please ye.

Mrs. Sull.:

Put a little Pepper and Salt in their Bellies, good
Woman. I beg your Ladyship's

[[Enter Lady Bountiful.]]
Pardon
for taking your Business out of your Hands, I have been a tampering
here a little with one of your Patients.

L. Boun.:

Come, good Woman, don't mind this mad Creature,
I am the Person that you want, I suppose--What wou'd you
have, Woman?

Mrs. Sull.:

She wants something for her Husband's sore Leg.

L. Boun.:

What's the matter with his Leg, Goody?

Wom.:

It come first as one might say with a sort of Dizziness
in his Foot, then he had a kind of a Laziness in his Joints, and
then his Leg broke out, and then it swell'd, and then it clos'd
again, and then it broke out again, and then it fester'd, and
then it grew better, and then it grew worse again.

Mrs. Sull.:

ha, ha, ha.

L. Boun.:

How can you be merry with the Misfortunes of
other People?

Mrs. Sull.:

Because my own make me sad, Madam.

L. Boun.:

The worst Reason in the World, Daughter, your
own Misfortunes shou'd teach you to pitty others.

Mrs. Sull.:

But the Woman's Misfortunes and mine are nothing
alike, her Husband is sick, and mine, alas, is in Health.

L. Boun.:

What! wou'd you wish your Husband sick?

Mrs. Sull.:

Not of a sore Leg, of all things.

L. Boun.:

Well, good Woman, go to the Pantrey, get your
Belly-full of Victuals, then I'll give you a Receipt of Diet-drink
for your Husband--But d'ye hear Goody, you must not
let your Husband move too much.

Wom.:

No, no, Madam, the poor Man's inclinable enough to
lye still.

L. Boun.:

Well, Daughter Sullen, tho' you laugh, I have done
Miracles about the Country here with my Receipts.

Mrs. Sull.:

Miracles, indeed, if they have cur'd any Body, but,
I believe, Madam, the Patient's Faith goes farther toward the
Miracle than your Prescription.

L. Boun.:

Fancy helps in some Cases, but there's your Husband
who has as little Fancy as any Body, I brought him from Death's-door.

Mrs. Sull.:

I suppose, Madam, you made him drink plentifully
of Asse's Milk.

Dor.:

News, dear Sister, news, news.

Arch.:

Where, where is my Lady Bountiful--Pray which
is the old Lady of you three?

L. Boun.:

I am.

Arch.:

O, Madam, the Fame of your Ladyship's Charity, Goodness,
Benevolence, Skill and Ability have drawn me hither to
implore your Ladyship's Help in behalf of my unfortunate Master,
who is this Moment breathing his last.

L. Boun.:

Your Master! where is he?

Arch.:

At your Gate, Madam, drawn by the Appearance of
your handsome House to view it nearer, and walking up the Avenue
within five Paces of the Court-Yard, he was taken ill of a sudden
with a sort of I know not what, but down he fell, and there he lies.

L. Boun.:

Here, Scrub, Gipsey, all run, get my easie Chair
down Stairs, put the Gentleman in it, and bring him in quickly,
quickly.

Arch.:

Heaven will reward your Ladyship for this charitable Act.

L. Boun.:

Is your Master us'd to these Fits?

Arch.:

O yes, Madam, frequently--I have known him
have five or six of a Night.

L. Boun.:

What's his Name?

Arch.:

Lord, Madam, he's a dying, a Minute's Care or Neglect
may save or destroy his Life.

L. Boun.:

Ah, poor Gentleman! come Friend, show me the
way, I'll see him brought in my self.

Dor.:

O Sister my Heart flutters about strangely, I can hardly
forbear running to his Assistance.

Mrs. Sull.:

And I'll lay my Life, he deserves your Assistance
more than he wants it; did not I tell you that my Lord wou'd
find a way to come at you. Love's his Distemper, and you
must be the Physitian; put on all your Charms, summon all your
Fire into your Eyes, plant the whole Artillery of your Looks against
his Breast, and down with him.

Dor.:

O Sister, I'm but a young Gunner, I shall be afraid to
shoot, for fear the Piece shou'd recoil and hurt my self.

Mrs. Sull.:

Never fear, you shall see me shoot before you, if
you will.

Dor.:

No, no, dear Sister, you have miss'd your Mark so unfortunately,
that I shan't care for being instructed by you.

L. Boun.:

Here, here, let's see the Hartshorn-drops--Gipsey
a Glass of fair Water, his Fit's very strong--Bless me, how his
Hands are clinch'd.

Arch.:

For shame, Ladies, what d'ye do? why don't you help
us--Pray, Madam,

[[To Dorinda.]]
Take his Hand and open it
if you can, whilst I hold his Head.

Dor.:

Poor, Gentleman,--Oh--he has got my Hand within
his, and squeezes it unmercifully--

L. Boun.:

'Tis the Violence of his Convulsion, Child.

Arch.:

O, Madam, he's perfectly possess'd in these Cases--
he'll bite if you don't have a care.

Dor.:

Oh, my Hand, my Hand.

L. Boun.:

What's the matter with the foolish Girl? I have got
this Hand open, you see, with a great deal of Ease.

Arch.:

Ay, but, Madam, your Daughter's Hand is somewhat
warmer than your Ladyship's, and the Heat of it draws the Force
of the Spirits that way.

Mrs. Sull.:

I find, Friend, you're very learned in these sorts of Fits.

Arch.:

'Tis no wonder, Madam, for I'm often troubled with
them my self, I find my self extreamly ill at this Minute.

[
Mrs. Sull.:
[Aside.]]

I fancy I cou'd find a way to cure you.

L. Boun.:

His Fit holds him very long.

Arch.:

Longer than usual, Madam,--Pray, young Lady,
open his Breast, and give him Air.

L. Boun.:

Where did his Illness take him first, pray?

Arch.:

To Day at Church, Madam.

L. Boun.:

In what manner was he taken?

Arch.:

Very strangely, my Lady. He was of a sudden touch'd
with something in his Eyes, which at the first he only felt, but
cou'd not tell whether 'twas Pain or Pleasure.

L. Boun.:

Wind, nothing but Wind.

Arch.:

By soft Degrees it grew and mounted to his Brain, there
his Fancy caught it; there form'd it so beautiful, and dress'd it
up in such gay pleasing Colours, that his transported Appetite
seiz'd the fair Idea, and straight convey'd it to his Heart. That
hospitable Seat of Life sent all its sanguine Spirits forth to meet,
and open'd all its sluicy Gates to take the Stranger in.

L. Boun.:

Your Master shou'd never go without a Bottle to smell
to--Oh!--He recovers--The Lavender Water--Some Feathers
to burn under his Nose--Hungary-water to rub his Temples
--O, he comes to himself. Hem a little, Sir, hem--Gipsey,
bring the Cordial-water.

Dor.:
How d'ye, Sir?

Aim.:
Where am I?


[[Rising.]
Sure I have pass'd the Gulph of silent Death,
And now I land on the Elisian Shore--
Behold the Goddess of those happy Plains,
Fair Proserpine--Let me adore thy bright Divinity.

Mrs. Sull.:
So, so, so, I knew where the Fit wou'd end.

Aim.:
Euridice perhaps--How cou'd thy Orpheus keep his word,
And not look back upon thee;
No Treasure but thy self cou'd sure have brib'd him
To look one Minute off thee.

L. Boun.:
Delirious, poor Gentleman.

Arch.:
Very Delirious, Madam, very Delirious.

Aim.:
Martin's Voice, I think.

Arch.:
Yes, my Lord--How do's your Lordship?

L. Boun.:
Lord! did you mind that, Girls.

Aim.:
Where am I?

Arch.:

In very good Hands, Sir,--You were taken just now

with one of your old Fits under the Trees just by this good Lady's
House, her Ladyship had you taken in, and has miraculously
brought you to your self, as you see--

Aim.:

I am so confounded with Shame, Madam, that I can
now only beg Pardon--And refer my Acknowledgements for
your Ladyship's Care, till an Opportunity offers of making
some Amends--I dare be no longer troublesome--Martin,
give two Guineas to the Servants.

Dor.:

Sir, you may catch cold by going so soon into the Air,
you don't look, Sir, as if you were perfectly recover'd.

Aim.:

That I shall never be, Madam, my present Illness is so
rooted, that I must expect to carry it to my Grave.

Mrs. Sull.:

Don't despair, Sir, I have known several in your
Distemper shake it off, with a Fortnight's Physick.

L. Boun.:

Come, Sir, your Servant has been telling me that
you're apt to relapse if you go into the Air--Your good Manners
shan't get the better of ours--You shall sit down again,
Sir,--Come, Sir, we don't mind Ceremonies in the Country
--Here, Sir, my Service t'ye--You shall taste my Water;
'tis a Cordial I can assure you, and of my own making--
drink it off, Sir,

[[Aimwell drinks.]]
And how d'ye find your self
now, Sir.

Aim.:

Somewhat better--Tho' very faint still.

L. Boun.:

Ay, ay, People are always faint after these Fits--
Come Girls, you shall show the Gentleman the House, 'tis but
an old Family Building, Sir, but you had better walk about and
cool by Degrees than venture immediately into the Air--
You'll find some tolerable Pictures--Dorinda, show the Gentleman
the way.

[[Exit.]]
I must go to the poor Woman below.

Dor.:

This way, Sir.

Aim.:

Ladies shall I beg leave for my Servant to wait on you,
for he understands Pictures very well.

Mrs. Sull.:

Sir, we understand Originals, as well as he do's Pictures,
so he may come along.

Foig.:

Save you, Master Scrub.

Scrub.:

Sir, I won't be sav'd your way--I hate a Priest, I abhor
the French, and I defie the Devil--Sir, I'm a bold

Briton, and will spill the last drop of my Blood to keep out Popery
and Slavery.

Foig.:

Master Scrub, you wou'd put me down in Politicks, and
so I wou'd be speaking with Mrs Shipsey.

Scrub.:

Good Mr. Priest, you can't speak with her, she's sick, Sir,
she's gone abroad, Sir, she's--dead two Months ago, Sir.

Gip.:

How now, Impudence; how dare you talk so saucily to
the Doctor? Pray, Sir, dont take it ill; for the Common-people
of England are not so civil to Strangers, as--

Scrub.:

You lie, you lie--'Tis the Common People that are
civilest to Strangers.

Gip.:

Sirrah, I have a good mind to--Get you out, I say.

Scrub.:

I won't.

Gip.:

You won't, Sauce-box--Pray, Doctor, what is the
Captain's Name that came to your Inn last Night?

Scrub.:

The Captain! Ah, the Devil, there she hampers me
again;--The Captain has me on one side, and the Priest on
t'other:--So between the Gown and the Sword, I have a fine
time on't.--But, Cedunt Arma togæ.

Gip.:

What, Sirrah, won't you march?

Scrub.:

No, my Dear, I won't march--But I'll walk--And
I'll make bold to listen a little too.

Gip.:

Indeed, Doctor, the Count has been barbarously treated,
that's the Truth on't.

Foig.:

Ah, Mrs. Gipsey, upon my Shoul, now, Gra, his Complainings
wou'd mollifie the Marrow in your Bones, and move
the Bowels of your Commiseration; he veeps, and he dances,
and he fistles, and he swears, and he laughs, and he stamps,
and he sings: In Conclusion, Joy, he's afflicted, a la Francois, and
a Stranger wou'd not know whider to cry, or to laugh with him.

Gip.:

What wou'd you have me do, Doctor?

Foig.:

Noting, Joy, but only hide the Count in Mrs. Sullen's
Closet when it is dark.

Gip.:

Nothing! Is that nothing? it wou'd be both a Sin and
a shame, Doctor.

Foig.:

Here is twenty Lewidores, Joy, for your shame; and I
will give you an Absolution for the Shin.

Gip.:

But won't that Money look like a Bribe?

Foig.:

Dat is according as you shall tauk it.--If you receive
the Money beforehand, 'twill be Logicè a Bribe; but if you stay
till afterwards, 'twill be only a Gratification.

Gip.:

Well, Doctor, I'll take it Logicè.--But what must
I do with my Conscience, Sir?

Foig.:

Leave dat wid me, Joy; I am your Priest, Gra; and
your Conscience is under my Hands.

Gip.:

But shou'd I put the Count into the Closet--

Foig.:

Vel, is dere any Shin for a Man's being in a Closhet; one
may go to Prayers in a Closhet.

Gip.:

But if the Lady shou'd come into her Chamber, and go
to Bed?

Foig.:

Vel, and is dere any Shin in going to Bed, Joy?

Gip.:

Ay, but if the Parties shou'd meet, Doctor?

Foig.:

Vel den--The Parties must be responsable.--Do
you be after putting the Count in the Closet; and leave the
Shins wid themselves.--I will come with the Count to instruct
you in your Chamber.

Gip.:

Well, Doctor, your Religion is so pure--Methinks
I'm so easie after an Absolution, and can sin afresh with so much
security, that I'm resolv'd to die a Martyr to't.--Here's the
Key of the Garden-door, come in the back way when 'tis late,
--I'll be ready to receive you; but don't so much as whisper,
only take hold of my Hand, I'll lead you, and do you lead the
Count, and follow me.

Scrub.:

What Witchcraft now have these two Imps of the
Devil been a hatching here?--There's twenty Lewidores, I
heard that, and saw the Purse: But I must give room to my Betters.

Mrs. Sull.:

Pray, Sir,

[[To Archer.]]
how d'ye like that Piece?

Arch.:

O, 'tis Leda.--You find, Madam, how Jupiter
comes disguis'd to make Love--

Mrs. Sull.:

But what think you there of Alexander's Battles?

Arch.:

We want only a Le Brun, Madam, to draw greater Battles,
and a greater General of our own.--The Danube,
Madam, wou'd make a greater Figure in a Picture than the Granicus;
aud we have our Ramelies to match their Arbela.

Mrs. Sull.:

Pray, Sir, what Head is that in the Corner there?

Arch.:

O, Madam, 'tis poor Ovid in his Exile.

Mrs. Sull.:

What was he banish'd for?

Arch.:

His ambitious Love, Madam.

[[Bowing.]]
His Misfortune
touches me.

Mrs. Sull.:

Was he successful in his Amours?

Arch.:

There he has left us in the dark.--He was too
much a Gentleman to tell.

Mrs. Sull.:

If he were secret, I pity him.

Arch.:

And if he were successful, I envy him.

Mrs. Sull.:

How d'ye like that Venus over the Chimney?

Arch.:

Venus! I protest, Madam, I took it for your Picture;
but now I look again, 'tis not handsome enough.

Mrs. Sull.:

Oh, what a Charm is Flattery! if you wou'd see
my Picture, there it is, over that Cabinet;--How d'ye like it?

Arch.:

I must admire any thing, Madam, that has the least
Resemblance of you--But, methinks, Madam--

[[He looks at the Picture and Mrs. Sullen three or four times, by turns.]

Pray, Madam, who drew it?

Mrs. Sull.:

A famous Hand, Sir.

Arch.:

A famous Hand, Madam--Your Eyes, indeed, are
featur'd there; but where's the sparkling Moisture shining fluid,
in which they swim. The Picture indeed has your Dimples;
but where's the Swarm of killing Cupids that shou'd ambush
there? the Lips too are figur'd out; but where's the Carnation
Dew, the pouting Ripeness that tempts the Taste in the Original?

Mrs. Sull.:

Had it been my Lot to have match'd with such a
Man!

Arch.:

Your Breasts too, presumptuous Man! what! paint
Heaven! Apropo, Madam, in the very next Picture is Salmoneus,
that was struck dead with Lightning, for offering to imitate
Jove's Thunder; I hope you serv'd the Painter so, Madam?

Mrs. Sull.:

Had my Eyes the power of Thunder, they shou'd
employ their Lightning better.

Arch.:

There's the finest Bed in that Room, Madam, I suppose
'tis your Ladyship's Bed-Chamber.

Mrs. Sull.:

And what then, Sir?

Arch.:

I think the Quilt is the richest that ever I saw:--I
can't at this Distance, Madam, distinguish the Figures of the Embroidery;
will you give me leave, Madam--

Mrs. Sull.:

The Devil take his Impudence.--Sure if I gave
him an opportunity, he durst not offer it.--I have a great
mind to try.--

[[Going.] [Returns.]]
S'death, what am I doing?
--And alone too!--Sister, Sister?

Arch.:
I'll follow her close--
For where a French-man durst attempt to storm,
A Briton sure may well the Work perform.

Scrub.:
Martin, Brother Martin.

Arch.:

O, Brother Scrub, I beg your Pardon, I was not a going;
here's a Guinea, my Master order'd you.

Scrub.:

A Guinea, hi, hi, hi, a Guinea! eh--by this Light
it is a Guinea; but I suppose you expect One and twenty Shillings
in change.

Arch.:

Not at all; I have another for Gipsey.

Scrub.:

A Guinea for her! Faggot and Fire for the Witch.
--Sir, give me that Guinea, and I'll discover a Plot.

Arch.:

A Plot!

Scrub.:

Ay, Sir, a Plot, and a horrid Plot.--First, it must be a
Plot because there's a Woman in't; secondly, it must be a Plot
because there's a Priest in't; thirdly, it must be a Plot because
there's French Gold in't; and fourthly, it must be a Plot, because
I don't know what to make on't.

Arch.:

Nor any body else, I'm afraid, Brother Scrub.

Scrub.:

Truly I'm afraid so too; for where there's a Priest and
a Woman, there's always a Mystery and a Riddle.--This I
know, that here has been the Doctor with a Temptation in one
Hand, and an Absolution in the other; and Gipsey has sold her
self to the Devil; I saw the Price paid down, my Eyes shall
take their Oath on't.

Arch.:

And is all this bustle about Gipsey.

Scrub.:

That's not all; I cou'd hear but a Word here and
there; but I remember they mention'd a Count, a Closet, a
back Door, and a Key.