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Title: The Works of Aphra Behn, Volume I

Author: Aphra Behn

Editor: Montague Summers

Release date: May 5, 2007 [eBook #21339]
Most recently updated: December 25, 2020

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/21339

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORKS OF
APHRA BEHN, VOLUME I ***

THE WORKS

OF

APHRA BEHN
Edited by

MONTAGUE SUMMERS

VOL. I
The Rover (Part i); or, The Banish’d Cavaliers
The Rover (Part ii); or, The Banish’d Cavaliers
The Dutch Lover
The Round-Heads; or, The Good Old Cause

LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN
STRATFORD-ON-AVON: A. H. BULLEN
MCMXV

To Francis James,
this the first collected edition of

Aphra Behn.

CONTENTS.

Items in italics were added by the transcriber. The plays are located in two
separate files, together with their respective Notes, as explained in the
“Notes” section of this file.
“The Rover” Parts I and II are separate plays; Part II is a sequel.
Students should note that the editorial material (1915) is sometimes
significantly at variance with current (2007) Behn scholarship.

PAGE
PREFACE xiii
INTRODUCTION
(Memoir of Mrs. Behn) xv
The Text lxii
The Portraits of Mrs. Behn lxiv
Footnotes to Introduction
THE ROVER (PART I); OR, THE BANISH’D CAVALIERS 1
THE ROVER (PART II); OR, THE BANISH’D CAVALIERS 109
THE DUTCH LOVER 215
THE ROUNDHEADS; OR, THE GOOD OLD CAUSE 331
NOTES 427

PREFACE.
It is perhaps not altogether easy to appreciate the multiplicity of difficulties
with which the first editor of Mrs. Behn has to cope. Not only is her life
strangely mysterious and obscure, but the rubbish of half-a-dozen
romancing biographers must needs be cleared away before we can even
begin to see daylight. Matter which had been for two centuries accepted on
seemingly the soundest authority is proven false; her family name itself
was, until my recent discovery, wrongly given; the very question of her
portrait has its own vexed (and until now unrecognized) dilemmas. In fine
there seems no point connected with our first professional authoress which
did not call for the nicest investigation and the most incontrovertible proof
before it could be accepted without suspicion or reserve. The various
collections of her plays and novels which appeared in the first half of the

eighteenth century give us nothing; nay, they rather cumber our path with
the trash of discredited Memoirs. Pearson’s reprint (1871) is entirely
valueless: there is no attempt, however meagre, at editing, no effort to
elucidate a single allusion; moreover, several of the Novels—and the Poems
in their entirety—are lacking. I am happy to give (Vol. V) one of the
Novels, and that not the least important, The History of the Nun, for the first
time in any collected edition. Poems, in addition to those which appeared in
Mrs. Behn’s lifetime, and were never reprinted after, have been gathered
with great care from many sources (of which some were almost forgotten).
It is hoped that this new issue of Mrs. Behn may prove adequate. Any
difficulties in the editing have been more than amply compensated for by
the interest shown by many friends. Foremost, my best thanks are due to
Mr. Bullen, whose life-long experience of the minutiæ of editing our best
dramatic literature, has been ungrudgingly at my service throughout, to the
no small advantage of myself and my work. Mr. Edmund Gosse, C.B., has
shown the liveliest interest in the book from its inception, and I owe him
most grateful recognition for his kindly encouragement and aid. Nay, more,
he did not spare to lend me treasured items from his library so rich in first,
and boasting unique, editions of Mrs. Behn. Mr. G. Thorn Drury, K.C.,
never wearied of answering my enquiries, and in discussion solved many a
knotty point. To him I am obliged for the transcript of Mrs. Behn’s letter to
Waller’s daughter-in-law, and also the Satire on Dryden. He even gave of
his valuable time to read through the Memoir and from the superabundance
of his knowledge made suggestions of the first importance. The
unsurpassed library of Mr. T. J. Wise, the well-known bibliographer, was
freely at my disposal. In other cases where I have received any assistance in
clearing a difficulty I have made my acknowledgement in the note itself.

MEMOIR OF MRS. BEHN.

The personal history of Aphra Behn, the first Englishwoman to earn her
livelihood by authorship, is unusually interesting but very difficult to
unravel and relate. In dealing with her biography writers at different periods
have rushed headlong to extremes, and we now find that the pendulum has

swung to its fullest stretch. On the one hand, we have prefixed to a
collection of the Histories and Novels, published in 1696, ‘The Life of Mrs.
Behn written by one of the Fair Sex’, a frequently reprinted (and even
expanded) compilation crowded with romantic incidents that savour all too
strongly of the Italian novella, with sentimental epistolography and details
which can but be accepted cautiously and in part. On the other there have
recently appeared two revolutionary essays by Dr. Ernest Bernbaum of
Harvard, ‘Mrs. Behn’s Oroonoko’, first printed in Kittredge Anniversary
Papers, 1913; and—what is even more particularly pertinent—’Mrs. Behn’s
Biography a Fiction,’ Publications of the Modern Language Association of
America, xxviii, 3: both afterwards issued as separate pamphlets, 1913. In
these, the keen critical sense of the writer has apparently been so jarred by
the patent incongruities, the baseless fiction, nay, the very fantasies (such as
the fairy pavilion seen floating upon the Channel), which, imaginative and
invented flotsam that they are, accumulated and were heaped about the
memory of Aphra Behn, that he is apt to regard almost every record outside
those of her residence at Antwerp1 with a suspicion which is in many cases
surely unwarranted and undue. Having energetically cleared away the more
peccant rubbish, Dr. Bernbaum became, it appears to us, a little too drastic,
and had he then discriminated rather than swept clean, we were better able
wholly to follow the conclusions at which he arrives. He even says that
after ‘1671’2 when ‘she began to write for the stage ... such meagre
contemporary notices as we find of her are critical rather than biographical’.
This is a very partial truth; from extant letters,3 to which Dr. Bernbaum
does not refer, we can gather much of Mrs. Behn’s literary life and
circumstances. She was a figure of some note, and even if we had no other
evidence it seems impossible that her contemporaries should have glibly
accepted the fiction of a voyage to Surinam and a Dutch husband named
Behn who had never existed.
Ayfara, or Aphara4 (Aphra), Amis or Amies, the daughter of John and Amy
Amis or Amies, was baptized together with her brother Peter in the Parish
Church of SS. Gregory and Martin, Wye, 10 July, 1640, presumably by
Ambrose Richmore, curate of Wye at that date.5 Up to this time Aphra’s
maiden name has been stated to be Johnson, and she is asserted to have
been the daughter of a barber, John Johnson. That the name was not

Johnson (an ancient error) is certain from the baptismal register, wherein,
moreover, the ‘Quality, Trade, or Profession’ is left blank; that her father
was a barber rests upon no other foundation than a MS. note of Lady
Winchilsea.6 Mr. Gosse, in a most valuable article (Athenæum,
6 September, 1884), was the first to correct the statement repeatedly made
that Mrs. Behn came from ‘the City of Canterbury in Kent’. He tells how he
acquired a folio volume containing the MS. poems of Anne, Countess of
Winchilsea,7 ‘copied about 1695 under her eye and with innumerable notes
and corrections in her autograph’. In a certain poem entitled The Circuit of
Apollo8 the following lines occur:—
And standing where sadly he now might descry
From the banks of the Stowre the desolate Wye,
He lamented for Behn, o’er that place of her birth,
And said amongst Women there was not on the earth,
Her superior in fancy, in language, or witt,
Yet own’d that a little too loosely she writt.

To these is appended this note: ‘Mrs. Behn was Daughter to a Barber, who
liv’d formerly in Wye, a little Market Town (now much decay’d) in Kent.
Though the account of her life before her Works pretends otherwise; some
Persons now alive Do testify upon their Knowledge that to be her Original.’
It is a pity that whilst the one error concerning Aphra’s birthplace is thus
remedied, the mistake as to the nature of her father’s calling should have
been initiated.
Aphra Amis, then, was born early in July, 1640, at Wye, Kent. When she
was of a tender age the Amis family left England for Surinam; her father,
who seems to have been a relative of Francis, Lord Willoughby of Parham,
sometime administrator of several British colonies in the West Indies,
having been promised a post of some importance in these dependencies.
John Amis died on the voyage out, but his widow and children necessarily
continued their journey, and upon their arrival were accommodated at St.
John’s Hill, one of the best houses in the district. Her life and adventures in
Surinam Aphra has herself realistically told in that wonderfully vivid
narrative, Oroonoko. 9 The writer’s bent had already shown itself. She kept
a journal as many girls will, she steeped herself in the interminable
romances fashionable at that time, in the voluminous Pharamond,
Cléopatre, Cassandre, Ibrahim, and, above all, Le Grand Cyrus, so loved

and retailed to the annoyance of her worthy husband by Mrs. Pepys; with a
piece of which Dorothy Osborne was ‘hugely pleased’.
It was perhaps from the reading of La Calprenède and Mlle de Scudéri
Aphra gained that intimate knowledge of French which served her well and
amply in after years during her literary life; at any rate she seems early to
have realized her dramatic genius and to have begun a play drawn from one
of the most interesting episodes in Cléopatre, the love story of the Scythian
King Alcamène, scenes which, when they had ‘measured three thousand
leagues of spacious ocean’, were, nearly a quarter of a century later, to be
taken out of her desk and worked up into a baroque and fanciful yet
strangely pleasing tragi-comedy, The Young King.
In Surinam she witnessed the fortunes and fate of the Royal Slave,
Oroonoko, of whom she writes (with all due allowance for pardonable
exaggeration and purely literary touches), so naturally and feelingly, that
‘one of the Fair Sex’ with some acerbity makes it her rather unnecessary
business to clear Aphra from any suspicion of a liaison. It was Surinam
which supplied the cognate material for the vivid comedy, the broad
humour and early colonial life, photographic in its realism, of The Widow
Ranter; or, The History of Bacon in Virginia. Mistakes there may be, errors
and forgetfulness, but there are a thousand touches which only long
residence and keen observation could have so deftly characterized.
We now approach a brief yet important period in Mrs. Behn’s life, which
unless we are content to follow (with an acknowledged diffidence and due
reservations) the old Memoir and scattered tradition, we find ourselves with
no sure means whatsoever of detailing. It seems probable, however, that
about the close of 1663, owing no doubt to the Restoration and the
subsequent changes in affairs, the Amis family returned to England, settling
in London, where Aphra, meeting a merchant of Dutch extraction named
Behn, so fascinated him by her wit and comeliness that he offered her his
hand and fortune. During her married life she is said to have been in
affluence, and even to have appeared at the gay licentious Court, attracting
the notice of and amusing the King himself by her anecdotes and cleverness
of repartee; but when her husband died, not impossibly of the plague in the
year of mortality, 1665, she found herself helpless, without friends or funds.

In her distress it was to the Court she applied for assistance; and owing to
her cosmopolitan experience and still more to the fact that her name was
Dutch, and that she had been by her husband brought into close contact
with the Dutch, she was selected as a meet political agent to visit Holland
and there be employed in various secret and semi-official capacities. The
circumstance that her position and work could never be openly recognized
nor acknowledged by the English government was shortly to involve her in
manifold difficulties, pecuniary and otherwise, which eventually led to her
perforce abandoning so unstable and unsatisfactory a commission.
In the old History of the Life and Memoirs of Mrs. Behn (1696; and with
additions 1698, &c.), ushered into the world by Charles Gildon, a romance
full as amorous and sensational as any novel of the day, has been woven
about her sojourn at Antwerp. A ’Spark whom we must call by the name of
Vander Albert of Utrecht’ is given to Aphra as a fervent lover, and from him
she obtains political secrets to be used to the English advantage. He has a
rival, an antique yclept Van Bruin, ‘a Hogen Mogen ... Nestorean’ admirer,
and the intrigue becomes fast and furious. On one occasion Albert,
imagining he is possessing his mistress, is cheated with a certain Catalina;
and again when he has bribed an ancient duenna to admit him to Aphra’s
bed, he is surprised there by a frolicsome gallant. 10 There are even included
five letters from Mrs. Behn and a couple of ridiculous effusions purporting
to be Van Bruin’s. It would seem that all this pure fiction, the sweepings of
Aphra’s desk, was intended by her to have been worked up into a novel;
both letters and narrative are too good to be the unaided composition of
Gildon himself, but possibly Mrs. Behn in her after life may have
elaborated and told him these erotic episodes to conceal the squalor and
misery of the real facts of her early Dutch mission. It is proved indeed in
aim and circumstance to have been far other.
Her chief business was to establish an intimacy with William Scott, son of
Thomas Scott, the regicide who had been executed 17 October, 1660. This
William, who had been made a fellow of All Souls by the Parliamentary
Visitors of Oxford, and graduated B.C.L. 4 August, 1648, was quite ready
to become a spy in the English service and to report on the doings of the
English exiles who were not only holding treasonable correspondence with
traitors at home and plotting against the King, but even joining with the

Dutch foe to injure their native land. Scott was extremely anxious for his
own pardon and, in addition, eager to earn any money he could.
Aphra then, taking with her some forty pounds in cash, all she had, set sail
with Sir Anthony Desmarces 11 either at the latter end of July or early in
August, 1666, and on 16 August she writes from Antwerp to say she has
had an interview with William Scott (dubbed in her correspondence
Celadon), even having gone so far as to take coach and ride a day’s journey
to see him secretly. Though at first diffident, he is very ready to undertake
the service, only it will be necessary for her to enter Holland itself and
reside on the spot, not in Flanders, as Colonel Bampfield, who was looked
upon as head of the exiled English at the Hague, watched Scott with most
jealous care and a growing suspicion. Aphra, whose letters give a vivid
picture of the spy’s life with its risks and impecuniosity, addresses herself to
two correspondents, Tom Killigrew and James Halsall, cupbearer to the
King.
On 27 August she was still at Antwerp, and William Scott wrote to her there
but did not venture to say much lest the epistle might miscarry. He asks for
a cypher, a useful and indeed necessary precaution in so difficult
circumstances. It was about this time that Mrs. Behn began to employ the
name of Astrea, which, having its inception in a political code, was later to
be generally used by her and recognized throughout the literary world.
Writing to Halsall, she says that she has been unable to effect anything, but
she urgently demands that money be sent, and confesses she has been
obliged even to pawn her ring to pay messengers. On 31 August she writes
to Killigrew declaring she can get no answer from Halsall, and explaining
that she has twice had to disburse Scott’s expenses, amounting in all to £20,
out of her own pocket, whilst her personal debts total another £25 or £30,
and living itself is ten guilders a day. If she is to continue her work
satisfactorily, £80 at least will be needed to pay up all her creditors;
moreover, as a preliminary and a token of good faith, Scott’s official pardon
must be forwarded without compromise or delay. Scott himself was, it
seems, playing no easy game at this juncture, for a certain Carney, resident
at Antwerp, ‘an unsufferable, scandalous, lying, prating fellow’, piqued at
not being able to ferret out the intrigue, had gone so far as to molest poor
Celadon and threaten him with death, noising up and down meanwhile the

fact of his clandestine rendezvous with Aphra. No money, however, was
forthcoming from England, and on 4 September Mrs. Behn writing again to
Killigrew tells him plainly that she is reduced to great straits, and unless
funds are immediately provided all her work will be nugatory and vain. The
next letter, dated 14 September, gives Halsall various naval information. On
17 September she is obliged to importune Killigrew once more on the
occasion of sending him a letter from Scott dealing with political matters.
Halsall, she asserts, will not return any answer, and although she is only in
private lodgings she is continually being thwarted and vilipended by
Carney, ‘whose tongue needs clipping’. Four days later she transmits a five
page letter from Scott to Halsall. On 25 September she sends under cover
yet another letter from Scott with the news of De Ruyter’s illness. Silence
was her only answer. Capable and indeed ardent agent as she was, there can
be no excuse for her shameful, nay, criminal, neglect at the hands of the
government she was serving so faithfully and well. Her information12
seems to have been received with inattention and disregard; whether it was
that culpable carelessness which wrecked so many a fair scheme in the
second Charles’ days, or whether secret enemies at home steadfastly
impeded her efforts remains an open question. In any case on 3 November
she sends a truly piteous letter to Lord Arlington, Secretary of State, and
informs him she is suffering the extremest want and penury. All her goods
are pawned, Scott is in prison for debt, and she herself seems on the point of
going to the common gaol. The day after Christmas Aphra wrote to Lord
Arlington for the last time. She asks for a round £100 as delays have
naturally doubled her expenses and she has had to obtain credit. Now she is
only anxious to return home, and she declares that if she did not so well
know the justness of her cause and complaint, she would be stark wild with
her hard treatment. Scott, she adds, will soon be free.13 Even this final
appeal obtained no response, and at length—well nigh desperate—Mrs.
Behn negotiated in England, from a certain Edward Butler, a private loan of
some £150 which enabled her to settle her affairs and start for home in
January, 1667.
But the chapter of her troubles was by no means ended. Debt weighed like a
millstone round her neck. As the weary months went by and Aphra was
begging in vain for her salary, long overdue, to be paid, Butler, a harsh,

dour man with heart of stone, became impatient and resorted to drastic
measures, eventually flinging her into a debtor’s prison. There are extant
three petitions, undated indeed, but which must be referred to the early
autumn of 1668, from Mrs. Behn to Charles II. Sadly complaining of two
years’ bitter sufferings, she prays for an order to Mr. May14 or Mr.
Chiffinch15 to satisfy Butler, who declares he will stop at nothing if he is
not paid within a week. In a second document she sets out the reasons for
her urgent claim of £150. Both Mr. Halsall and Mr. Killigrew know how
justly it is her due, and she is hourly threatened with an execution. To this is
annexed a letter from the poor distracted woman to Killigrew, which runs as
follows:—
Sr.
if you could guess at the affliction of my soule you would I am sure
Pity me ’tis to morrow that I must submitt my self to a Prison the
time being expird & though I indeauerd all day yesterday to get a
ffew days more I can not because they say they see I am dallied wth
all & so they say I shall be for euer: so I can not reuoke my doome I
haue cryd myself dead & could find in my hart to break through all
& get to ye king & neuer rise till he weare pleasd to pay this; but I
am sick & weake & vnfitt for yt; or a Prison; I shall go to morrow:
But I will send my mother to ye king wth a Pitition for I see euery
body are words: & I will not perish in a Prison from whence he
swears I shall not stirr till ye uttmost farthing be payd: & oh god,
who considers my misery & charge too, this is my reward for all my
great promises, & my indeauers. Sr if I have not the money to night
you must send me som thing to keepe me in Prison for I will not
starue.
A. Behn.
Endorsed:
For Mr. Killigrew this.

Closer view of letter
Detail of stamp

There was no immediate response however, even to this pathetic and heart-
broken appeal, and in yet a third petition she pleads that she may not be left
to suffer, but that the £150 be sent forthwith to Edward Butler, who on Lord
Arlington’s declaring that neither order nor money had been transmitted,
threw her straightway into gaol.
It does not seem, however, that her imprisonment was long. Whether
Killigrew, of whom later she spoke in warm and admiring terms, touched at
last, bestirred himself on her behalf and rescued her from want and woe,
whether Mrs. Amy Amis won a way to the King, whether help came by
some other path, is all uncertain. In any case the debt was duly paid, and
Aphra Behn not improbably received in addition some compensation for the
hardships she had undergone.

’The rest of her Life was entirely dedicated to Pleasure and Poetry; the
Success in which gain’d her the Acquaintance and Friendship of the most
Sensible Men of the Age, and the Love of not a few of different Characters;
for tho’ a Sot have no Portion of Wit of his own, he yet, like old Age, covets
what he cannot enjoy.’
More than dubious and idly romancing as the early Memoirs are,
nevertheless this one sentence seems to sum up the situation thenceforth
pretty aptly, if in altogether too general terms. Once extricated from these
main difficulties Mrs. Behn no doubt took steps to insure that she should
not, if it lay in her power, be so situated again. I would suggest, indeed, that
about this period, 1669, she accepted the protection of some admirer. Who
he may have been at first, how many more there were than one, how long
the various amours endured, it is idle to speculate. She was for her period as
thoroughly unconventional as many another woman of letters has been
since in relation to later times and manners, as unhampered and free as her
witty successor, Mrs. de la Riviere Manley, who lived for so long as
Alderman Barber’s kept mistress and died in his house. Mrs. Behn has
given us poetic pseudonyms for many of her lovers, Lycidas, Lysander,
Philaster, Amintas, Alexis, and the rest, but these extended over many years,
and attempts at identification, however interesting, are fruitless.16
There has been no more popular mistake, nor yet one more productive, not
merely of nonsense and bad criticism but even of actual malice and evil,
than the easy error of confounding an author with the characters he creates.
Mrs. Behn has not been spared. Some have superficially argued from the
careless levity of her heroes: the Rover, Cayman, Wittmore, Wilding,
Frederick; and again from the delightful insouciance of Lady Fancy, Queen
Lucy, and the genteel coquette Mirtilla, or the torrid passions of Angelica
Bianca, Miranda and la Nuche; that Aphra herself was little better, in fact a
great deal worse, than a common prostitute, and that her works are
undiluted pornography.
In her own day, probably for reasons purely political, a noisy clique assailed
her on the score of impropriety; a little later came Pope with his jaded
couplet

The stage how loosely does Astrea tread
Who fairly puts all characters to bed;

and the attack was reinforced by an anecdote of Sir Walter Scott and some
female relative who, after having insisted upon the great novelist lending
her Mrs. Behn, found the Novels and Plays too loose for her perusal, albeit
in the heyday of the lady’s youth they had been popular enough. As one
might expect, Miss Julia Kavanagh, in the mid-Victorian era17 (English
Women of Letters 1863), is sad and sorry at having to mention Mrs. Behn
—’Even if her life remained pure,18 it is amply evident her mind was
“tainted to the very core. Grossness was congenial to her.... Mrs. Behn’s
indelicacy was useless and worse than useless, the superfluous addition of a
corrupt mind and vitiated taste”.’ One can afford to smile at and ignore
these modest outbursts, but it is strange to find so sound and sane a critic as
Dr. Doran writing of Aphra Behn as follows: ‘No one equalled this woman
in downright nastiness save Ravenscroft and Wycherley.... With Dryden she
vied in indecency and was not overcome.... She was a mere harlot, who
danced through uncleanness and dared them [the male dramatists] to
follow.’ Again, we have that she was ‘a wanton hussy’; her ‘trolloping
muse’ shamefacedly ‘wallowed in the mire’; but finally the historian is
bound to confess ‘she was never dull’.
The morality of her plays is au fond that of many a comedy of to-day: that
the situations and phrasing in which she presents her amorous intrigues and
merry cuckoldoms do not conform with modern exposition of these themes
we also show yet would not name, is but our surface gloss of verbal
reticence; we hint, point, and suggest, where she spoke out broad words,
frank and free; the motif is one and the same. If we judge Mrs. Behn’s
dramatic output in the only fair way by comparing it legitimately with the
theatre of her age, we simply shall not find that superfluity of naughtiness
the critics lead us to expect and deplore. There are not infrequent scenes of
Dryden, of Wycherley, of Vanbrugh, Southerne, Otway, Ravenscroft,
Shadwell, D’Urfey, Crowne, full as daring as anything Aphra wrote; indeed,
in some instances, far more wanton. Particularizing, it has been objected
that although in most Restoration comedies the hero, however vicious (even
such a mad scrapegrace as Dryden’s Woodall), is decently noosed up in
wedlock when the curtain is about to fall, Mrs. Behn’s Willmore (Rover II),

Gayman (The Lucky Chance), Wittmore (Sir Patient Fancy) end up without
a thought of, save it be jest at, the wedding ring. But even this freedom can
be amply paralleled. In the Duke of Buckingham’s clever alteration of The
Chances (1682), we have Don John pairing off with the second Constantia
without a hint of matrimony; we have the intrigue of Bellmour and Laetitia
in Congreve’s The Old Bachelor (1693), the amours of Horner in The
Country Wife (1675), of Florio and Artall in Crowne’s City Politics (1683),
and many another beside. As for the cavilling crew who carped at her
during her life Mrs. Behn has answered them and she was thoroughly
competent so to do. Indeed, as she somewhat tartly remarked to Otway on
the occasion of certain prudish dames pleasing to take offence at The
Soldier’s Fortune, she wondered at the impudence of any of her sex that
would pretend to understand the thing called bawdy. A clique were shocked
at her; it was not her salaciousness they objected to but her success.
In December, 1670, Mrs. Behn’s first play,19 The Forc’d Marriage; or, the
Jealous Bridegroom, was produced at the Duke’s Theatre, Lincoln’s Inn
Field’s, with a strong cast. It is a good tragi-comedy of the bastard
Fletcherian Davenant type, but she had not hit upon her happiest vein of
comedy, which, however, she approached in a much better piece, The
Amorous Prince, played in the autumn of 1671 by the same company. Both
these had excellent runs for their day, and she obtained a firm footing in the
theatrical world. In 167320 The Dutch Lover21 was ready, a comedy which
has earned praise for its skilful technique. She here began to draw on her
own experiences for material, and Haunce van Ezel owes not a little to her
intimate knowledge of the Hollanders.
These three plays brought her money, friends, and reputation. She was
already beginning to be a considerable figure in literary circles, and the first
writers of the day were glad of the acquaintance of a woman who was both
a wit and a writer. There is still retailed a vague, persistent, and entirely
baseless tradition that Aphra Behn was assisted in writing her plays by
Edward Ravenscroft,22 the well known dramatist. Mrs. Behn often alludes
in her prefaces to the prejudice a carping clique entertained against her and
the strenuous efforts that were made to damn her comedies merely because
they were ‘writ by a woman’. Accordingly, when her plays succeeded, this
same party, unable to deny such approved and patent merit, found their

excuse in spreading a report that she was not inconsiderably aided in her
scenes by another hand. Edward Ravenscroft’s name stands to the epilogue
of Sir Timothy Tawdrey, and he was undoubtedly well acquainted with Mrs.
Behn. Tom Brown (I suggest) hints at a known intrigue,23 but, even if my
surmise be correct, there is nothing in this to warrant the oft repeated
statement that many of her scenes are actually due to his pen. On the other
hand, amongst Aphra’s intimates was a certain John Hoyle, a lawyer, well
known about the town as a wit. John Hoyle was the son of Thomas Hoyle,
Alderman and Lord Mayor of, and M.P. for York, who hanged himself24 at
the same hour as Charles I was beheaded. In the Gray’s Inn Admission
Register we have: ‘1659/60 Feb. 27. John Hoyle son and heir of Thomas H.
late of the city of York, Esq. deceased.’ Some eighteen years after he was
admitted to the Inner Temple: ‘1678/9 Jan. 26. Order that John Hoyle
formerly of Gray’s Inn be admitted to this society ad eundem statum. (Inner
Temple Records, iii, 131.) There are allusions not a few to him in Mrs.
Behn’s poems; he is the Mr. J. H. of Our Cabal; and in ‘A Letter to Mr.
Creech at Oxford, Written in the last great Frost,’ which finds a place in the
Miscellany of 1685, the following lines occur:—
To Honest H——le I shou’d have shown ye,
A Wit that wou’d be proud t’ have known ye;
A Wit uncommon, and Facetious,
A great admirer of Lucretius.

There can be no doubt he was on terms of the closest familiarity25 with
Mrs. Behn, and he (if any), not Ravenscroft, assisted her (though we are not
to suppose to a real extent) in her plays. There is a very plain allusion to this
in Radcliffe’s The Ramble: News from Hell (1682):—
Amongst this Heptarchy of Wit
The censuring Age have thought it fit,
To damn a Woman, ’cause ’tis said
The Plays she vends she never made.
But that a Greys Inn Lawyer does ’em
Who unto her was Friend in Bosom,
So not presenting Scarf and Hood
New Plays and Songs are full as good.26

Unfortunately Hoyle was reputed to be addicted to the grossest immorality,
and rumours of a sinister description were current concerning him.27 There
is, in fact, printed a letter28 of Mrs. Behn’s wherein she writes most

anxiously to her friend stating that the gravest scandals have reached her
ears, and begging him to clear himself from these allegations. Hoyle was
murdered in a brawl 26 May, 1692, and is buried in the vault belonging to
the Inner Temple, which is presumably in the ground attached to the Temple
Church. The entry in the Register runs as follows: ‘John Hoyle, esq., of the
Inner Temple was buried in the vault May ye 29, 1692.’ Narcissus Luttrell
in his Diary, Saturday, 28 May, 1692, has the following entry: ‘Mr. Hoil of
the Temple on Thursday night was at a tavern with other gentlemen, and
quarrelling with Mr. Pitts’ eldest son about drinking a health, as they came
out Mr. Hoil was stabb’d in the belly and fell down dead, and thereon Pitts
fled; and the next morning was taken in a disguise and is committed to
Newgate.’29 30 June, 1692, the same record says: ‘This day Mr. Pitts was
tryed at the Old Bailey for the murder of Mr. Hoil of the Temple, and the
jury found it manslaughter but the next heir has brought an appeal.’
In September, 1676, The Town Fop was acted with applause, and the
following year Mrs. Behn was very busy producing two comedies (of which
one is a masterpiece) and one tragedy. The Debauchee, which was brought
out this year at the Duke’s House, a somewhat superficial though clever
alteration of Brome’s Mad Couple Well Match’d, is no doubt from her pen.
It was published anonymously, 4to, 1677, and all the best critics with one
accord ascribe it to Mrs. Behn. In the autumn of 1677 there was produced
by the Duke’s Company a version of Middleton’s No Wit, No Help Like a
Woman’s, entitled, The Counterfeit Bridegroom; or, The Defeated Widow
(4to, 1677); it is smart and spirited. Genest was of opinion it is Aphra’s
work. He is probably right, for we know that she repeatedly made use of
Middleton, and internal evidence fully bears out our stage historian.30 Both
Abdelazer31 and The Town Fop evidence in a marked degree her intimate
knowledge of the earlier dramatists, whilst The Rover (I) is founded on
Killigrew. None the less, here she has handled her materials with rare skill,
and successfully put new wine into old bottles. The critics, however, began
to attack her on this point, and when The Rover (I) appeared in print (4to
1677), she found it necessary to add a postscript, defending her play from
the charge of merely being ’Thomaso alter’d’. With reference to Abdelazer
there is extant a very interesting letter32 from Mrs. Behn to her friend, Mrs.
Emily Price. She writes as follows:—

My Dear,
In your last, you inform’d me, that the World treated me as a
Plagiery, and, I must confess, not with Injustice: But that Mr. Otway
shou’d say, my Sex wou’d not prevent my being pull’d to Pieces by
the Criticks, is something odd, since whatever Mr. Otway now
declares, he may very well remember when last I saw him,
I receiv’d more than ordinary Encomiums on my Abdelazer, But
every one knows Mr. Otway’s good Nature, which will not permit
him to shock any one of our Sex to their Faces. But let that pass: For
being impeach’d of murdering my Moor, I am thankful, since, when
I shall let the World know, whenever I take the Pains next to appear
in Print, of the mighty Theft I have been guilty of; But however for
your own Satisfaction, I have sent you the Garden from whence I
gather’d, and I hope you will not think me vain, if I say, I have
weeded and improv’d it. I hope to prevail on the Printer to reprint
The Lust’s Dominion, &c., that my theft may be the more publick.
But I detain you. I believe I sha’n’t have the Happiness of seeing my
dear Amillia ’till the middle of September: But be assur’d I shall
always remain as I am,
Yours, A. Behn.
The Rover (I) is undoubtedly the best known of Aphra Behn’s comedies. It
long remained a popular favourite in the theatre, its verve, bustle and wit,
utterly defiant of the modest Josephs and qualmy prudes who censured
these lively scenes. Steele has mention of this in an archly humorous paper,
No. 51, Spectator, Saturday, 28 April, 1711. He pictures a young lady who
has taken offence at some negligent expression in that chastest of ice-cold
proprieties, The Funeral, and he forthwith more or less seriously proceeds
to defend his play by quoting the example of both predecessors and
contemporaries. Amongst the writers who are ‘best skilled in this luscious
Way’, he informs us that ‘we are obliged to the Lady who writ Ibrahim 33
for introducing a preparatory Scene to the very Action, when the Emperor
throws his Handkerchief as a Signal for his Mistress to follow him into the
most retired Part of the Seraglio.... This ingenious Gentlewoman in this
piece of Baudry refined upon an Author of the same Sex, who in The Rover

makes a Country Squire strip to his Holland Drawers. For Blunt is
disappointed, and the Emperor is understood to go on to the utmost.... It is
not here to be omitted, that in one of the above-mentioned Female
Compositions the Rover is very frequently sent on the same Errand; as I
take it above once every Act. This is not wholly unnatural; for, they say, the
Men-Authors draw themselves in their Chief Characters, and the Women-
Writers may be allowed the same Liberty.’
Early in 1678, in either the first or second week of January, Sir Patient
Fancy was received with great applause. A hint from Brome, more than a
hint from Molière, much wit, vivacity, and cleverness make up this
admirable comedy. Throughout the whole of her career it is amply evident
that Mrs. Behn, an omnivorous reader, kept in constant touch with and
profited by the French literature and theatre of her day. The debt of the
English stage to France at this period is a fact often not sufficiently
acknowledged, but one which it would really be difficult to over-emphasize.
No adequate critical knowledge of much of our English song, fiction and
drama of the Restoration can be attained without a close study of their
French models and originals.
During the latter part of this year Mrs. Behn found time to revise and write
up the romantic scenes she had composed two decades before as a girl in
Surinam, and the result was a tragi-comedy, The Young King, which won
considerable favour. Produced in March or early April,34 1679, it was not
published till 1683, but a second edition was called for in 1698.35
In March, The Feign’d Courtezans, one of Mrs. Behn’s happiest efforts,
appeared on the boards of the Duke’s House. Not one tittle is borrowed, and
its success gives striking proof of the capacity of her unaided powers. When
printed, the comedy was dedicated in adulatory terms to Nell Gwynne. With
the great Betterton, handsome Will Smith, Nokes, Underhill, Leigh, an
inimitable trio, the famous Mrs. Barry, pretty and piquante Betty Currer, the
beautiful and serenely gracious Mrs. Mary Lee, in the cast, it had a perfect
galaxy of genius to give it life and triumph.
In 1681 a second part continued the adventures of The Rover, and
surprisingly good the sequel is.

From 1678 to 1683 were years of the keenest political excitement and
unrest. Fomented to frenzy by the murderous villainies of Gates and his
accomplices, aggravated by the traitrous ambition and rascalities of
Shaftesbury, by the deceit and weakness of Monmouth, and the open
disloyalty of the Whiggish crew, party politics and controversy waxed
hotter and fiercer until riots were common and a revolution seemed
imminent. Fortunately an appeal in a royal declaration to the justice of the
nation at large allayed the storm, and an overwhelming outburst of genuine
enthusiasm ensued. Albeit the bill against him was thrown out with an
‘ignoramus’ by a packed jury 24 November, 1681, a year later, 28
November, 1682, Shaftesbury found it expedient to escape to Holland.
Monmouth, who had been making a regal progress through the country, was
arrested. Shortly after he was bailed out by his political friends, but he
presently fled in terror lest he should pay the penalty of his follies and
crimes, inasmuch as a true bill for high treason had been found against him.
It was natural that at such a crisis the stage and satire (both prose and
rhyme), should become impregnated with party feeling; and the Tory poets,
with glorious John Dryden at their head, unmercifully pilloried their
adversaries. In 1682 Mrs. Behn produced three comedies, two of which are
mainly political. The Roundheads, a masterly pasquinade, shows the
Puritans, near ancestors of the Whigs, in their most odious and veritable
colours. The City Heiress lampoons Shaftesbury and his cit following in
exquisite caricature. The wit and humour, the pointed raillery never
coarsening into mere invective and zany burlesque, place this in the very
front rank of her comedies.36 The False Count, the third play of this year, is
non-political, and she has herein borrowed a suggestion from Molière. It is
full of brilliant dialogue and point, whilst the situations are truly ludicrous
and entertaining. As might well be surmised, The Roundheads and The City
Heiress were not slow to wake the rancour of the Whigs, who looked about
for an opportunity of vengeance which they shortly found. On 10 August,
1682, there was produced at the Duke’s Theatre an anonymous tragedy
Romulus and Hersilia; or, The Sabine War. It is a vigorous play of no small
merit and attracted considerable attention at the time.37 Mrs. Behn
contributed both Prologue and Epilogue, the former being spoken by that
sweet-voiced blonde, winsome Charlotte Butler, the latter by Lady
Slingsby, who acted Tarpeia. There was matter in the Epilogue which

reflected upon the disgraced Duke of Monmouth, for whom, in spite of his
known treachery and treasons, Charles still retained the fondest affection.
Warm representations were made in high quarters, and the following
warrant was speedily issued:—
Whereas the Lady Slingsby Comoedian and Mrs. Aphaw Behen
have by acting and writeing at his Royall Highnesse Theatre
committed severall Misdemeanors and made abusive reflections
upon persons of Quality, and have written and spoken scandalous
speeches without any License or Approbation of those that ought to
peruse and authorize the same, These are therefore to require you to
take into yo’r Custody the said Lady Slingsby and Mrs. Aphaw
Behen and bring them before mee to answere the said Offence, And
for soe doeing this shalbe yo’r sufficient Warr’t. Given und’r my
hand and seale this 12’th day of August, 1682.
To Henry Legatt Messenger
of His Mat’ties Chamber, etc.
The lines particularly complained of ran as follows:
of all Treasons, mine was most accurst;
Rebelling ’gainst a KING and FATHER first.
A Sin, which Heav’n nor Man can e’re forgive;
Nor could I Act it with the face to live.
. . . . . . .
There’s nothing can my Reputation save
With all the True, the Loyal and the Brave;
Not my Remorse or death can Expiate
With them a Treason ’gainst the KING and State.

Coming from the mouth of the perjured Tarpeia they were of course winged
with point unmistakable. It is not probable, however, that either authoress or
actress was visited with anything more than censure and a fright. In any
case their detention38 (if brought about) must have been very shortliv’d, for
the partizans of Monmouth, although noisy and unquiet, were not really
strong, and they met with the most effective opposition at every turn.
In this same year the Whigs in spite of their utmost efforts signally failed to
suppress, and could only retard the production of Dryden and Lee’s
excellent tragedy The Duke of Guise, first performed 4 December. The play

created a furore, and its political purport as a picture of the baffled intrigues
of Shaftesbury in favour of Lucy Walter’s overweening son is obvious, nor
is it rendered less so by Dryden’s clever and caustic Vindication of the Duke
of Guise (1683). It is interesting to note that Lady Slingsby, who played the
Queen Mother, Catherine de’ Medici, in this play, has some very sardonic
speeches put in her mouth; indeed, as Henri III aptly remarks,’she has a
cruel wit’.
In 1684 were published the famous Love Letters between a Nobleman and
his Sister. The letters, supposed to have passed between Forde, Lord Grey,39
and his sister-in-law Lady Henrietta Berkeley, fifth daughter of the Earl, are
certainly the work of Mrs. Behn. Romantic and sentimental, with now and
again a pretty touch that is almost lyrical in its sweet cadence, they enjoyed
the same extraordinary popularity which very similar productions have
attained at a recent date. A third edition was called for in 1707.
Mrs. Behn was also busy seeing her poems through the press. The title page
is dated 1684, and they were issued with a dedication to the Earl of
Salisbury.40 In the same volume is included her graceful translation of the
Abbé Tallemant’s Le Voyage de l’Isle d’Amour, entitled, A Voyage to The
Isle of Love.
The following undated letter (preserved at Bayfordbury) addressed to Jacob
Tonson, and first published in the Gentleman’s Magazine, May, 1836,
pleads hard for an extra payment of five pounds for her book. She writes:—
Deare Mr. Tonson
I am mightly oblegd to you for ye service you have don me to Mr.
Dryden; in whose esteeme I wou’d chuse to be rather then any
bodys in the world; and I am sure I never, in thought, word, or deed
merritted other from him, but if you had heard wt was told me, you
wou’d have excus’d all I said on that account. Thank him most
infinitly for ye hon. he offers, and I shall never think I can do any
thing that can merritt so vast a glory; and I must owe it all to you if I
have it. As for Mr. Creech, I would not have you afflict him wth a
thing can not now be help’d, so never let him know my resentment.

I am troubled for ye line that’s left out of Dr. Garth,41 and wish yor
man wou’d write it in ye margent, at his leasure, to all you sell.
As for ye verses of mine, I shou’d really have thought ’em worth
thirty pound; and I hope you will find it worth 25l; not that I shou’d
dispute at any other time for 5 pound wher I am so obleeged; but
you can not think wt a preety thing ye Island will be, and wt a deal of
labor I shall have yet with it: and if that pleases, I will do the 2nd
Voyage, wch will compose a little book as big as a novel by it self.
But pray speake to yor Bror to advance the price to one 5lb more,
’twill at this time be more then given me, and I vow I wou’d not
aske it if I did not really believe it worth more. Alas I wou’d not
loose my time in such low gettings, but only since I am about it I am
resolv’d to go throw wth it tho I shou’d give it. I pray go about it as
soone as you please, for I shall finish as fast as you can go on.
Methinks ye Voyage shou’d com last, as being ye largest volume.
You know Mr. Couly’s Dauid is last, because a large poem, and Mrs.
Philips her Plays for ye same reason. I wish I had more time,
I wou’d ad something to ye verses yt I have a mind too, but, good
deare Mr. Tonson, let it be 5lb more, for I may safly swere I have
lost ye getting of 50lb by it, tho that’s nothing to you, or my
satisfaction and humour: but I have been wthout getting so long yt I
am just on ye poynt of breaking, espesiall since a body has no creditt
at ye Playhouse for money as we usd to have, fifty or 60 deepe, or
more; I want extreamly or I wo’d not urge this.

Yors A. B.

Pray send me ye loose papers to put to these I have, and let me know
wch you will go about first, ye songs and verses or that. Send me an
answer to-day.
It is probable that about this date, 1683-4, she penned her little novel The
Adventure of the Black Lady, and also that excellent extravaganza The King
of Bantam.42 Both these and The Unfortunate Happy Lady are written as if

they had certainly been completed before the death of Charles II, in which
case they must have lain by, MSS, in Mrs. Behn’s desk.
The King, at the height of his power, after a short illness, died 6 February,
1685, an event that together with the accession of James naturally evoked a
plethora of State Poems, to which flood Mrs. Behn contributed. Her
Pindarics rank high amongst the semi-official, complimentary, threnodic or
pastoral pseudo-Dithyrambs, of which the age was so bounteous; but it
needed the supreme genius of a Dryden sustainedly to instil lyric fire and
true poetry into these hybrid forms.43 The nadir is sounded by the
plumbeous productions of Shadwell, Nahum Tate, and ‘Persons of Quality’.
Aphra’s Pindarick on the Death of Charles II ran through two editions in
1685, and her Poem to the Queen Dowager Catherine was published the
same year. James II was crowned on St. George’s Day, and she greeted her
new monarch and old patron with a Poem on the Happy Coronation of His
Sacred Majesty. A little later she published a Miscellany of poems by
various hands: amongst whom were Etheredge, Edmund Arwaker, Henry
Crisp, and Otway, including not a few from her own pen, ‘Together with
Reflections on Morality, or Seneca Unmasqued. Translated from the
Maximes of the Duke de la Rochefoucauld’, a number of clever
apophthegms tersely turned.
The following note,44 however, affords ample evidence that at this juncture,
maugre her diligence and unremitting toils, she was far from being in easy
circumstances:—
’Where as I am indebted to Mr. Bags the sum of six pownd for the
payment of which Mr. Tonson has obleged him self. Now I do here
by impowre Mr. Zachary Baggs, in case the said debt is not fully
discharged before Michaelmas next, to stop what money he shall
hereafter have in his hands of mine, upon the playing my first play
till this aforesaid debt of six pownd be discharged. Witness my hand
this 1st August, —85.

A. Behn.’

Early in 1686 a frolicksome comedy of great merit, The Lucky Chance, was
produced by her at the Theatre Royal, the home of the United Companies.

A Whiggish clique, unable to harm her in any other way, banded together to
damn the play and so endeavoured to raise a pudic hubbub, that happily
proved quite ineffective. The Lucky Chance, which contends with The
Rover (I), and The Feign’d Courtezans for the honour of being Mrs. Behn’s
highest flight of comic genius, has scenes admittedly wantoning beyond the
bounds of niggard propriety, but all are alive with a careless wit and a
brilliant humour that prove quite irresistible. Next appeared those graceful
translations from de Bonnecorse’s La Montre ... seconde partie contenant
La Boëte et Le Miroir, which she termed The Lover’s Watch and The Lady’s
Looking-Glass.
In 1687 the Duke of Albemarle’s voyage to Jamaica45 to take up the
government in the West Indies gave occasion for a Pindaric, but we only
have one dramatic piece from Mrs. Behn, The Emperor of the Moon,
a capital three act farce, Italian in sentiment and origin. For some little time
past her health had begun to trouble her.46 Her three years of privation and
cares had told upon her physically, and since then, ‘forced to write for bread
and not ashamed to own it,’ she had spared neither mind nor bodily
strength. Graver symptoms appeared, but yet she found time to translate
from Fontenelle his version of Van Dale’s De Oraculis Ethnicorum as The
History of Oracles and the Cheats of the Pagan Priests, a book of great
interest. There was also published in 1687 an edition in stately folio of
Æesop’s Fables with his Life in English, French and Latin, ‘illustrated with
One hundred and twelve Sculptures’ and ‘Thirty One New Figures
representing his Life’, by Francis Barlow, the celebrated draughtsman of
birds and animals. Each plate to the Life has a quatrain appended, and each
fable with its moral is versified beneath the accompanying picture. In his
brief address to the Reader Barlow writes: ‘The Ingenious Mrs. A. Behn has
been so obliging as to perform the English Poetry, which in short
comprehends the Sense of the Fable and Moral; Whereof to say much were
needless, since it may sufficiently recommend it self to all Persons of
Understanding.’ To this year we further assign the composition of no fewer
than four novels, The Unfortunate Bride, The Dumb Virgin, The Wandering
Beauty, The Unhappy Mistake. She was working at high pressure, and 1688
still saw a tremendous literary output. Waller had died 21 October, 1687, at
the great age of eighty-one, and her Elegiac Ode to his Memory begins:—

How to thy Sacred Memory, shall I bring
(Worthy thy Fame) a grateful Offering?
I, who by Toils of Sickness, am become
Almost as near as thou art to a Tomb?
While every soft and every tender strain
Is ruffl’d, and ill-natur’d grown with Pain.

This she sent to his daughter-in-law with the following letter47:—
Madam,
At such losses as you have sustain’d in that of yor Glorious ffather
in Law Mr. Waller, the whole world must wait on your sighs &
mournings, tho’ we must allow yours to be the more sensible by
how much more (above your Sex) you are Mistriss of that Generous
Tallent that made him so great & so admird (besids what we will
allow as a Relation) tis therfore at your ffeet Madam we ought to lay
all those Tributary Garlands, we humbler pretenders to the Muses
believe it our Duty to offer at his Tombe—in excuse for mine
Madam I can only say I am very ill & have been dying this twelve
month, that they want those Graces & that spiritt wch possible I
might have drest em in had my health & dulling vapors permitted
me, howeuer Madam they are left to your finer judgment to
determin whether they are worthy the Honour of the Press among
those that cellibrat Mr. Wallers great fame, or of being doomed to
the fire & whateuer you decree will extreamly sattisfy

Madam

I humbly beg pardon for my yll writing Madam for tis with a
Lame hand scarce able to hold a pen.

yor most Devoted &
most Obeadient
Seruant
A. Behn.

Her weakness, lassitude, and despondency are more than apparent; yet
bravely buckling to her work, and encouraged by her success with

Fontenelle, she Englished with rare skill his Theory of the System of Several
New Inhabited Worlds, prefixing thereto a first-rate ‘Essay on Translated
Prose.’ She shows herself an admirable critic, broad-minded, with a keen
eye for niceties of style. The Fair Jilt (licensed 17 April, 1688),48
Oroonoko, and Agnes de Castro, followed in swift succession. She also
published Lycidus, a Voyage from the Island of Love, returning to the Abbé
Tallemant’s dainty preciosities. On 10 June, James Francis Edward, Prince
of Wales, was born at St. James’s Palace, and Mrs. Behn having already
written a Congratulatory Poem49 to Queen Mary of Modena on her
expectation of the Prince, was ready with a Poem on his Happy Birth.
One of the most social and convivial of women, a thorough Tory, well
known to Dryden, Creech, Otway and all the leading men of her day, warm
helper and ally of every struggling writer, Astrea began to be completely
overpowered by the continual strain, the unremittent tax upon both health
and time. Overworked and overwrought, in the early months of 1689 she
put into English verse the sixth book (of Trees) from Cowley’s Sex Libri
Plantarum (1668). Nahum Tate undertook Books IV and V and prefaced the
translation when printed. As Mrs. Behn knew no Latin no doubt some
friend, perhaps Tate himself, must have paraphrased the original for her.
She further published The Lucky Mistake and The History of the Nun; or,
The Fair Vow Breaker,50 licensed 22 October, 1688. On the afternoon of
12 February, Mary, wife of William of Orange, had with great diffidence
landed at Whitehall Stairs, and Mrs. Behn congratulated the lady in her
Poem To Her Sacred Majesty Queen Mary on her Arrival in England. One
regrets to find her writing on such an occasion, and that she realized the
impropriety of her conduct is clear from the reference to the banished
monarch. But she was weary, depressed, and ill, and had indeed for months
past been racked with incessant pain. An agonizing complication of
disorders now gave scant hope of recovery. It is in the highest degree
interesting to note that during her last sickness Dr. Burnet, a figure of no
little importance at that moment, kindly enquired after the dying woman.
The Pindaric in which she thanks him, and which was printed March, 1689,
proved the last poem she herself saw through the press. At length exhausted
nature failed altogether, and she expired 16 April, 1689, the end hastened by
a sad lack of skill in her physician. She is buried in the east cloisters of

Westminster Abbey. A black marble slab marks the spot. On it are graven
‘Mrs. Aphra Behn Dyed April, 16, A.D. 1689,’ and two lines, ‘made by a
very ingenious Gentleman tho’ no Poet’:—51
Here lies a Proof that Wit can never be
Defence enough against Mortality.52

’She was of a generous and open Temper, something passionate, very
serviceable to her Friends in all that was in her Power; and could sooner
forgive an Injury, than do one. She had Wit, Honour, Good-Humour, and
Judgment. She was Mistress of all the pleasing Arts of Conversation, but
us’d ’em not to any but those who love Plain-dealing.’ So she comes before
us. A graceful, comely woman,53 merry and buxom, with brown hair and
bright eyes, candid, sincere, a brilliant conversationalist in days when
conversation was no mere slipshod gabble of slang but cut and thrust of
poignant epigram and repartee; warm-hearted, perhaps too warm-hearted,
and ready to lend a helping hand even to the most undeserving, a quality
which gathered all Grub Street round her door. At a period when any and
every writer, mean or great, of whatsoever merit or party, was continually
assailed with vehement satire and acrid lampoons, lacking both truth and
decency, Aphra Behn does not come off scot-free, nobody did; and upon
occasion her name is amply vilified by her foes. There are some eight
ungenerous lines with a side reference to the ‘Conquests she had won’ in
Buckingham’s A Trial of the Poets for the Bays, and a page or two of
insipid spiritless rhymes, The Female Laureat, find a place in State Poems.
The same collection contains A Satyr on the Modern Translators. ‘Odi
Imitatores servum pecus,’ &c. By Mr. P——r,54 1684. It begins rather
smartly:—
Since the united Cunning of the Stage,
Has balk’d the hireling Drudges of the Age;
Since Betterton of late so thrifty ’s grown,
Revives Old Plays, or wisely acts his own;

the modern poets
Have left Stage-practice, chang’d their old Vocations,
Atoning for bad Plays with worse Translations.

In some instances this was true enough, but when the writer attacks Dryden
he becomes ridiculous and imprecates

May he still split on some unlucky Coast,
And have his Works or Dictionary lost:
That he may know what Roman Authors mean,
No more than does our blind Translatress Behn,55
The Female Wit, who next convicted stands,
Not for abusing Ovid’s verse but Sand’s:
She might have learn’d from the ill-borrow’d Grace,
(Which little helps the Ruin of her Face)
That Wit, like Beauty, triumphs o’er the Heart
When more of Nature’s seen, and less of Art:
Nor strive in Ovid’s Letters to have shown
As much of Skill, as Lewdness in her own.
Then let her from the next inconstant Lover,
Take a new Copy for a second Rover.
Describe the Cunning of a jilting Whore,
From the ill Arts herself has us’d before;
Thus let her write, but Paraphrase no more.

These verses are verjuiced, unwarranted, unfair. Tom Brown too in his
Letters from the Dead to the Living has a long epistle ‘From worthy Mrs.
Behn the Poetess, to the famous Virgin Actress,’ (Mrs. Bracegirdle), in
which the Diana of the stage is crudely rallied. ‘The Virgin’s Answer to
Mrs. Behn’ contains allusions to Aphra’s intrigue with some well-known
dramatic writer, perhaps Ravenscroft, and speaks of many an other amour
beside. But then for a groat Brown would have proved Barbara Villiers a
virgin, and taxed Torquemada with unorthodoxy. Brown has yet another
gird at Mrs. Behn in his The Late Converts Exposed, or the Reason of Mr.
Bays’s Changing his Religion &c. Considered in a Dialogue (1690, a quarto
tract; and reprinted in a Collection of Brown’s Dialogues, 8vo, 1704). Says
Eugenius: ‘You may remember Mr. Bays, how the famed Astrea, once in
her Life-time unluckily lighted upon such a Sacred Subject, and in a strange
fit of Piety, must needs attempt a Paraphrase on the Lord’s Prayer. But alas
poor Gentlewoman! She had scarce travell’d half way, when Cupid served
her as the Cut-Purse did the Old Justice in Bartholmew Fair, tickled her
with a Straw in her Ear, and then she could not budge one foot further, till
she had humbly requested her Maker to grant her a private Act of Toleration
for a little Harmless Love, otherwise called Fornication.’ There is a
marginal note to this passage: ‘Mrs. Behn’s Miscell. Printed by Jos.
Hindmarsh.’ In a Letter from the Dead Thomas Brown to the Living
Heraclitus (1704), a sixpenny tract, this wag is supposed to meet Mrs. Behn

in the underworld, and anon establishes himself on the most familiar terms
with his ‘dear Afra’; they take, indeed, ‘an extraordinary liking to one
another’s Company’ for ‘good Conversation is not so overplentiful in these
Parts.’ A bitterer attack yet, An Epistle to Julian (c. 1686-7), paints her as
ill, feeble, dying:—
Doth that lewd Harlot, that Poetick Quean,
Fam’d through White Fryars, you know who I mean,
Mend for reproof, others set up in spight,
To flux, take glisters, vomits, purge and write.
Long with a Sciatica she’s beside lame,
Her limbs distortur’d, Nerves shrunk up with pain,
And therefore I’ll all sharp reflections shun,
Poverty, Poetry, Pox, are plagues enough for one.

In truth, Aphra Behn’s life was not one of mere pleasure, but a hard struggle
against overwhelming adversity, a continual round of work. We cannot but
admire the courage of this lonely woman, who, poor and friendless, was the
first in England to turn to the pen for a livelihood, and not only won herself
bread but no mean position in the world of her day and English literature of
all time. For years her name to a new book, a comedy, a poem, an essay
from the French, was a word to conjure with for the booksellers. There are
anecdotes in plenty. Some true, some not so reliable. She is said to have
introduced milk-punch into England.56 We are told that she could write a
page of a novel or a scene of a play in a room full of people and yet hold
her own in talk the while.57 Her popularity was enormous, and edition after
edition of her plays and novels was called for.
In 1690, there was brought out on the stage a posthumous comedy, The
Widow Ranter.58 But without her supervision, it was badly cast, the script
was mauled, and it failed. In 1696 Charles Gildon, who posed as her
favourite protégé (and edited her writings), gave The Younger Brother. He
had, however, himself tampered with the text. The actors did it scant justice
and it could not win a permanent place in the theatrical repertory. In May,
1738, The Gentleman’s Magazine published The Apotheosis of Milton,
a paper, full of interest, which ran through several numbers. It is a Vision, in
which the writer, having fallen asleep in Westminster Abbey, is conducted
by a Genius into a spacious hall, ‘sacred to the Spirits of the Bards, whose
Remains are buried, or whose Monuments are erected within this Pile. To

night an Assembly of the greatest Importance is held upon the Admission of
the Great Milton into this Society.’ The Poets accordingly appear either in
the habits which they were wont to wear on earth, or in some suitable attire.
We have Chaucer, Drayton, Beaumont, Ben Jonson, and others who are
well particularized, but when we get to the laureates and critics of a later
period there are some really valuable touches. In 1738 there must have been
many alive who could well remember Dryden, Shadwell, Otway, Prior,
Philips, Sheffield Duke of Buckinghamshire, Dennis, Atterbury, Lee,
Congreve, Rowe, Addison, Betterton, Gay. In the course of his remarks the
guide exclaims to the visitor: ‘Observe that Lady dressed in the loose Robe
de Chambre with her Neck and Breasts bare; how much Fire in her Eye!
what a passionate Expression in her Motions; And how much Assurance in
her Features! Observe what an Indignant Look she bestows on the President
[Chaucer], who is telling her, that none of her Sex has any Right to a Seat
there. How she throws her Eyes about, to see if she can find out any one of
the Assembly who inclines to take her Part. No! not one stirs; they who are
enclined in her favour are overawed, and the rest shake their Heads; and
now she flings out of the Assembly. That extraordinary Woman is Afra
Behn.’ The passage is not impertinent, even though but as showing how
early condemnatory tradition had begun to incrustate around Astrea.
Fielding, however, makes his Man of the World tell a friend that the best
way for a man to improve his intellect and commend himself to the ladies is
by a course of Mrs. Behn’s novels. With the oncoming of the ponderous and
starched decorum of the third George’s reign her vogue waned apace, but
she was still read and quoted. On 12 December, 1786, Horace Walpole
writes to the Countess of Upper Ossory, ‘I am going to Mrs. Cowley’s new
play,59 which I suppose is as instructive as the Marriage of Figaro, for I am
told it approaches to those of Mrs. Behn in Spartan delicacy; but I shall see
Miss Farren, who, in my poor opinion is the first of all actresses.’ Sir Walter
Scott admired and praised her warmly. But the pinchbeck sobriety of later
times was unable to tolerate her freedom. She was condemned in no small
still voice as immoral, loose, scandalous; and writer after writer, leaving her
unread, reiterated the charge till it passed into a byword of criticism, and
her works were practically taboo in literature, a type and summary of all
that was worst and foulest in Restoration days. The absurdities and falsity

or this extreme are of course patent now, and it was inevitable the recoil
should come.
It is a commonplace to say that her novels are a landmark in the history of
fiction. Even Macaulay allowed that the best of Defoe was ‘in no respect...
beyond the reach of Afra Behn’. Above all Oroonoko can be traced directly
and indirectly, perhaps unconsciously, in many a descendant. Without
assigning her any direct influence on Wilberforce, much of the feeling of
this novel is the same as inspired Harriet Beecher Stowe. She has been
claimed to be the literary ancestress of Bernardin de Saint-Pierre and
Chateaubriand; nor is it any exaggeration to find Byron and Rousseau in her
train. Her lyrics, it has been well said, are often of ‘quite bewildering
beauty’, but her comedies represent her best work and she is worthy to be
ranked with the greatest dramatists of her day, with Vanbrugh and
Etheredge; not so strong as Wycherley, less polished than Congreve. Such
faults as she has are obviously owing to the haste with which circumstances
compelled her to write her scenes. That she should ever recover her pristine
reputation is of course, owing to the passing of time with its change of
manners, fashions, thought and style, impossible. But there is happily every
indication that —long neglected and traduced—she will speedily vindicate
for herself, as she is already beginning to do, her rightful claim to a high
and honourable place in our glorious literature.

The Text.

The text of the dramatic work is primarily based upon the edition of 1724,
four volumes, by far the best and most reliable edition of the collected
theatre. Each play, however, has been carefully collated with the original
quartos, some of which are of excessive rarity, and if, in the case of any
divergence, the later reading is preferred, reason why is given in the Textual
Notes upon that specific passage. To the Dramatis Personae are in each case
added those characters which hitherto were negligently omitted: I have,
further, consistently numbered the scenes and supplied (where necessary)
the locales. In the order of the plays the 1724 edition has been followed as
preserving the traditional and accepted arrangement. The only change

herein made is the transferring of The Emperor of the Moon from Vol. IV to
Vol. Ill, and the placing of The Amorous Prince before The Widow Ranter,
so that the two posthumous plays may thus be found in their due order
together at the end of Vol. IV.
With regard to metrical division, I have (unless a special note on any one
particular line draws attention to the contrary) in this difficult matter
followed the first quartos, as at this point 1724 proves not so satisfactory,
and prints much as prose which the earlier separate editions give as verse.
A notable instance may be found in The Amorous Prince. To the above rule
I adhere so strictly as even not to divide into lines several scenes in The
Widow Ranter and The Younger Brother which are palpably blank verse, but
yet which are not so set in the quartos of 1690 and 1696. I felt that the
metrical difficulties and kindred questions involved were so capable of
almost infinite variations, that to attempt a new and decisive text in this
matter would not merely be hazardous but also unproductive of any real
benefit or ultimately permanent result.
The valuable Dedications and Prefaces, never before given in the collected
editions, are here reprinted for the first time from the originals. With regard
to the novels the first separate edition has in every case been collated. When
impossible, however, so to do (as in the exception of Oroonoko), the earliest
accessible text has been taken, and if any difficulty arose, all editions of any
value whatsoever were likewise consulted. For La Montre (The Lover’s
Watch), the original edition of 1686 was used. Any difference in text which
has been adopted from later editions is duly noted in the textual apparatus to
that piece. The Poems have in every case been printed from the first—
which are generally the only—editions. Where they appeared as broadsides,
these, when traceable, have been collated.

The Portraits Of Mrs. Behn.

Of Mrs. Behn there exist three portraits, one by Mary Beale, a second by
John Riley, and the third by Sir Peter Lely.

The Beale portrait has been engraved: ‘Aphra Behn. From a Picture by
Mary Beale in the collection of His Grace the Duke of Buckingham. Drawn
by T. Uwins. Engraved by J. Fittler, A.R.A. London. 1 March, 1822.
Published by W. Walker, 8 Grays Inn Square.’ The original oil painting was
purchased at the Stow Sale in 1848 (No. 57 in the sale catalogue), by J. S.
Caldwell, a literary antiquarian, Linley Wood, Staffordshire. A letter which
I wrote to The Times Literary Supplement (26 November, 1914) on the
subject of these portraits brought me a most courteous permission from
Major-General F. C. Heath Caldwell, the present owner of Linley Wood, to
view the picture.
With regard to the well-known and most frequently reproduced portrait by
Riley, this, engraved by R. Wise, figures as frontispiece to The Unfortunate
Bride (title page, 1700, and second title page, 1698). It is also given before
the Novels (1696, 1698, and other editions). Engraved by B. Cole, the same
portrait fronts the Plays, 4 vols., 1724, and the Novels, 2 vols., 1735. It
again appears ‘H. R. Cook, Sculp.’, published 1 August, 1813, by I. W. H.
Payne, when it was included as an illustration to the Lady’s Monthly
Museum.
The portrait by Sir Peter Lely, which is reproduced as frontispiece to this
edition of Mrs. Behn, was exhibited at the South Kensington Portrait
Exhibition of 1866 by Philip Howard, Esq., of Corby Castle, the head of the
Corby branch of the Howard family.
The portrait of Mrs. Behn which appears as frontispiece to the Plays,
2 vols., 1716, is none other than Christina of Sweden from Sebastian
Bourdon’s drawing now in the Louvre.
A so-called portrait of Mrs. Behn, ‘pub. Rob’t Wilkinson’, no date, is of no
value, being, at best, a bad pastiche from some very poor engraving.

Footnotes

1. Kalendar of State Papers, Domestic, 1666-7.—ed. Mrs. M. A. E. Green
(1864).
2. This is inaccurate. Mrs. Behn’s first play, The Forc’d Marriage, was
produced in December, 1670.
3. e.g. to Waller’s daughter-in-law; to Tonson. cf. also the Warrant of 12
August, 1682; the Pindaric to Burnet, &c.
4. Aphra now appears on Mrs. Behn’s gravestone, and is the accepted form.
This is, however, in all probability the third inscription. The Antiquities of
Westminster (1711), quoting the inscription, gives Aphara. Sometime in the
eighteenth century a certain Thomas Waine restored the inscription and
added to the two lines two more:—
Great Poetess, O thy stupendous lays
The world admires and the Muses praise.

The name was then Aphara. The Biog. Brit., whilst insisting on Aphara as
correct and citing the stone as evidence, none the less prints Apharra. Her
works usually have Mrs. A. Behn. One Quarto misprints ‘Mrs. Anne Behn’.
There are, of course, many variants of the name. Afara, and Afra are
common. Oldys in his MS. notes on Langbaine writes Aphra or Aphora,
whilst the Muses Mercury, September, 1707, has a special note upon a
poem by Mrs. Behn to say ‘this Poetess’ true Name was Apharra.’ Even
Aphaw (Behen, in the 1682 warrant,) and Fyhare (in a petition) occur.
5. He died in 1642.
6. The Vicar of Wye, the Rev. Edgar Lambert, in answer to my inquiries
courteously writes: ‘In company with Mr. C. S. Orwin, whose book, The
History of Wye Church and College, has just been published, I have closely
examined the register and find no mention of “Johnson”, nor of the fact that
Aphara Amis’ father was a “barber”.’
7. Anne Finch, Countess of Winchilsea (1660-1720), sometime Maid of
Honour to Queen Mary of Modena. She had true lyric genius. For a
generous appreciation see Gosse, Gossip in a Library (1891).
8. Then unprinted but now included in the very voluminous edition of Lady
Winchilsea’s Poems, ed. M. Reynolds, Chicago, 1903.

9. In ‘Mrs. Behn’s Oroonoko’ Dr. Bernbaum elaborately endeavours to
show that this story is pure fiction. His arguments, in many cases advanced
with no little subtlety and precision, do not appear (to me at least) to be
convincing. We have much to weigh in the contrary balance: Mrs. Behn’s
manifest first-hand knowledge of, and extraordinary interest in, colonial
life; her reiterated asseverations that every experience detailed in this
famous novel is substantially true; the assent of all her contemporaries. It
must further be remembered that Aphra was writing in 1688, of a girlhood
coloured by and seen through the enchanted mists of a quarter of a century.
That there are slight discrepancies is patent; the exaggerations, however, are
not merely pardonable but perfectly natural. One of Dr. Bernbaum’s most
crushing arguments, when sifted, seems to resolve itself into the fact that
whilst writing Oroonoko Mrs. Behn evidently had George Warren’s little
book, An Impartial Description of Surinam (London, 1667), at hand. Could
anything be more reasonable than to suppose she would be intimately
acquainted with a volume descriptive of her girlhood’s home? Again, Dr.
Bernbaum bases another line of argument on the assumption that Mrs.
Behn’s father was a barber. Hence the appointment of such a man to an
official position in Surinam was impossible, and, ‘if Mrs. Behn’s father was
not sent to Surinam, the only reason she gives for being there disappears’.
We know from recent investigation that John Amis did not follow a barber’s
trade, but was probably of good old stock. Accordingly, the conclusions
drawn by Dr. Bernbaum from this point cannot now be for a moment
maintained.
10. Both these incidents are the common property of Italian novelle and our
own stage. Although not entirely impossible, they would appear highly
suspicious in any connection.
11. He was at Margate 25 July, and at Bruges 7 August.
12. There do not appear to be any grounds for the oft-repeated assertions
that Mrs. Behn communicated the intelligence when the Dutch were
planning an attack (afterwards carried out) on the Thames and Medway
squadrons, and that her warning was scoffed at.
13. Had he been imprisoned for political reasons it is impossible that there
should have been so speedy a prospect of release.

14. Baptist May, Esq. (1629-98), Keeper of the Privy Purse.
15. William Chiffinch, confidential attendant and pimp to Charles II.
16. Amintas repeatedly stands for John Hoyle. In Our Cabal, however (vide
Vol. VI, p. 160), Hoyle is dubbed Lycidas.
17. The Retrospective Review, however (Vol. I, November, 1852), has an
article, ‘Mrs. Behn’s Dramatic Writings,’ which warmly praises her
comedies. The writer very justly observes that ‘they exhibit a brilliance of
conversation in the dialogue, and a skill in arranging the plot and producing
striking situations, in which she has few equals.’ He frequently insists upon
her ‘great skill in conducting the intrigue of her pieces’, and with no little
acumen declares that ‘her comedies may be cited as the most perfect
models of the drama of the latter half of the seventeenth century.’
18. Which it certainly was not secundum mid-Victorian morals.
19. Mr. Gosse in the Dictionary of National Biography basing upon the
preface to The Young King, says that after knocking in vain for some time at
the doors of the theatres with this tragi-comedy that could find neither
manager nor publisher, she put it away and wrote The Forc’d Marriage,
which proved more successful. Dr. Baker follows this, but I confess I
cannot see due grounds for any such hypothesis.
20. The Duke’s Company opened at their new theatre, Dorset Garden,
9 November, 1671.
21. 4to, 1673. Mrs. Behn’s accurate knowledge of the theatre and
technicalties theatrical as shown in the preface to this early play is certainly
remarkable. It is perhaps worth noting that her allusion to the popularity of
1 Henry IV was not included in Shakspere Allusion-Book (ed. Furnivall and
Munro, 1909), where it should have found a place.
22. In view of the extremely harsh treatment Ravenscroft has met with at
the hands of the critics it may be worth while emphasizing Genest’s opinion
that his ‘merit as a dramatic writer has been vastly underrated’. Ravenscroft
has a facility in writing, an ease of dialogue, a knack of evoking laughter
and picturing the ludicrous, above all a vitality which many a greater name

entirely lacks. As a writer of farce, and farce very nearly akin to comedy, he
is capital.
23. Letters from the Dead to the Living: The Virgin’s [Mrs. Bracegirdle]
Answer to Mrs. Behn. ‘You upbraid me with a great discovery you chanc’d
to make by peeping into the breast of an old friend of mine; if you give
yourself but the trouble of examining an old poet’s conscience, who went
lately off the stage, and now takes up his lodgings in your territories, and I
don’t question but you’ll there find Mrs. Behn writ as often in black
characters, and stand as thick in some places, as the names of the generation
of Adam in the first of Genesis.’ How far credence may be given to
anything of Brown’s is of course a moot point, but the above passage and
much that follows would be witless and dull unless there were some real
suggestion of scandal. Moreover, it cannot here be applied to Hoyle,
whereas it very well fits Ravenscroft. This letter which speaks of ‘the lash
of Mr. C——r’ must have been written no great time after the publication of
Jeremy Collier’s A Short View of the Immorality of the English Stage
(March, 1698), probably in 1701-2. Ravenscroft’s last play, The Italian
Husband, was produced at Lincoln’s Inn Fields in 1697, and he is supposed
to have died a year or two later, which date exactly suits the detail given by
Brown. Ravenscroft’s first play, Mamamouchi, had been produced in 1672,
and the ‘an old poet’ would be understood.
24. This occurrence is the subject of some lines in The Rump (1662): ‘On
the happy Memory of Alderman Hoyle that hang’d himself.’
25. The Muses Mercury, December, 1707, refers to verses made on Mrs.
Behn ‘and her very good friend, Mr. Hoyle’.
26. My attention was drawn to these lines by Mr. Thorn Drury, who was,
indeed, the first to suggest that Hoyle is the person aimed at. I have to thank
him, moreover, for much valuable information on this important point.
27. cf. Luttrell’s Diary, February, 1686-7, which records that an indictment
for misconduct was actually presented against him at the Old Bailey, but the
Grand Jury threw out the bill and he was discharged. The person implicated
in the charge against Hoyle seems to have been a poulterer, cf. A Faithful
Catalogue of our Most Eminent Ninnies, said to have been written by the

Earl of Dorset in 1683, or (according to another edition of Rochester’s
works in which it occurs) 1686. In any case the verses cannot be earlier than
1687.
Which made the wiser Choice is now our Strife,
Hoyle his he-mistress, or the Prince his wife:
Those traders sure will be beiov’d as well,
As all the dainty tender Birds they sell.

The ‘Prince’ is George Fitzroy, son of Charles II by the Duchess of
Cleveland, who was created Duke of Northumberland and married
Catherine, daughter of Robert Wheatley, a poulterer, of Bracknell, Berks;
and relict of Robert Lucy of Charlecote, Warwickshire.
28. Familiar Letters of Love, Gallantry, etc. There are several editions.
I have used that of 1718, 2 vols.
29. In his MS. Commonplace Book (now in the possession of G. Thorn
Drury, Esq., K.C.), Whitelocke Bulstrode writes:—
’27 May 92.
’Mr Hoyle of y’e Temple, coming this morning about two of ye Clock frõ
ye Young Divel Tavern, was killed wth a sword; He died Instantly: It
proceeded frõ a quarrell about Drincking a Health; Killed by Mr Pitt of
Graies Inne yt Dranck wth them. Mr Hoyle was an Atheist, a Sodomite
professed, a corrupter of youth, & a Blasphemer of Christ.’
The Young (or Little) Devil Tavern was in Fleet Street, on the south side,
near Temple Bar, adjoining Dick’s Coffee House. It was called Young
(or Little) to distinguish it from the more famous house, The Devil (or Old
Devil) Tavern, which stood between Temple Bar and the Inner Temple Gate.
30. Betterton’s adaption of Marston’s The Dutch Courtezan, which the actor
calls The Revenge; or, A Match in Newgate, has sometimes been
erroneously ascribed to Mrs. Behn by careless writers. She has also been
given The Woman Turn’d Bully, a capital comedy with some clever
characterization, which was produced at Dorset Garden in June, 1675, and
printed without author’s name the same year. Both Prologue and Epilogue,
two pretty songs, Oh, the little Delights that a Lover takes; and Ah, how
charming is the shade, together with a rollicking catch ‘O London, wicked

London-Town!’ which is ‘to be sung a l’yvronge, in a drunken humour’,
might all well be Mrs. Behn’s, and the whole conduct of the play is very
like her early manner. Beyond this, however, there is no evidence to suggest
it is from her pen.
31. The overture, act-tunes, incidental music, were composed by Henry
Purcell.
32. Familiar Letters of Love, Gallantry, etc., Vol. I (1718), pp. 31-2.
33. Ibrahim, the Thirteenth Emperor of the Turks, produced in 1696 (410,
1696), a commendable tragedy by Mrs. Mary Pix, née Griffiths (1666-
1720?). The plot is based on Sir Paul Ricaut’s continuation of the Turkish
history.
34. The date is fixed by the Epilogue ‘at his R.H. second exile into
Flanders’. The Duke of York sailed for Antwerp 4 March, 1679. He returned
in August owing to the King’s illness.
35. This fact sufficiently explodes the quite untenable suggestion that The
Young King in earlier days could find neither producer nor publisher. That
the quarto did not appear until four years after the play had been seen on the
stage is no argument of non-success. Ravenscroft’s Mamamouchi was
produced early in 1672, and ‘continu’d Acting 9 Days with a full house’. It
specially delighted the King and Court. It was not printed, however, until
1675.
36. Gould in The Play House, a Satyr, stung by Mrs. Behn’s success,
derides that
clean piece of Wit
The City Heiress by chaste Sappho Writ,
Where the Lewd Widow comes with Brazen Face,
Just seeking from a Stallion’s rank Embrace,
T’ acquaint the Audience with her Filthy Case.
Where can you find a Scene for juster Praise,
In Shakespear, Johnson, or in Fletcher’s Plays?

37. Publication was delayed. Brooks’ Impartial Mercury, Friday, 17 Nov.,
1682, advertises: ‘To be published on Monday next, the last new play called
Romulus.’ The 4to is dated 1683. A broad sheet, 1682, gives both Prologue
‘spoken by Mrs. Butler, written by Mrs. Behn,’ and Epilogue ‘spoken by the

Lady Slingsby.’ The 4to gives ‘Prologue, spoken by Mrs. Butler,’ ‘Epilogue,
Writ by Mrs. A. Behn. Spoken by Tarpeia.’
38. Curtis’ Protestant Mercury, August 12-6, 1682, notices that both Lady
Slingsby and Mrs. Behn have been ordered into custody in respect of this
Epilogue.
39. Forde, Lord Grey of Werke, Earl of Tankerville, who succeeded to the
title in 1675, was married to Lady Mary Berkeley. He eloped, however,
with Lady Henrietta Berkley, and great scandal ensued. When he and his
minions were brought to trial, 23 November, 1682, his mistress and a
number of staunch Whigs boldly accompanied him into court. He was
found guilty, but as his friends banded together to resist, something very
like a riot ensued. He died 25 June, 1701. Lady Henrietta Berkeley, who
never married, survived her lover nine years.
40.
Astrea with her soft gay sighing Swains
And rural virgins on the flowery Plains,
The lavish Peer’s profuseness may reprove
Who gave her Guineas for the Isle of Love.
—Contemporary Satire,—(Harleian MSS.)

41. This of course cannot be correct, but it is so transcribed. In the transcript
of this letter made by Malone, and now in the possession of G. Thorn
Drury, Esq., K.C., over the word ‘Garth’s’ is written ‘Q’, and at the foot of
the page a note by Mitford says: ‘This name seems to have been doubtful in
the MSS.’ I have thought it best not to attempt any emendation.
42. Neither of these was printed until eight years after her death. They first
appear, each with its separate title page, 1697, bound up in the Third
Edition, ‘with Large Additions,’ of All the Histories and Novels, Written by
the Late Ingenious Mrs. Behn, Entire in One Volume, 1698. After Nos. vii,
viii, ix, Memoirs of the Court of the King of Bantam, The Nun; or, the
Perjured Beauty, The Adventure of the Black Lady follows a note: ‘These
last three never before published.’ Some superficial bibliographers (e.g.
Miss Charlotte E. Morgan in her unreliable monograph, The English Novel
till 1749) have postulated imaginary editions of 1683-4 for The Little Black
Lady and The King of Bantam. The Nun; or, the Perjured Beauty is

universally confounded with The History of the Nun (vide Vol. V, p. 259,
Introduction to that novel) and dated 1689.
With reference to The King of Bantam we have in the 1698 collected edition
of the Novels the following ’Advertisement to the Reader. The Stile of the
Court of the King of Bantam, being so very different from Mrs. Behn’s
usual way of Writing, it may perhaps call its being genuine in Question; to
obviate which Objection, I must inform the Reader, that it was a Trial of
Skill upon a Wager, to shew that she was able to write in the Style of the
Celebrated Scarron, in Imitation of whom ’tis writ, tho’ the Story be true.
I need not say any thing of the other Two, they evidently confessing their
admirable Author.’
43. Swift, although he amply fulfilled Dryden’s famous prophecy, ‘Cousin
Swift, you will never be a Pindaric poet’, was doubtless thinking of these
Pindarics when in The Battle of the Books he wrote: ‘Then Pindar slew
——, and ——, and Oldham, and ——, and Afra the Amazon light of foot.’
44. First published in The Gentleman’s Magazine, May, 1836.
45. Christopher Monck, second Duke of Albermarle, was appointed
Governor-General of Jamaica, 26 November, 1687. He died there early in
the following autumn.
46. ’Sappho famous for her Gout and Guilt,’ writes Gould in The Poetess,
a Satyr.
47. Now published for the first time by the courtesy of G. Thorn Drury,
Esq., K.C., who generously obliged me with a transcript of the original.
48. In the original edition of The Fair Jilt (1688), we have advertised:
‘There is now in the Press, Oroonoko; or, The History of the Royal Slave.
Written by Madam Behn.’
49. In the second edition (1688), of this Congratulatory Poem to Queen
Mary of Modena we have the following advertisement:—’On Wednesday
next will be Published the most Ingenious and long Expected History of
Oroonoko; or, the Royal Slave. By Mrs. Behn.’
50. The title page has 1689, but it was possibly published late in 1688.

51. Traditionally said to be John Hoyle.
52. Sam Briscoe, the publisher, in his Dedicatory Epistle to Familiar Letters
of Love, Gallantry, etc. (2 vols., 1718), says: ‘Had the rough Days of K.
Charles II newly recover’d from the Confusion of a Civil War, or the
tempestuous Time of James the Second, had the same Sence of Wit as our
Gentlemen now appear to have, the first Impressions of Milton’s Paradise
Lost had never been sold for Waste Paper; the Inimitable Hudibras had
never suffered the Miseries of a Neglected Cavalier; Tom Brown the
merriest and most diverting’st man, had never expir’d so neglected; Mr.
Dryden’s Religion would never have lost him his Pension; or Mrs. Behn
ever had but two Lines upon her Grave-stone.’
53. ‘She was a most beautiful woman, and a more excellent poet’. Col.
Colepeper. Adversaria, Vol. ii (Harleian MSS.)
54. This piece finds a place in the unauthorised edition of Prior’s Poems,
1707, a volume the poet himself repudiated. In the Cambridge edition of
Prior’s Works (1905-7), reason is given, however, to show that the lines are
certainly Prior’s, and that he withdrew this and other satires (says Curll, the
bookseller), owing to ‘his great Modesty’. The Horatian tag (Epistles i, xiv,
19) is of course ‘O Imitatores servum pecus’.
55. In his Preface Concerning Ovid’s Epistles affixed to the translation of
the Heroides (Ovid’s Epistles), ‘by Several Hands’ (1680), Dryden writes:
‘The Reader will here find most of the Translations, with some little
Latitude or variation from the Author’s Sence: That of Oenone to Paris, is
in Mr. Cowley’s way of Imitation only. I was desir’d to say that the Author
who is of the Fair Sex, understood not Latine. But if she does not, I am
afraid she has given us occasion to be asham’d who do.’
56. ‘Old Mr. John Bowman, the player, told me that Mrs. Behn was the
First Person he ever knew or heard of who made the Liquor call’d Milk
Punch.’—Oldys; MS. note in Langbaine. In a tattered MS. recipe book, the
compilation of a good housewife named Mary Rockett, and dated 1711, the
following directions are given how to brew this tipple. ‘To make Milk
Punch. Infuse the rinds of 8 Lemons in a Gallon of Brandy 48 hours then
add 5 Quarts of Water and 2 pounds of Loaf Sugar then Squize the Juices of

all the Lemons to these Ingredients add 2 Quarts of new milk Scald hot
stirring the whole till it crudles grate in 2 Nutmegs let the whole infuse
1 Hour then refine through a flannel Bag.’
57. ‘She always Writ with the greatest ease in the world, and that in the
midst of Company, and Discourse of other matters. I saw her my self write
Oroonoko, and keep her own in Discoursing with several then present in the
Room.’—Gildon: An Account of the Life of the Incomparable Mrs. Behn,
prefixed to The Younger Brother (4to 1696). Southerne says, with reference
to Oroonoko, ‘That she always told his Story, more feelingly than she writ
it.’
58. It is ushered in by one ‘G. J. her friend’. This was almost certainly
George Jenkins.
59. The School for Greybeards, produced at Drury Lane, 25 November,
1786. It owes much of its business to The Lucky Chance. See the Theatrical
History of that comedy (Vol. iii, p. 180). Miss Farren acted Donna
Seraphina, second wife of Don Alexis, one of the Greybeards. She also
spoke the epilogue.

Explanation of “Notes”
In the printed book, all Notes were grouped at the end of the volume in two
sections: “Notes on the Plays” and “Notes: Critical and Explanatory”.
Passages cited were identified only by page and line number.
For this e-text, the Notes have been placed after their respective plays,
retaining the division between textual notes (generally short, one or two
lines) and critical notes (often several paragraphs). The original page
numbers are shown in brackets [ ].
References to Acts and Scenes were added by the transcriber. Page and
line numbers have been retained for completeness, but all links lead directly
to the cited text. Annotated passages are identified in the body text with two
kinds of link: dotted underlining for “Notes on the Plays”; solid underlining for
“Notes: Critical and Explanatory”. Passages that have both kinds of note are
linked to the critical note.

THE ROVER; OR,
THE BANISH’D CAVALIERS.
PART I.

Scenes described in (parentheses) are unnumbered.

Argument. Act III.
Source. Scene I. A Street.
Scene II. Lucetta’s House.
Theatrical History.
(Lucetta’s Chamber)
Dramatis Personæ. (a common Shore)
Prologue Scene III. The Garden, in the Night.
Act I. Scene IV. The Street.
Scene I. A Chamber. Act IV.
Scene II. A Long Street. Scene I. A fine Room.
Act II. Scene II. The Molo.
Scene I. The Long Street. Scene III. A Street.
Scene II. A Fine Chamber. (another Street)
(Blunt’s Chamber)
Act V.
Scene I. Blunt’s Chamber.
Epilogue.
Postscript.

Notes to The Rover

ARGUMENT.

During the exile of Charles II a band of cavaliers, prominent amongst
whom are Willmore (the Rover), Belvile, Frederick, and Ned Blunt, find

themselves at Naples in carnival time. Belvile, who at a siege at Pampluna
has rescued a certain Florinda and her brother Don Pedro, now loves the
lady, and the tender feeling is reciprocated. Florinda’s father, however,
designs her for the elderly Vincentio, whilst her brother would have her
marry his friend Antonio, son to the Viceroy. Florinda, her sister Hellena
(who is intended for the veil), their cousin Valeria, and duenna Callis
surreptitiously visit the carnival, all in masquerade, and there encounter the
cavaliers. Florinda arranges to meet Belvile that night at her garden-gate.
Meanwhile a picture of Angelica Bianca, a famous courtezan, is publicly
exposed, guarded by bravos. Antonio and Pedro dispute who shall give the
1000 crowns she demands, and come to blows. After a short fray Willmore,
who has boldly pulled down the picture, is admitted to the house, and
declares his love, together with his complete inability to pay the price she
requires. Angelica, none the less, overcome with passion, yields to him.
Shortly after, meeting Hellena in the street, he commences an ardent
courtship, which is detected by the jealous Angelica, who has followed him
vizarded. Florinda that night at the garden-gate encounters Willmore, who,
having been toping in the town, is far from sober, and her cries at his
advances attract her brother and servants, whom she eludes by escaping
back to the house. After a brawl, Willmore has to endure the reproaches of
Belvile, who has appeared on the scene. During their discussion Antonio
makes as about to enter Angelica’s house before which they are, and
Willmore, justling him to one side, wounds him. He falls, and the officers
who run up at the clash of swords, arrest Belvile, who has returned at the
noise, as the assailant, conveying him by Antonio’s orders to the Viceroy’s
palace. Antonio, in the course of conversation, resigns Florinda to his rival,
and Belvile, disguised as Antonio, obtains Florinda from Don Pedro. At this
moment Willmore accosts him, and the Spaniard perceiving his mistake,
soon takes his sister off home. Angelica next comes in hot pursuit of
Willmore, but they are interrupted by Hellena, dressed as a boy, who tells a
tale of the Rover’s amour with another dame and so rouses the jealous
courtezan to fury, and the twain promptly part quarrelling. Florinda,
meanwhile, who has escaped from her brother, running into an open house
to evade detection, finds herself in Ned Blunt’s apartments. Blunt, who is
sitting half-clad, and in no pleasant mood owing to his having been tricked
of clothes and money and turned into the street by a common cyprian,

greets her roughly enough, but is mollified by the present of a diamond
ring. His friends and Don Pedro, come to laugh at his sorry case, now force
their way into the chamber, and Florinda, whom her brother finally resigns
to Belvile, is discovered. She is straightway united to her lover by a
convenient priest. Willmore is then surprised by the apparition of Angelica,
who, loading him with bitter reproaches for his infidelity, is about to pistol
him, when she is disarmed by Antonio, and accordingly parts in a fury of
jealous rage, to give place to Hellena who adroitly secures her Rover in the
noose of matrimony.

SOURCE.

The entire plan and many details of both parts of The Rover are taken
openly and unreservedly from Tom Killigrew’s Thomaso, or The Wanderer,
an unacted comedy likewise in two parts, published for the first time in his
collected works by Henry Herringman (folio, 1663-4). It is to be noticed,
however, that whilst Killigrew’s work is really one long play of ten closely
consecutive acts, the scene of which is continually laid in Madrid, without
any break in time or action, Mrs. Behn, on the other hand, admirably
contrives that each separate part of The Rover is complete and possesses
perfect unity in itself, the locale being respectively, and far more suitably, in
two several places, Naples and Madrid, rather than confined to the latter
city alone. Mrs. Behn, moreover, introduces new characters and a new
intrigue in her second part, thus not merely sustaining but even renewing
the interest which in Thomaso jades and flags most wearily owing to the
author’s prolixity and diffuseness.
Killigrew, a royalist to the core, participated in the protracted exile of
Charles II, and devoting this interim to literature, wrote Thomaso whilst at
Madrid, probably about the year 1654-5. Although undeniably interesting in
a high degree, and not ill written, it shares in no small measure the salient
faults of his other productions, boundless and needless verbosity, slowness
of action, unconscionable length.
For all its wit and cleverness, such blemishes would, without trenchant
cutting, have been more than sufficient to prohibit it from any actual

performance, and, indeed, Thomaso may be better described as a dramatic
romance than a comedy intended for the boards. Clumsy and gargantuan
speeches, which few actors could have even memorized, and none would
have ventured to utter on the stage, abound in every scene. This lack of
technical acumen (unless, as may well be the case, Killigrew wrote much of
these plays without any thought of presentation) is more than surprising in
an author so intimately connected with the theatre and, after the
Restoration, himself manager of the King’s Company.
Nor is Thomaso without its patent plagiarisms. Doubtless no small part is
simply autobiographical adventuring, but, beside many a reminiscence of
the later Jacobeans, Killigrew has conveyed entire passages and lyrics
wholesale without attempt at disguise. Thus the song, ‘Come hither, you
that love,’ Act ii, Scene 3, is from Fletcher’s Captain, Act iv, the scene in
Lelia’s chamber. Again, the procedure and orations of Lopus the
mountebank are but the flimsiest alterations of Volpone, Act ii, Scene I, nor
could Killigrew change Jonson for anything but the worse. He has even
gone so far as to name his quack’s spouse Celia, a distinct echo of
Corvino’s wife.
In dealing with these two plays Mrs. Behn has done a great deal more than
merely fit the pieces for the stage. Almost wholly rewriting them, she has
infused into the torpid dialogue no small portion of wit and vivacity, whilst
the characters, prone to devolve into little better than prosy and wooden
marionettes, with only too apparent wires, are given life, vigour movement,
individuality and being. In fact she has made the whole completely and
essentially her own. In some cases the same names are retained. We find
Phillipo, Sancho, Angelica Bianca, Lucetta, Callis, in Killigrew. But as
Willmore is a different thing altogether to Thomaso, so Ned Blunt is an
infinitely more entertaining figure than his prototype Edwardo. Amongst
other details Killigrew, oddly and stupidly enough, gives his English
gentlemen foreign names:—Thomaso, Ferdinando, Rogero, Harrigo*. This
jar is duly corrected in The Rover.
Mrs. Behn has further dealt with the Lucetta intrigue in a far more masterly
way than Killigrew’s clumsily developed episode. In Thomaso it occupies a
considerable space, and becomes both tedious and brutally unpleasant. The

apt conclusion of the amour in The Rover with Blunt’s parlous mishap is
originally derived from Boccaccio, Second Day, Novel 5, where a certain
Andreuccio finds himself in the same unsavoury predicament as the Essex
squireen. However, even this was by no means new to the English stage. In
Blurt Master Constable, Lazarillo de Tormes, at the house of the courtezan
Imperia, meets with precisely the same accident, Act iii, Scene 3, Act iv,
Scenes 2 and 3, and it is probable that Mrs. Behn did not go directly to the
Decameron but drew upon Middleton, of whom she made very ample use
on another occasion, borrowing for The City Heiress no small portion of A
Mad World, My Masters, and racily reproducing in extenso therefrom Sir
Bounteous Progress, Dick Folly-Wit, the mock grandee, and that most
excellent of all burglaries good enough for Fielding at his best.
In dealing with Thomaso Astrea did not hesitate, with manifest advantage,
to transfer incidents from Part II to Part I, and vice versa. Correcting,
pruning, augmenting, enlivening, rewriting, she may indeed (pace the
memory of the merry jester of Charles II) be well said to have clothed dry
bones with flesh, and to have given her creation a witty and supple tongue.
* There is a strange commixture here. The character is familiarly
addressed as ‘Hal’, the scene is Madrid, and he rejoices in the
Milanese (not Italian) nomenclature Arrigo = Henry in that
dialect.

THEATRICAL HISTORY.

The first part of The Rover was produced at the Duke’s House, Dorset
Gardens, in the summer of 1677, and licensed for printing on 2 July of the
same year. It met, as it fully deserved, with complete success, and remained
one of the stock plays of the company. Smith, the original Willmore, and
the low comedian Underhill as Blunt were especially renowned in their
respective rôles. Another famous Willmore was Will Mountford, of whom
Dibdin relates, ‘When he played Mrs. Behn’s dissolute character of The
Rover, it was remarked by many, and particularly by Queen Mary, that it
was dangerous to see him act, he made vice so alluring.’

Amongst the more notable representations of the eighteenth century we
find:— Drury Lane; 18 February, 1703. Willmore by Wilks; Hellena, Mrs.
Oldfield; repeated on 15 October of the same year. Haymarket; 20 January,
1707. Willmore by Verbruggen; Blunt, Underhill; Hellena, Mrs.
Bracegirdle; Angelica, Mrs. Barry; Florinda, Mrs. Bowman. Drury Lane;
22 April, 1708. Willmore by Wilks; Blunt, Estcourt; Frederick, Cibber;
Hellena, Mrs. Oldfield; Angelica, Mrs. Barry; Florinda, Mrs. Porter. Drury
Lane; 30 December, 1715. Willmore, Wilks; Blunt, Johnson; Hellena, Mrs.
Mountfort; Angelica, Mrs. Porter. Drury Lane; 6 March, 1716. Don Pedro,
Quin; Frederick, Ryan; Florinda, Mrs. Horton. Lincoln’s Inn Fields; 5 April,
1725. ‘Never acted there.’ Performed for Ryan’s benefit. Willmore, Ryan;
Belvile, Quin; Blunt, Spiller; Hellena, Mrs. Bullock; Angelica, Mrs. Parker.
Covent Garden; 9 November, 1748. Willmore, Ryan; Blunt, Bridgewater;
Hellena, Mrs. Woffington; Angelica, Mrs. Horton. To make this
performance more attractive there was also presented ‘a musical
entertainment’, entitled, Apollo and Daphne, which had been originally
produced at Lincoln’s Inn Fields in 1726. Covent Garden; 19 February,
1757. ‘Not acted twenty years.’ Willmore, Smith; Belvile, Ridout;
Frederick, Clarke; Don Antonio, Dyer; Blunt, Shuter; Hellena, Mrs.
Woffington; Angelica, Mrs. Hamilton; Florinda, Mrs. Elmy. This, the latest
revival, was performed with considerable expense, and proved successful,
being repeated no less than ten times during the season. Wilkinson says that
Shuter acted Blunt very realistically, and, as the stage directions of Act iii
require, stripped to his very drawers.
On 8 March, 1790, J. P. Kemble presented at Drury Lane a pudibond
alteration of The Rover, which he dubbed Love in Many Masks (8vo, 1790).
It was well received, and acted eight times; in the following season once.
Willmore was played by Kemble himself; Belvile, Wroughton; Blunt, Jack
Bannister; Stephano, Suett; Hellena, Mrs. Jordan; Angelica, Mrs. Ward;
Florinda, Mrs. Powell; Valeria, Mrs. Kemble; Lucetta, Miss Tidswell. It is
not entirely worthless from a purely technical point of view, but yet very
modest and mediocre. As might well be surmised, the raciness and spirit of
The Rover entirely evaporate in the insipidity of emasculation. This is the
last recorded performance of Mrs. Behn’s brilliant comedy in any shape.

THE ROVER;
or, the Banish’d Cavaliers.

PART I.

PROLOGUE,
Written by a Person of Quality.

WITS, like Physicians, never can agree,
When of a different Society;
And Rabel’s Drops were never more cry’d down
By all the Learned Doctors of the Town,
Than a new Play, whose Author is unknown:
Nor can those Doctors with more Malice sue
(And powerful Purses) the dissenting Few,
Than those with an insulting Pride do rail
At all who are not of their own Cabal.
If a Young Poet hit your Humour right,
You judge him then out of Revenge and Spite;
So amongst Men there are ridiculous Elves,
Who Monkeys hate for being too like themselves:
So that the Reason of the Grand Debate,
Why Wit so oft is damn’d, when good Plays take,
Is, that you censure as you love or hate.
Thus, like a learned Conclave, Poets sit
Catholick Judges both of Sense and Wit,
And damn or save, as they themselves think fit.

Yet those who to others Faults are so severe,
Are not so perfect, but themselves may err.
Some write correct indeed, but then the whole
(Bating their own dull Stuff i’th’ Play) is stole:
As Bees do suck from Flowers their Honey-dew,
So they rob others, striving to please you.
Some write their Characters genteel and fine,
But then they do so toil for every Line,
That what to you does easy seem, and plain,
Is the hard issue of their labouring Brain.
And some th’ Effects of all their Pains we see,
Is but to mimick good Extempore.
Others by long Converse about the Town,
Have Wit enough to write a leud Lampoon,
But their chief Skill lies in a Baudy Song.
In short, the only Wit that’s now in Fashion
Is but the Gleanings of good Conversation.
As for the Author of this coming Play,
I ask’d him what he thought fit I should say,
In thanks for your good Company to day:
He call’d me Fool, and said it was well known,
You came not here for our sakes, but your own.
New Plays are stuff’d with Wits, and with Debauches,
That croud and sweat like Cits in May-day Coaches.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
MEN.
Don Antonio, the Vice-Roy’s Son, Mr. Jevorne.
Don Pedro, a Noble Spaniard, his Friend, Mr. Medburne.
Belvile, an English Colonel in love with Florinda, Mr. Betterton.
Willmore, the ROVER, Mr. Smith.
Frederick, an English Gentleman, and Friend to Belvile and Blunt, Mr. Crosbie.
Blunt, an English Country Gentleman, Mr. Underhill.
Stephano, Servant to Don Pedro, Mr. Richards.

Philippo, Lucetta’s Gallant, Mr. Percival.
Sancho, Pimp to Lucetta, Mr. John Lee.
Risky and Sebastian, two Bravoes to Angelica.
Diego, Page to Don Antonio.
Page to Hellena.
Boy, Page to Belvile.
Blunt’s Man.
Officers and Soldiers.
WOMEN.
Florinda, Sister to Don Pedro, Mrs. Betterton.
Hellena, a gay young Woman design’d for a Nun, and Sister to
Mrs. Barrey.
Florinda,
Valeria, a Kinswoman to Florinda, Mrs. Hughes.
Angelica Bianca, a famous Curtezan, Mrs. Gwin.
Moretta, her Woman, Mrs. Leigh.
Callis, Governess to Florinda and Hellena, Mrs. Norris.
Lucetta, a jilting Wench, Mrs. Gillow.
Servants, other Masqueraders, Men and Women.

SCENE Naples, in Carnival-time.

ACT I.

Scene I. A chamber.
Enter Florinda and Hellena.
Flor. What an impertinent thing is a young Girl bred in a Nunnery! How
full of Questions! Prithee no more, Hellena; I have told thee more than
thou understand’st already.
Hell. The more’s my Grief; I wou’d fain know as much as you, which
makes me so inquisitive; nor is’t enough to know you’re a Lover, unless
you tell me too, who ’tis you sigh for.
Flor. When you are a Lover, I’ll think you fit for a Secret of that nature.
Hell. ’Tis true, I was never a Lover yet— but I begin to have a shreud
Guess, what ’tis to be so, and fancy it very pretty to sigh, and sing, and
blush and wish, and dream and wish, and long and wish to see the Man;
and when I do, look pale and tremble; just as you did when my Brother
brought home the fine English Colonel to see you— what do you call
him? Don Belvile.
Flor. Fie, Hellena.
Hell. That Blush betrays you—I am sure ’tis so—or is it Don Antonio the
Vice-Roy’s Son?—or perhaps the rich old Don Vincentio, whom my father
designs for your Husband?—Why do you blush again?
Flor. With Indignation; and how near soever my Father thinks I am to
marrying that hated Object, I shall let him see I understand better what’s
due to my Beauty, Birth and Fortune, and more to my Soul, than to obey
those unjust Commands.
Hell. Now hang me, if I don’t love thee for that dear Disobedience. I love
Mischief strangely, as most of our Sex do, who are come to love nothing
else—But tell me, dear Florinda, don’t you love that fine Anglese?—for I

vow next to loving him my self, ’twill please me most that you do so, for
he is so gay and so handsom.
Flor. Hellena, a Maid design’d for a Nun ought not to be so curious in a
Discourse of Love.
Hell. And dost thou think that ever I’ll be a Nun? Or at least till I’m so
old, I’m fit for nothing else. Faith no, Sister; and that which makes me
long to know whether you love Belvile, is because I hope he has some mad
Companion or other, that will spoil my Devotion; nay I’m resolv’d to
provide my self this Carnival, if there be e’er a handsom Fellow of my
Humour above Ground, tho I ask first.
Flor. Prithee be not so wild.
Hell. Now you have provided your self with a Man, you take no Care for
poor me—Prithee tell me, what dost thou see about me that is unfit for
Love—have not I a world of Youth? a Humour gay? a Beauty passable?
a Vigour desirable? well shap’d? clean limb’d? sweet breath’d? and Sense
enough to know how all these ought to be employ’d to the best Advantage:
yes, I do and will. Therefore lay aside your Hopes of my Fortune, by my
being a Devotee, and tell me how you came acquainted with this Belvile;
for I perceive you knew him before he came to Naples.
Flor. Yes, I knew him at the Siege of Pampelona, he was then a Colonel
of French Horse, who when the Town was ransack’d, nobly treated my
Brother and my self, preserving us from all Insolencies; and I must own,
(besides great Obligations) I have I know not what, that pleads kindly for
him about my Heart, and will suffer no other to enter—But see my
Brother.
Enter Don Pedro, Stephano, with a Masquing Habit, and Callis.
Pedro. Good morrow, Sister. Pray, when saw you your Lover Don
Vincentio?
Flor. I know not, Sir—Callis, when was he here? for I consider it so little,
I know not when it was.

Pedro. I have a Command from my Father here to tell you, you ought not
to despise him, a Man of so vast a Fortune, and such a Passion for you—
Stephano, my things— [Puts on his Masquing Habit.
Flor. A Passion for me! ’tis more than e’er I saw, or had a desire should be
known—I hate Vincentio, and I would not have a Man so dear to me as my
Brother follow the ill Customs of our Country, and make a Slave of his
Sister—And Sir, my Father’s Will, I’m sure, you may divert.
Pedro. I know not how dear I am to you, but I wish only to be rank’d in
your Esteem, equal with the English Colonel Belvile—Why do you frown
and blush? Is there any Guilt belongs to the Name of that Cavalier?
Flor. I’ll not deny I value Belvile: when I was expos’d to such Dangers as
the licens’d Lust of common Soldiers threatned, when Rage and Conquest
flew thro the City—then Belvile, this Criminal for my sake, threw himself
into all Dangers to save my Honour, and will you not allow him my
Esteem?
Pedro. Yes, pay him what you will in Honour—but you must consider
Don Vincentio’s Fortune, and the Jointure he’ll make you.
Flor. Let him consider my Youth, Beauty and Fortune; which ought not to
be thrown away on his Age and Jointure.
Pedro. ’Tis true, he’s not so young and fine a Gentleman as that Belvile—
but what Jewels will that Cavalier present you with? those of his Eyes and
Heart?
Hell. And are not those better than any Don Vincentio has brought from
the Indies?
Pedro. Why how now! Has your Nunnery-breeding taught you to
understand the Value of Hearts and Eyes?
Hell. Better than to believe Vincentio deserves Value from any woman—
He may perhaps encrease her Bags, but not her Family.
Pedro. This is fine—Go up to your Devotion, you are not design’d for the
Conversation of Lovers.

Hell. Nor Saints yet a while I hope. [Aside.] Is’t not enough you make
a Nun of me, but you must cast my Sister away too, exposing her to a
worse confinement than a religious Life?
Pedro. The Girl’s mad—Is it a Confinement to be carry’d into the
Country, to an antient Villa belonging to the Family of the Vincentio’s
these five hundred Years, and have no other Prospect than that pleasing
one of seeing all her own that meets her Eyes—a fine Air, large Fields and
Gardens, where she may walk and gather Flowers?
Hell. When? By Moon-Light? For I’m sure she dares not encounter with
the heat of the Sun; that were a Task only for Don Vincentio and his Indian
Breeding, who loves it in the Dog-days—And if these be her daily
Divertisements, what are those of the Night? to lie in a wide Moth-eaten
Bed-Chamber with Furniture in Fashion in the Reign of King Sancho the
First; the Bed that which his Forefathers liv’d and dy’d in.
Pedro. Very well.
Hell. This Apartment (new furbisht and fitted out for the young Wife) he
(out of Freedom) makes his Dressing-room; and being a frugal and a
jealous Coxcomb, instead of a Valet to uncase his feeble Carcase, he
desires you to do that Office—Signs of Favour, I’ll assure you, and such
as you must not hope for, unless your Woman be out of the way.
Pedro. Have you done yet?
Hell. That Honour being past, the Giant stretches it self, yawns and sighs
a Belch or two as loud as a Musket, throws himself into Bed, and expects
you in his foul Sheets, and e’er you can get your self undrest, calls you
with a Snore or two— And are not these fine Blessings to a young Lady?
Pedro. Have you done yet?
Hell. And this man you must kiss, nay, you must kiss none but him too—
and nuzle thro his Beard to find his Lips—and this you must submit to for
threescore Years, and all for a Jointure.
Pedro. For all your Character of Don Vincentio, she is as like to marry
him as she was before.

Hell. Marry Don Vincentio! hang me, such a Wedlock would be worse
than Adultery with another Man: I had rather see her in the Hostel de
Dieu, to waste her Youth there in Vows, and be a Handmaid to Lazers and
Cripples, than to lose it in such a Marriage.
Pedro. You have consider’d, Sister, that Belvile has no Fortune to bring
you to, is banisht his Country, despis’d at home, and pity’d abroad.
Hell. What then? the Vice-Roy’s Son is better than that Old Sir Fisty. Don
Vincentio! Don Indian! he thinks he’s trading to Gambo still, and wou’d
barter himself (that Bell and Bawble) for your Youth and Fortune.
Pedro. Callis, take her hence, and lock her up all this Carnival, and at
Lent she shall begin her everlasting Penance in a Monastery.
Hell. I care not, I had rather be a Nun, than be oblig’d to marry as you
wou’d have me, if I were design’d for’t.
Pedro. Do not fear the Blessing of that Choice—you shall be a Nun.
Hell. Shall I so? you may chance to be mistaken in my way of Devotion
—A Nun! yes I am like to make a fine Nun! I have an excellent Humour
for a Grate: No, I’ll have a Saint of my own to pray to shortly, if I like any
that dares venture on me. [Aside.
Pedro. Callis, make it your Business to watch this wild Cat. As for you,
Florinda, I’ve only try’d you all this while, and urg’d my Father’s Will;
but mine is, that you would love Antonio, he is brave and young, and all
that can compleat the Happiness of a gallant Maid—This Absence of my
Father will give us opportunity to free you from Vincentio, by marrying
here, which you must do to morrow.
Flor. To morrow!
Pedro. To morrow, or ’twill be too late—’tis not my Friendship to
Antonio, which makes me urge this, but Love to thee, and Hatred to
Vincentio—therefore resolve upon’t to morrow.
Flor. Sir, I shall strive to do, as shall become your Sister.
Pedro. I’ll both believe and trust you—Adieu. [Ex. Ped. and Steph.

Hell. As become his Sister!—That is, to be as resolved your way, as he is
his— [Hell. goes to Callis.
Flor. I ne’er till now perceiv’d my Ruin near,
I’ve no Defence against Antonio’s Love,
For he has all the Advantages of Nature,
The moving Arguments of Youth and Fortune.
Hell. But hark you, Callis, you will not be so cruel to lock me up indeed:
will you?
Call. I must obey the Commands I hate—besides, do you consider what a
Life you are going to lead?
Hell. Yes, Callis, that of a Nun: and till then I’ll be indebted a World of
Prayers to you, if you let me now see, what I never did, the Divertisements
of a Carnival.
Call. What, go in Masquerade? ’twill be a fine farewell to the World I
take it—pray what wou’d you do there?
Hell. That which all the World does, as I am told, be as mad as the rest,
and take all innocent Freedom—Sister, you’ll go too, will you not? come
prithee be not sad—We’ll out-wit twenty Brothers, if you’ll be ruled by
me—Come put off this dull Humour with your Clothes, and assume one as
gay, and as fantastick as the Dress my Cousin Valeria and I have provided,
and let’s ramble.
Flor. Callis, will you give us leave to go?
Call. I have a youthful Itch of going my self. [Aside.] —Madam, if I
thought your Brother might not know it, and I might wait on you, for by
my troth I’ll not trust young Girls alone.
Flor. Thou see’st my Brother’s gone already, and thou shalt attend and
watch us.
Enter Stephano.
Steph. Madam, the Habits are come, and your Cousin Valeria is drest, and
stays for you.

Flor. ’Tis well—I’ll write a Note, and if I chance to see Belvile, and want
an opportunity to speak to him, that shall let him know what I’ve resolv’d
in favour of him.
Hell. Come, let’s in and dress us. [Exeunt.

Scene II. A Long Street.
Enter Belvile, melancholy, Blunt and Frederick.
Fred. Why, what the Devil ails the Colonel, in a time when all the World
is gay, to look like mere Lent thus? Hadst thou been long enough in
Naples to have been in love, I should have sworn some such Judgment had
befall’n thee.
Belv. No, I have made no new Amours since I came to Naples.
Fred. You have left none behind you in Paris.
Belv. Neither.
Fred. I can’t divine the Cause then; unless the old Cause, the want of
Mony.
Blunt. And another old Cause, the want of a Wench— Wou’d not that
revive you?
Belv. You’re mistaken, Ned.
Blunt Nay, ’Sheartlikins, then thou art past Cure.
Fred. I have found it out; thou hast renew’d thy Acquaintance with the
Lady that cost thee so many Sighs at the Siege of Pampelona—pox on’t,
what d’ye call her—her Brother’s a noble Spaniard—Nephew to the dead
General—Florinda—ay, Florinda—And will nothing serve thy turn but
that damn’d virtuous Woman, whom on my Conscience thou lov’st in spite
too, because thou seest little or no possibility of gaining her?
Belv. Thou art mistaken, I have Interest enough in that lovely Virgin’s
Heart, to make me proud and vain, were it not abated by the Severity of a
Brother, who perceiving my Happiness—

Fred. Has civilly forbid thee the House?
Belv. ’Tis so, to make way for a powerful Rival, the Vice-Roy’s Son, who
has the advantage of me, in being a Man of Fortune, a Spaniard, and her
Brother’s Friend; which gives him liberty to make his Court, whilst I have
recourse only to Letters, and distant Looks from her Window, which are as
soft and kind as those which Heav’n sends down on Penitents.
Blunt. Hey day! ’Sheartlikins, Simile! by this Light the Man is quite
spoil’d—Frederick, what the Devil are we made of, that we cannot be thus
concern’d for a Wench?—’Sheartlikins, our Cupids are like the Cooks of
the Camp, they can roast or boil a Woman, but they have none of the fine
Tricks to set ’em off, no Hogoes to make the Sauce pleasant, and the
Stomach sharp.
Fred. I dare swear I have had a hundred as young, kind and handsom as
this Florinda; and Dogs eat me, if they were not as troublesom to me i’th’
Morning as they were welcome o’er night.
Blunt. And yet, I warrant, he wou’d not touch another Woman, if he might
have her for nothing.
Belv. That’s thy Joy, a cheap Whore.
Blunt. Why, ’dsheartlikins, I love a frank Soul—When did you ever hear
of an honest Woman that took a Man’s Mony? I warrant ’em good ones—
But, Gentlemen, you may be free, you have been kept so poor with
Parliaments and Protectors, that the little Stock you have is not worth
preserving—but I thank my Stars, I have more Grace than to forfeit my
Estate by Cavaliering.
Belv. Methinks only following the Court should be sufficient to entitle
’em to that.
Blunt. ’Sheartlikins, they know I follow it to do it no good, unless they
pick a hole in my Coat for lending you Mony now and then; which is a
greater Crime to my Conscience, Gentlemen, than to the Common-wealth.
Enter Willmore.
Will. Ha! dear Belvile! noble Colonel!

Belv. Willmore! welcome ashore, my dear Rover!—what happy Wind
blew us this good Fortune?
Will. Let me salute you my dear Fred, and then command me—How is’t
honest Lad?
Fred. Faith, Sir, the old Complement, infinitely the better to see my dear
mad Willmore again—Prithee why camest thou ashore? and where’s the
Prince?
Will. He’s well, and reigns still Lord of the watery Element—I must
aboard again within a Day or two, and my Business ashore was only to
enjoy my self a little this Carnival.
Belv. Pray know our new Friend, Sir, he’s but bashful, a raw Traveller, but
honest, stout, and one of us. [Embraces Blunt.
Will. That you esteem him, gives him an Interest here.
Blunt. Your Servant, Sir.
Will. But well— Faith I’m glad to meet you again in a warm Climate,
where the kind Sun has its god-like Power still over the Wine and Woman.
—Love and Mirth are my Business in Naples; and if I mistake not the
Place, here’s an excellent Market for Chapmen of my Humour.
Belv. See here be those kind Merchants of Love you look for.
Enter several Men in masquing Habits, some playing on Musick,
others dancing after; Women drest like Curtezans, with Papers
pinn’d to their Breasts, and Baskets of Flowers in their Hands.
Blunt. ’Sheartlikins, what have we here!
Fred. Now the Game begins.
Will. Fine pretty Creatures! may a stranger have leave to look and love?—
What’s here—Roses for every Month! [Reads the Paper.
Blunt. Roses for every Month! what means that?
Belv. They are, or wou’d have you think they’re Curtezans, who herein
Naples are to be hir’d by the Month.

Will. Kind and obliging to inform us—Pray where do these Roses grow?
I would fain plant some of ’em in a Bed of mine.
Wom. Beware such Roses, Sir.
Will. A Pox of fear: I’ll be bak’d with thee between a pair of Sheets, and
that’s thy proper Still, so I might but strow such Roses over me and under
me—Fair one, wou’d you wou’d give me leave to gather at your Bush this
idle Month, I wou’d go near to make some Body smell of it all the Year
after.
Belv. And thou hast need of such a Remedy, for thou stinkest of Tar and
Rope-ends, like a Dock or Pesthouse.
[The Woman puts herself into the Hands of a Man, and Exit.
Will. Nay, nay, you shall not leave me so.
Belv. By all means use no Violence here.
Will. Death! just as I was going to be damnably in love, to have her led
off! I could pluck that Rose out-of his Hand, and even kiss the Bed, the
Bush it grew in.
Fred. No Friend to Love like a long Voyage at Sea.
Blunt. Except a Nunnery, Fred.
Will. Death! but will they not be kind, quickly be kind? Thou know’st I’m
no tame Sigher, but a rampant Lion of the Forest.
Two Men drest all over with Horns of several sorts, making Grimaces
at one another, with Papers pinn’d on their Backs, advance from
the farther end of the Scene.
Belv. Oh the fantastical Rogues, how they are dress’d! ’tis a Satir against
the whole Sex.
Will. Is this a Fruit that grows in this warm Country?
Belv. Yes: ’Tis pretty to see these Italian start, swell, and stab at the Word
Cuckold, and yet stumble at Horns on every Threshold.

Will. See what’s on their Back—Flowers for every Night. [Reads.
—Ah Rogue! And more sweet than Roses of ev’ry Month!
This is a Gardiner of Adam’s own breeding. [They dance.
Belv. What think you of those grave People?—is a Wake in Essex half so
mad or extravagant?
Will. I like their sober grave way, ’tis a kind of legal authoriz’d
Fornication, where the Men are not chid for’t, nor the Women despis’d, as
amongst our dull English; even the Monsieurs want that part of good
Manners.
Belv. But here in Italy a Monsieur is the humblest best-bred Gentleman—
Duels are so baffled by Bravo’s that an age shews not one, but between a
Frenchman and a Hang-man, who is as much too hard for him on the
Piazza, as they are for a Dutchman on the new Bridge— But see another
Crew.
Enter Florinda, Hellena, and Valeria, drest like Gipsies; Callis and
Stephano, Lucetta, Phillippo and Sancho in Masquerade.
Hell. Sister, there’s your Englishman, and with him a handsom proper
Fellow—I’ll to him, and instead of telling him his Fortune, try my own.
Will. Gipsies, on my Life—Sure these will prattle if a Man cross their
Hands. [Goes to Hellena] —Dear pretty (and I hope) young Devil,
will you tell an amorous Stranger what Luck he’s like to have?
Hell. Have a care how you venture with me, Sir, lest I pick your Pocket,
which will more vex your English Humour, than an Italian Fortune will
please you.
Will. How the Devil cam’st thou to know my Country and Humour?
Hell. The first I guess by a certain forward Impudence, which does not
displease me at this time; and the Loss of your Money will vex you,
because I hope you have but very little to lose.
Will. Egad Child, thou’rt i’th’ right; it is so little, I dare not offer it thee for
a Kindness—But cannot you divine what other things of more value I have
about me, that I would more willingly part with?

Hell. Indeed no, that’s the Business of a Witch, and I am but a Gipsy yet
—Yet, without looking in your Hand, I have a parlous Guess, ’tis some
foolish Heart you mean, an inconstant English Heart, as little worth
stealing as your Purse.
Will. Nay, then thou dost deal with the Devil, that’s certain—Thou hast
guess’d as right as if thou hadst been one of that Number it has languisht
for—I find you’ll be better acquainted with it; nor can you take it in a
better time, for I am come from Sea, Child; and Venus not being propitious
to me in her own Element, I have a world of Love in store—Wou’d you
would be good-natur’d, and take some on’t off my Hands.
Hell. Why—I could be inclin’d that way—but for a foolish Vow I am
going to make—to die a Maid.
Will. Then thou art damn’d without Redemption; and as I am a good
Christian, I ought in charity to divert so wicked a design—therefore
prithee, dear Creature, let me know quickly when and where I shall begin
to set a helping hand to so good a Work.
Hell. If you should prevail with my tender Heart (as I begin to fear you
will, for you have horrible loving Eyes) there will be difficulty in’t that
you’ll hardly undergo for my sake.
Will. Faith, Child, I have been bred in Dangers, and wear a Sword that has
been employ’d in a worse Cause, than for a handsom kind Woman—Name
the Danger—let it be any thing but a long Siege, and I’ll undertake it.
Hell. Can you storm?
Will. Oh, most furiously.
Hell. What think you of a Nunnery-wall? for he that wins me, must gain
that first.
Will. A Nun! Oh how I love thee for’t! there’s no Sinner like a young
Saint—Nay, now there’s no denying me: the old Law had no Curse (to a
Woman) like dying a Maid; witness Jephtha’s Daughter.
Hell. A very good Text this, if well handled; and I perceive, Father
Captain, you would impose no severe Penance on her who was inclin’d to

console her self before she took Orders.
Will. If she be young and handsom.
Hell. Ay, there’s it—but if she be not—
Will. By this Hand, Child, I have an implicit Faith, and dare venture on
thee with all Faults—besides, ’tis more meritorious to leave the World
when thou hast tasted and prov’d the Pleasure on’t; then ’twill be a Virtue
in thee, which now will be pure Ignorance.
Hell. I perceive, good Father Captain, you design only to make me fit for
Heaven—but if on the contrary you should quite divert me from it, and
bring me back to the World again, I should have a new Man to seek I find;
and what a grief that will be—for when I begin, I fancy I shall love like
any thing: I never try’d yet.
Will. Egad, and that’s kind—Prithee, dear Creature, give me Credit for a
Heart, for faith, I’m a very honest Fellow—Oh, I long to come first to the
Banquet of Love; and such a swinging Appetite I bring—Oh, I’m
impatient. Thy Lodging, Sweetheart, thy Lodging, or I’m a dead man.
Hell. Why must we be either guilty of Fornication or Murder, if we
converse with you Men?—And is there no difference between leave to
love me, and leave to lie with me?
Will. Faith, Child, they were made to go together.
Lucet. Are you sure this is the Man? [Pointing to Blunt.
Sancho. When did I mistake your Game?
Lucet. This is a stranger, I know by his gazing; if he be brisk he’ll venture
to follow me; and then, if I understand my Trade, he’s mine: he’s English
too, and they say that’s a sort of good natur’d loving People, and have
generally so kind an opinion of themselves, that a Woman with any Wit
may flatter ’em into any sort of Fool she pleases.
Blunt. ’Tis so—she is taken—I have Beauties which my false Glass at
home did not discover.

[She often passes by Blunt and gazes on him; he struts, and cocks,
and walks, and gazes on her.
Flor. This Woman watches me so, I shall get no Opportunity to discover
my self to him, and so miss the intent of my coming—But as I was saying,
Sir—by this Line you should be a Lover. [Looking in his Hand.
Belv. I thought how right you guess’d, all Men are in love, or pretend to
be so—Come, let me go, I’m weary of this fooling. [Walks away.
Flor. I will not, till you have confess’d whether the Passion that you have
vow’d Florinda be true or false.
[She holds him, he strives to get from her.
Belv. Florinda! [Turns quick towards her.
Flor. Softly.
Belv. Thou hast nam’d one will fix me here for ever.
Flor. She’ll be disappointed then, who expects you this Night at the
Garden-gate, and if you’ll fail not—as let me see the other Hand—you
will go near to do—she vows to die or make you happy.
[Looks on Callis, who observes ’em.
Belv. What canst thou mean?
Flor. That which I say—Farewel. [Offers to go.
Belv. Oh charming Sybil, stay, complete that Joy, which, as it is, will turn
into Distraction!—Where must I be? at the Garden-gate? I know it—at
night you say— I’ll sooner forfeit Heaven than disobey.
Enter Don Pedro and other Masquers, and pass over the Stage.
Call. Madam, your Brother’s here.
Flor. Take this to instruct you farther.
[Gives him a Letter, and goes off.
Fred. Have a care, Sir, what you promise; this may be a Trap laid by her
Brother to ruin you.
Belv. Do not disturb my Happiness with Doubts. [Opens the Letter.

Will. My dear pretty Creature, a Thousand Blessings on thee; still in this
Habit, you say, and after Dinner at this Place.
Hell. Yes, if you will swear to keep your Heart, and not bestow it between
this time and that.
Will. By all the little Gods of Love I swear, I’ll leave it with you; and if
you run away with it, those Deities of Justice will revenge me.
[Ex. all the Women except Lucetta.
Fred. Do you know the Hand?
Belv. ’Tis Florinda’s. All Blessings fall upon the virtuous Maid.
Fred. Nay, no Idolatry, a sober Sacrifice I’ll allow you.
Belv. Oh Friends! the welcom’st News, the softest Letter!—nay, you shall
see it; and could you now be serious, I might be made the happiest Man
the Sun shines on.
Will. The Reason of this mighty Joy.
Belv. See how kindly she invites me to deliver her from the threaten’d
Violence of her Brother—will you not assist me?
Will. I know not what thou mean’st, but I’ll make one at any Mischief
where a Woman’s concerned—but she’ll be grateful to us for the Favour,
will she not?
Belv. How mean you?
Will. How should I mean? Thou know’st there’s but one way for a Woman
to oblige me.
Belv. Don’t prophane—the Maid is nicely virtuous.
Will. Who pox, then she’s fit for nothing but a Husband; let her e’en go,
Colonel.
Fred. Peace, she’s the Colonel’s Mistress, Sir.
Will. Let her be the Devil; if she be thy Mistress, I’ll serve her—name the
way.
Belv. Read here this Postscript.

[Gives him a Letter.
Will. [Reads.] At Ten at night—at the Garden-Gate—of which, if I cannot
get the Key, I will contrive a way over the Wall—come attended with a
Friend or two.—Kind heart, if we three cannot weave a String to let her
down a Garden-Wall,’twere pity but the Hangman wove one for us all.
Fred. Let her alone for that: your Woman’s Wit, your fair kind Woman,
will out-trick a Brother or a Jew, and contrive like a Jesuit in Chains—but
see, Ned Blunt is stoln out after the Lure of a Damsel.
[Ex. Blunt and Lucet.
Belv. So he’ll scarce find his way home again, unless we get him cry’d by
the Bell-man in the Market-place, and ’twou’d sound prettily—a lost
English Boy of Thirty.
Fred. I hope ’tis some common crafty Sinner, one that will fit him; it may
be she’ll sell him for Peru, the Rogue’s sturdy and would work well in a
Mine; at least I hope she’ll dress him for our Mirth; cheat him of all, then
have him well-favour’dly bang’d, and turn’d out naked at Midnight.
Will. Prithee what Humour is he of, that you wish him so well?
Belv. Why, of an English Elder Brother’s Humour, educated in a Nursery,
with a Maid to tend him till Fifteen, and lies with his Grand-mother till
he’s of Age; one that knows no Pleasure beyond riding to the next Fair, or
going up to London with his right Worshipful Father in Parliament-time;
wearing gay Clothes, or making honourable Love to his Lady Mother’s
Landry-Maid; gets drunk at a Hunting-Match, and ten to one then gives
some Proofs of his Prowess—A pox upon him, he’s our Banker, and has
all our Cash about him, and if he fail we are all broke.
Fred. Oh let him alone for that matter, he’s of a damn’d stingy Quality,
that will secure our Stock. I know not in what Danger it were indeed, if the
Jilt should pretend she’s in love with him, for ’tis a kind believing
Coxcomb; otherwise if he part with more than a Piece of Eight—geld him:
for which offer he may chance to be beaten, if she be a Whore of the first
Rank.

Belv. Nay the Rogue will not be easily beaten, he’s stout enough; perhaps
if they talk beyond his Capacity, he may chance to exercise his Courage
upon some of them; else I’m sure they’ll find it as difficult to beat as to
please him.
Will. ’Tis a lucky Devil to light upon so kind a Wench!
Fred. Thou hadst a great deal of talk with thy little Gipsy, coud’st thou do
no good upon her? for mine was hard-hearted.
Will. Hang her, she was some damn’d honest Person of Quality, I’m sure,
she was so very free and witty. If her Face be but answerable to her Wit
and Humour, I would be bound to Constancy this Month to gain her. In the
mean time, have you made no kind Acquaintance since you came to
Town?—You do not use to be honest so long, Gentlemen.
Fred. Faith Love has kept us honest, we have been all fir’d with a Beauty
newly come to Town, the famous Paduana Angelica Bianca.
Will. What, the Mistress of the dead Spanish General?
Belv. Yes, she’s now the only ador’d Beauty of all the Youth in Naples,
who put on all their Charms to appear lovely in her sight, their Coaches,
Liveries, and themselves, all gay, as on a Monarch’s Birth-Day, to attract
the Eyes of this fair Charmer, while she has the Pleasure to behold all
languish for her that see her.
Fred. ’Tis pretty to see with how much Love the Men regard her, and how
much Envy the Women.
Will. What Gallant has she?
Belv. None, she’s exposed to Sale, and four Days in the Week she’s yours
—for so much a Month.
Will. The very Thought of it quenches all manner of Fire in me—yet
prithee let’s see her.
Belv. Let’s first to Dinner, and after that we’ll pass the Day as you please
—but at Night ye must all be at my Devotion.
Will. I will not fail you. [Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I. The Long Street.
Enter Belvile and Frederick in Masquing-Habits, and Willmore in his
own Clothes, with a Vizard in his Hand.
Will. But why thus disguis’d and muzzl’d?
Belv. Because whatever Extravagances we commit in these Faces, our
own may not be oblig’d to answer ’em.
Will. I should have chang’d my Eternal Buff too: but no matter, my little
Gipsy wou’d not have found me out then: for if she should change hers, it
is impossible I should know her, unless I should hear her prattle—A Pox
on’t, I cannot get her out of my Head: Pray Heaven, if ever I do see her
again, she prove damnable ugly, that I may fortify my self against her
Tongue.
Belv. Have a care of Love, for o’ my conscience she was not of a Quality
to give thee any hopes.
Will. Pox on ’em, why do they draw a Man in then? She has play’d with
my Heart so, that ’twill never lie still till I have met with some kind
Wench, that will play the Game out with me—Oh for my Arms full of soft,
white, kind—Woman! such as I fancy Angelica.
Belv. This is her House, if you were but in stock to get admittance; they
have not din’d yet; I perceive the Picture is not out.
Enter Blunt.
Will. I long to see the Shadow of the fair Substance, a Man may gaze on
that for nothing.
Blunt. Colonel, thy Hand—and thine, Fred. I have been an Ass, a deluded
Fool, a very Coxcomb from my Birth till this Hour, and heartily repent my
little Faith.
Belv. What the Devil’s the matter with thee Ned?
Blunt. Oh such a Mistress, Fred, such a Girl!

Will. Ha! where?
Fred. Ay where!
Blunt. So fond, so amorous, so toying and fine! and all for sheer Love, ye
Rogue! Oh how she lookt and kiss’d! and sooth’d my Heart from my
Bosom. I cannot think I was awake, and yet methinks I see and feel her
Charms still—Fred.—Try if she have not left the Taste of her balmy
Kisses upon my Lips— [Kisses him.
Belv. Ha, ha, ha!
Will. Death Man, where is she?
Blunt. What a Dog was I to stay in dull England so long—How have I
laught at the Colonel when he sigh’d for Love! but now the little Archer
has reveng’d him, and by his own Dart, I can guess at all his Joys, which
then I took for Fancies, mere Dreams and Fables—Well, I’m resolved to
sell all in Essex, and plant here for ever.
Belv. What a Blessing ’tis, thou hast a Mistress thou dar’st boast of; for I
know thy Humour is rather to have a proclaim’d Clap, than a secret
Amour.
Will. Dost know her Name?
Blunt. Her Name? No,’sheartlikins: what care I for Names?—
She’s fair, young, brisk and kind, even to ravishment: and what a Pox care
I for knowing her by another Title?
Will. Didst give her anything?
Blunt. Give her!—Ha, ha, ha! why, she’s a Person of Quality—That’s a
good one, give her! ’sheartlikins dost think such Creatures are to be
bought? Or are we provided for such a Purchase? Give her, quoth ye? Why
she presented me with this Bracelet, for the Toy of a Diamond I us’d to
wear: No, Gentlemen, Ned Blunt is not every Body—She expects me
again to night.
Will. Egad that’s well; we’ll all go.

Blunt. Not a Soul: No, Gentlemen, you are Wits; I am a dull Country
Rogue, I.
Fred. Well, Sir, for all your Person of Quality, I shall be very glad to
understand your Purse be secure; ’tis our whole Estate at present, which
we are loth to hazard in one Bottom: come, Sir, unload.
Blunt. Take the necessary Trifle, useless now to me, that am belov’d by
such a Gentlewoman—’sheartlikins Money! Here take mine too.
Fred. No, keep that to be cozen’d, that we may laugh.
Will. Cozen’d!—Death! wou’d I cou’d meet with one, that wou’d cozen
me of all the Love I cou’d spare to night.
Fred. Pox ’tis some common Whore upon my Life.
Blunt. A Whore! yes with such Clothes! such Jewels! such a House! such
Furniture, and so attended! a Whore!
Belv. Why yes, Sir, they are Whores, tho they’ll neither entertain you with
Drinking, Swearing, or Baudy; are Whores in all those gay Clothes, and
right Jewels; are Whores with great Houses richly furnisht with Velvet
Beds, Store of Plate, handsome Attendance, and fine Coaches, are Whores
and errant ones.
Will. Pox on’t, where do these fine Whores live?
Belv. Where no Rogue in Office yclep’d Constables dare give ’em laws,
nor the Wine-inspired Bullies of the Town break their Windows; yet they
are Whores, tho this Essex Calf believe them Persons of Quality.
Blunt. ’Sheartlikins, y’are all Fools, there are things about this Essex Calf,
that shall take with the Ladies, beyond all your Wits and Parts—This
Shape and Size, Gentlemen, are not to be despis’d; my Waste tolerably
long, with other inviting Signs, that shall be nameless.
Will. Egad I believe he may have met with some Person of Quality that
may be kind to him.
Belv. Dost thou perceive any such tempting things about him, should
make a fine Woman, and of Quality, pick him out from all Mankind, to

throw away her Youth and Beauty upon, nay, and her dear Heart too?—no,
no, Angelica has rais’d the Price too high.
Will. May she languish for Mankind till she die, and be damn’d for that
one Sin alone.
Enter two Bravoes, and hang up a great Picture of Angelica’s,
against the Balcony, and two little ones at each side of the Door.
Belv. See there the fair Sign to the Inn, where a Man may lodge that’s
Fool enough to give her Price. [Will. gazes on the Picture.
Blunt. ’Sheartlikins, Gentlemen, what’s this?
Belv. A famous Curtezan that’s to be sold.
Blunt. A How! to be sold! nay then I have nothing to say to her—sold!
what Impudence is practis’d in this Country?—With Order and Decency
Whoring’s established here by virtue of the Inquisition—Come let’s be
gone, I’m sure we’re no Chapmen for this Commodity.
Fred. Thou art none, I’m sure, unless thou could’st have her in thy Bed at
the Price of a Coach in the Street.
Will. How wondrous fair she is—a Thousand Crowns a Month—by
Heaven as many Kingdoms were too little. A plague of this Poverty—of
which I ne’er complain, but when it hinders my Approach to Beauty,
which Virtue ne’er could purchase. [Turns from the Picture.
Blunt. What’s this?— [Reads] A Thousand Crowns a Month!
—’Sheartlikins, here’s a Sum! sure ’tis a mistake.
—Hark you, Friend, does she take or give so much by the Month!
Fred. A Thousand Crowns! Why, ’tis a Portion for the Infanta.
Blunt. Hark ye, Friends, won’t she trust?
Brav. This is a Trade, Sir, that cannot live by Credit.
Enter Don Pedro in Masquerade, follow’d by Stephano.
Belv. See, here’s more Company, let’s walk off a while.
[Pedro Reads.

[Exeunt English.
Enter Angelica and Moretta in the Balcony, and draw a Silk Curtain.
Ped. Fetch me a Thousand Crowns, I never wish to buy this Beauty at an
easier Rate. [Passes off.
Ang. Prithee what said those Fellows to thee?
Brav. Madam, the first were Admirers of Beauty only, but no purchasers;
they were merry with your Price and Picture, laught at the Sum, and so
past off.
Ang. B No matter, I’m not displeas’d with their rallying; their Wonder
feeds my Vanity, and he that wishes to buy, gives me more Pride, than he
that gives my Price can make me Pleasure.
Brav. Madam, the last I knew thro all his disguises to be Don Pedro,
Nephew to the General, and who was with him in Pampelona.
Ang. Don Pedro! my old Gallant’s Nephew! When his Uncle dy’d, he left
him a vast Sum of Money; it is he who was so in love with me at Padua,
and who us’d to make the General so jealous.
Moret. Is this he that us’d to prance before our Window and take such
care to shew himself an amorous Ass? if I am not mistaken, he is the
likeliest Man to give your Price.
Ang. The Man is brave and generous, but of an Humour so uneasy and
inconstant, that the victory over his Heart is as soon lost as won; a Slave
that can add little to the Triumph of the Conqueror: but inconstancy’s the
Sin of all Mankind, therefore I’m resolv’d that nothing but Gold shall
charm my Heart.
Moret. I’m glad on’t; ’tis only interest that Women of our Profession
ought to consider: tho I wonder what has kept you from that general
Disease of our Sex so long, I mean that of being in love.
Ang. A kind, but sullen Star, under which I had the Happiness to be born;
yet I have had no time for Love; the bravest and noblest of Mankind have
purchas’d my Favours at so dear a Rate, as if no Coin but Gold were
current with our Trade—But here’s Don Pedro again, fetch me my Lute—

for ’tis for him or Don Antonio the Vice-Roy’s Son, that I have spread my
Nets.
Enter at one Door Don Pedro, and Stephano; Don Antonio and
Diego [his page], at the other Door, with People following him in
Masquerade, antickly attir’d, some with Musick: they both go up to
the Picture.
Ant. A thousand Crowns! had not the Painter flatter’d her, I should not
think it dear.
Pedro. Flatter’d her! by Heaven he cannot. I have seen the Original, nor is
there one Charm here more than adorns her Face and Eyes; all this soft
and sweet, with a certain languishing Air, that no Artist can represent.
Ant. What I heard of her Beauty before had fir’d my Soul, but this
confirmation of it has blown it into a flame.
Pedro. Ha!
Pag. Sir, I have known you throw away a Thousand Crowns on a worse
Face, and tho y’ are near your Marriage, you may venture a little Love
here; Florinda—will not miss it.
Pedro. Ha! Florinda! Sure ’tis Antonio. [aside.
Ant. Florinda! name not those distant Joys, there’s not one thought of her
will check my Passion here.
Pedro. Florinda scorn’d! and all my Hopes defeated of the Possession of
Angelica! [A noise of a Lute above. Ant. gazes up.] Her Injuries by
Heaven he shall not boast of. [Song to a Lute above.

SONG.
When Damon first began to love,
He languisht in a soft Desire,
And knew not how the Gods to move,
To lessen or increase his Fire,
For Cælia in her charming Eyes
Wore all Love’s Sweet, and all his Cruelties.

II.
But as beneath a Shade he lay,
Weaving of Flow’rs for Cælia’s Hair,
She chanc’d to lead her Flock that way,
And saw the am’rous Shepherd there.
She gaz’d around upon the Place,
And saw the Grove (resembling Night)
To all the Joys of Love invite,
Whilst guilty Smiles and Blushes drest her Face.
At this the bashful Youth all Transport grew,
And with kind Force he taught the Virgin how
To yield what all his Sighs cou’d never do.
Ant. By Heav’n she’s charming fair!
[Angelica throws open the Curtains, and bows to Antonio, who pulls
off his Vizard, and bows and blows up Kisses. Pedro unseen looks
in his Face.
Pedro. ’Tis he, the false Antonio!
Ant. Friend, where must I pay my offering of Love? [To the Bravo.]
My Thousand Crowns I mean.
Pedro. That Offering I have design’d to make,
And yours will come too late.
Ant. Prithee be gone, I shall grow angry else,
And then thou art not safe.
Pedro. My Anger may be fatal, Sir, as yours;
And he that enters here may prove this Truth.
Ant. I know not who thou art, but I am sure thou’rt worth my killing, and
aiming at Angelica. [They draw and fight.
Enter Willmore and Blunt, who draw and part ’em.
Blunt. ’Sheartlikins, here’s fine doings.

Will. Tilting for the Wench I’m sure—nay gad, if that wou’d win her,
I have as good a Sword as the best of ye—Put up—put up, and take
another time and place, for this is design’d for Lovers only.
[They all put up.
Pedro. We are prevented; dare you meet me to morrow on the Molo?
For I’ve a Title to a better quarrel,
That of Florinda, in whose credulous Heart
Thou’st made an Int’rest, and destroy’d my Hopes.
Ant. Dare?
I’ll meet thee there as early as the Day.
Pedro. We will come thus disguis’d, that whosoever chance to get the
better, he may escape unknown.
Ant. It shall be so. [Ex. Pedro and Stephano.] Who shou’d this Rival
be? unless the English Colonel, of whom I’ve often heard Don Pedro
speak; it must be he, and time he were removed, who lays a Claim to all
my Happiness.
[Willmore having gaz’d all this while on the Picture, pulls down a
little one.
Will. This posture’s loose and negligent,
The sight on’t wou’d beget a warm desire
In Souls, whom Impotence and Age had chill’d.
—This must along with me.
Brav. What means this rudeness, Sir?—restore the Picture.
Ant. Ha! Rudeness committed to the fair Angelica!—Restore the Picture,
Sir.
Will. Indeed I will not, Sir.
Ant. By Heav’n but you shall.
Will. Nay, do not shew your Sword; if you do, by this dear Beauty—I will
shew mine too.
Ant. What right can you pretend to’t?

Will. That of Possession which I will maintain—you perhaps have 1000
Crowns to give for the Original.
Ant. No matter, Sir, you shall restore the Picture.
Ang. Oh, Moretta! what’s the matter? [Ang. and Moret. above.
Ant. Or leave your Life behind.
Will. Death! you lye—I will do neither.
Ang. Hold, I command you, if for me you fight.
[They fight, the Spaniards join with Antonio, Blunt laying on like
mad. They leave off and bow.
Will. How heavenly fair she is!—ah Plague of her Price.
Ang. You Sir in Buff, you that appear a Soldier, that first began this
Insolence.
Will. ’Tis true, I did so, if you call it Insolence for a Man to preserve
himself; I saw your charming Picture, and was wounded: quite thro my
Soul each pointed Beauty ran; and wanting a Thousand Crowns to procure
my Remedy, I laid this little Picture to my Bosom—which if you cannot
allow me, I’ll resign.
Ang. No, you may keep the Trifle.
Ant. You shall first ask my leave, and this. [Fight again as before.
Enter Belv. and Fred. who join with the English.
Ang. Hold; will you ruin me?—Biskey, Sebastian, part them.
[The Spaniards are beaten off.
Moret. Oh Madam, we’re undone, a pox upon that rude Fellow, he’s set
on to ruin us: we shall never see good days, till all these fighting poor
Rogues are sent to the Gallies.
Enter Belvile, Blunt and Willmore, with his shirt bloody.
Blunt. ’Sheartlikins, beat me at this Sport, and I’ll ne’er wear Sword
more.

Belv. The Devil’s in thee for a mad Fellow, thou art always one at an
unlucky Adventure.—Come, let’s be gone whilst we’re safe, and
remember these are Spaniards, a sort of People that know how to revenge
an Affront.
Fred. You bleed; I hope you are not wounded. [To Will.
Will. Not much:—a plague upon your Dons, if they fight no better they’ll
ne’er recover Flanders.—What the Devil was’t to them that I took down
the Picture?
Blunt. Took it! ’Sheartlikins, we’ll have the great one too; ’tis ours by
Conquest.—Prithee, help me up, and I’ll pull it down.—
Ang. Stay, Sir, and e’er you affront me further, let me know how you durst
commit this Outrage—To you I speak, Sir, for you appear like a
Gentleman.
Will. To me, Madam?—Gentlemen, your Servant. [Belv. stays him.
Belv. Is the Devil in thee? Do’st know the danger of entring the house of
an incens’d Curtezan?
Will. I thank you for your care—but there are other matters in hand, there
are, tho we have no great Temptation.—Death! let me go.
Fred. Yes, to your Lodging, if you will, but not in here.—Damn these gay
Harlots—by this Hand I’ll have as sound and handsome a Whore for a
Patacoone.—Death, Man, she’ll murder thee.
Will. Oh! fear me not, shall I not venture where a Beauty calls? a lovely
charming Beauty? for fear of danger! when by Heaven there’s none so
great as to long for her, whilst I want Money to purchase her.
Fred. Therefore ’tis loss of time, unless you had the thousand Crowns to
pay.
Will. It may be she may give a Favour, at least I shall have the pleasure of
saluting her when I enter, and when I depart.
Belv. Pox, she’ll as soon lie with thee, as kiss thee, and sooner stab than
do either—you shall not go.

Ang. Fear not, Sir, all I have to wound with, is my Eyes.
Blunt. Let him go, ’Sheartlikins, I believe the Gentle-woman means well.
Belv. Well, take thy Fortune, we’ll expect you in the next Street.—
Farewell Fool,—farewell—
Will. B’ye Colonel— [Goes in.
Fred. The Rogue’s stark mad for a Wench. [Exeunt.

Scene II. A Fine Chamber.
Enter Willmore, Angelica, and Moretta.
Ang. Insolent Sir, how durst you pull down my Picture?
Will. Rather, how durst you set it up, to tempt poor amorous Mortals with
so much Excellence? which I find you have but too well consulted by the
unmerciful price you set upon’t.—Is all this Heaven of Beauty shewn to
move Despair in those that cannot buy? and can you think the effects of
that Despair shou’d be less extravagant than I have shewn?
Ang. I sent for you to ask my Pardon, Sir, not to aggravate your Crime.—
I thought I shou’d have seen you at my Feet imploring it.
Will. You are deceived, I came to rail at you, and talk such Truths, too, as
shall let you see the Vanity of that Pride, which taught you how to set such
a Price on Sin. For such it is, whilst that which is Love’s due is meanly
barter’d for.
Ang. Ha, ha, ha, alas, good Captain, what pity ’tis your edifying Doctrine
will do no good upon me—Moretta, fetch the Gentleman a Glass, and let
him survey himself, to see what Charms he has,—and guess my Business.
[Aside in a soft tone.
Moret. He knows himself of old, I believe those Breeches and he have
been acquainted ever since he was beaten at Worcester.
Ang. Nay, do not abuse the poor Creature.—

Moret. Good Weather-beaten Corporal, will you march off? we have no
need of your Doctrine, tho you have of our Charity; but at present we have
no Scraps, we can afford no kindness for God’s sake; in fine, Sirrah, the
Price is too high i’th’ Mouth for you, therefore troop, I say.
Will. Here, good Fore-Woman of the Shop, serve me, and I’ll be gone.
Moret. Keep it to pay your Landress, your Linen stinks of the Gun-Room;
for here’s no selling by Retail.
Will. Thou hast sold plenty of thy stale Ware at a cheap Rate.
Moret. Ay, the more silly kind Heart I, but this is an Age wherein Beauty
is at higher Rates.—In fine, you know the price of this.
Will. I grant you ’tis here set down a thousand Crowns a Month—Baud,
take your black Lead and sum it up, that I may have a Pistole-worth of
these vain gay things, and I’ll trouble you no more.
Moret. Pox on him, he’ll fret me to Death:—abominable Fellow, I tell
thee, we only sell by the whole Piece.
Will. ’Tis very hard, the whole Cargo or nothing—Faith, Madam, my
Stock will not reach it, I cannot be your Chapman.—Yet I have
Countrymen, in Town, Merchants of Love, like me; I’ll see if they’l put
for a share, we cannot lose much by it, and what we have no use for, we’ll
sell upon the Friday’s Mart, at—Who gives more? I am studying, Madam,
how to purchase you, tho at present I am unprovided of Money.
Ang. Sure, this from any other Man would anger me—nor shall he know
the Conquest he has made—Poor angry Man, how I despise this railing.
Will. Yes, I am poor—but I’m a Gentleman,
And one that scorns this Baseness which you practise.
Poor as I am, I would not sell my self,
No, not to gain your charming high-priz’d Person.
Tho I admire you strangely for your Beauty,
Yet I contemn your Mind.
—And yet I wou’d at any rate enjoy you;
At your own rate—but cannot—See here
The only Sum I can command on Earth;

I know not where to eat when this is gone:
Yet such a Slave I am to Love and Beauty,
This last reserve I’ll sacrifice to enjoy you.
—Nay, do not frown, I know you are to be bought,
And wou’d be bought by me, by me,
For a mean trifling Sum, if I could pay it down.
Which happy knowledge I will still repeat,
And lay it to my Heart, it has a Virtue in’t,
And soon will cure those Wounds your Eyes have made.
—And yet—there’s something so divinely powerful there—
Nay, I will gaze—to let you see my Strength.
[Holds her, looks on her, and pauses and sighs.
By Heaven, bright Creature—I would not for the World
Thy Fame were half so fair as is thy Face. [Turns her away from him.
Ang. His words go thro me to the very Soul. [Aside.] —If you have
nothing else to say to me.
Will. Yes, you shall hear how infamous you are—
For which I do not hate thee:
But that secures my Heart, and all the Flames it feels
Are but so many Lusts,
I know it by their sudden bold intrusion.
The Fire’s impatient and betrays, ’tis false—
For had it been the purer Flame of Love,
I should have pin’d and languished at your Feet,
E’er found the Impudence to have discover’d it.
I now dare stand your Scorn, and your Denial.
Moret. Sure she’s bewitcht, that she can stand thus tamely, and hear his
saucy railing.—Sirrah, will you be gone?
Ang. How dare you take this liberty?—Withdraw. [To Moret.] —Pray, tell
me, Sir, are not you guilty of the same mercenary Crime? When a Lady is
proposed to you for a Wife, you never ask, how fair, discreet, or virtuous
she is; but what’s her Fortune—which if but small, you cry—She will not
do my business—and basely leave her, tho she languish for you.—Say, is
not this as poor?

Will. It is a barbarous Custom, which I will scorn to defend in our Sex,
and do despise in yours.
Ang. Thou art a brave Fellow! put up thy Gold, and know,
That were thy Fortune large, as is thy Soul,
Thou shouldst not buy my Love,
Couldst thou forget those mean Effects of Vanity,
Which set me out to sale; and as a Lover, prize
My yielding Joys.
Canst thou believe they’l be entirely thine,
Without considering they were mercenary?
Will. I cannot tell, I must bethink me first—ha, Death, I’m going to
believe her. [Aside.
Ang. Prithee, confirm that Faith—or if thou canst not—flatter me a little,
’twill please me from thy Mouth.
Will. Curse on thy charming Tongue! dost thou return
My feign’d Contempt with so much subtilty? [Aside.
Thou’st found the easiest way into my Heart,
Tho I yet know that all thou say’st is false.
[Turning from her in a Rage.
Ang. By all that’s good ’tis real,
I never lov’d before, tho oft a Mistress.
—Shall my first Vows be slighted?
Will. What can she mean? [Aside.
Ang. I find you cannot credit me. [In an angry tone.
Will. I know you take me for an errant Ass,
An Ass that may be sooth’d into Belief,
And then be us’d at pleasure.
—But, Madam I have been so often cheated
By perjur’d, soft, deluding Hypocrites,
That I’ve no Faith left for the cozening Sex,
Especially for Women of your Trade.
Ang. The low esteem you have of me, perhaps

May bring my Heart again:
For I have Pride that yet surmounts my Love.
[She turns with Pride, he holds her.
Will. Throw off this Pride, this Enemy to Bliss,
And shew the Power of Love: ’tis with those Arms
I can be only vanquisht, made a Slave.
Ang. Is all my mighty Expectation vanisht?
—No, I will not hear thee talk,—thou hast a Charm
In every word, that draws my Heart away.
And all the thousand Trophies I design’d,
Thou hast undone—Why art thou soft?
Thy Looks are bravely rough, and meant for War.
Could thou not storm on still?
I then perhaps had been as free as thou.
Will. Death! how she throws her Fire about my Soul! [Aside.
—Take heed, fair Creature, how you raise my Hopes,
Which once assum’d pretend to all Dominion.
There’s not a Joy thou hast in store
I shall not then command:
For which I’ll pay thee back my Soul, my Life.
Come, let’s begin th’ account this happy minute.
Ang. And will you pay me then the Price I ask?
Will. Oh, why dost thou draw me from an awful Worship,
By shewing thou art no Divinity?
Conceal the Fiend, and shew me all the Angel;
Keep me but ignorant, and I’ll be devout,
And pay my Vows for ever at this Shrine.
[Kneels, and kisses her Hand.
Ang. The Pay I mean is but thy Love for mine.
—Can you give that?
Will. Intirely—come, let’s withdraw: where I’ll renew my Vows,—and
breathe ’em with such Ardour, thou shall not doubt my Zeal.
Ang. Thou hast a Power too strong to be resisted.

[Ex. Will. and Angelica.
Moret. Now my Curse go with you—Is all our Project fallen to this? to
love the only Enemy to our Trade? Nay, to love such a Shameroon, a very
Beggar; nay, a Pirate-Beggar, whose Business is to rifle and be gone,
a No-Purchase, No-Pay Tatterdemalion, an English Piccaroon; a Rogue
that fights for daily Drink, and takes a Pride in being loyally lousy—Oh,
I could curse now, if I durst—This is the Fate of most Whores.
Trophies, which from believing Fops we win,
Are Spoils to those who cozen us again.

ACT III.

Scene I. A Street.
Enter Florinda, Valeria, Hellena, in Antick different Dresses from
what they were in before, Callis attending.
Flor. I wonder what should make my Brother in so ill a Humour: I hope
he has not found out our Ramble this Morning.
Hell. No, if he had, we should have heard on’t at both Ears, and have been
mew’d up this Afternoon; which I would not for the World should have
happen’d—Hey ho! I’m sad as a Lover’s Lute.
Val. Well, methinks we have learnt this Trade of Gipsies as readily as if
we had been bred upon the Road to Loretto: and yet I did so fumble, when
I told the Stranger his Fortune, that I was afraid I should have told my own
and yours by mistake—But methinks Hellena has been very serious ever
since.
Flor. I would give my Garters she were in love, to be reveng’d upon her,
for abusing me—How is’t, Hellena?
Hell. Ah!—would I had never seen my mad Monsieur —and yet for all
your laughing I am not in love— and yet this small Acquaintance, o my
Conscience, will never out of my Head.

Val. Ha, ha, ha—I laugh to think how thou art fitted with a Lover,
a Fellow that, I warrant, loves every new Face he sees.
Hell. Hum—he has not kept his Word with me here—and may be taken
up—that thought is not very pleasant to me—what the Duce should this be
now that I feel?
Val. What is’t like?
Hell. Nay, the Lord knows—but if I should be hanged, I cannot chuse but
be angry and afraid, when I think that mad Fellow should be in love with
any Body but me—What to think of my self I know not—Would I could
meet with some true damn’d Gipsy, that I might know my Fortune.
Val. Know it! why there’s nothing so easy; thou wilt love this wandring
Inconstant till thou find’st thy self hanged about his Neck, and then be as
mad to get free again.
Flor. Yes, Valeria; we shall see her bestride his Baggage-horse, and follow
him to the Campaign.
Hell. So, so; now you are provided for, there’s no care taken of poor me—
But since you have set my Heart a wishing, I am resolv’d to know for
what. I will not die of the Pip, so I will not.
Flor. Art thou mad to talk so? Who will like thee well enough to have
thee, that hears what a mad Wench thou art?
Hell. Like me! I don’t intend, every he that likes me shall have me, but he
that I like: I shou’d have staid in the Nunnery still, if I had lik’d my Lady
Abbess as well as she lik’d me. No, I came thence, not (as my wise
Brother imagines) to take an eternal Farewel of the World, but to love and
to be belov’d; and I will be belov’d or I’ll get one of your Men, so I will.
Val. Am I put into the Number of Lovers?
Hell. You! my Couz, I know thou art too good natur’d to leave us in any
Design: Thou wou’t venture a Cast, tho thou comest off a Loser, especially
with such a Gamester—I observ’d your Man, and your willing Ears incline
that way; and if you are not a Lover, ’tis an Art soon learnt—that I find.
[Sighs.

Flor. I wonder how you learnt to love so easily, I had a thousand Charms
to meet my Eyes and Ears, e’er I cou’d yield; and ’twas the knowledge of
Belvile’s Merit, not the surprising Person, took my Soul—Thou art too
rash to give a Heart at first sight.
Hell. Hang your considering Lover; I ne’er thought beyond the Fancy,
that ’twas a very pretty, idle, silly kind of Pleasure to pass ones time with,
to write little, soft, nonsensical Billets, and with great difficulty and
danger receive Answers; in which I shall have my Beauty prais’d, my Wit
admir’d (tho little or none) and have the Vanity and Power to know I am
desirable; then I have the more Inclination that way, because I am to be a
Nun, and so shall not be suspected to have any such earthly Thoughts
about me—But when I walk thus—and sigh thus—they’ll think my
Mind’s upon my Monastery, and cry, how happy ’tis she’s so resolv’d!—
But not a Word of Man.
Flor. What a mad Creature’s this!
Hell. I’ll warrant, if my Brother hears either of you sigh, he cries
(gravely)—I fear you have the Indiscretion to be in love, but take heed of
the Honour of our House, and your own unspotted Fame; and so he
conjures on till he has laid the soft-wing’d God in your Hearts, or broke
the Birds-nest—But see here comes your Lover: but where’s my
inconstant? let’s step aside, and we may learn something. [Go aside.
Enter Belvile, Fred. and Blunt.
Belv. What means this? the Picture’s taken in.
Blunt. It may be the Wench is good natur’d, and will be kind gratis. Your
Friend’s a proper handsom Fellow.
Belv. I rather think she has cut his Throat and is fled: I am mad he should
throw himself into Dangers—Pox on’t, I shall want him to night—let’s
knock and ask for him.
Hell. My heart goes a-pit a-pat, for fear ’tis my Man they talk of.
[Knock, Moretta above.
More. What would you have?

Belv. Tell the Stranger that enter’d here about two Hours ago, that his
Friends stay here for him.
Moret. A Curse upon him for Moretta, would he were at the Devil—but
he’s coming to you. [Enter Wilmore.
Hell. I, I, ’tis he. Oh how this vexes me.
Belv. And how, and how, dear Lad, has Fortune smil’d? Are we to break
her Windows, or raise up Altars to her! hah!
Will. Does not my Fortune sit triumphant on my Brow? dost not see the
little wanton God there all gay and smiling? have I not an Air about my
Face and Eyes, that distinguish me from the Croud of common Lovers?
By Heav’n, Cupid’s Quiver has not half so many Darts as her Eyes—Oh
such a Bona Rota, to sleep in her Arms is lying in Fresco, all perfum’d Air
about me.
Hell. Here’s fine encouragement for me to fool on. [Aside.
Will. Hark ye, where didst thou purchase that rich Canary we drank to-
day? Tell me, that I may adore the Spigot, and sacrifice to the Butt: the
Juice was divine, into which I must dip my Rosary, and then bless all
things that I would have bold or fortunate.
Belv. Well, Sir, let’s go take a Bottle, and hear the Story of your Success.
Fred. Would not French Wine do better?
Will. Damn the hungry Balderdash; cheerful Sack has a generous Virtue
in’t, inspiring a successful Confidence, gives Eloquence to the Tongue,
and Vigour to the Soul; and has in a few Hours compleated all my Hopes
and Wishes. There’s nothing left to raise a new Desire in me—Come let’s
be gay and wanton—and, Gentlemen, study, study what you want, for here
are Friends,—that will supply, Gentlemen,—hark! what a charming sound
they make—’tis he and she Gold whilst here, shall beget new Pleasures
every moment.
Blunt. But hark ye, Sir, you are not married, are you?
Will. All the Honey of Matrimony, but none of the Sting, Friend.

Blunt. ’Sheartlikins, thou’rt a fortunate Rogue.
Will. I am so, Sir, let these inform you.—Ha, how sweetly they chime!
Pox of Poverty, it makes a Man a Slave, makes Wit and Honour sneak, my
Soul grew lean and rusty for want of Credit.
Blunt. ’Sheartlikins, this I like well, it looks like my lucky Bargain! Oh
how I long for the Approach of my Squire, that is to conduct me to her
House again. Why! here’s two provided for.
Fred. By this light y’re happy Men.
Blunt. Fortune is pleased to smile on us, Gentlemen,—to smile on us.
Enter Sancho, and pulls Blunt by the Sleeve. They go aside.
Sancho. Sir, my Lady expects you—she has remov’d all that might
oppose your Will and Pleasure—and is impatient till you come.
Blunt. Sir, I’ll attend you—Oh the happiest Rogue! I’ll take no leave, lest
they either dog me, or stay me. [Ex. with Sancho.
Belv. But then the little Gipsy is forgot?
Will. A Mischief on thee for putting her into my thoughts; I had quite
forgot her else, and this Night’s Debauch had drunk her quite down.
Hell. Had it so, good Captain? [Claps him on the Back.
Will. Ha! I hope she did not hear.
Hell. What, afraid of such a Champion!
Will. Oh! you’re a fine Lady of your word, are you not? to make a Man
languish a whole day—
Hell. In tedious search of me.
Will. Egad, Child, thou’rt in the right, hadst thou seen what a melancholy
Dog I have been ever since I was a Lover, how I have walkt the Streets
like a Capuchin, with my Hands in my Sleeves—Faith, Sweetheart, thou
wouldst pity me.

Hell. Now, if I should be hang’d, I can’t be angry with him, he dissembles
so heartily—Alas, good Captain, what pains you have taken—Now were I
ungrateful not to reward so true a Servant.
Will. Poor Soul! that’s kindly said, I see thou bearest a Conscience—come
then for a beginning shew me thy dear Face.
Hell. I’m afraid, my small Acquaintance, you have been staying that
swinging stomach you boasted of this morning; I remember then my little
Collation would have gone down with you, without the Sauce of a
handsom Face—Is your Stomach so quesy now?
Will. Faith long fasting, Child, spoils a Man’s Appetite—yet if you durst
treat, I could so lay about me still.
Hell. And would you fall to, before a Priest says Grace?
Will. Oh fie, fie, what an old out-of-fashion’d thing hast thou nam’d?
Thou could’st not dash me more out of Countenance, shouldst thou shew
me an ugly Face.
Whilst he is seemingly courting Hellena, enter Angelica, Moretta,
Biskey, and Sebastian, all in Masquerade: Ang. sees Will. and starts.
Ang. Heavens, is’t he? and passionately fond to see another Woman?
Moret. What cou’d you expect less from such a Swaggerer?
Ang. Expect! as much as I paid him, a Heart intire,
Which I had pride enough to think when e’er I gave
It would have rais’d the Man above the Vulgar,
Made him all Soul, and that all soft and constant.
Hell. You see, Captain, how willing I am to be Friends with you, till Time
and Ill-luck make us Lovers; and ask you the Question first, rather than
put your Modesty to the blush, by asking me: for alas, I know you
Captains are such strict Men, severe Observers of your Vows to Chastity,
that ’twill be hard to prevail with your tender Conscience to marry a
young willing Maid.
Will. Do not abuse me, for fear I should take thee at thy word, and marry
thee indeed, which I’m sure will be Revenge sufficient.

Hell. O’ my Conscience, that will be our Destiny, because we are both of
one humour; I am as inconstant as you, for I have considered, Captain, that
a handsom Woman has a great deal to do whilst her Face is good, for then
is our Harvest-time to gather Friends; and should I in these days of my
Youth, catch a fit of foolish Constancy, I were undone; ’tis loitering by
day-light in our great Journey: therefore declare, I’ll allow but one year for
Love, one year for Indifference, and one year for Hate—and then—go
hang your self—for I profess myself the gay, the kind, and the inconstant
—the Devil’s in’t if this won’t please you.
Will. Oh most damnably!—I have a Heart with a hole quite thro it too, no
Prison like mine to keep a Mistress in.
Ang. Perjur’d Man! how I believe thee now! [Aside.
Hell. Well, I see our Business as well as Humours are alike, yours to
cozen as many Maids as will trust you, and I as many Men as have Faith—
See if I have not as desperate a lying look, as you can have for the heart of
you. [Pulls off her Vizard; he starts.
—How do you like it, Captain?
Will. Like it! by Heav’n, I never saw so much Beauty. Oh the Charms of
those sprightly black Eyes, that strangely fair Face, full of Smiles and
Dimples! those soft round melting cherry Lips! and small even white
Teeth! not to be exprest, but silently adored!—Oh one Look more, and
strike me dumb, or I shall repeat nothing else till I am mad.
[He seems to court her to pull off her Vizard: she refuses.
Ang. I can endure no more—nor is it fit to interrupt him; for if I do, my
Jealousy has so destroy’d my Reason,—I shall undo him—Therefore I’ll
retire. And you Sebastian [To one of her Bravoes] follow that Woman,
and learn who ’tis; while you tell the Fugitive, I would speak to him
instantly. [Exit. [To the other Bravo.
[This while Flor. is talking to Belvile, who stands sullenly. Fred.
courting Valeria.
Val. Prithee, dear Stranger, be not so sullen; for tho you have lost your
Love, you see my Friend frankly offers you hers, to play with in the mean

time.
Belv. Faith, Madam, I am sorry I can’t play at her Game.
Fred. Pray leave your Intercession, and mind your own Affair, they’ll
better agree apart; he’s a model Sigher in Company, but alone no Woman
escapes him.
Flor. Sure he does but rally—yet if it should be true—I’ll tempt him
farther—Believe me, noble Stranger, I’m no common Mistress—and for a
little proof on’t—wear this Jewel—nay, take it, Sir, ’tis right, and Bills of
Exchange may sometimes miscarry.
Belv. Madam, why am I chose out of all Mankind to be the Object of your
Bounty?
Val. There’s another civil Question askt.
Fred. Pox of’s Modesty, it spoils his own Markets, and hinders mine.
Flor. Sir, from my Window I have often seen you; and Women of Quality
have so few opportunities for Love, that we ought to lose none.
Fred. Ay, this is something! here’s a Woman!—When shall I be blest with
so much kindness from your fair Mouth?—Take the Jewel, Fool.
[Aside to Belv.
Belv. You tempt me strangely, Madam, every way.
Flor. So, if I find him false, my whole Repose is gone. [Aside.
Belv. And but for a Vow I’ve made to a very fine Lady, this Goodness had
subdu’d me.
Fred. Pox on’t be kind, in pity to me be kind, for I am to thrive here but as
you treat her Friend.
Hell. Tell me what did you in yonder House, and I’ll unmasque.
Will. Yonder House—oh—I went to—a—to—why, there’s a Friend of
mine lives there.
Hell. What a she, or a he Friend?

Will. A Man upon my Honour! a Man—A She Friend! no, no, Madam,
you have done my Business, I thank you.
Hell. And was’t your Man Friend, that had more Darts in’s Eyes than
Cupid carries in a whole Budget of Arrows?
Will. So—
Hell. Ah such a Bona Roba: to be in her Arms is lying in Fresco, all
perfumed Air about me—Was this your Man Friend too?
Will. So—
Hell. That gave you the He, and the She—Gold, that begets young
Pleasures.
Will. Well, well, Madam, then you see there are Ladies in the World, that
will not be cruel—there are, Madam, there are—
Hell. And there be Men too as fine, wild, inconstant Fellows as your self,
there be, Captain, there be, if you go to that now—therefore I’m resolv’d
—
Will. Oh!
Hell. To see your Face no more—
Will. Oh!
Hell. Till to morrow.
Will. Egad you frighted me.
Hell. Nor then neither, unless you’l swear never to see that Lady more.
Will. See her!—why! never to think of Womankind again?
Hell. Kneel, and swear. [Kneels, she gives him her hand.
Hell. I do, never to think—to see—to love—nor lie with any but thy self.
Hell. Kiss the Book.
Will. Oh, most religiously. [Kisses her Hand.
Hell. Now what a wicked Creature am I, to damn a proper Fellow.

Call. Madam, I’ll stay no longer, ’tis e’en dark. [To Flor.
Flor. However, Sir, I’ll leave this with you—that when I’m gone, you may
repent the opportunity you have lost by your modesty.
[Gives him the Jewel, which is her Picture, and Ex. He gazes after
her.
Will. ’Twill be an Age till to morrow,—and till then I will most
impatiently expect you—Adieu, my dear pretty Angel.
[Ex. all the Women.
Belv. Ha! Florinda’s Picture! ’twas she her self—what a dull Dog was I?
I would have given the World for one minute’s discourse with her.—
Fred. This comes of your Modesty,—ah pox on your Vow,’twas ten to one
but we had lost the Jewel by’t.
Belv. Willmore! the blessed’st Opportunity lost!—Florinda, Friends,
Florinda!
Will. Ah Rogue! such black Eyes, such a Face, such a Mouth, such Teeth,
—and so much Wit!
Belv. All, all, and a thousand Charms besides.
Will. Why, dost thou know her?
Belv. Know her! ay, ay, and a Pox take me with all my Heart for being
modest.
Will. But hark ye, Friend of mine, are you my Rival? and have I been only
beating the Bush all this while?
Belv. I understand thee not—I’m mad—see here—
[Shews the Picture.
Will. Ha! whose Picture is this?—’tis a fine Wench.
Fred. The Colonel’s Mistress, Sir.
Will. Oh, oh, here—I thought it had been another Prize—come, come,
a Bottle will set thee right again. [Gives the Picture back.

Belv. I am content to try, and by that time ’twill be late enough for our
Design.
Will. Agreed.
Love does all day the Soul’s great Empire keep,
But Wine at night lulls the soft God asleep. [Exeunt.

Scene II. Lucetta’s House.
Enter Blunt and Lucetta with a Light.
Luc. Now we are safe and free, no fears of the coming home of my old
jealous Husband, which made me a little thoughtful when you came in
first—but now Love is all the business of my Soul.
Blunt. I am transported—Pox on’t, that I had but some fine things to say
to her, such as Lovers use—I was a Fool not to learn of Fred, a little by
Heart before I came—something I must say.— [Aside. ’Sheartlikins, sweet
Soul, I am not us’d to complement, but I’m an honest Gentleman, and thy
humble Servant.
Luc. I have nothing to pay for so great a Favour, but such a Love as
cannot but be great, since at first sight of that sweet Face and Shape it
made me your absolute Captive.
Blunt. Kind heart, how prettily she talks! Egad I’ll show her Husband a
Spanish Trick; send him out of the World, and marry her: she’s damnably
in love with me, and will ne’er mind Settlements, and so there’s that say’d.
[Aside.
Luc. Well, Sir, I’ll go and undress me, and be with you instantly.
Blunt. Make haste then, for ’dsheartlikins, dear Soul, thou canst not guess
at the pain of a longing Lover, when his Joys are drawn within the
compass of a few minutes.
Luc. You speak my Sense, and I’ll make haste to provide it. [Exit.
Blunt. ’Tis a rare Girl, and this one night’s enjoyment with her will be
worth all the days I ever past in Essex.—Would she’d go with me into

England, tho to say truth, there’s plenty of Whores there already.—But a
pox on ’em they are such mercenary prodigal Whores, that they want such
a one as this, that’s free and generous, to give ’em good Examples:—Why,
what a House she has! how rich and fine!
Enter Sancho.
Sancho. Sir, my Lady has sent me to conduct you to her Chamber.
Blunt. Sir, I shall be proud to follow—Here’s one of her Servants too:
’dsheartlikins, by his Garb and Gravity he might be a Justice of Peace in
Essex, and is but a Pimp here. [Exeunt.
The Scene changes to a Chamber with an Alcove-Bed in it, a Table,
&c. Lucetta in Bed. Enter Sancho and Blunt, who takes the Candle
of Sancho at the Door.
Sanch. Sir, my Commission reaches no farther.
Blunt. Sir, I’ll excuse your Complement:—what, in Bed, my sweet
Mistress?
Luc. You see, I still out-do you in kindness.
Blunt. And thou shall see what haste I’ll make to quit scores—oh the
luckiest Rogue! [Undresses himself.
Luc. Shou’d you be false or cruel now!
Blunt. False, ’Sheartlikins, what dost thou take me for a Jew? an
insensible Heathen,—A Pox of thy old jealous Husband: and he were
dead, egad, sweet Soul, it shou’d be none of my fault, if I did not marry
thee.
Luc. It never shou’d be mine.
Blunt. Good Soul, I’m the fortunatest Dog!
Luc. Are you not undrest yet?
Blunt. As much as my Impatience will permit.
[Goes towards the Bed in his Shirt and Drawers.
Luc. Hold, Sir, put out the Light, it may betray us else.

Blunt. Any thing, I need no other Light but that of thine Eyes!
—’sheartlikins, there I think I had it. [Aside.
[Puts out the Candle, the Bed descends, he gropes about to find it.
—Why—why—where am I got? what, not yet?—where are you sweetest?
—ah, the Rogue’s silent now—a pretty Love-trick this—how she’ll laugh
at me anon!—you need not, my dear Rogue! you need not! I’m all on a
fire already—come, come, now call me in for pity—Sure I’m enchanted! I
have been round the Chamber, and can find neither Woman, nor Bed—
I lockt the Door, I’m sure she cannot go that way; or if she cou’d, the Bed
cou’d not—Enough, enough, my pretty Wanton, do not carry the Jest too
far—Ha, betray’d! Dogs! Rogues! Pimps! help! help!
[Lights on a Trap, and is let down.
Enter Lucetta, Philippo, and Sancho with a Light.
Phil. Ha, ha, ha, he’s dispatcht finely.
Luc. Now, Sir, had I been coy, we had mist of this Booty.
Phil. Nay when I saw ’twas a substantial Fool, I was mollified; but when
you doat upon a Serenading Coxcomb, upon a Face, fine Clothes, and a
Lute, it makes me rage.
Luc. You know I never was guilty of that Folly, my dear Philippo, but
with your self—But come let’s see what we have got by this.
Phil. A rich Coat!—Sword and Hat!—these Breeches too—are well lin’d!
—see here a Gold Watch!—a Purse—ha! Gold!—at least two hundred
Pistoles! a bunch of Diamond Rings; and one with the Family Arms!—
a Gold Box!—with a Medal of his King! and his Lady Mother’s Picture!
—these were sacred Reliques, believe me!—see, the Wasteband of his
Breeches have a Mine of Gold!—Old Queen Bess’s. We have a Quarrel to
her ever since Eighty Eight, and may therefore justify the Theft, the
Inquisition might have committed it.
Luc. See, a Bracelet of bow’d Gold, these his Sister ty’d about his Arm at
parting—but well—for all this, I fear his being a Stranger may make a
noise, and hinder our Trade with them hereafter.

Phil. That’s our security; he is not only a Stranger to us, but to the
Country too—the Common-Shore into which he is descended, thou
know’st, conducts him into another Street, which this Light will hinder
him from ever finding again—he knows neither your Name, nor the Street
where your House is, nay, nor the way to his own Lodgings.
Luc. And art not thou an unmerciful Rogue, not to afford him one Night
for all this?—I should not have been such a Jew.
Phil. Blame me not, Lucetta, to keep as much of thee as I can to my self
—come, that thought makes me wanton,—let’s to Bed,—Sancho, lock up
these.
This is the Fleece which Fools do bear,
Design’d for witty Men to sheer. [Exeunt.

The Scene changes, and discovers Blunt, creeping out of a Common
Shore, his Face, &c., all dirty.
Blunt. Oh Lord! [Climbing up.
I am got out at last, and (which is a Miracle) without a Clue—and now to
Damning and Cursing,—but if that would ease me, where shall I begin?
with my Fortune, my self, or the Quean that cozen’d me—What a dog was
I to believe in Women! Oh Coxcomb—ignorant conceited Coxcomb! to
fancy she cou’d be enamour’d with my Person, at the first sight
enamour’d—Oh, I’m a cursed Puppy,’tis plain, Fool was writ upon my
Forehead, she perceiv’d it,—saw the Essex Calf there—for what
Allurements could there be in this Countenance? which I can indure,
because I’m acquainted with it—Oh, dull silly Dog! to be thus sooth’d
into a Cozening! Had I been drunk, I might fondly have credited the young
Quean! but as I was in my right Wits, to be thus cheated, confirms I am a
dull believing English Country Fop.—But my Comrades! Death and the
Devil, there’s the worst of all—then a Ballad will be sung to Morrow on
the Prado, to a lousy Tune of the enchanted Squire, and the annihilated
Damsel—But Fred, that Rogue, and the Colonel, will abuse me beyond all
Christian patience—had she left me my Clothes, I have a Bill of Exchange
at home wou’d have sav’d my Credit—but now all hope is taken from me
—Well, I’ll home (if I can find the way) with this Consolation, that I am

not the first kind believing Coxcomb; but there are, Gallants, many such
good Natures amongst ye.
And tho you’ve better Arts to hide your Follies,
Adsheartlikins y’are all as errant Cullies.

Scene III. The Garden, in the Night.
Enter Florinda undres’d, with a Key, and a little Box.
Flor. Well, thus far I’m in my way to Happiness; I have got my self free
from Callis; my Brother too, I find by yonder light, is gone into his
Cabinet, and thinks not of me: I have by good Fortune got the Key of the
Garden Back-door,—I’ll open it, to prevent Belvile’s knocking,—a little
noise will now alarm my Brother. Now am I as fearful as a young Thief.
[Unlocks the Door.] —Hark,—what noise is that?—Oh,’twas the Wind
that plaid amongst the Boughs.—Belvile stays long, methinks—it’s time—
stay—for fear of a surprize, I’ll hide these Jewels in yonder Jessamin.
[She goes to lay down the Box.
Enter Willmore drunk.
Will. What the Devil is become of these Fellows, Belvile and Frederick?
They promis’d to stay at the next corner for me, but who the Devil knows
the corner of a full Moon?—Now—whereabouts am I?—hah—what have
we here? a Garden!—a very convenient place to sleep in—hah—what has
God sent us here?—a Female—by this light, a Woman; I’m a Dog if it be
not a very Wench.—
Flor. He’s come!—hah—who’s there?
Will. Sweet Soul, let me salute thy Shoe-string.
Flor. ’Tis not my Belvile—good Heavens, I know him not.—Who are
you, and from whence come you?
Will. Prithee—prithee, Child—not so many hard Questions—let it suffice
I am here, Child—Come, come kiss me.
Flor. Good Gods! what luck is mine?

Will. Only good luck, Child, parlous good luck—Come hither,—’tis a
delicate shining Wench,—by this Hand she’s perfum’d, and smells like
any Nosegay.—Prithee, dear Soul, let’s not play the Fool, and lose time,—
precious time—for as Gad shall save me, I’m as honest a Fellow as
breathes, tho I am a little disguis’d at present.—Come, I say,—why, thou
may’st be free with me, I’ll be very secret. I’ll not boast who ’twas oblig’d
me, not I—for hang me if I know thy Name.
Flor. Heavens! what a filthy beast is this!
Will. I am so, and thou oughtst the sooner to lie with me for that reason,—
for look you, Child, there will be no Sin in’t, because ’twas neither
design’d nor premeditated; ’tis pure Accident on both sides—that’s a
certain thing now—Indeed should I make love to you, and you vow
Fidelity—and swear and lye till you believ’d and yielded—Thou art
therefore (as thou art a good Christian) oblig’d in Conscience to deny me
nothing. Now—come, be kind, without any more idle prating.
Flor. Oh, I am ruin’d—wicked Man, unhand me.
Will. Wicked! Egad, Child, a Judge, were he young and vigorous, and saw
those Eyes of thine, would know ’twas they gave the first blow—the first
provocation.—Come, prithee let’s lose no time, I say—this is a fine
convenient place.
Flor. Sir, let me go, I conjure you, or I’ll call out.
Will. Ay, ay, you were best to call Witness to see how finely you treat me
—do.—
Flor. I’ll cry Murder, Rape, or any thing, if you do not instantly let me go.
Will. A Rape! Come, come, you lye, you Baggage, you lye: What, I’ll
warrant you would fain have the World believe now that you are not so
forward as I. No, not you,—why at this time of Night was your Cobweb-
door set open, dear Spider—but to catch Flies?—Hah come—or I shall be
damnably angry.—Why what a Coil is here.—
Flor. Sir, can you think—

Will. That you’d do it for nothing? oh, oh, I find what you’d be at—look
here, here’s a Pistole for you—here’s a work indeed—here—take it, I say.
—
Flor. For Heaven’s sake, Sir, as you’re a Gentleman—
Will. So—now—she would be wheedling me for more—what, you will
not take it then—you’re resolv’d you will not.—Come, come, take it, or
I’ll put it up again; for, look ye, I never give more.—Why, how now,
Mistress, are you so high i’th’ Mouth, a Pistole won’t down with you?—
hah—why, what a work’s here—in good time—come, no struggling, be
gone—But an y’are good at a dumb Wrestle, I’m for ye,—look ye,—I’m
for ye.— [She struggles with him.
Enter Belvile and Frederick.
Bel. The Door is open, a Pox of this mad Fellow, I’m angry that we’ve
lost him, I durst have sworn he had follow’d us.
Fred. But you were so hasty, Colonel, to be gone.
Flor. Help, help,—Murder!—help—oh, I’m ruin’d.
Belv. Ha, sure that’s Florinda’s Voice. [Comes up to them.
—A Man! Villain, let go that Lady. [A noise.
[Will. turns and draws, Fred. interposes.
Flor. Belvile! Heavens! my Brother too is coming, and ’twill be
impossible to escape.—Belvile, I conjure you to walk under my Chamber-
window, from whence I’ll give you some instructions what to do—This
rude Man has undone us. [Exit.
Will. Belvile!
Enter Pedro, Stephano, and other Servants with Lights.
Ped. I’m betray’d; run, Stephano, and see if Florinda be safe.
[Exit Steph.
So whoe’er they be, all is not well, I’ll to Florinda’s Chamber.

[They fight, and Pedro’s Party beats ’em out; going out, meets
Stephano.
Steph. You need not, Sir, the poor Lady’s fast asleep, and thinks no harm:
I wou’d not wake her, Sir, for fear of frightning her with your danger.
Ped. I’m glad she’s there—Rascals, how came the Garden-Door open?
Steph. That Question comes too late, Sir: some of my Fellow-Servants
Masquerading I’ll warrant.
Ped. Masquerading! a leud Custom to debauch our Youth—there’s
something more in this than I imagine. [Exeunt.

Scene IV. Changes to the Street.
Enter Belvile in Rage, Fred. holding him, and Willmore melancholy.
Will. Why, how the Devil shou’d I know Florinda?
Belv. Ah plague of your ignorance! if it had not been Florinda, must you
be a Beast?—a Brute, a senseless Swine?
Will. Well, Sir, you see I am endu’d with Patience—I can bear—tho egad
y’re very free with me methinks,—I was in good hopes the Quarrel wou’d
have been on my side, for so uncivilly interrupting me.
Belv. Peace, Brute, whilst thou’rt safe—oh, I’m distracted.
Will. Nay, nay, I’m an unlucky Dog, that’s certain.
Belv. Ah curse upon the Star that rul’d my Birth! or whatsoever other
Influence that makes me still so wretched.
Will. Thou break’st my Heart with these Complaints; there is no Star in
fault, no Influence but Sack, the cursed Sack I drank.
Fred. Why, how the Devil came you so drunk?
Will. Why, how the Devil came you so sober?
Belv. A curse upon his thin Skull, he was always before-hand that way.
Fred. Prithee, dear Colonel, forgive him, he’s sorry for his fault.

Belv. He’s always so after he has done a mischief—a plague on all such
Brutes.
Will. By this Light I took her for an errant Harlot.
Belv. Damn your debaucht Opinion: tell me, Sot, hadst thou so much
sense and light about thee to distinguish her to be a Woman, and could’st
not see something about her Face and Person, to strike an awful Reverence
into thy Soul?
Will. Faith no, I consider’d her as mere a Woman as I could wish.
Belv. ’Sdeath I have no patience—draw, or I’ll kill you.
Will. Let that alone till to morrow, and if I set not all right again, use your
Pleasure.
Belv. To morrow, damn it.
The spiteful Light will lead me to no happiness.
To morrow is Antonio’s, and perhaps
Guides him to my undoing;—oh that I could meet
This Rival, this powerful Fortunate.
Will. What then?
Belv. Let thy own Reason, or my Rage instruct thee.
Will. I shall be finely inform’d then, no doubt; hear me, Colonel—hear me
—shew me the Man and I’ll do his Business.
Belv. I know him no more than thou, or if I did, I should not need thy aid.
Will. This you say is Angelica’s House, I promis’d the kind Baggage to lie
with her to Night. [Offers to go in.
Enter Antonio and his Page. Ant. knocks on the Hilt of his Sword.
Ant. You paid the thousand Crowns I directed?
Page. To the Lady’s old Woman, Sir, I did.
Will. Who the Devil have we here?

Belv. I’ll now plant my self under Florinda’s Window, and if I find no
comfort there, I’ll die. [Ex. Belv. and Fred.
Enter Moretta.
Moret. Page!
Page. Here’s my Lord.
Will. How is this, a Piccaroon going to board my Frigate! here’s one
Chase-Gun for you.
[Drawing his Sword, justles Ant. who turns and draws. They fight,
Ant. falls.
Moret. Oh, bless us, we are all undone! [Runs in, and shuts the Door.
Page. Help, Murder! [Belvile returns at the noise of fighting.
Belv. Ha, the mad Rogue’s engag’d in some unlucky Adventure again.
Enter two or three Masqueraders.
Masq. Ha, a Man kill’d!
Will. How! a Man kill’d! then I’ll go home to sleep.
[Puts up, and reels out. Ex. Masquers another way.
Belv. Who shou’d it be! pray Heaven the Rogue is safe, for all my Quarrel
to him. [As Belvile is groping about, enter an Officer and six Soldiers.
Sold. Who’s there?
Offic. So, here’s one dispatcht—secure the Murderer.
Belv. Do not mistake my Charity for Murder:
I came to his Assistance. [Soldiers seize on Belvile.
Offic. That shall be tried, Sir.—St. Jago, Swords drawn in the Carnival
time! [Goes to Antonio.
Ant. Thy Hand prithee.
Offic. Ha, Don Antonio! look well to the Villain there.—How is’t, Sir?
Ant. I’m hurt.

Belv. Has my Humanity made me a Criminal?
Offic. Away with him.
Belv. What a curst Chance is this! [Ex. Soldiers with Belv.
Ant. This is the Man that has set upon me twice— carry him to my
Apartment till you have further Orders from me.
[To the Officer. Ex. Ant. led.

ACT IV.

Scene I. A fine Room.
Discovers Belvile, as by Dark alone.
Belv. When shall I be weary of railing on Fortune, who is resolv’d never
to turn with Smiles upon me?—Two such Defeats in one Night—none but
the Devil and that mad Rogue could have contriv’d to have plagued me
with—I am here a Prisoner—but where?—Heaven knows—and if there be
Murder done, I can soon decide the Fate of a Stranger in a Nation without
Mercy—Yet this is nothing to the Torture my Soul bows with, when I
think of losing my fair, my dear Florinda.—Hark—my Door opens—
a Light—a Man—and seems of Quality—arm’d too.—Now shall I die like
a Dog without defence.
Enter Antonio in a Night-Gown, with a Light; his Arm in a Scarf, and
a Sword under his Arm: He sets the Candle on the Table.
Ant. Sir, I come to know what Injuries I have done you, that could
provoke you to so mean an Action, as to attack me basely, without
allowing time for my Defence.
Belv. Sir, for a Man in my Circumstances to plead Innocence, would look
like Fear—but view me well, and you will find no marks of a Coward on
me, nor any thing that betrays that Brutality you accuse me of.
Ant. In vain, Sir, you impose upon my Sense,
You are not only he who drew on me last Night,

But yesterday before the same House, that of Angelica.
Yet there is something in your Face and Mein—
Belv. I own I fought to day in the defence of a Friend of mine, with whom
you (if you’re the same) and your Party were first engag’d.
Perhaps you think this Crime enough to kill me,
But if you do, I cannot fear you’ll do it basely.
Ant. No, Sir, I’ll make you fit for a Defence with this.
[Gives him the Sword.
Belv. This Gallantry surprizes me—nor know I how to use this Present,
Sir, against a Man so brave.
Ant. You shall not need;
For know, I come to snatch you from a Danger
That is decreed against you;
Perhaps your Life, or long Imprisonment:
And ’twas with so much Courage you offended,
I cannot see you punisht.
Belv. How shall I pay this Generosity?
Ant. It had been safer to have kill’d another,
Than have attempted me:
To shew your Danger, Sir, I’ll let you know my Quality;
And ’tis the Vice-Roy’s Son whom you have wounded.
Belv. The Vice-Roy’s Son!
Death and Confusion! was this Plague reserved
To compleat all the rest?—oblig’d by him!
The Man of all the World I would destroy. [Aside.
Ant. You seem disorder’d, Sir.
Belv. Yes, trust me, Sir, I am, and ’tis with pain
That Man receives such Bounties,
Who wants the pow’r to pay ’em back again.
Ant. To gallant Spirits ’tis indeed uneasy;
—But you may quickly over-pay me, Sir.

Belv. Then I am well—kind Heaven! but set us even,
That I may fight with him, and keep my Honour safe. [Aside.
—Oh, I’m impatient, Sir, to be discounting
The mighty Debt I owe you; command me quickly—
Ant. I have a Quarrel with a Rival, Sir,
About the Maid we love.
Belv. Death,’tis Florinda he means—
That Thought destroys my Reason, and I shall kill him— [Aside.
Ant. My Rival, Sir.
Is one has all the Virtues Man can boast of.
Belv. Death! who shou’d this be? [Aside.
Ant. He challeng’d me to meet him on the Molo,
As soon as Day appear’d; but last Night’s quarrel
Has made my Arm unfit to guide a Sword.
Belv. I apprehend you, Sir, you’d have me kill the Man
That lays a claim to the Maid you speak of.
—I’ll do’t—I’ll fly to do it.
Ant. Sir, do you know her?
Belv. —No, Sir, but ’tis enough she is admired by you.
Ant. Sir, I shall rob you of the Glory on’t,
For you must fight under my Name and Dress.
Belv. That Opinion must be strangely obliging that makes
You think I can personate the brave Antonio,
Whom I can but strive to imitate.
Ant. You say too much to my Advantage.
Come, Sir, the Day appears that calls you forth.
Within, Sir, is the Habit. [Exit Antonio.
Belv. Fantastick Fortune, thou deceitful Light,
That cheats the wearied Traveller by Night,
Tho on a Precipice each step you tread,

I am resolv’d to follow where you lead. [Exit.

Scene II. The Molo.
Enter Florinda and Callis in Masques, with Stephano.
Flor. I’m dying with my fears; Belvile’s not coming,
As I expected, underneath my Window,
Makes me believe that all those Fears are true. [Aside.
—Canst thou not tell with whom my Brother fights?
Steph. No, Madam, they were both in Masquerade, I was by when they
challeng’d one another, and they had decided the Quarrel then, but were
prevented by some Cavaliers; which made ’em put it off till now—but I
am sure ’tis about you they fight.
Flor. Nay then ’tis with Belvile, for what other Lover have I that dares
fight for me, except Antonio? and he is too much in favour with my
Brother—If it be he, for whom shall I direct my Prayers to Heaven?
[Aside.
Steph. Madam, I must leave you; for if my Master see me, I shall be
hang’d for being your Conductor.—I escap’d narrowly for the Excuse I
made for you last night i’th’ Garden.
Flor. And I’ll reward thee for’t—prithee no more. [Exit. Steph.
Enter Don Pedro in his Masquing Habit.
Pedro. Antonio’s late to day, the place will fill, and we may be prevented.
[Walk about.
Flor. Antonio! sure I heard amiss. [Aside.
Pedro. But who would not excuse a happy Lover.
When soft fair Arms confine the yielding Neck;
And the kind Whisper languishingly breathes,
Must you be gone so soon?
Sure I had dwelt for ever on her Bosom.
—But stay, he’s here.

Enter Belvile drest in Antonio’s Clothes.
Flor. ’Tis not Belvile, half my Fears are vanisht.
Pedro. Antonio!—
Belv. This must be he. [Aside.] You’re early, Sir,—I do not use to be
out-done this way.
Pedro. The wretched, Sir, are watchful, and ’tis enough
You have the advantage of me in Angelica.
Belv. Angelica!
Or I’ve mistook my Man! Or else Antonio,
Can he forget his Interest in Florinda,
And fight for common Prize? [Aside.
Pedro. Come, Sir, you know our terms—
Belv. By Heaven, not I. [Aside.] —No talking, I am ready, Sir.
[Offers to fight. Flor. runs in.
Flor. Oh, hold! whoe’er you be, I do conjure you hold.
If you strike here—I die— [To Belv.
Pedro. Florinda!
Belv. Florinda imploring for my Rival!
Pedro. Away, this Kindness is unseasonable.
[Puts her by, they fight; she runs in just as Belv. disarms Pedro.
Flor. Who are you, Sir, that dare deny my Prayers?
Belv. Thy Prayers destroy him; if thou wouldst preserve him.
Do that thou’rt unacquainted with, and curse him. [She holds him.
Flor. By all you hold most dear, by her you love,
I do conjure you, touch him not.
Belv. By her I love!
See—I obey—and at your Feet resign
The useless Trophy of my Victory. [Lays his sword at her Feet.

Pedro. Antonio, you’ve done enough to prove you love Florinda.
Belv. Love Florinda!
Does Heaven love Adoration, Pray’r, or Penitence?
Love her! here Sir,—your Sword again.
[Snatches up the Sword, and gives it him.
Upon this Truth I’ll fight my Life away.
Pedro. No, you’ve redeem’d my Sister, and my Friendship.
Belv. Don Pedro!
[He gives him Flor. and pulls off his Vizard to shew his Face, and
puts it on again.
Pedro. Can you resign your Claims to other Women,
And give your Heart intirely to Florinda?
Belv. Intire, as dying Saints Confessions are.
I can delay my happiness no longer.
This minute let me make Florinda mine:
Pedro. This minute let it be—no time so proper,
This Night my Father will arrive from Rome,
And possibly may hinder what we propose.
Flor. Oh Heavens! this Minute! [Enter Masqueraders, and pass over.
Belv. Oh, do not ruin me!
Pedro. The place begins to fill; and that we may not be observ’d, do you
walk off to St. Peter’s Church, where I will meet you, and conclude your
Happiness.
Belv. I’ll meet you there—if there be no more Saints Churches in Naples.
[Aside.
Flor. Oh stay, Sir, and recall your hasty Doom:
Alas I have not yet prepar’d my Heart
To entertain so strange a Guest.
Pedro. Away, this silly Modesty is assum’d too late.

Belv. Heaven, Madam! what do you do?
Flor. Do! despise the Man that lays a Tyrant’s Claim
To what he ought to conquer by Submission.
Belv. You do not know me—move a little this way. [Draws her aside.
Flor. Yes, you may even force me to the Altar,
But not the holy Man that offers there
Shall force me to be thine. [Pedro talks to Callis this while.
Belv. Oh do not lose so blest an opportunity!
See—’tis your Belvile—not Antonio,
Whom your mistaken Scorn and Anger ruins. [Pulls off his Vizard.
Flor. Belvile!
Where was my Soul it cou’d not meet thy Voice,
And take this knowledge in?
[As they are talking, enter Willmore finely drest, and Frederick.
Will. No Intelligence! no News of Belvile yet—well I am the most
unlucky Rascal in Nature—ha!—am I deceiv’d—or is it he—look, Fred.
—’tis he—my dear Belvile.
[Runs and embraces him. Belv. Vizard falls out on’s Hand.
Belv. Hell and Confusion seize thee!
Pedro. Ha! Belvile! I beg your Pardon, Sir. [Takes Flor. from him.
Belv. Nay, touch her not, she’s mine by Conquest, Sir. I won her by my
Sword.
Will. Did’st thou so—and egad, Child, we’ll keep her by the Sword.
[Draws on Pedro, Belv. goes between.
Belv. Stand off.
Thou’rt so profanely leud, so curst by Heaven,
All Quarrels thou espousest must be fatal.
Will. Nay, an you be so hot, my Valour’s coy,
And shall be courted when you want it next. [Puts up his Sword.

Belv. You know I ought to claim a Victor’s Right, [To Pedro.
But you’re the Brother to divine Florinda,
To whom I’m such a Slave—to purchase her,
I durst not hurt the Man she holds so dear.
Pedro. ’Twas by Antonio’s, not by Belvile’s Sword,
This Question should have been decided, Sir:
I must confess much to your Bravery’s due,
Both now, and when I met you last in Arms.
But I am nicely punctual in my word,
As Men of Honour ought, and beg your Pardon.
—For this Mistake another Time shall clear.
—This was some Plot between you and Belvile:
But I’ll prevent you. [Aside to Flor. as they are going out.
[Belv. looks after her, and begins to walk up and down in a Rage.
Will. Do not be modest now, and lose the Woman: but if we shall fetch her
back, so—
Belv. Do not speak to me.
Will. Not speak to you!—Egad, I’ll speak to you, and will be answered
too.
Belv. Will you, Sir?
Will. I know I’ve done some mischief, but I’m so dull a Puppy, that I am
the Son of a Whore, if I know how, or where—prithee inform my
Understanding.—
Belv. Leave me I say, and leave me instantly.
Will. I will not leave you in this humour, nor till I know my Crime.
Belv. Death, I’ll tell you, Sir—
[Draws and runs at Will. he runs out; Belv. after him, Fred.
interposes.
Enter Angelica, Moretta, and Sebastian.

Ang. Ha—Sebastian—Is not that Willmore? haste, haste, and bring him
back.
Fred. The Colonel’s mad—I never saw him thus before; I’ll after ’em, lest
he do some mischief, for I am sure Willmore will not draw on him.
[Exit.
Ang. I am all Rage! my first desires defeated
For one, for ought he knows, that has no
Other Merit than her Quality,—
Her being Don Pedro’s Sister—He loves her:
I know ’tis so—dull, dull, insensible—
He will not see me now tho oft invited;
And broke his Word last night—false perjur’d Man!
—He that but yesterday fought for my Favours,
And would have made his Life a Sacrifice
To’ve gain’d one Night with me,
Must now be hired and courted to my Arms.
Moret. I told you what wou’d come on’t, but Moretta’s an old doating
Fool—Why did you give him five hundred Crowns, but to set himself out
for other Lovers? You shou’d have kept him poor, if you had meant to
have had any good from him.
Ang. Oh, name not such mean Trifles.—Had I given him all
My Youth has earn’d from Sin,
I had not lost a Thought nor Sigh upon’t.
But I have given him my eternal Rest,
My whole Repose, my future Joys, my Heart;
My Virgin Heart. Moretta! oh ’tis gone!
Moret. Curse on him, here he comes;
How fine she has made him too!

Enter Willmore and Sebast. Ang. turns and walks away.
Will. How now, turn’d Shadow?
Fly when I pursue, and follow when I fly!
Stay gentle Shadow of my Dove, [Sings.

And tell me e’er I go,
Whether the Substance may not prove
A fleeting Thing like you.
There’s a soft kind Look remaining yet.
[As she turns she looks on him.
Ang. Well, Sir, you may be gay; all Happiness, all Joys pursue you still,
Fortune’s your Slave, and gives you every hour choice of new Hearts and
Beauties, till you are cloy’d with the repeated Bliss, which others vainly
languish for—But know, false Man, that I shall be reveng’d.
[Turns away in a Rage.
Will. So, ’gad, there are of those faint-hearted Lovers, whom such a sharp
Lesson next their Hearts would make as impotent as Fourscore—pox o’
this whining—my Bus’ness is to laugh and love—a pox on’t; I hate your
sullen Lover, a Man shall lose as much time to put you in Humour now, as
would serve to gain a new Woman.
Ang. I scorn to cool that Fire I cannot raise, Or do the Drudgery of your
virtuous Mistress.
Will. A virtuous Mistress! Death, what a thing thou hast found out for me!
why what the Devil should I do with a virtuous Woman?—a fort of ill-
natur’d Creatures, that take a Pride to torment a Lover. Virtue is but an
Infirmity in Women, a Disease that renders even the handsom ungrateful;
whilst the ill-favour’d, for want of Solicitations and Address, only fancy
themselves so.—I have lain with a Woman of Quality, who has all the
while been railing at Whores.
Ang. I will not answer for your Mistress’s Virtue,
Tho she be young enough to know no Guilt:
And I could wish you would persuade my Heart,
’Twas the two hundred thousand Crowns you courted.
Will. Two hundred thousand Crowns! what Story’s this?—what Trick?—
what Woman?—ha.
Ang. How strange you make it! have you forgot the Creature you
entertain’d on the Piazza last night?

Will. Ha, my Gipsy worth two hundred thousand Crowns!—oh how I long
to be with her—pox, I knew she was of Quality. [Aside.
Ang. False Man, I see my Ruin in thy Face.
How many vows you breath’d upon my Bosom,
Never to be unjust—have you forgot so soon?
Will. Faith no, I was just coming to repeat ’em—but here’s a Humour
indeed—would make a Man a Saint—Wou’d she’d be angry enough to
leave me, and command me not to wait on her. [Aside.
Enter Hellena, drest in Man’s Clothes.
Hell. This must be Angelica, I know it by her mumping Matron here—Ay,
ay,’tis she: my mad Captain’s with her too, for all his swearing—how this
unconstant Humour makes me love him:—pray, good grave
Gentlewoman, is not this Angelica?
Moret. My too young Sir, it is—I hope ’tis one from Don Antonio.
[Goes to Angelica.
Hell. Well, something I’ll do to vex him for this. [Aside.
Ang. I will not speak with him; am I in humour to receive a Lover?
Will. Not speak with him! why I’ll be gone—and wait your idler minutes
—Can I shew less Obedience to the thing I love so fondly?
[Offers to go.
Ang. A fine Excuse this—stay—
Will. And hinder your Advantage: should I repay your Bounties so
ungratefully?
Ang. Come hither, Boy,—that I may let you see
How much above the Advantages you name
I prize one Minute’s Joy with you.
Will. Oh, you destroy me with this Endearment.
[Impatient to be gone.
—Death, how shall I get away?—Madam,’twill not be fit I should be seen
with you—besides, it will not be convenient—and I’ve a Friend—that’s

dangerously sick.
Ang. I see you’re impatient—yet you shall stay.
Will. And miss my Assignation with my Gipsy.
[Aside, and walks about impatiently.
Hell. Madam,
[Moretta brings Hellena, who addresses her self to Angelica.
You’l hardly pardon my Intrusion,
When you shall know my Business;
And I’m too young to tell my Tale with Art:
But there must be a wondrous store of Goodness
Where so much Beauty dwells.
Ang. A pretty Advocate, whoever sent thee,
—Prithee proceed—Nay, Sir, you shall not go.
[To Will. who is stealing off.
Will. Then shall I lose my dear Gipsy for ever.
—Pox on’t, she stays me out of spite. [Aside.
Hell. I am related to a Lady, Madam,
Young, rich, and nobly born, but has the fate
To be in love with a young English Gentleman.
Strangely she loves him, at first sight she lov’d him,
But did adore him when she heard him speak;
For he, she said, had Charms in every word,
That fail’d not to surprize, to wound, and conquer—
Will. Ha, Egad I hope this concerns me. [Aside.
Ang. ’Tis my false Man, he means—wou’d he were gone.
This Praise will raise his Pride and ruin me—Well,
Since you are so impatient to be gone,
I will release you, Sir. [To Will.
Will. Nay, then I’m sure ’twas me he spoke of, this cannot be the Effects
of Kindness in her. [Aside.
—No, Madam, I’ve consider’d better on’t,

And will not give you cause of Jealousy.
Ang. But, Sir, I’ve—business, that—
Will. This shall not do, I know ’tis but to try me.
Ang. Well, to your Story, Boy,—tho ’twill undo me. [Aside.
Hell. With this Addition to his other Beauties,
He won her unresisting tender Heart,
He vow’d and sigh’d, and swore he lov’d her dearly;
And she believ’d the cunning Flatterer,
And thought her self the happiest Maid alive:
To day was the appointed time by both,
To consummate their Bliss;
The Virgin, Altar, and the Priest were drest,
And whilst she languisht for the expected Bridegroom,
She heard, he paid his broken Vows to you.
Will. So, this is some dear Rogue that’s in love with me, and this way lets
me know it; or if it be not me, she means some one whose place I may
supply. [Aside.
Ang. Now I perceive
The cause of thy Impatience to be gone,
And all the business of this glorious Dress.
Will. Damn the young Prater, I know not what he means.
Hell. Madam,
In your fair Eyes I read too much concern
To tell my farther Business.
Ang. Prithee, sweet Youth, talk on, thou may’st perhaps
Raise here a Storm that may undo my Passion,
And then I’ll grant thee any thing.
Hell. Madam,’tis to intreat you, (oh unreasonable!)
You wou’d not see this Stranger;
For if you do, she vows you are undone,
Tho Nature never made a Man so excellent;

And sure he’ad been a God, but for Inconstancy.
Will. Ah, Rogue, how finely he’s instructed! [Aside.] —’Tis plain
some Woman that has seen me en passant.
Ang. Oh, I shall burst with Jealousy! do you know the Man you speak of?
—
Hell. Yes, Madam, he us’d to be in Buff and Scarlet.
Ang. Thou, false as Hell, what canst thou say to this? [To Will.
Will. By Heaven—
Ang. Hold, do not damn thy self—
Hell. Nor hope to be believ’d. [He walks about, they follow.
Ang. Oh, perjur’d Man!
Is’t thus you pay my generous Passion back?
Hell. Why wou’d you, Sir, abuse my Lady’s Faith?
Ang. And use me so inhumanly?
Hell. A Maid so young, so innocent—
Will. Ah, young Devil!
Ang. Dost thou not know thy Life is in my Power?
Hell. Or think my Lady cannot be reveng’d?
Will. So, so, the Storm comes finely on. [Aside.
Ang. Now thou art silent, Guilt has struck thee dumb.
Oh, hadst thou still been so, I’d liv’d in safety.
[She turns away and weeps.
Will. Sweetheart, the Lady’s Name and House—quickly: I’m impatient to
be with her.—
[Aside to Hellena, looks towards Angel. to watch her turning; and as
she comes towards them, he meets her.
Hell. So now is he for another Woman. [Aside.
Will. The impudent’st young thing in Nature!

I cannot persuade him out of his Error, Madam.
Ang. I know he’s in the right,—yet thou’st a Tongue
That wou’d persuade him to deny his Faith. [In Rage walks away.
Will. Her Name, her Name, dear Boy— [Said softly to Hell.
Hell. Have you forgot it, Sir?
Will. Oh, I perceive he’s not to know I am a Stranger to his Lady.
[Aside.
—Yes, yes, I do know—but—I have forgot the— [Angel. turns.
—By Heaven, such early confidence I never saw.
Ang. Did I not charge you with this Mistress, Sir?
Which you denied, tho I beheld your Perjury.
This little Generosity of thine has render’d back my Heart.
[Walks away.
Will. So, you have made sweet work here, my little mischief;
Look your Lady be kind and good-natur’d now, or
I shall have but a cursed Bargain on’t. [Ang. turns towards them.
—The Rogue’s bred up to Mischief,
Art thou so great a Fool to credit him?
Ang. Yes, I do; and you in vain impose upon me.
—Come hither, Boy—Is not this he you speak of?
Hell. I think—it is; I cannot swear, but I vow he has just such another
lying Lover’s look. [Hell. looks in his Face, he gazes on her.
Will. Hah! do not I know that Face?—
By Heaven, my little Gipsy! what a dull Dog was I?
Had I but lookt that way, I’d known her.
Are all my hopes of a new Woman banisht? [Aside.
—Egad, if I don’t fit thee for this, hang me.
—Madam, I have found out the Plot.
Hell. Oh Lord, what does he say? am I discover’d now?
Will. Do you see this young Spark here?

Hell. He’ll tell her who I am.
Will. Who do you think this is?
Hell. Ay, ay, he does know me.—Nay, dear Captain, I’m undone if you
discover me.
Will. Nay, nay, no cogging; she shall know what a precious Mistress I
have.
Hell. Will you be such a Devil?
Will. Nay, nay, I’ll teach you to spoil sport you will not make.—This
small Ambassador comes not from a Person of Quality, as you imagine,
and he says; but from a very errant Gipsy, the talkingst, pratingst,
cantingst little Animal thou ever saw’st.
Ang. What news you tell me! that’s the thing I mean.
Hell. Wou’d I were well off the place.—If ever I go a Captain-hunting
again.— [Aside.
Will. Mean that thing? that Gipsy thing? thou may’st as well be jealous of
thy Monkey, or Parrot as her: a German Motion were worth a dozen of her,
and a Dream were a better Enjoyment, a Creature of Constitution fitter for
Heaven than Man.
Hell. Tho I’m sure he lyes, yet this vexes me. [Aside.
Ang. You are mistaken, she’s a Spanish Woman
Made up of no such dull Materials.
Will. Materials! Egad, and she be made of any that will either dispense, or
admit of Love, I’ll be bound to continence.
Hell. Unreasonable Man, do you think so? [Aside to him.
Will. You may Return, my little Brazen Head, and tell your Lady, that till
she be handsom enough to be belov’d, or I dull enough to be religious,
there will be small hopes of me.
Ang. Did you not promise then to marry her?
Will. Not I, by Heaven.

Ang. You cannot undeceive my fears and torments, till you have vow’d
you will not marry her.
Hell. If he swears that, he’ll be reveng’d on me indeed for all my
Rogueries.
Ang. I know what Arguments you’ll bring against me, Fortune and
Honour.
Will. Honour! I tell you, I hate it in your Sex; and those that fancy
themselves possest of that Foppery, are the most impertinently troublesom
of all Woman-kind, and will transgress nine Commandments to keep one:
and to satisfy your Jealousy I swear—
Hell. Oh, no swearing, dear Captain— [Aside to him.
Will. If it were possible I should ever be inclin’d to marry, it should be
some kind young Sinner, one that has Generosity enough to give a favour
handsomely to one that can ask it discreetly, one that has Wit enough to
manage an Intrigue of Love—oh, how civil such a Wench is, to a Man
than does her the Honour to marry her.
Ang. By Heaven, there’s no Faith in any thing he says.
Enter Sebastian.
Sebast. Madam, Don Antonio—
Ang. Come hither.
Hell. Ha, Antonio! he may be coming hither, and he’ll certainly discover
me, I’ll therefore retire without a Ceremony. [Exit Hellena.
Ang. I’ll see him, get my Coach ready.
Sebast. It waits you, Madam.
Will. This is lucky: what, Madam, now I may be gone and leave you to
the enjoyment of my Rival?
Ang. Dull Man, that canst not see how ill, how poor
That false dissimulation looks—Be gone,
And never let me see thy cozening Face again,

Lest I relapse and kill thee.
Will. Yes, you can spare me now,—farewell till you are in a better
Humour—I’m glad of this release—
Now for my Gipsy:
For tho to worse we change, yet still we find
New Joys, New Charms, in a new Miss that’s kind. [Ex. Will.
Ang. He’s gone, and in this Ague of My Soul
The shivering Fit returns;
Oh with what willing haste he took his leave,
As if the long’d for Minute were arriv’d,
Of some blest Assignation.
In vain I have consulted all my Charms,
In vain this Beauty priz’d, in vain believ’d
My eyes cou’d kindle any lasting Fires.
I had forgot my Name, my Infamy,
And the Reproach that Honour lays on those
That dare pretend a sober passion here.
Nice Reputation, tho it leave behind
More Virtues than inhabit where that dwells,
Yet that once gone, those virtues shine no more.
—Then since I am not fit to belov’d,
I am resolv’d to think on a Revenge
On him that sooth’d me thus to my undoing. [Exeunt.

Scene III. A Street.
Enter Florinda and Valeria in Habits different from what they have
been seen in.
Flor. We’re happily escap’d, yet I tremble still.
Val. A Lover and fear! why, I am but half a one, and yet I have Courage
for any Attempt. Would Hellena were here. I wou’d fain have had her as
deep in this Mischief as we, she’ll fare but ill else I doubt.

Flor. She pretended a Visit to the Augustine Nuns, but I believe some
other design carried her out, pray Heavens we light on her.
—Prithee what didst do with Callis?
Val. When I saw no Reason wou’d do good on her, I follow’d her into the
Wardrobe, and as she was looking for something in a great Chest,
I tumbled her in by the Heels, snatcht the Key of the Apartment where you
were confin’d, lockt her in, and left her bauling for help.
Flor. ’Tis well you resolve to follow my Fortunes, for thou darest never
appear at home again after such an Action.
Val. That’s according as the young Stranger and I shall agree—But to our
business—I deliver’d your Letter, your Note to Belvile, when I got out
under pretence of going to Mass, I found him at his Lodging, and believe
me it came seasonably; for never was Man in so desperate a Condition.
I told him of your Resolution of making your escape to day, if your
Brother would be absent long enough to permit you; if not, die rather than
be Antonio’s.
Flor. Thou shou’dst have told him I was confin’d to my Chamber upon
my Brother’s suspicion, that the Business on the Molo was a Plot laid
between him and I.
Val. I said all this, and told him your Brother was now gone to his
Devotion, and he resolves to visit every Church till he find him; and not
only undeceive him in that, but caress him so as shall delay his return
home.
Flor. Oh Heavens! he’s here, and Belvile with him too.
[They put on their Vizards.
Enter Don Pedro, Belvile, Willmore; Belvile and Don Pedro seeming
in serious Discourse.
Val. Walk boldly by them, I’ll come at a distance, lest he suspect us.
[She walks by them, and looks back on them.
Will. Ha! A Woman! and of an excellent Mien!
Ped. She throws a kind look back on you.

Will. Death, tis a likely Wench, and that kind look shall not be cast away
—I’ll follow her.
Belv. Prithee do not.
Will. Do not! By Heavens to the Antipodes, with such an Invitation.
[She goes out, and Will. follows her.
Belv. ’Tis a mad Fellow for a Wench.
Enter Fred.
Fred. Oh Colonel, such News.
Belv. Prithee what?
Fred. News that will make you laugh in spite of Fortune.
Belv. What, Blunt has had some damn’d Trick put upon him, cheated,
bang’d, or clapt?
Fred. Cheated, Sir, rarely cheated of all but his Shirt and Drawers; the
unconscionable Whore too turn’d him out before Consummation, so that
traversing the Streets at Midnight, the Watch found him in this Fresco, and
conducted him home: By Heaven ’tis such a slight, and yet I durst as well
have been hang’d as laugh at him, or pity him; he beats all that do but ask
him a Question, and is in such an Humour—
Ped. Who is’t has met with this ill usage, Sir?
Belv. A Friend of ours, whom you must see for Mirth’s sake. I’ll imploy
him to give Florinda time for an escape. [Aside.
Ped. Who is he?
Belv. A young Countryman of ours, one that has been educated at so
plentiful a rate, he yet ne’er knew the want of Money, and ’twill be a great
Jest to see how simply he’ll look without it. For my part I’ll lend him
none, and the Rogue knows not how to put on a borrowing Face, and ask
first. I’ll let him see how good ’tis to play our parts whilst I play his—
Prithee, Fred. do go home and keep him in that posture till we come.
[Exeunt.

Enter Florinda from the farther end of the Scene, looking behind her.
Flor. I am follow’d still—hah—my Brother too advancing this way, good
Heavens defend me from being seen by him. [She goes off.
Enter Willmore, and after him Valeria, at a little distance.
Will. Ah! There she sails, she looks back as she were willing to be
boarded, I’ll warrant her Prize. [He goes out, Valeria following.
Enter Hellena, just as he goes out, with a Page.
Hell. Hah, is not that my Captain that has a Woman in chase?—’tis not
Angelica. Boy, follow those People at a distance, and bring me an Account
where they go in.—I’ll find his Haunts, and plague him every where.—ha
—my Brother! [Exit Page.
[Bel. Wil. Ped. cross the Stage: Hell. runs off.
Scene changes to another Street. Enter Florinda.
Flor. What shall I do, my Brother now pursues me.
Will no kind Power protect me from his Tyranny?
—Hah, here’s a Door open, I’ll venture in, since nothing can be worse
than to fall into his Hands, my Life and Honour are at stake, and my
Necessity has no choice. [She goes in.
Enter Valeria, and Hellena’s Page peeping after Florinda.
Pag. Here she went in, I shall remember this House. [Exit Boy.
Val. This is Belvile’s Lodgings; she’s gone in as readily as if she knew it—
hah—here’s that mad Fellow again, I dare not venture in—I’ll watch my
Opportunity. [Goes aside.
Enter Willmore, gazing about him.
Will. I have lost her hereabouts—Pox on’t she must not scape me so.
[Goes out.
Scene changes to Blunt’s Chamber, discovers him sitting on a Couch
in his Shirt and Drawers, reading.

Blunt. So, now my Mind’s a little at Peace, since I have resolv’d Revenge
—A Pox on this Taylor tho, for not bringing home the Clothes I bespoke;
and a Pox of all poor Cavaliers, a Man can never keep a spare Suit for
’em; and I shall have these Rogues come in and find me naked; and then
I’m undone; but I’m resolv’d to arm my self—the Rascals shall not insult
over me too much. [Puts on an old rusty Sword and Buff-Belt.
—Now, how like a
Morrice-Dancer I am equipt—a fine Lady-like Whore to cheat me thus,
without affording me a Kindness for my Money, a Pox light on her, I shall
never be reconciled to the Sex more, she has made me as faithless as a
Physician, as uncharitable as a Churchman, and as ill-natur’d as a Poet.
O how I’ll use all Women-kind hereafter! what wou’d I give to have one
of ’em within my reach now! any Mortal thing in Petticoats, kind Fortune,
send me; and I’ll forgive thy last Night’s Malice—Here’s a cursed Book
too, (a Warning to all young Travellers) that can instruct me how to
prevent such Mischiefs now ’tis too late. Well ’tis a rare convenient thing
to read a little now and then, as well as hawk and hunt.
[Sits down again and reads.
Enter to him Florinda.
Flor. This House is haunted sure,’tis well furnisht and no living thing
inhabits it—hah—a Man! Heavens how he’s attir’d! sure ’tis some Rope-
dancer, or Fencing-Master; I tremble now for fear, and yet I must venture
now to speak to him—Sir, if I may not interrupt your Meditations—
[He starts up and gazes.
Blunt. Hah—what’s here? Are my wishes granted? and is not that a she
Creature? Adsheartlikins ’tis! what wretched thing art thou—hah!
Flor. Charitable Sir, you’ve told your self already what I am; a very
wretched Maid, forc’d by a strange unlucky Accident, to seek a safety
here, and must be ruin’d, if you do not grant it.
Blunt. Ruin’d! Is there any Ruin so inevitable as that which now threatens
thee? Dost thou know, miserable Woman, into what Den of Mischiefs thou
art fall’n? what a Bliss of Confusion?—hah—dost not see something in
my looks that frights thy guilty Soul, and makes thee wish to change that

Shape of Woman for any humble Animal, or Devil? for those were safer
for thee, and less mischievous.
Flor. Alas, what mean you, Sir? I must confess your Looks have
something in ’em makes me fear; but I beseech you, as you seem a
Gentleman, pity a harmless Virgin, that takes your House for Sanctuary.
Blunt. Talk on, talk on, and weep too, till my faith return. Do, flatter me
out of my Senses again—a harmless Virgin with a Pox, as much one as
t’other, adsheartlikins. Why, what the Devil can I not be safe in my House
for you? not in my Chamber? nay, even being naked too cannot secure me.
This is an Impudence greater than has invaded me yet.—Come, no
Resistance. [Pulls her rudely.
Flor. Dare you be so cruel?
Blunt. Cruel, adsheartlikins as a Gally-slave, or a Spanish Whore: Cruel,
yes, I will kiss and beat thee all over; kiss, and see thee all over; thou shalt
lie with me too, not that I care for the Injoyment, but to let you see I have
ta’en deliberated Malice to thee, and will be revenged on one Whore for
the Sins of another; I will smile and deceive thee, flatter thee, and beat
thee, kiss and swear, and lye to thee, imbrace thee and rob thee, as she did
me, fawn on thee, and strip thee stark naked, then hang thee out at my
Window by the Heels, with a Paper of scurvey Verses fasten’d to thy
Breast, in praise of damnable Women—Come, come along.
Flor. Alas, Sir, must I be sacrific’d for the Crimes of the most infamous of
my Sex? I never understood the Sins you name.
Blunt. Do, persuade the Fool you love him, or that one of you can be just
or honest; tell me I was not an easy Coxcomb, or any strange impossible
Tale: it will be believ’d sooner than thy false Showers or Protestations.
A Generation of damn’d Hypocrites, to flatter my very Clothes from my
back! dissembling Witches! are these the Returns you make an honest
Gentleman that trusts, believes, and loves you?—But if I be not even with
you—Come along, or I shall— [Pulls her again.
Enter Frederick.
Fred. Hah, what’s here to do?

Blunt. Adsheartlikins, Fred. I am glad thou art come, to be a Witness of
my dire Revenge.
Fred. What’s this, a Person of Quality too, who is upon the Ramble to
supply the Defects of some grave impotent Husband?
Blunt. No, this has another Pretence, some very unfortunate Accident
brought her hither, to save a Life pursued by I know not who, or why, and
forc’d to take Sanctuary here at Fools Haven. Adsheartlikins to me of all
Mankind for Protection? Is the Ass to be cajol’d again, think ye? No,
young one, no Prayers or Tears shall mitigate my Rage; therefore prepare
for both my Pleasure of Enjoyment and Revenge, for I am resolved to
make up my Loss here on thy Body, I’ll take it out in kindness and in
beating.
Fred. Now, Mistress of mine, what do you think of this?
Flor. I think he will not—dares not be so barbarous.
Fred. Have a care, Blunt, she fetch’d a deep Sigh, she is inamour’d with
thy Shirt and Drawers, she’ll strip thee even of that. There are of her
Calling such unconscionable Baggages, and such dexterous Thieves,
they’ll flea a Man, and he shall ne’er miss his Skin, till he feels the Cold.
There was a Country-man of ours robb’d of a Row of Teeth whilst he was
sleeping, which the Jilt made him buy again when he wak’d—You see,
Lady, how little Reason we have to trust you.
Blunt. ’Dsheartlikins, why, this is most abominable.
Flor. Some such Devils there may be, but by all that’s holy I am none
such, I entered here to save a Life in danger.
Blunt. For no goodness I’ll warrant her.
Fred. Faith, Damsel, you had e’en confess the plain Truth, for we are
Fellows not to be caught twice in the same Trap: Look on that Wreck,
a tight Vessel when he set out of Haven, well trim’d and laden, and see
how a Female Piccaroon of this Island of Rogues has shatter’d him, and
canst thou hope for any Mercy?

Blunt. No, no, Gentlewoman, come along, adsheartlikins we must be
better acquainted—we’ll both lie with her, and then let me alone to bang
her.
Fred. I am ready to serve you in matters of Revenge, that has a double
Pleasure in’t.
Blunt. Well said. You hear, little one, how you are condemn’d by publick
Vote to the Bed within, there’s no resisting your Destiny, Sweetheart.
[Pulls her.
Flor. Stay, Sir, I have seen you with Belvile, an English Cavalier, for his
sake use me kindly; you know how, Sir.
Blunt. Belvile! why, yes, Sweeting, we do know Belvile, and wish he were
with us now, he’s a Cormorant at Whore and Bacon, he’d have a Limb or
two of thee, my Virgin Pullet: but ’tis no matter, we’ll leave him the Bones
to pick.
Flor. Sir, if you have any Esteem for that Belvile, I conjure you to treat me
with more Gentleness; he’ll thank you for the Justice.
Fred. Hark ye, Blunt, I doubt we are mistaken in this matter.
Flor. Sir, If you find me not worth Belvile’s Care, use me as you please;
and that you may think I merit better treatment than you threaten—pray
take this Present— [Gives him a Ring: He looks on it.
Blunt. Hum—A Diamond! why, ’tis a wonderful Virtue now that lies in
this Ring, a mollifying Virtue; adsheartlikins there’s more persuasive
Rhetorick in’t, than all her Sex can utter.
Fred. I begin to suspect something; and ’twou’d anger us vilely to be
truss’d up for a Rape upon a Maid of Quality, when we only believe we
ruffle a Harlot.
Blunt. Thou art a credulous Fellow, but adsheartlikins I have no Faith yet;
why, my Saint prattled as parlously as this does, she gave me a Bracelet
too, a Devil on her: but I sent my Man to sell it to day for Necessaries, and
it prov’d as counterfeit as her Vows of Love.
Fred. However let it reprieve her till we see Belvile.

Blunt. That’s hard, yet I will grant it.
Enter a Servant.
Serv. Oh, Sir, the Colonel is just come with his new Friend and a Spaniard
of Quality, and talks of having you to Dinner with ’em.
Blunt. ’Dsheartlikins, I’m undon—I would not see ’em for the World:
Harkye, Fred, lock up the Wench in your Chamber.
Fred. Fear nothing, Madam, whate’er he threatens, you’re safe whilst in
my Hands. [Ex. Fred. and Flor.
Blunt. And, Sirrah—upon your Life, say—I am not at home—or that I am
asleep—or—or any thing—away—I’ll, prevent them coming this way.
[Locks the Door and Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I. Blunt’s Chamber.
After a great knocking as at his Chamber-door, enter Blunt softly,
crossing the Stage in his Shirt and Drawers, as before.
Ned, Ned Blunt, Ned Blunt. [Call within.
Blunt. The Rogues are up in Arms, ’dsheartlikins, this villainous
Frederick has betray’d me, they have heard of my blessed Fortune.
Ned Blunt, Ned, Ned— [and knocking within.
Belv. Why, he’s dead, Sir, without dispute dead, he has not been seen to
day; let’s break open the Door—here—Boy—
Blunt. Ha, break open the Door! ’dsheartlikins that mad Fellow will be as
good as his word.
Belv. Boy, bring something to force the Door.
[A great noise within at the Door again.
Blunt. So, now must I speak in my own Defence, I’ll try what Rhetorick
will do—hold—hold, what do you mean, Gentlemen, what do you mean?

Belv. Oh Rogue, art alive? prithee open the Door, and convince us.
Blunt. Yes, I am alive, Gentlemen—but at present a little busy.
Belv. How! Blunt grown a man of Business! come, come, open, and let’s
see this Miracle. [within.
Blunt. No, no, no, no, Gentlemen, ’tis no great Business—but—I am—at
—my Devotion,—’dsheartlikins, will you not allow a man time to pray?
Belv. Turn’d religious! a greater Wonder than the first, therefore open
quickly, or we shall unhinge, we shall. [within.
Blunt. This won’t do—Why, hark ye, Colonel; to tell you the plain Truth,
I am about a necessary Affair of Life.—I have a Wench with me—you
apprehend me? the Devil’s in’t if they be so uncivil as to disturb me now.
Will. How, a Wench! Nay, then we must enter and partake; no Resistance,
—unless it be your Lady of Quality, and then we’ll keep our distance.
Blunt. So, the Business is out.
Will. Come, come, lend more hands to the Door,—now heave altogether
—so, well done, my Boys— [Breaks open the Door.
Enter Belvile, Willmore, Fred. Pedro and Belvile’s Page: Blunt looks
simply, they all laugh at him, he lays his hand on his Sword, and
conies up to Willmore.
Blunt. Hark ye, Sir, laugh out your laugh quickly, d’ye hear, and be gone,
I shall spoil your sport else; ’dsheartlikins, Sir, I shall—the Jest has been
carried on too long,—a Plague upon my Taylor— [Aside.
Will. ’Sdeath, how the Whore has drest him! Faith, Sir, I’m sorry.
Blunt. Are you so, Sir? keep’t to your self then, Sir, I advise you, d’ye
hear? for I can as little endure your Pity as his Mirth.
[Lays his Hand on’s Sword.
Belv. Indeed, Willmore, thou wert a little too rough with Ned Blunt’s
Mistress; call a Person of Quality Whore, and one so young, so handsome,
and so eloquent!—ha, ha, ha.

Blunt. Hark ye, Sir, you know me, and know I can be angry; have a care
—for ’dsheartlikins I can fight too—I can, Sir,—do you mark me—no
more.
Belv. Why so peevish, good Ned? some Disappointments, I’ll warrant—
What! did the jealous Count her Husband return just in the nick?
Blunt. Or the Devil, Sir,—d’ye laugh? [They laugh.] Look ye, settle
me a good sober Countenance, and that quickly too, or you shall know
Ned Blunt is not—
Belv. Not every Body, we know that.
Blunt. Not an Ass, to be laught at, Sir.
Will. Unconscionable Sinner, to bring a Lover so near his Happiness,
a vigorous passionate Lover, and then not only cheat him of his
Moveables, but his Desires too.
Belv. Ah, Sir, a Mistress is a Trifle with Blunt, he’ll have a dozen the next
time he looks abroad; his Eyes have Charms not to be resisted: There
needs no more than to expose that taking Person to the view of the Fair,
and he leads ’em all in Triumph.
Ped. Sir, tho I’m a stranger to you, I’m ashamed at the rudeness of my
Nation; and could you learn who did it, would assist you to make an
Example of ’em.
Blunt. Why, ay, there’s one speaks sense now, and handsomly; and let me
tell you Gentlemen, I should not have shew’d my self like a Jack-Pudding,
thus to have made you Mirth, but that I have revenge within my power; for
know, I have got into my possession a Female, who had better have fallen
under any Curse, than the Ruin I design her: ’dsheartlikins, she assaulted
me here in my own Lodgings, and had doubtless committed a Rape upon
me, had not this Sword defended me.
Fred. I knew not that, but o’ my Conscience thou hadst ravisht her, had
she not redeem’d her self with a Ring—let’s see’t, Blunt.
[Blunt shews the Ring.

Belv. Hah!—the Ring I gave Florinda when we exchang’d our Vows!—
hark ye, Blunt— [Goes to whisper to him.
Will. No whispering, good Colonel, there’s a Woman in the case, no
whispering.
Belv. Hark ye, Fool, be advis’d, and conceal both the Ring and the Story,
for your Reputation’s sake; don’t let People know what despis’d Cullies
we English are: to be cheated and abus’d by one Whore, and another
rather bribe thee than be kind to thee, is an Infamy to our Nation.
Will. Come, come, where’s the Wench? we’ll see her, let her be what she
will, we’ll see her.
Ped. Ay, ay, let us see her, I can soon discover whether she be of Quality,
or for your Diversion.
Blunt. She’s in Fred’s Custody.
Will. Come, come, the Key.
[To Fred. who gives him the Key, they are going.
Belv. Death! what shall I do?—stay, Gentlemen—yet if I hinder ’em,
I shall discover all—hold, let’s go one at once—give me the Key.
Will. Nay, hold there, Colonel, I’ll go first.
Fred. Nay, no Dispute, Ned and I have the property of her.
Will. Damn Property—then we’ll draw Cuts. [Belv. goes to whisper
Will.] Nay, no Corruption, good Colonel: come, the longest Sword
carries her.—
[They all draw, forgetting Don Pedro, being a Spaniard, had the
longest.
Blunt. I yield up my Interest to you Gentlemen, and that will be Revenge
sufficient.
Will. The Wench is yours— (To Ped.) Pox of his Toledo, I had forgot
that.
Fred. Come, Sir, I’ll conduct you to the Lady. [Ex. Fred. and Ped.

Belv. To hinder him will certainly discover— [Aside.] Dost know, dull
Beast, what Mischief thou hast done?
[Will. walking up and down out of Humour.
Will. Ay, ay, to trust our Fortune to Lots, a Devil on’t, ’twas madness,
that’s the Truth on’t.
Belv. Oh intolerable Sot!
Enter Florinda, running masqu’d, Pedro after her, Will. gazing round
her.
Flor. Good Heaven, defend me from discovery. [Aside.
Pedro. ’Tis but in vain to fly me, you are fallen to my Lot.
Belv. Sure she is undiscover’d yet, but now I fear there is no way to bring
her off.
Will. Why, what a Pox is not this my Woman, the same I follow’d but
now?
[Ped. talking to Florinda, who walks up and down.
Ped. As if I did not know ye, and your Business here.
Flor. Good Heaven! I fear he does indeed— [Aside.
Ped. Come, pray be kind, I know you meant to be so when you enter’d
here, for these are proper Gentlemen.
Will. But, Sir—perhaps the Lady will not be impos’d upon, she’ll chuse
her Man.
Ped. I am better bred, than not to leave her Choice free.
Enter Valeria, and is surprized at the Sight of Don Pedro.
Val. Don Pedro here! there’s no avoiding him. [Aside.
Flor. Valeria! then I’m undone— [Aside.
Val. Oh! have I found you, Sir— [To Pedro, running to him.] —The
strangest Accident—if I had breath—to tell it.

Ped. Speak—is Florinda safe? Hellena well?
Val. Ay, ay, Sir—Florinda—is safe—from any fears of you.
Ped. Why, where’s Florinda?—speak.
Val. Ay, where indeed, Sir? I wish I could inform you,—But to hold you
no longer in doubt—
Flor. Oh, what will she say! [Aside.
Val. She’s fled away in the Habit of one of her Pages, Sir—but Callis
thinks you may retrieve her yet, if you make haste away; she’ll tell you,
Sir, the rest—if you can find her out. [Aside.
Ped. Dishonourable Girl, she has undone my Aim—Sir—you see my
necessity of leaving you, and I hope you’ll pardon it: my Sister, I know,
will make her flight to you; and if she do, I shall expect she should be
render’d back.
Belv. I shall consult my Love and Honour, Sir. [Ex. Ped.
Flor. My dear Preserver, let me imbrace thee. [To Val.
Will. What the Devil’s all this?
Blunt. Mystery by this Light.
Val. Come, come, make haste and get your selves married quickly, for
your Brother will return again.
Belv. I am so surpriz’d with Fears and Joys, so amaz’d to find you here in
safety, I can scarce persuade my Heart into a Faith of what I see—
Will. Harkye, Colonel, is this that Mistress who has cost you so many
Sighs, and me so many Quarrels with you?
Belv. It is—Pray give him the Honour of your Hand. [To Flor.
Will. Thus it must be receiv’d then. [Kneels and kisses her Hand.]
And with it give your Pardon too.
Flor. The Friend to Belvile may command me anything.
Will. Death, wou’d I might, ’tis a surprizing Beauty. [Aside.

Belv. Boy, run and fetch a Father instantly. [Ex. Boy.
Fred. So, now do I stand like a Dog, and have not a Syllable to plead my
own Cause with: by this Hand, Madam, I was never thorowly confounded
before, nor shall I ever more dare look up with Confidence, till you are
pleased to pardon me.
Flor. Sir, I’ll be reconcil’d to you on one Condition, that you’ll follow the
Example of your Friend, in marrying a Maid that does not hate you, and
whose Fortune (I believe) will not be unwelcome to you.
Fred. Madam, had I no Inclinations that way, I shou’d obey your kind
Commands.
Belv. Who, Fred. marry; he has so few Inclinations for Womankind, that
had he been possest of Paradise, he might have continu’d there to this Day,
if no Crime but Love cou’d have disinherited him.
Fred. Oh, I do not use to boast of my Intrigues.
Belv. Boast! why thou do’st nothing but boast; and I dare swear, wer’t
thou as innocent from the Sin of the Grape, as thou art from the Apple,
thou might’st yet claim that right in Eden which our first Parents lost by
too much loving.
Fred. I wish this Lady would think me so modest a Man.
Val. She shou’d be sorry then, and not like you half so well, and I shou’d
be loth to break my Word with you; which was, That if your Friend and
mine are agreed, it shou’d be a Match between you and I.
[She gives him her Hand.
Fred. Bear witness, Colonel, ’tis a Bargain. [Kisses her Hand.
Blunt. I have a Pardon to beg too; but adsheartlikins I am so out of
Countenance, that I am a Dog if I can say any thing to purpose.
[To Florinda.
Flor. Sir, I heartily forgive you all.
Blunt. That’s nobly said, sweet Lady—Belvile, prithee present her her
Ring again, for I find I have not Courage to approach her my self.

[Gives him the Ring, he gives it to Florinda.
Enter Boy.
Boy. Sir, I have brought the Father that you sent for.
Belv. ’Tis well, and now my dear Florinda, let’s fly to compleat that
mighty Joy we have so long wish’d and sigh’d for.—Come, Fred. you’ll
follow?
Fred. Your Example, Sir,’twas ever my Ambition in War, and must be so
in Love.
Will. And must not I see this juggling Knot ty’d?
Belv. No, thou shalt do us better Service, and be our Guard, lest Don
Pedro’s sudden Return interrupt the Ceremony.
Will. Content; I’ll secure this Pass. [Ex. Bel. Flor. Fred. and Val.
Enter Boy.
Boy. Sir, there’s a Lady without wou’d speak to you. [To Will.
Will. Conduct her in, I dare not quit my Post.
Boy. And, Sir, your Taylor waits you in your Chamber.
Blunt. Some comfort yet, I shall not dance naked at the Wedding.
[Ex. Blunt and Boy.
Enter again the Boy, conducting in Angelica in a masquing Habit and
a Vizard, Will. runs to her.
Will. This can be none but my pretty Gipsy—Oh, I see you can follow as
well as fly—Come, confess thy self the most malicious Devil in Nature,
you think you have done my Bus’ness with Angelica—
Ang. Stand off, base Villain—
[She draws a Pistol and holds to his Breast.
Will. Hah, ’tis not she: who art thou? and what’s thy Business?
Ang. One thou hast injur’d, and who comes to kill thee for’t.
Will. What the Devil canst thou mean?

Ang. By all my Hopes to kill thee—
[Holds still the Pistol to his Breast, he going back, she following still.
Will. Prithee on what Acquaintance? for I know thee not.
Ang. Behold this Face!—so lost to thy Remembrance!
And then call all thy Sins about thy Soul,
And let them die with thee. [Pulls off her Vizard.
Will. Angelica!
Ang. Yes, Traitor.
Does not thy guilty Blood run shivering thro thy Veins?
Hast thou no Horrour at this Sight, that tells thee,
Thou hast not long to boast thy shameful Conquest?
Will. Faith, no Child, my Blood keeps its old Ebbs and Flows still, and
that usual Heat too, that cou’d oblige thee with a Kindness, had I but
opportunity.
Ang. Devil! dost wanton with my Pain—have at thy Heart.
Will. Hold, dear Virago! hold thy Hand a little,
I am not now at leisure to be kill’d—hold and hear me—Death, I think
she’s in earnest. [Aside.
Ang. Oh if I take not heed,
My coward Heart will leave me to his Mercy.
[Aside, turning from him.
—What have you, Sir, to say?—but should I hear thee,
Thoud’st talk away all that is brave about me:
[Follows him with the Pistol to his Breast.
And I have vow’d thy Death, by all that’s sacred.
Will. Why, then there’s an end of a proper handsom Fellow, that might
have liv’d to have done good Service yet:—That’s all I can say to’t.
Ang. Yet—I wou’d give thee—time for Penitence. [Pausingly.
Will. Faith, Child, I thank God, I have ever took care to lead a good,
sober, hopeful Life, and am of a Religion that teaches me to believe,
I shall depart in Peace.

Ang. So will the Devil: tell me
How many poor believing Fools thou hast undone;
How many Hearts thou hast betray’d to ruin!
— Yet these are little Mischiefs to the Ills
Thou’st taught mine to commit: thou’st taught it Love.
Will. Egad, ’twas shreudly hurt the while.
Ang. —Love, that has robb’d it of its Unconcern,
Of all that Pride that taught me how to value it,
And in its room a mean submissive Passion was convey’d,
That made me humbly bow, which I ne’er did
To any thing but Heaven.
—Thou, perjur’d Man, didst this, and with thy Oaths,
Which on thy Knees thou didst devoutly make,
Soften’d my yielding Heart—And then, I was a Slave—
Yet still had been content to’ve worn my Chains,
Worn ’em with Vanity and Joy for ever,
Hadst thou not broke those Vows that put them on.
—’Twas then I was undone.
[All this while follows him with a Pistol to his Breast.
Will. Broke my Vows! why, where hast thou lived?
Amongst the Gods! For I never heard of mortal Man,
That has not broke a thousand Vows.
Ang. Oh, Impudence!
Will. Angelica! that Beauty has been too long tempting,
Not to have made a thousand Lovers languish,
Who in the amorous Favour, no doubt have sworn
Like me; did they all die in that Faith? still adoring?
I do not think they did.
Ang. No, faithless Man: had I repaid their Vows, as I did thine, I wou’d
have kill’d the ungrateful that had abandon’d me.
Will. This old General has quite spoil’d thee, nothing makes a Woman so
vain, as being flatter’d; your old Lover ever supplies the Defects of Age,
with intolerable Dotage, vast Charge, and that which you call Constancy;

and attributing all this to your own Merits, you domineer, and throw your
Favours in’s Teeth, upbraiding him still with the Defects of Age, and
cuckold him as often as he deceives your Expectations. But the gay,
young, brisk Lover, that brings his equal Fires, and can give you Dart for
Dart, he’ll be as nice as you sometimes.
Ang. All this thou’st made me know, for which I hate thee.
Had I remain’d in innocent Security,
I shou’d have thought all Men were born my Slaves;
And worn my Pow’r like Lightning in my Eyes,
To have destroy’d at Pleasure when offended.
—But when Love held the Mirror, the undeceiving Glass
Reflected all the Weakness of my Soul, and made me know,
My richest Treasure being lost, my Honour,
All the remaining Spoil cou’d not be worth
The Conqueror’s Care or Value.
—Oh how I fell like a long worship’d Idol,
Discovering all the Cheat!
Wou’d not the Incense and rich Sacrifice,
Which blind Devotion offer’d at my Altars,
Have fall’n to thee?
Why woud’st thou then destroy my fancy’d Power?
Will. By Heaven thou art brave, and I admire thee strangely.
I wish I were that dull, that constant thing,
Which thou woud’st have, and Nature never meant me:
I must, like chearful Birds, sing in all Groves,
And perch on every Bough,
Billing the next kind She that flies to meet me;
Yet after all cou’d build my Nest with thee,
Thither repairing when I’d lov’d my round,
And still reserve a tributary Flame.
—To gain your Credit, I’ll pay you back your Charity,
And be oblig’d for nothing but for Love. [Offers her a Purse of Gold.
Ang. Oh that thou wert in earnest!
So mean a Thought of me,

Wou’d turn my Rage to Scorn, and I shou’d pity thee,
And give thee leave to live;
Which for the publick Safety of our Sex,
And my own private Injuries, I dare not do.
Prepare— [Follows still, as before.
—I will no more be tempted with Replies.
Will. Sure—
Ang. Another Word will damn thee! I’ve heard thee talk too long.
[She follows him with a Pistol ready to shoot: he retires still amaz’d.
Enter Don Antonio, his Arm in a Scarf, and lays hold on the Pistol.
Ant. Hah! Angelica!
Ang. Antonio! What Devil brought thee hither?
Ant. Love and Curiosity, seeing your Coach at Door. Let me disarm you
of this unbecoming Instrument of Death.— [Takes away the Pistol.]
Amongst the Number of your Slaves, was there not one worthy the
Honour to have fought your Quarrel?
—Who are you, Sir, that are so very wretched
To merit Death from her?
Will. One, Sir, that cou’d have made a better End of an amorous Quarrel
without you, than with you.
Ant. Sure ’tis some Rival—hah—the very Man took down her Picture
yesterday—the very same that set on me last night—Blest opportunity—
[Offers to shoot him.
Ang. Hold, you’re mistaken, Sir.
Ant. By Heaven the very same!
—Sir, what pretensions have you to this Lady?
Will. Sir, I don’t use to be examin’d, and am ill at all Disputes but this—
[Draws, Anton. offers to shoot.
Ang. Oh, hold! you see he’s arm’d with certain Death: [To Will.
—And you, Antonio, I command you hold,

By all the Passion you’ve so lately vow’d me.

Enter Don Pedro, sees Antonio, and stays.
Ped. Hah, Antonio! and Angelica! [Aside.
Ant. When I refuse Obedience to your Will,
May you destroy me with your mortal Hate.
By all that’s Holy I adore you so,
That even my Rival, who has Charms enough
To make him fall a Victim to my Jealousy,
Shall live, nay, and have leave to love on still.
Ped. What’s this I hear? [Aside.
Ang. Ah thus, ’twas thus he talk’d, and I believ’d. [Pointing to Will.
—Antonio, yesterday,
I’d not have sold my Interest in his Heart,
For all the Sword has won and lost in Battle.
—But now to show my utmost of Contempt,
I give thee Life—which if thou would’st preserve,
Live where my Eyes may never see thee more,
Live to undo some one, whose Soul may prove
So bravely constant to revenge my Love.
[Goes out, Ant. follows, but Ped. pulls him back.
Ped. Antonio—stay.
Ant. Don Pedro—
Ped. What Coward Fear was that prevented thee
From meeting me this Morning on the Molo?
Ant. Meet thee?
Ped. Yes me; I was the Man that dar’d thee to’t.
Ant. Hast thou so often seen me fight in War,
To find no better Cause to excuse my Absence?
—I sent my Sword and one to do thee Right,
Finding my self uncapable to use a Sword.

Ped. But ’twas Florinda’s Quarrel that we fought,
And you to shew how little you esteem’d her,
Sent me your Rival, giving him your Interest.
—But I have found the Cause of this Affront,
But when I meet you fit for the Dispute,
—I’ll tell you my Resentment.
Ant. I shall be ready, Sir, e’er long to do you Reason. [Exit Ant.
Ped. If I cou’d find Florinda, now whilst my Anger’s high, I think I
shou’d be kind, and give her to Belvile in Revenge.
Will. Faith, Sir, I know not what you wou’d do, but I believe the Priest
within has been so kind.
Ped. How! my Sister married?
Will. I hope by this time she is, and bedded too, or he has not my longings
about him.
Ped. Dares he do thus? Does he not fear my Pow’r?
Will. Faith not at all. If you will go in, and thank him for the Favour he
has done your Sister, so; if not, Sir, my Power’s greater in this House than
yours; I have a damn’d surly Crew here, that will keep you till the next
Tide, and then clap you an board my Prize; my Ship lies but a League off
the Molo, and we shall show your Donship a damn’d Tramontana Rover’s
Trick.
Enter Belvile.
Belv. This Rogue’s in some new Mischief—hah, Pedro return’d!
Ped. Colonel Belvile, I hear you have married my Sister.
Belv. You have heard truth then, Sir.
Ped. Have I so? then, Sir, I wish you Joy.
Belv. How!
Ped. By this Embrace I do, and I glad on’t.
Belv. Are you in earnest?

Ped. By our long Friendship and my Obligations to thee, I am. The
sudden Change I’ll give you Reasons for anon. Come lead me into my
Sister, that she may know I now approve her Choice.
[Exit Bel. with Ped.
[Will. goes to follow them. Enter Hellena as before in Boy’s Clothes,
and pulls him back.
Will. Ha! my Gipsy—Now a thousand Blessings on thee for this
Kindness. Egad, Child, I was e’en in despair of ever seeing thee again; my
Friends are all provided for within, each Man his kind Woman.
Hell. Hah! I thought they had serv’d me some such Trick.
Will. And I was e’en resolv’d to go aboard, condemn my self to my lone
Cabin, and the Thoughts of thee.
Hell. And cou’d you have left me behind? wou’d you have been so ill-
natur’d?
Will. Why, ’twou’d have broke my Heart, Child—but since we are met
again, I defy foul Weather to part us.
Hell. And wou’d you be a faithful Friend now, if a Maid shou’d trust you?
Will. For a Friend I cannot promise, thou art of a Form so excellent,
a Face and Humour too good for cold dull Friendship; I am parlously
afraid of being in love, Child, and you have not forgot how severely you
have us’d me.
Hell. That’s all one, such Usage you must still look for, to find out all
your Haunts, to rail at you to all that love you, till I have made you love
only me in your own Defence, because no body else will love.
Will. But hast thou no better Quality to recommend thy self by?
Hell. Faith none, Captain—Why, ’twill be the greater Charity to take me
for thy Mistress, I am a lone Child, a kind of Orphan Lover; and why I
shou’d die a Maid, and in a Captain’s Hands too, I do not understand.
Will. Egad, I was never claw’d away with Broad-Sides from any Female
before, thou hast one Virtue I adore, good-Nature; I hate a coy demure

Mistress, she’s as troublesome as a Colt, I’ll break none; no, give me a
mad Mistress when mew’d, and in flying on[e] I dare trust upon the Wing,
that whilst she’s kind will come to the Lure.
Hell. Nay, as kind as you will, good Captain, whilst it lasts, but let’s lose
no time.
Will. My time’s as precious to me, as thine can be; therefore, dear
Creature, since we are so well agreed, let’s retire to my Chamber, and if
ever thou were treated with such savory Love—Come—My Bed’s
prepar’d for such a Guest, all clean and sweet as thy fair self; I love to
steal a Dish and a Bottle with a Friend, and hate long Graces—Come, let’s
retire and fall to.
Hell. ’Tis but getting my Consent, and the Business is soon done; let but
old Gaffer Hymen and his Priest say Amen to’t, and I dare lay my
Mother’s Daughter by as proper a Fellow as your Father’s Son, without
fear or blushing.
Will. Hold, hold, no Bugg Words, Child, Priest and Hymen: prithee add
Hangman to ’em to make up the Consort—No, no, we’ll have no Vows but
Love, Child, nor Witness but the Lover; the kind Diety injoins naught but
love and enjoy. Hymen and Priest wait still upon Portion, and Joynture;
Love and Beauty have their own Ceremonies. Marriage is as certain a
Bane to Love, as lending Money is to Friendship: I’ll neither ask nor give
a Vow, tho I could be content to turn Gipsy, and become a Left-hand
Bridegroom, to have the Pleasure of working that great Miracle of making
a Maid a Mother, if you durst venture; ’tis upse Gipsy that, and if I miss,
I’ll lose my Labour.
Hell. And if you do not lose, what shall I get? A Cradle full of Noise and
Mischief, with a Pack of Repentance at my Back? Can you teach me to
weave Incle to pass my time with? ’Tis upse Gipsy that too.
Will. I can teach thee to weave a true Love’s Knot better.
Hell. So can my Dog.
Will. Well, I see we are both upon our Guard, and I see there’s no way to
conquer good Nature, but by yielding—here—give me thy Hand—one

Kiss and I am thine—
Hell. One Kiss! How like my Page he speaks; I am resolv’d you shall
have none, for asking such a sneaking Sum—He that will be satisfied with
one Kiss, will never die of that Longing; good Friend single-Kiss, is all
your talking come to this? A Kiss, a Caudle! farewel, Captain single-Kiss.
[Going out he stays her.
Will. Nay, if we part so, let me die like a Bird upon a Bough, at the
Sheriff’s Charge. By Heaven, both the Indies shall not buy thee from me.
I adore thy Humour and will marry thee, and we are so of one Humour, it
must be a Bargain—give me thy Hand— [Kisses her hand.]
And now let the blind ones (Love and Fortune) do
their worst.
Hell. Why, God-a-mercy, Captain!
Will. But harkye—The Bargain is now made; but is it not fit we should
know each other’s Names? That when we have Reason to curse one
another hereafter, and People ask me who ’tis I give to the Devil, I may at
least be able to tell what Family you came of.
Hell. Good reason, Captain; and where I have cause, (as I doubt not but I
shall have plentiful) that I may know at whom to throw my—Blessings—
I beseech ye your Name.
Will. I am call’d Robert the Constant.
Hell. A very fine Name! pray was it your Faulkner or Butler that
christen’d you? Do they not use to whistle when then call you?
Will. I hope you have a better, that a Man may name without crossing
himself, you are so merry with mine.
Hell. I am call’d Hellena the Inconstant.
Enter Pedro, Belvile, Florinda, Fred. Valeria.
Ped. Hah! Hellena!
Flor. Hellena!

Hell. The very same—hah my Brother! now, Captain, shew your Love
and Courage; stand to your Arms, and defend me bravely, or I am lost for
ever.
Ped. What’s this I hear? false Girl, how came you hither, and what’s your
Business? Speak. [Goes roughly to her.
Will. Hold off, Sir, you have leave to parly only.
[Puts himself between.
Hell. I had e’en as good tell it, as you guess it. Faith, Brother, my
Business is the same with all living Creatures of my Age, to love, and be
loved, and here’s the Man.
Ped. Perfidious Maid, hast thou deceiv’d me too, deceiv’d thy self and
Heaven?
Hell. ’Tis time enough to make my Peace with that: Be you but kind, let
me alone with Heaven.
Ped. Belvile, I did not expect this false Play from you; was’t not enough
you’d gain Florinda (which I pardon’d) but your leud Friends too must be
inrich’d with the Spoils of a noble Family?
Belv. Faith, Sir, I am as much surpriz’d at this as you can be: Yet, Sir, my
Friends are Gentlemen, and ought to be esteem’d for their Misfortunes,
since they have the Glory to suffer with the best of Men and Kings; ’tis
true, he’s a Rover of Fortune, yet a Prince aboard his little wooden World.
Ped. What’s this to the maintenance of a Woman or her Birth and
Quality?
Will. Faith, Sir, I can boast of nothing but a Sword which does me Right
where-e’er I come, and has defended a worse Cause than a Woman’s: and
since I lov’d her before I either knew her Birth or Name, I must pursue my
Resolution, and marry her.
Ped. And is all your holy Intent of becoming a Nun debauch’d into a
Desire of Man?
Hell. Why—I have consider’d the matter, Brother, and find the Three
hundred thousand Crowns my Uncle left me (and you cannot keep

from me) will be better laid out in Love than in Religion, and turn to as
good an Account—let most Voices carry it, for Heaven or the Captain?
All cry, a Captain, a Captain.
Hell. Look ye, Sir,’tis a clear Case.
Ped. Oh I am mad—if I refuse, my Life’s in Danger— [Aside.] —
Come—There’s one motive induces me—take her—I shall now be free
from the fear of her Honour; guard it you now, if you can, I have been a
Slave to’t long enough. [Gives her to him.
Will. Faith, Sir, I am of a Nation, that are of opinion a Woman’s Honour is
not worth guarding when she has a mind to part with it.
Hell. Well said, Captain.
Ped. This was your Plot, Mistress, but I hope you have married one that
will revenge my Quarrel to you— [To Valeria.
Val. There’s no altering Destiny, Sir.
Ped. Sooner than a Woman’s Will, therefore I forgive you all—and wish
you may get my Father’s Pardon as easily; which I fear.
Enter Blunt drest in a Spanish Habit, looking very ridiculously; his
Man adjusting his Band.
Man. ’Tis very well, Sir.
Blunt. Well, Sir, ’dsheartlikins I tell you ’tis damnable ill, Sir—a Spanish
Habit, good Lord! cou’d the Devil and my Taylor devise no other
Punishment for me, but the Mode of a Nation I abominate?
Belv. What’s the matter, Ned?
Blunt. Pray view me round, and judge— [Turns round.
Belv. I must confess thou art a kind of an odd Figure.
Blunt. In a Spanish Habit with a Vengeance! I had rather be in the
Inquisition for Judaism, than in this Doublet and Breeches; a Pillory were
an easy Collar to this, three Handfuls high; and these Shoes too are worse
than the Stocks, with the Sole an Inch shorter than my Foot: In fine,

Gentlemen, methinks I look altogether like a Bag of Bays stuff’d full of
Fools Flesh.
Belv. Methinks ’tis well, and makes thee look en Cavalier: Come, Sir,
settle your Face, and salute our Friends, Lady—
Blunt. Hah! Say’st thou so, my little Rover? [To Hell.] Lady—(if you
be one) give me leave to kiss your Hand, and tell you, adsheartlikins, for
all I look so, I am your humble Servant—A Pox of my Spanish Habit.
Will. Hark—what’s this? [Musick is heard to Play.
Enter Boy.
Boy. Sir, as the Custom is, the gay People in Masquerade, who make
every Man’s House their own, are coming up.
Enter several Men and Women in masquing Habits, with Musick, they
put themselves in order and dance.
Blunt. Adsheartlikins, wou’d ’twere lawful to pull off their false Faces,
that I might see if my Doxy were not amongst ’em.
Belv. Ladies and Gentlemen, since you are come so a propos, you must
take a small Collation with us. [To the Masquers.
Will. Whilst we’ll to the Good Man within, who stays to give us a Cast of
his Office. [To Hell.
—Have you no trembling at the near approach?
Hell. No more than you have in an Engagement or a Tempest.
Will. Egad, thou’rt a brave Girl, and I admire thy Love and Courage.
Lead on, no other Dangers they can dread,
Who venture in the Storms o’th’ Marriage-Bed. [Exeunt.

EPILOGUE

The banisht Cavaliers! a Roving Blade!
A popish Carnival! a Masquerade!

The Devil’s in’t if this will please the Nation,
In these our blessed Times of Reformation,
When Conventicling is so much in Fashion.
And yet—
That mutinous Tribe less Factions do beget,
Than your continual differing in Wit;
Your Judgment’s (as your Passions) a Disease:
Nor Muse nor Miss your Appetite can please;
You’re grown as nice as queasy Consciences,
Whose each Convulsion, when the Spirit moves,
Damns every thing that Maggot disapproves.
With canting Rule you wou’d the Stage refine,
And to dull Method all our Sense confine.
With th’ Insolence of Common-wealths you rule,
Where each gay Fop, and politick brave Fool,
On Monarch Wit impose without controul.
As for the last who seldom sees a Play,
Unless it be the old Black-Fryers way,
Shaking his empty Noddle o’er Bamboo,
He crys—Good Faith, these Plays will never do.
—Ah, Sir, in my young days, what lofty Wit,
What high-strain’d Scenes of Fighting there were writ:
These are slight airy Toys. But tell me, pray,
What has the House of Commons done to day?
Then shews his Politicks, to let you see
Of State Affairs he’ll judge as notably,
As he can do of Wit and Poetry.
The younger Sparks, who hither do resort,
Cry—
Pox o’ your gentle things, give us more Sport;
—Damn me, I’m sure ’twill never please the Court.
Such Fops are never pleas’d, unless the Play
Be stuff’d with Fools, as brisk and dull as they:
Such might the Half-Crown spare, and in a Glass
At home behold a more accomplisht Ass,

Where they may set their Cravats, Wigs and Faces,
And practice all their Buffoonry Grimaces;
See how this—Huff becomes—this Dammy—flare—
Which they at home may act, because they dare,
But—must with prudent Caution do elsewhere.
Oh that our Nokes, or Tony Lee could show
A Fop but half so much to th’ Life as you.

POST-SCRIPT

THIS Play had been sooner in Print, but for a Report about the Town
(made by some either very Malitious or very Ignorant) that ’twas Thomaso
altered; which made the Book-sellers fear some trouble from the
Proprietor of that Admirable Play, which indeed has Wit enough to stock a
Poet, and is not to be piec’t or mended by any but the Excellent Author
himself; That I have stol’n some hints from it may be a proof, that I valu’d
it more than to pretend to alter it: had I had the Dexterity of some Poets
who are not more expert in stealing than in the Art of Concealing, and
who even that way out-do the Spartan-Boys I might have appropriated all
to myself, but I, vainly proud of my Judgment hang out the Sign of
Angelica (the only Stol’n Object) to give Notice where a great part of the
Wit dwelt; though if the Play of the Novella were as well worth
remembring as Thomaso, they might (bating the Name) have as well said,
I took it from thence: I will only say the Plot and Bus’ness (not to boast
on’t) is my own: as for the Words and Characters, I leave the Reader to
judge and compare ’em with Thomaso, to whom I recommend the great
Entertainment of reading it, tho’ had this succeeded ill, I shou’d have had
no need of imploring that Justice from the Critics, who are naturally so
kind to any that pretend to usurp their Dominion, they wou’d doubtless
have given me the whole Honour on’t. Therefore I will only say in English
what the famous Virgil does in Latin: I make Verses and others have the
Fame.

Notes on the Text.

Rover I.

Dramatis Personæ
p. 9 Diego, Page to Don Antonio. Neither 4tos nor 1724 give the
page’s name, but it is furnished by the stage direction Act ii. I,
p. 32. I have added Hellena’s page, Belvile’s page, and Blunt’s
man to the list as it appears in 4tos and 1724.
p. 9 Angelica. 4tos give ‘Angellica’ throughout. I have retained
1724 ‘Angelica’ as more correct.

Act I: Scene i
p. 12, l. 5 my things. 1724 misprints ‘methinks’.

Act I: Scene ii
p. 17, l. 14 as those which ... 4to 1677 prints this as a separate line
of blank verse. 4to 1709 italicizes it.
p. 23, l. 12 She often passes ... 4to 1709 puts this stage direction
before Blunt’s speech.
p. 24, l. 18 Ex. all the Women. I have added ‘except Lucetta’ as
she is individually directed to make her exit with Blunt later and
not at this point.

Act II: Scene i
p. 32, l. 23 Pedro. Ha! 1724 omits.
p. 32, l. 28 aside. 1724 omits.
p. 35, l. 33 his shirt bloody. 1724 gives ‘their shirts’ but 4tos,
more correctly, ‘his shirt’. It is only Willmore who has been
wounded.

Act II: Scene ii
p. 38, l. 6 high i’ th’ Mouth. 1724, 1735 misprint ‘Month’.
p. 39, l. 8 This last reserve. 1724 omits ‘reserve’.
p. 39, l. 10 by me. 1724 omits the repetition of ‘by me’.
p. 39, l. 14 cure. 1724 misprints ‘curse’.
p. 40, l. 9 Thou art a brave Fellow. 1724 prints this speech as
prose but the 4tos, which I have followed, divide metrically.

Act III: Scene i
p. 44, l. 1 Thou wou’t. 4to 1677. 1724 wrongly reads ‘won’t’.
1735 ‘Thou’lt’.
p. 45, l. 8 ago. 4to 1677. 1724 misprints ‘go’.
p. 47, l. 26 starts. 4tos read ‘stares’ but I retain 1724 ‘starts’ as
more appropriate.
p. 47, l. 31 Expect! 1724 gives this speech as prose. I follow
metrical division of 4tos.
p. 49, l. 16 rally. 1724 misprints ‘railly’.
p. 52, l. 5 Exeunt. 1724 omits this necessary stage direction.

Act III: Scene ii
p. 52, l. 31 Exit. 1724 misprints ‘aside’.
p. 53, l. 5 Enter Sancho. 4tos, but misprint after Sancho’s speech.
1724 omits, but misprints an ‘exit Sancho’, and gives ‘exit’ after
Blunt’s speech instead of ‘exeunt’.

Act III: Scene iia
p. 54, l. 9 Pimps! 1724 ‘Imps’.
p. 55, l. 12 sheer. 4to 1677. 4to 1709 and 1724 read wrongly
‘share’.

Act IV: Scene i
p. 64, l. 4 Ant. 4to 1677 wrongly gives this speech to Belvile. 4to
1709 and ed. 1724 assign it correctly.
p. 64, l. 14 That Opinion. 1724 prints this speech as prose.
I follow metrical division of 4tos.

Act IV: Scene ii
p. 65, l. 4 Aside. 4to 1677. 1724 and 1735 omit this stage
direction.
p. 65, l. 11 Masquing Habit. 1724, 1735, ‘Masque habit’.
p. 66, l. 2 If you strike. 1724, 1735 omit this line.
p. 66, l. 21 Belv. Love Florinda! 4tos give this speech as prose.
1724 metrically.
p. 67, l. 35 Fred.— ’tis he— 1724 and 1735 mistaking ‘Fred.’ for
speech-prefix give this line to Frederick.
p. 68, l. 1 Belv. Vizard ... 1724, 1735, read ‘Vizard falls out on’s
Hand.’
p. 68, l. 13 Nay, an you ... 4tos and 1724, print as prose. This
speech is obviously metrical.
p. 69, l. 17 I am all Rage! 4to 1677 divides metrically. 1724 prints
as prose.
p. 71, l. 26 unconstant. 1724, 1735 ‘inconstant’.
p. 73, l. 23 Aside. 4tos omit this necessary stage direction.
p. 73, l. 24 Now I perceive. 1724 prints this as prose. 4tos
metrically.
p. 75, l. 12 So, you have made ... 1724, 1735 prose. 4tos
metrically.
p. 76, l. 16 You are mistaken. 1724, 1735 prose. 4tos metrically.
p. 76, l. 20 continence. 1724 misprints ‘continuance’.

p. 76, l. 23 Will. 1677 misprinting, omits this speech-prefix.
p. 77, l. 8 has Wit. 1724 misprints ‘Whas it’.

Act IV: Scene iii
p. 79, l. 20 A Woman! 1724 omits ‘A’.
p. 80, l. 16 the Rogue. 1724 omits ‘the’.

Act IV: Scene iiib
p. 82, l. 14 He starts up. 1677 4to misprints ‘she’.
p. 84, l. 18 dexterous. 1724 misprints ‘dexetrous’. 1735
‘dextrous’.
p. 86, l. 10 Exeunt. 1724 wrongly ‘exit’.

Act V: Scene i
p. 86, l. 12 Blunt’s Chamber. 4tos ‘Chamber’. 1724, 1735,
‘Room’.
p. 86, l. 13 as at his Chamber-door. 1724, 1735, omit ‘as’.
p. 87, l. 20 and Belvile’s Page. I have added this entrance which
4tos and 1724 omit, as late in the scene an exit is marked for the
page.
p. 97, l. 3 Hah! Angelica! 4to 1677 mistakenly marks this speech
before the stage direction.
p. 97, l. 4 What Devil. 1724, 1735 ‘What the Devil’, which
weakens the whole passage.
p. 107 Post-Script. This is only given in the first 4to (1677).

Notes: Critical And Explanatory.

Rover I.

Prologue
p. 7 Rabel’s Drops. Monsieur Rabell, as he is sometimes termed,
was a famous empiric of the day. A description of his
medicaments may be found in ‘Pharmacopoeia Bateana; or,
Bate’s Dispensatory. Edited by William Salmon, London, 1700.’
Rabell’s name occurs on the title-page of this book, and in
Section VI of the Preface Rabell’s ‘Styptick Drops’ are alluded to
as having been added to the recipes found in the original volume
by G. Bate. An account of the manufacture and use of this
particular remedy appears in the same volume, Lib. I, chap. x,
under ‘Sal Stypticum Rabelli’. Salmon, who edited this
pharmacopoeia, was himself an irregular practitioner of some
notoriety. He took part in the great controversy with the doctors
which raged about 1698 and earlier. He finds a sorry place in
Garth’s Dispensary, canto III, l. 6, wherein his works are alluded
to as ‘blessed opiates’.
p. 8 Cits in May-day Coaches. On May-day it was the custom for
all sorts and conditions of persons and pleasure parties to visit
Hyde Park in coaches or at least on horse-back, cf. Pepys Diary,
1 May, 1663: ‘We all took horse, and I ... rode, with some trouble,
through the fields, and then Holborn, etc., towards Hyde Park,
whither all the world, I think, are going; ... there being people of
all sorts in coaches there, to some thousands.... By and by ...
I rode home, coaches going in great crowds to the further end of
the town almost.’

Dramatis Personæ
p. 9 Sancho, Pimp to Lucetta. Mr. John Lee. There were at this
time two actors and two actresses of the name Lee, Leigh, who,
especially in view of the eclectic spelling of seventeenth-century
proper names, need to be carefully distinguished. John Lee, who
appeared in the small rôle of Sancho and also took the equally
unimportant part of Sebastian in Abdelazer this same year, had,
according to Downes, joined the Duke’s Company about 1670.

He never rose above an entirely insignificant line, and we find
him cast as Alexas in Pordage’s Herod and Mariamne, 1673;
Titiro in Settle’s Pastor Fido, 1676; Pedro in Porter’s The French
Conjurer, and Noddy in The Counterfeit Bridegroom, 1677. He
was, it is almost certain, the husband of the famous Mrs. Mary
Lee. Downes’ entry runs as follows: ‘Note, About the year 1670,
Mrs. Aldridge, after Mrs. Lee, after Lady Slingsby, also Mrs.
Leigh Wife, Mr. John Lee, Mr. Crosby, Mrs. Johnson, were
entertain’d in the Dukes House.’ There is of course some
confusion here. Antony Leigh, it may be noted, is not mentioned
in the Roscius Anglicanus for another three years to come (1673),
and there can be little doubt that the above passage should read
‘also Mrs. Leigh’s [Lee’s] husband, Mr John Lee’. If this were not
so, there would be no point in Downes mentioning so minor an
actor at this juncture and in such a list. Crosby and Mrs. Johnson
were both performers of great merit, in fact Downes, a page later,
has a special warm word of praise for the lady whom we find cast
as Carolina in Shadwell’s Epsom Wells (1672). Crosby played
such parts as Mr. Cleverwit, Lucia’s lover, in Ravenscroft’s
Mamamouchi (1672), Alonzo in Abdelazer (1677), Leander Fancy
in Sir Patient Fancy (1678). John Lee disappears entirely after
1677, and his widow is first billed as Lady Slingsby in 1681. For
a full account of this great tragedienne see note on Abdelazer,
Vol. II.
Mrs. Elizabeth Leigh, Moretta in The Rover, Part I, who is so
persistently confused with Mrs. Mary Lee, was the wife of
Antony Leigh, the celebrated comedian. In Betterton’s comedy,
The Revenge (1680), when she acted Mrs. Dashit, she is billed as
Mrs. A. Lee. Her husband died in December, 1692. Their son
Michael also gave great promise on the boards. The lad’s name
occurs in the cast of Shadwell’s The Amorous Bigot (1690) as
‘young Leigh’, when he played Diego, a servant, to his father’s
Tegue o’ Divelly, the Irish friar. Unfortunately he died at an early
age, probably in the winter of 1701, but his younger brother
Francis attained considerable success. Frank Leigh made his

debut at Lincoln’s Inn’s Fields, 31 December, 1702, as Tristram in
the original production of Mrs. Centlivre’s The Stolen Heiress. He
died in the autumn of 1719. Mrs. Leigh was herself an actress of
no small eminence, her special line being ‘affected mothers,
aunts, and modest stale maids that had missed their market’. Says
Cibber, ‘In all these, with many others, she was extremely
entertaining’. After 10 June, 1707, when she acted Lady Sly in
Carlile’s The Fortune Hunters, her name is no longer to be found
in the bills, and in October, 1707, Mrs. Powell is playing her
parts. Mrs. Leigh’s repertory was very large, and amongst her
roles were Lady Woodvil in Etheredge’s The Man of Mode
(1676); Lady Plyant in The Double Dealer (1694); the Nurse in
Love for Love (1695); the Hostess in Betterton’s revival of
Henry IV, Part I (1699); and Lady Wishfort in The Way of the
World (1700). In comedies by Mrs. Behn, Mrs. Leigh only
appears twice, Moretta, The Rover, Part I (1677); and Mrs. Closet,
The City Heiress (1682).
In and about 1702 another Mrs. Leigh, perhaps Frank Leigh’s
wife, made a brief appearance. She was at first cast for good parts
but soon sank into obscurity. Thus on 21 October, 1702, she
sustained Mrs. Plotwell in Mrs. Centlivre’s The Beau’s Duel; on
28 April, 1703, Chloris in the Hon. Charles Boyle’s insipid As You
Find It. She may have been the Mrs. Eli. Leigh who with other
performers signed a petition to Queen Anne in 1709. Of Mrs.
Rachel Lee, who took the ‘walk-on’ part of Judy, a waiting-
woman, in Southern’s The Maid’s Last Prayer (1693), nothing is
known.
p. 9 Angelica Bianca, a famous Curtezan. Mrs. Gwin. Anne Quin
(or Quyn, Gwin, Gwyn as the name is indifferently spelt) was a
famous actress of great personal beauty. She is constantly, but
most erroneously, confounded with Nell Gwynne, and the mistake
is the more unpardonable as both names twice occur in the same
cast. When Nelly was acting Florimel in Dryden’s Secret Love,
produced February, 1667, Mrs. Quin played Candiope. Again, in
An Evening’s Love, June, 1668, Nell Gwynne was Jacinta, and

Mrs Quin Aurelia, a role assumed later in the run by Mrs.
Marshall. Among Mrs. Quin’s more notable parts were Alizia
(Alice Perrers) in Orrery’s The Black Prince, produced 19
October, 1667; 1677, Thalestris in Pordage’s The Siege of
Babylon, and Astrea in The Constant Nymph; 1678, Lady
Knowell in Sir Patient Fancy and Lady Squeamish in Otway’s
Friendship in Fashion; 1682, Queen Elizabeth in Banks’ The
Unhappy Favourite, and Sunamire in Southerne’s The Loyal
Brother. Mrs. Quin appears to have retired from the stage towards
the close of the year 1682. There exists of this actress an
extremely interesting portrait which was offered for sale at
Stevens’ Auction Rooms, 26 February, 1901, but not reaching the
reserve price, withdrawn. It is mistakenly described in the
catalogue as ‘Miniature Portrait of Nell Gwynn on copper with
original case and 30 cover dresses on talc...’ An illustrated article
on it, entitled, ‘Nell Gwynne’s Various Guises’, appeared in the
Lady’s Pictorial, 23 March, of the same year, p. 470, in the course
of which the writer says: ‘Accompanying the miniature are some
thirty mica covers in different stages of preservation upon which
various headdresses and costumes are painted. The place where,
in the ordinary course, the face would come is in all cases left
blank, the talc being of course transparent, when it is laid upon
the original miniature the countenance of the latter becomes
visible, and we are enabled to see Nell Gwynne [Anne Quin] as
she would appear in various characters.’ The old error has been
perpetuated here, but the Lady’s Pictorial reproduced half-a-
dozen of these painted mica covers, and the costumes for the two
roles of Queen Elizabeth and Sunamire can be distinctly
recognized. Doubtless an examination of the original micas would
soon yield an identification of other characters. The miniature, it
may be noted, does not in the least resemble Nell Gwynne, so
there is bare excuse here for the confusion.

Act I: Scene i

p. 11 Siege of Pampelona. Pampluna, the strongly fortified capital
of Navarra, has from its geographical position very frequently
been a centre of military operations. It will be remembered that it
was during a siege of Pampluna in 1521 Ignatius Loyola received
the wound which indirectly led to the founding of the Jesuits.
p. 13 King Sancho the First. Sancho I, ‘the Fat’, of Castile and
Leon, reigned 955-67: Sancho I of Aragon 1067-94. But the
phrase is here only in a vague general sense to denote some musty
and immemorial antiquity without any exact reference.
p. 14 Hostel de Dieu. The first Spanish hospital was erected at
Granada by St. Juan de Dios, founder of the Order of
Hospitallers. ob. 1550.
p. 14 Gambo. The Gambia in W. Africa has been a British Colony
since 1664, when a fort, now Fort James, was founded at the
mouth of the river.

Act I: Scene ii
p. 17 Hogoes. Haut-goût, a relish or savoury.

Act I: Scene ii
p. 26 a Piece of Eight. A piastre, a coin of varying values in
different countries. The Spanish piastre is now synonymous with
a dollar and so worth about four shillings. The old Italian piastre
was equivalent to 3s. 7d.

Act II: Scene i
p. 30 Balcony... each side of the Door. With regard to the
proscenium doors and balconies of a Restoration theatre, our
knowledge of these points has been rendered much more exact
since the valuable discovery by that well-known authority in stage
matters, Mr. W. J. Lawrence, of Sir Christopher Wren’s designs
for the second Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, 1674. Beyond the
proscenium on the apron there are four doors each with its
balcony above. The height of these balconies from the stage is

considerable, surprisingly so indeed in view of the fact that
characters frequently have to climb up into or descend from one
of these ‘windows’, e.g., Shadwell’s The Miser (1672), Act. iv,
when the drunken bullies ‘bounce at the Doors’, we have
‘Squeeze at the Window in his Cap, and undressed,’ who cries:
‘I must venture to escape at this Window’; ‘he leaps down’, and
yells, as he falls, ‘Death! I have broke my Bones; oh! oh!’ whilst
the scowrers run up, exclaiming: ‘Somebody leaped out of a
Window’, and he is promptly seized. In Ravenscroft’s The
London Cuckolds (1682), Act. v: ‘Enter Ramble above in the
Balcony’. This gallant, escaping from the house hurriedly, decides
‘which way shall I get down? I must venture to hang by my hands
and then drop from the Balcony’. Next: ‘As Ramble is getting
down Doodle enters to look for his glove, Ramble drops upon
him and beats him down.’ This could hardly have been an easy bit
of stage business, although Smith, who acted Ramble, was an
athletic, tall young fellow.
Normally no doubt only two of the doors (those nearest the
proscenium opening on opposite sides) with their balconies were
in constant use by the actors as the exigencies of the play might
demand, but if required, all four balconies, and more frequently,
all four doors could be and were employed. It is noticeable in
Wren’s design that the balconies are not stage balconies, but side
boxes, a permanent part of the general architectural scheme, and
there can be no doubt that, save in exceptional circumstances, the
two outermost were occupied by spectators. If the play did not
require the use of a balcony at all, spectators would also fill the
inner side boxes. In time, indeed, two doors and two balconies
only came to be used, but for some decades at least all four were
practicable. The present passage of The Rover indicates the use of
three doors. The bravos hang up two little pictures of Angelica,
one at each side of the door of her house, and presently the fair
courtezan appears in her balcony above. A little later Don Pedro
and Stephano enter by one door at the opposite side, Don Antonio
and his page by the second door on the same side as Pedro.

In Etheredge’s She Wou’d if She Cou’d (6 February, 1668) Act
ii, 1, Courtal and Freeman are seen following up Ariana and Gatty
in the Mulberry Garden. Presently ‘The Women go out, and go
about behind the Scenes to the other Door’, then ‘Enter the
Women [at one door] and after ’em Courtal at the lower Door, and
Freeman at the upper on the contrary side’.
Three balconies are employed in Ravenscroft’s Mamamouchi
(1672; 4to 1675) Act iv. We have ‘Enter Mr. Jorden, musick’
obviously in one balcony from the ensuing dialogue. Then
‘Cleverwit, in Turk’s habit, with Betty Trickmore and Lucia
appear in the Balcony’ number two. A song is sung and ‘Young
Jorden and Marina in the Balcony against ’em’. Young Jorden
remarks, ‘Now, dearest Marina, let us ascend to your Father, he is
by this time from his Window convinc’d of the slight is put on
you....’ ‘They retire’ and although there has been no exit marked
for Mr, Jorden, we find directly, ‘Enter Mr. Jorden and
Trickmore,’ obviously upon the stage itself, to which Mr. Jorden
has descended. It must be noted, however, that the use of more
than two balconies is very rare.
Mr. W. J. Lawrence in The Elizabethan Playhouse and other
Studies (First Series) aptly writes: ‘No dramatist of the time had a
better sense of the theatre than Mrs. Behn, and none made more
adroit employment of the balconies.’ He then cites the scene of
Angelica, her bravos and admirers.
p. 36 a Patacoone. A Spanish coin in value about 4s. 8d.

Act II: Scene ii
p. 38 a Pistole-worth. The pistole was a gold coin worth
about 16s.
p. 42 a shameroon. A rare word meaning a trickster, a cozening
rascal.

Act III: Scene iia

p. 54 bow’d Gold. Bowed for bent is still used in the North of
England: ‘A bowed pin.’

Act III: Scene iii
p. 57 disguis’d. A common phrase for drunk.

Act IV: Scene ii
p. 75 cogging. To cog = to trick, wheedle or cajole.

Act V: Scene i
p. 99 Tramontana. Foreign; Italian and Spanish tramontano =
from beyond the mountains.
p. 101 upse. Op zijn = in the fashion or manner of. Upse Gipsy =
like a gipsy, cf. The Alchemist, iv, vi:
I do not like the dulness of your eye:
It hath a heavy cast, ’tis upsee Dutch.
p. 101 Incle. Linen thread or yarn which was woven into a tape
once very much in use.

Epilogue
p. 106 Nokes, or Tony Lee. James Nokes and Antony Leigh, the
two famous actors, were the leading low comedians of the day.
p. 107 Play of the Novella. Novella is a good, though intricate,
comedy by Brome. 8vo, 1653, but acted 1632.
p. 107 The famous Virgil. There is a tale, reported by Donatus,
that Vergil once anonymously wrote up on the palace gates a
distich in praise of Augustus, which, when nobody was found to
own it, was claimed by a certain versifier Bathyllus, whom Cæsar
duly rewarded, A few days later, however, Virgil again set in the
same place a quatrain each line of which commenced ‘sic vos non
vobis...’ but was unfinished, and preceeded these by the one
hexameter

Hos ego versiculos feci; tulit alter honores.
All were unable to complete the lines satisfactorily save the great
poet himself, and by this means the true author of the eulogy was
revealed.

A, B. A portion of the facing inner margins is missing:

Reconstruction, page 30:

Reconstruction, page 31:

THE ROVER; OR,
THE BANISH’D CAVALIERS.
PART II.

Scenes described in (parentheses) are unnumbered.

Argument. Act III.
Source. Scene I. A House.
Theatrical History. Act IV.
Scene I. The Street, or Backside of the Piazza.
Dedication
(A Garden.)
Prologue (La Nuche’s House.)
Dramatis Personæ. (Fetherfool’s Chamber.)
Act I. (The Street.)
Scene I. A Street. Act V.
(A Church.) Scene I. A Chamber.
Act II. Scene II. The Street.
Scene I. The Street. Scene III. Willmore’s Lodging.
Scene II. A fine Chamber. (A Chamber.)
Epilogue.

Notes to The Rover, Part II

ARGUMENT.

The exiled cavaliers, Willmore the Rover, Shift and Hunt, two officers, Ned
Blunt and Fetherfool, his friend, have arrived at Madrid, where they are
welcomed by Beaumond, nephew to the English Ambassador. Both
Willmore and Beaumond are enamoured of La Nuche, a beautiful
courtezan, whilst Shift and Hunt are respectively courting a Giantess and a

Dwarf, two Mexican Jewesses of immense wealth, newly come to Madrid
with an old Hebrew, their uncle and guardian. Beaumond is contracted to
Ariadne, who loves Willmore. Whilst the Rover is complimenting La
Nuche, some Spaniards, headed by Don Carlo, an aged admirer of the lady,
attempt to separate the pair. During the scuffle the ladies enter a church,
where they are followed by the gallants. A little later Fetherfool comes to
terms with La Nuche’s duenna, Petronella, whilst Willmore makes love to
Ariadne. Shift next informs Willmore of the arrival of a celebrated
mountebank, and the Rover resolves to take the quack’s place, which he
does in effective disguise. Fetherfool and Blunt visit the pseudo-doctor’s
house, where the Giantess and Dwarf are lodged to be converted to a
reasonable size by his medicaments; covetous of their great fortunes, the
coxcombs also begin to court the two Jewesses. La Nuche comes to consult
the mountebank and meets Ariadne attired as a boy, and Willmore in his
own dress. Ariadne, who has a rendezvous that evening with Willmore, is
accidentally anticipated by La Nuche, who runs into the garden during a
night brawl between Beaumond and the Rover, each of whom is ignorant of
his opponent’s personality. Both the combatants encounter the courtezan in
the garden and are joined by Ariadne. The confusion and mistakes that
ensue are augmented by the arrival of Beaumond’s page and eventually all
disperse in different directions. La Nuche returns to her house, where
Fetherfool—led on by the Duenna—awaits her. Carlo, however, come
thither for the same purpose, enters the chambers, and after they have fallen
to fisticuffs, Fetherfool in a fright escapes through a window. Meanwhile La
Nuche is engaged with Willmore; Beaumond interrupts, and both leave her
in pretended disdain. Ariadne, purposing to meet the Rover, mistakes
Beaumond for him in the dark and they hurry away to the quack’s house.
Here, however, Fetherfool has already arrived and, finding the Giantess
asleep, robs her of a pearl necklace; but he is alarmed by Shift, who takes
her off and promptly weds her, whilst Hunt does the same by the Dwarf.
Blunt next appears leading Petronella, veiled, who, filching a casket of
jewels, has just fled from La Nuche; but the hag is discovered and
compelled to disgorge. The Jewish Guardian is reconciled to the marriages
of his wards; Beaumond and Ariadne, Willmore and La Nuche arrive, and
the various mistakes with regard to identity are rectified, Willmore

incidentally revealing himself as the sham mountebank. Beaumond and
Ariadne agree to marry, whilst La Nuche gives herself to the Rover.

SOURCE.

Induced by the extraordinary success of The Rover in 1677, Mrs. Behn, four
years later, turned again to Killigrew’s Thomaso; or, The Wanderer, and
produced a sequel to her play. She had, however, already made good use of
the best points of the old comedy, and the remaining material only being
that which her judgment first rejected, it is not a matter of surprise to find
the second part of The Rover somewhat inferior to the first. This is by no
means to say that it is not an amusing comedy full of bustle and humour.
The intrigue of Willmore and La Nuche, together with the jocantries of the
inimitable Blunt, Nick Fetherfool, and the antique Petronella Elenora, are
all alive with the genius of Astrea, although it may be possibly objected that
some of the episodes with the two Monsters and the pranks of Harlequin are
apt to trench a little too nearly on the realm of farce.

THEATRICAL HISTORY.

The Second Part of The Rover was produced at the Duke’s Theatre, Dorset
Gardens, in 1681. It is noticeable that Will Smith had so distinguished
himself in Willmore, that Betterton, who appeared as Belvile in the first
part, did not essay a character in the second. The cast was reinforced,
however, by Mrs. Barry, who took the role of La Nuche.
The play was received with great applause; it suffered none the less the fate
of most sequels and, being overshadowed by its predecessor, after a few
decades disappeared from the boards.

TO HIS
ROYAL HIGHNESS
THE
DUKE, &c.

Great Sir,
I dread to appear in this Humble Dedication to Your Royal Highness, as
one of those Insolent and Saucy Offenders who take occasion by Your
absence to commit ill-mannered indecencies, unpardonable to a Prince of
your Illustrious Birth and God-like Goodness, but that in spight of
Seditious Scandal You can forgive; and all the World knows You can
suffer with a Divine Patience: the proofs You have early and late given of
this, have been such, as if Heaven design’d ’em only to give the World an
undeniable Testimony of Your Noble Vertues, Your Loyalty and True
Obedience (if I may presume to say so,) both to Your Sacred Brother, and
the never satisfied People, when either one Commanded, or t’other
repin’d, With how chearful and intire a submission You Obey’d? And tho
the Royal Son of a Glorious Father who was render’d unfortunate by the
unexemplary ingratitude of his worst of Subjects; and sacrific’d to the
insatiate and cruel Villany of a seeming sanctifi’d Faction, who cou’d
never hope to expiate for the unparallell’d sin, but by an intire submission
to the Gracious Off-spring of this Royal Martyr: yet You, Great Sir,
denying Yourself the Rights and Priviledges the meanest Subject Claims,
with a Fortitude worthy Your Adorable Vertues, put Yourself upon a
voluntary Exile to appease the causeless murmurs of this again gathering
Faction, who make their needless and self-created fears, an occasion to
Play the old Game o’re again; whil’st the Politick self-interested and
malitious few betray the unconsidering Rest, with the delicious sounds of
Liberty and Publick Good; that lucky Cant which so few years since so
miserably reduc’d all the Noble, Brave and Honest, to the Obedience of
the ill-gotten Power, and worse-acted Greatness of the Rabble; so that
whil’st they most unjustly cry’d down the oppression of one of the best of
Monarchs, and all Kingly Government: all England found itself deplorably
inslav’d by the Arbitrary Tyranny of many Pageant Kings. Oh that we

shou’d so far forget with what greatness of mind You then shar’d the
common Fate, as now and again to force Your Royal Person to new Perils,
and new Exiles; but such ingratitude we are punisht with, and You still
suffer for, and still forgive it.
This more than Human Goodness, with the incouragement Your Royal
Highness was pleas’d to give the Rover at his first appearance, and the
concern You were pleas’d to have for his second, makes me presume to
lay him at Your feet; he is a wanderer too, distrest; belov’d, the
unfortunate, and ever conscent to Loyalty; were he Legions he should
follow and suffer still with so Excellent a Prince and Master. Your Infant
worth he knew, and all Your growing Glories; has seen you like young
Cesar in the Field, when yet a Youth, exchanging Death for Laurels, and
wondred at a Bravery so early, which still made double Conquest, not only
by Your Sword, but by Your Vertues, which taught even Some of Oliver’s
Your Enemies so intire an Obedience, that asham’d of Commanders at
Dunkirk
their Rebel Gallantry, they have resign’d their guilty
Commissions, and Vow’d never to Draw Sword more but in the Royal
Cause; which Vow Religiously they kept: a noble Example for the busie
and hot Mutineers of this Age misled by Youth, false Ambition and falser
Council.
How careless since Your Glorious Restauration You have been, of Your
Life for the service of Your mistaken Country, the whole World knows,
and all brave men admire.
Pardon me then, Great Sir, if I presume to present my faithful Soldier,
(which no Storms of Fate can ever draw from his Obedience) to so great a
General: allow him, Royal Sir, a shelter and protection, who was driven
from his Native Country with You, forc’d as You were, to fight for his
Bread in a Strange Land, and suffer’d with You all the Ills of Poverty, War
and Banishment; and still pursues Your Fortunes; and though he cannot
serve Your Highness, he may possibly have the Honour of diverting You a
few moments: which tho Your Highness cannot want in a place where all
Hearts and Knees are justly bow’d in Adoration, where all conspire, as all
the Earth (who have the blessing of Your presence) ought to entertain,
serve and please You; yet this humble Tribute of a most Zealous and

Devout Heart, may find amongst Your busier hours of greater moment,
some one wherein it may have the Glory of Your regard, and be capable in
some small degree of unbending Your great mind from Royal Cares, the
weightiest Cares of all; which if it be so fortunate as to do, I have my end,
and the Glory I design, a sufficient reward for her who does and will
eternally pray for the Life, Health and Safety of Your Royal Highness, as
in Duty all the World is bound to do, but more especially,
Illustrious Sir,
Your Highnesses most Humble,
most Faithful, and
most Obedient Servant,

A. BEHN.

THE ROVER.
PART II.

PROLOGUE,
Spoken by Mr. Smith.

IN vain we labour to reform the Stage,
Poets have caught too the Disease o’th’ Age,
That Pest, of not being quiet when they’re well,
That restless Fever, in the Brethren, Zeal;
In publick Spirits call’d, Good o’ th’ Commonweal.
Some for this Faction cry, others for that,

The pious Mobile fir they know not what:
So tho by different ways the Fever seize,
In all ’tis one and the same mad Disease.
Our Author too, as all new Zealots do,
Full of Conceit and Contradiction too,
’Cause the first Project took, is now so vain,
T’attempt to play the old Game o’er again:
The Scene is only changed; for who wou’d lay
A Plot, so hopeful, just the same dull way?
Poets, like Statesmen, with a little change,
Pass off old Politicks for new and strange;
Tho the few Men of Sense decry’t aloud,
The Cheat will pass with the unthinking Croud:
The Rabble ’tis we court, those powerful things,
Whose Voices can impose even Laws on Kings.
A Pox of Sense and Reason, or dull Rules,
Give us an Audience that declares for Fools;
Our Play will stand fair: we’ve Monsters too,
Which far exceed your City Pope for Show.
Almighty Rabble,’tis to you this Day
Our humble Author dedicates the Play,
From those who in our lofty Tire sit,
Down to the dull Stage-Cullies of the Pit,
Who have much Money, and but little Wit:
Whose useful Purses, and whose empty Skulls
To private Int’rest make ye Publick Tools;
To work on Projects which the wiser frame,
And of fine Men of Business get the Name.
You who have left caballing here of late,
Imploy’d in matters of a mightier weight;
To you we make our humble Application,
You’d spare some time from your dear new Vocation,
Of drinking deep, then settling the Nation,
To countenance us, whom Commonwealths of old
Did the most politick Diversion hold.

Plays were so useful thought to Government,
That Laws were made for their Establishment;
Howe’er in Schools differing Opinions jar,
Yet all agree i’ th’ crouded Theatre,
Which none forsook in any Change or War.
That, like their Gods, unviolated stood,
Equally needful to the publick Good.
Throw then, Great Sirs, some vacant hours away,
And your Petitioners shall humbly pray. &c.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
MEN.
Willmore, The Rover, in love with La
Mr. Smith.
Nuche,
Beaumond, the English Ambassador’s Nephew, in love with La Mr.
Nuche, contracted to Ariadne, Williams.
Mr.
Ned Blunt, an English Country Gentleman,
Underhill.
Nicholas Fetherfool, an English Squire, his Friend, Mr. Nokes.
Mr.
Shift, an English Lieutenant,
Friends and Officers to Wiltshire.
Willmore, Mr.
Hunt, an Ensign
Richards.
Harlequin, Willmore’s Man.
Abevile, Page to Beaumond.
Don Carlo an old Grandee, in love with La Nuche, Mr. Norris.
Sancho, Bravo to La Nuche
Mr.
An old Jew, Guardian to the two Monsters,
Freeman.
Porter at the English Ambassador’s.
Rag, Boy to Willmore.
Scaramouche.
WOMEN.
Ariadne, the English Ambassador’s Daughter-in-law, in love with Mrs.
Willmore, Corror.
Lucia, her Kinswoman, a Girl, Mrs. Norris.
La Nuche, a Spanish Curtezan, in love with the Rover, Mrs. Barry.
Petronella Elenora, her Baud, Mrs. Norris.

Aurelia, her Woman, Mrs. Crofts.
A Woman Giant.
A Dwarf, her Sister.
Footmen, Servants, Musicians, Operators and Spectators.

SCENE, Madrid.

ACT I.

Scene I. A Street.
Enter Willmore, Blunt, Fetherfool, and Hunt, two more in Campain
Dresses, Rag the Captain’s Boy.
Will. Stay, this is the English Ambassador’s. I’ll inquire if Beaumond be
return’d from Paris.
Feth. Prithee, dear Captain, no more Delays, unless thou thinkest he will
invite us to Dinner; for this fine thin sharp Air of Madrid has a most
notable Faculty of provoking an Appetite: Prithee let’s to the Ordinary.
Will. I will not stay— [Knocks, enter a Porter.
—Friend, is the Ambassador’s Nephew, Mr.
Beaumond, return’d to Madrid yet? If he be, I would speak with him.
Port. I’ll let him know so much. [Goes in, shuts the door.
Blunt. Why, how now, what’s the Door shut upon us?
Feth. And reason, Ned, ’tis Dinner-time in the Ambassador’s Kitchen, and
should they let the savoury Steam out, what a world of Castilians would
there be at the Door feeding upon’t.—Oh there’s no living in Spain when
the Pot’s uncover’d.
Blunt. Nay, ’tis a Nation of the finest clean Teeth—
Feth. Teeth! Gad an they use their Swords no oftner, a Scabbard will last
an Age.

Enter Shift from the House.
Will. Honest Lieutenant—
Shift. My noble Captain—Welcome to Madrid. What Mr. Blunt, and my
honoured Friend Nicholas Fetherfool Esq.
Feth. Thy Hand, honest Shift— [They embrace him.
Will. And how, Lieutenant, how stand Affairs in this unsanctify’d Town?
—How does Love’s great Artillery, the fair La Nuche, from whose bright
Eyes the little wanton God throws Darts to wound Mankind?
Shift. Faith, she carries all before her still; undoes her Fellow-traders in
Love’s Art: and amongst the Number, old Carlo de Minalta Segosa pays
high for two Nights in a Week.
Will. Hah—Carlo! Death, what a greeting’s here! Carlo, the happy Man!
a Dog! a Rascal, gain the bright La Nuche! Oh Fortune! Cursed blind
mistaken Fortune! eternal Friend to Fools! Fortune! that takes the noble
Rate from Man, to place it on her Idol Interest.
Shift. Why Faith, Captain, I should think her Heart might stand as fair for
you as any, could you be less satirical—but by this Light, Captain, you
return her Raillery a little too roughly.
Will. Her Raillery! By this Hand I had rather be handsomly abus’d than
dully flatter’d; but when she touches on my Poverty, my honourable
Poverty, she presses me too sensibly—for nothing is so nice as Poverty—
But damn her, I’ll think of her no more: for she’s a Devil, tho her Form be
Angel. Is Beaumond come from Paris yet?
Shift. He is, I came with him; he’s impatient of your Return: I’ll let him
know you’re here. [Exit. Shift.
Feth. Why, what a Pox ails the Captain o’th’ sudden? He looks as sullenly
as a routed General, or a Lover after hard Service.
Blunt. Oh—something the Lieutenant has told him about a Wench; and
when Cupid’s in his Breeches, the Devil’s ever in’s Head—how now—
What a pox is the matter with you, you look so scurvily now?—What, is

the Gentlewoman otherwise provided? has she cashier’d ye for want of
Pay? or what other dire Mischance?—hah—
Will. Do not trouble me—
Blunt. Adsheartlikins, but I will, and beat thee too, but I’ll know the
Cause. I heard Shift tell thee something about La Nuche, a Damsel I have
often heard thee Fool enough to sigh for.
Will. Confound the mercenary Jilt!
Blunt. Nay, adsheartlikins they are all so; tho I thought you had been
Whore-proof; ’tis enough for us Fools, Country Gentlemen, Esquires, and
Cullies, to miscarry in their amorous Adventures, you Men of Wit weather
all Storms you.
Will. Oh, Sir, you’re become a new Man, wise and wary, and can no more
be cozen’d.
Blunt. Not by Woman-kind; and for Man I think my Sword will secure
me. Pox, I thought a two Months absence and a Siege would have put such
Trifles out of thy Head: You do not use to be such a Miracle of Constancy.
Will. That Absence makes me think of her so much; and all the Passions
thou find’st about me are to the Sex alone. Give me a Woman, Ned, a fine
young amorous Wanton, who would allay this Fire that makes me rave
thus, and thou shouldst find me no longer particular, but cold as Winter-
Nights to this La Nuche: Yet since I lost my little charming Gipsey,
nothing has gone so near my Heart as this.
Blunt. Ay, there was a Girl, the only she thing that could reconcile me to
the Petticoats again after my Naples Adventure, when the Quean rob’d and
stript me.
Will. Oh name not Hellena! She was a Saint to be ador’d on Holy-days.
Enter Beaumond.
Beau. Willmore! my careless wild inconstant—how is’t, my lucky Rover?
[embracing.

Will. My Life! my Soul! how glad am I to find thee in my Arms again—
and well—When left you Paris? Paris, that City of Pottage and Crab-
Wine, swarming with Lacquies and Philies, whose Government is carried
on by most Hands, not most Voices—And prithee how does Belvile and
his Lady?
Beau. I left ’em both in Health at St. Germains.
Will. Faith, I have wisht my self with ye at the old Temple of Bacchus at
St. Clou, to sacrifice a Bottle and a Damsel to his Deity.
Beau. My constant Place of Worship whilst there, tho for want of new
Saints my Zeal grew something cold, which I was ever fain to supply with
a Bottle, the old Remedy when Phyllis is sullen and absent.
Will. Now thou talk’st of Phillis prithee, dear Harry, what Women hast in
store?
Beau. I’ll tell thee; but first inform me whom these two Sparks are.
Will. Egad, and so they are, Child: Salute ’em—They are my Friends—
True Blades, Hal. highly guilty of the royal Crime, poor and brave, loyal
Fugitives.
Beau. I love and honour ’em, Sir, as such [Bowing to Blunt.
Blunt. Sir, there’s neither Love nor Honour lost.
Feth. Sir, I scorn to be behind-hand in Civilities.
Beau. At first sight I find I am much yours, Sir. [To Feth.
Feth. Sir, I love and honour any Man that’s a Friend to Captain Willmore
—and therefore I am yours—
Enter Shift.
—Well, honest Lieutenant, how does thy Body?—When shall Ned, and
thou and I, crack a Bisket o’er a Glass of Wine, have a Slice of Treason
and settle the Nation, hah?
Shift. You know, Squire, I am devotedly yours. [They talk aside.
Beau. Prithee who are these?

Will. Why, the first you saluted is the same Ned Blunt you have often
heard Belvile and I speak of: the other is a Rarity of another Nature, one
Squire Fetherfool of Croydon, a tame Justice of Peace, who liv’d as
innocently as Ale and Food could keep him, till for a mistaken Kindness to
one of the Royal Party, he lost his Commission, and got the Reputation of
a Sufferer: He’s rich, but covetous as an Alderman.
Beau. What a Pox do’st keep ’em Company for, who have neither Wit
enough to divert thee, nor Good-nature enough to serve thee?
Will. Faith, Harry, ’tis true, and if there were no more Charity than Profit
in’t, a Man would sooner keep a Cough o’th’ Lungs than be troubled with
’em: but the Rascals have a blind side as all conceited Coxcombs have,
which when I’ve nothing else to do, I shall expose to advance our Mirth;
the Rogues must be cozen’d, because they’re so positive they never can be
so: but I am now for softer Joys, for Woman, for Woman in abundance—
dear Hal. inform me where I may safely unlade my Heart.
Beau. The same Man still, wild and wanton!
Will. And would not change to be the Catholick King.
Beau. I perceive Marriage has not tam’d you, nor a Wife who had all the
Charms of her Sex.
Will. Ay—she was too good for Mortals. [With a sham Sadness.
Belv. I think thou hadst her but a Month, prithee how dy’d she?
Will. Faith, e’en with a fit of Kindness, poor Soul—she would to Sea with
me, and in a Storm—far from Land, she gave up the Ghost—’twas a Loss,
but I must bear it with a Christian Fortitude.
Beau. Short Happinesses vanish like to Dreams.
Will. Ay faith, and nothing remains with me but the sad Remembrance—
not so much as the least Part of her hundred thousand Crowns; Brussels
that inchanted Court has eas’d me of that Grief, where our Heroes act
Tantalus better than ever Ovid describ’d him, condemn’d daily to see an
Apparition of Meat, Food in Vision only. Faith, I had Bowels, was good-
natur’d, and lent upon the publick Faith as far as ’twill go—But come,

let’s leave this mortifying Discourse, and tell me how the price of Pleasure
goes.
Beau. At the old Rates still; he that gives most is happiest, some few there
are for Love!
Will. Ah, one of the last, dear Beaumond; and if a Heart or Sword can
purchase her, I’ll bid as fair as the best. Damn it, I hate a Whore that asks
me Mony.
Beau. Yet I have known thee venture all thy Stock for a new Woman.
Will. Ay, such a Fool I was in my dull Days of Constancy, but I am now
for Change, (and should I pay as often,’twould undo me)—for Change, my
Dear, of Place, Clothes, Wine, and Women. Variety is the Soul of Pleasure,
a Good unknown; and we want Faith to find it.
Beau. Thou wouldst renounce that fond Opinion, Willmore, didst thou see
a Beauty here in Town, whose Charms have Power to fix inconstant
Nature or Fortune were she tottering on her Wheel.
Will. Her Name, my Dear, her Name?
Beau. I would not breathe it even in my Complaints, lest amorous Winds
should bear it o’er the World, and make Mankind her Slaves;
But that it is a Name too cheaply known,
And she that owns it may be as cheaply purchas’d.
Will. Hah! cheaply purchas’d too! I languish for her.
Beau. Ay, there’s the Devil on’t, she is—a Whore.
Will. Ah, what a charming Sound that mighty Word bears!
Beau. Damn her, she’ll be thine or any body’s.
Will. I die for her—
Beau. Then for her Qualities—
Will. No more—ye Gods, I ask no more, Be she but fair and much a
Whore—Come let’s to her.
Beau. Perhaps to morrow you may see this Woman.

Will. Death,’tis an Age.
Feth. Oh, Captain, the strangest News, Captain.
Will. Prithee what?
Feth. Why, Lieutenant Shift here tells us of two Monsters arriv’d from
Mexico, Jews of vast Fortunes, with an old Jew Uncle their Guardian; they
are worth a hundred thousand Pounds a piece—Marcy upon’s, why,’tis a
Sum able to purchase all Flanders again from his most christian Majesty.
Will. Ha, ha, ha, Monsters!
Beau. He tells you Truth, Willmore.
Blunt. But hark ye, Lieutenant, are you sure they are not married?
Beau. Who the Devil would venture on such formidable Ladies?
Feth. How, venture on ’em! by the Lord Harry, and that would I, tho I’m
a Justice of the Peace, and they be Jews, (which to a Christian is a
thousand Reasons.)
Blunt. Is the Devil in you to declare our Designs? [Aside.
Feth. Mum, as close as a Jesuit.
Beau. I admire your Courage, Sir, but one of them is so little, and so
deform’d,’tis thought she is not capable of Marriage; and the other is so
huge an overgrown Giant, no Man dares venture on her.
Will. Prithee let’s go see ’em; what do they pay for going in?
Feth. Pay—I’d have you to know they are Monsters of Quality.
Shift. And not to be seen but by particular Favour of their Guardian,
whom I am got acquainted with, from the Friendship I have with the
Merchant where they lay. The Giant, Sir, is in love with me, the Dwarf
with Ensign Hunt, and as we manage Matters we may prove lucky.
Beau. And didst thou see the Show? the Elephant and the Mouse.
Shift. Yes, and pleased them wondrously with News I brought ’em of a
famous Mountebank who is coming to Madrid, here are his Bills—who
amongst other his marvellous Cures, pretends to restore Mistakes in

Nature, to new-mould a Face and Body tho never so misshapen, to exact
Proportion and Beauty. This News has made me gracious to the Ladies,
and I am to bring ’em word of the Arrival of this famous Empirick, and to
negotiate the Business of their Reformation.
Will. And do they think to be restor’d to moderate sizes?
Shift. Much pleas’d with the Hope, and are resolv’d to try at any Rate.
Feth. Mum, Lieutenant—not too much of their Transformation; we shall
have the Captain put in for a Share, and the Devil would not have him his
Rival: Ned and I are resolv’d to venture a Castfor ’em as they are—Hah,
Ned. [Will. and Beau. read the Bill.
Blunt. Yes, if there were any Hopes of your keeping a Secret.
Feth. Nay, nay, Ned, the World knows I am a plaguy Fellow at your
Secrets; that, and my Share of the Charge shall be my Part, for Shift says
the Guardian must be brib’d for Consent: Now the other Moiety of the
Mony and the Speeches shall be thy part, for thou hast a pretty Knack that
way. Now Shift shall bring Matters neatly about, and we’ll pay him by the
Day, or in gross, when we are married—hah, Shift.
Shift. Sir, I shall be reasonable.
Will. I am sure Fetherfool and Blunt have some wise Design upon these
two Monsters—it must be so—and this Bill has put an extravagant
Thought into my Head—hark ye, Shift. [Whispers to him.
Blunt. The Devil’s in’t if this will not redeem my Reputation with the
Captain, and give him to understand that all the Wit does not lie in the
Family of the Willmores, but that this Noddle of mine can be fruitful too
upon Occasion.
Feth. Ay, and Lord, how we’ll domineer, Ned, hah—over Willmore and
the rest of the Renegade Officers, when we have married these Lady
Monsters, hah, Ned.
Blunt. —Then to return back to Essex worth a Million.
Feth. And I to Croyden—

Blunt. —Lolling in Coach and Six—
Feth. —Be dub’d Right Worshipful—
Blunt. And stand for Knight of the Shire.
Will. Enough—I must have my Share of this Jest, and for divers and
sundry Reasons thereunto belonging, must be this very Mountebank
expected.
Shift. Faith, Sir, and that were no hard matter, for a day or two the Town
will believe it, the same they look for: and the Bank, Operators and
Musick are all ready.
Will. Well enough, add but a Harlequin and Scaramouch, and I shall
mount in querpo.
Shift. Take no care for that, Sir, your Man, and Ensign Hunt, are excellent
at those two; I saw ’em act ’em the other day to a Wonder, they’ll be glad
of the Employment, my self will be an Operator.
Will. No more, get ’em ready, and give it out, the Man of Art’s arriv’d: Be
diligent and secret, for these two politick Asses must be cozen’d.
Shift. I will about the Business instantly. [Ex. Shift.
Beau. This Fellow will do Feats if he keeps his Word.
Will. I’ll give you mine he shall—But, dear Beaumond, where shall we
meet anon?
Beau. I thank ye for that—’Gad, ye shall dine with me.
Feth. A good Motion—
Will. I beg your Pardon now, dear Beaumond—I having lately nothing
else to do, took a Command of Horse from the General at the last Siege,
from which I am just arriv’d, and my Baggage is behind, which I must
take order for.
Feth. Pox on’t now there’s a Dinner lost,’twas ever an unlucky Rascal.
Beau. To tempt thee more, thou shalt see my Wife that is to be.

Will. Pox on’t, I am the leudest Company in Christendom with your
honest Women—but—What, art thou to be noos’d then?
Beau. ’Tis so design’d by my Uncle, if an old Grandee my Rival prevent
it not; the Wench is very pretty, young, and rich, and lives in the same
House with me, for ’tis my Aunt’s Daughter.
Will. Much good may it d’ye, Harry, I pity you, but ’tis the common
Grievance of you happy Men of Fortune.
[Goes towards the House-door with Beau.
Enter La Nuche, Aurelia, Petronella, Sancho, Women veil’d a little.
Aur. Heavens, Madam, is not that the English Captain?
[Looking on Will.
La Nu. ’Tis, and with him Don Henrick the Ambassador’s Nephew—how
my Heart pants and heaves at sight of him! some Fire of the old Flames
remaining, which I must strive to extinguish. For I’ll not bate a Ducat of
this Price I’ve set upon my self, for all the Pleasures Youth or Love can
bring me—for see Aurelia—the sad Memento of a decay’d poor old
forsaken Whore in Petronella; consider her, and then commend my
Prudence.
Will. Hah, Women!—
Feth. Egad, and fine ones too, I’ll tell you that.
Will. No matter, Kindness is better Sauce to Woman than Beauty! By this
Hand she looks at me—Why dost hold me? [Feth. holds him.
Feth. Why, what a Devil, art mad?
Will. Raging, as vigorous Youth kept long from Beauty; wild for the
charming Sex, eager for Woman, I long to give a Loose to Love and
Pleasure.
Blunt. These are not Women, Sir, for you to ruffle—
Will. Have a care of your Persons of Quality, Ned.
—Those lovely Eyes were never made to throw [Goes to La Nuche.
their Darts in vain.

La Nu. The Conquest would be hardly worth the Pain.
Will. Hah, La Nuche! with what a proud Disdain she flung away—stay,
I will not part so with you— [Holds her.

Enter Ariadne and Lucia with Footmen.
Aria. Who are these before us, Lucia?
Luc. I know not, Madam; but if you make not haste home, you’ll be
troubled with Carlo your importunate Lover, who is just behind us.
Aria. Hang me, a lovely Man! what Lady’s that? stay.
Pet. What Insolence is this! This Villain will spoil all—
Feth. Why, Captain, are you quite distracted?—dost know where thou art?
Prithee be civil—
Will. Go, proud and cruel! [Turns her from him.
Enter Carlo, and two or three Spanish Servants following: Petronella
goes to him.
Car. Hah, affronted by a drunken Islander, a saucy Tramontane!—Draw—
[To his Servants whilst he takes La Nuche.
whilst I lead her off—fear not, Lady, you have the Honour of my Sword to
guard ye.
Will. Hah, Carlo—ye lye—it cannot guard the boasting Fool that wears it
—be gone—and look not back upon this Woman. [Snatches her from
him] One single Glance destroys thee—
[They draw and fight; Carlo getting hindmost of his Spaniards, the
English beat ’em off: The Ladies run away, all but Ariadne and
Lucia.
Luc. Heav’ns, Madam, why do ye stay?
Aria. To pray for that dear Stranger—And see, my Prayers are heard, and
he’s return’d in safety—this Door shall shelter me to o’er-hear the Quarrel.
[Steps aside.

Enter Will. Blunt, Feth. looking big, and putting up his Sword.
Feth. The noble Captain be affronted by a starch’d Ruff and Beard,
a Coward in querpo, a walking Bunch of Garlick, a pickl’d Pilchard! abuse
the noble Captain, and bear it off in State, like a Christmas Sweet-heart;
these things must not be whilst Nicholas Fetherfool wears a Sword.
Blunt. Pox o’ these Women, I thought no good would come on’t: besides,
where’s the Jest in affronting honest Women, if there be such a thing in the
Nation?
Feth. Hang’t,’twas the Devil and all—
Will. Ha, ha, ha! Why, good honest homespun Country Gentlemen, who
do you think those were?
Feth. Were! why, Ladies of Quality going to their Devotion; who should
they be?
Blunt. Why, faith, and so I thought too.
Will. Why, that very one Woman I spoke to is ten Whores in Surrey.
Feth. Prithee speak softly, Man: ’Slife, we shall be poniarded for keeping
thee company.
Will. Wise Mr. Justice, give me your Warrant, and if I do not prove ’em
Whores, whip me.
Feth. Prithee hold thy scandalous blasphemous Tongue, as if I did not
know Whores from Persons of Quality.
Will. Will you believe me when you lie with her? for thou’rt a rich Ass,
and may’st do it.
Feth. Whores—ha, ha—
Will. ’Tis strange Logick now, because your Band is better that mine,
I must not know a Whore better than you.
Blunt. If this be a Whore, as thou say’st, I understand nothing—by this
Light such a Wench would pass for a Person of Quality in London.

Feth. Few Ladies have I seen at a Sheriff’s Feast have better Faces, or
worn so good Clothes; and by the Lord Harry, if these be of the gentle
Craft, I’d not give a Real for an honest Women for my use.
Will. Come follow me into the Church, for thither I am sure they’re gone:
And I will let you see what a wretched thing you had been had you lived
seven Years longer in Surrey, stew’d in Ale and Beef-broth.
Feth. O dear Willmore, name not those savory things, there’s no jesting
with my Stomach; it sleeps now, but if it wakes, wo be to your Shares at
the Ordinary.
Blunt. I’ll say that for Fetherfool, if his Heart were but half so good as his
Stomach, he were a brave Fellow. [Aside, Exeunt.
Aria. I am resolv’d to follow—and learn, if possible, who ’tis has made
this sudden Conquest o’er me. [All go off.
[Scene draws, and discovers a Church, a great many People at
Devotion, soft Musick playing. Enter La Nuche, Aurelia, Petron.
and Sancho: To them Willmore, Feth. Blunt; then Ariadne, Lucia;
Feth. bows to La Nuche and Petronella.
Feth. Now as I hope to be sav’d, Blunt, she’s a most melodious Lady.
Would I were worthy to purchase a Sin or so with her. Would not such a
Beauty reconcile thy Quarrel to the Sex?
Blunt. No, were she an Angel in that Shape.
Feth. Why, what a pox couldst not lie with her if she’d let thee? By the
Lord Harry, as errant a Dog as I am, I’d fain see any of Cupid’s Cook-
maids put me out of countenance with such a Shoulder of Mutton.
Aria. See how he gazes on her—Lucia, go nearer, and o’er-hear ’em.
[Lucia listens.
Will. Death, how the charming Hypocrite looks to day, with such a soft
Devotion in her Eyes, as if even now she were praising Heav’n for all the
Advantages it has blest her with.
Blunt. Look how Willmore eyes her, the Rogue’s smitten heart deep—
Whores—

Feth. Only a Trick to keep her to himself—he thought the Name of a
Spanish Harlot would fright us from attempting—I must divert him—how
is’t, Captain—Prithee mind this Musick—Is it not most Seraphical?
Will. Pox, let the Fidlers mind and tune their Pipes, I’ve higher Pleasures
now.
Feth. Oh, have ye so; what, with Whores, Captain?—’Tis a most delicious
Gentlewoman. [Aside.
Pet. Pray, Madam, mind that Cavalier, who takes such pains to
recommend himself to you.
La Nu. Yes, for a fine conceited Fool—
Pet. Catso, a Fool, what else?
La Nu. Right, they are our noblest Chapmen; a Fool, and a rich Fool, and
an English rich Fool—
Feth. ’Sbud, she eyes me, Ned, I’ll set my self in order, it may take—hah
— [Sets himself.
Pet. Let me alone to manage him, I’ll to him—
La Nu. Or to the Devil, so I had one Minute’s time to speak to Willmore.
Pet. And accosting him thus—tell him—
La Nu. [in a hasty Tone.] —I am desperately in love with him, and am
Daughter, Wife, or Mistress to some Grandee—bemoan the Condition of
Women of Quality in Spain, who by too much Constraint are oblig’d to
speak first—but were we blest like other Nations where Men and Women
meet—
[Speaking so fast, she offering to put in her word, is still prevented by
t’other’s running on.
Pet. What Herds of Cuckolds would Spain breed—’Slife, I could find in
my Heart to forswear your Service: Have I taught ye your Trade, to
become my Instructor, how to cozen a dull phlegmatick greasy-brain’d
Englishman?—go and expect your Wishes.

Will. So, she has sent her Matron to our Coxcomb; she saw he was a Cully
fit for Game—who would not be a Rascal to be rich, a Dog, an Ass,
a beaten, harden’d Coward—by Heaven, I will possess this gay Insensible,
to make me hate her—most extremely curse her—See if she be not fallen
to Pray’r again, from thence to Flattery, Jilting and Purse-taking, to make
the Proverb good—My fair false Sybil, what Inspirations are you waiting
for from Heaven, new Arts to cheat Mankind!—Tell me, with what Face
canst thou be devout, or ask any thing from thence, who hast made so leud
a use of what it has already lavish’d on thee?
La Nu. Oh my careless Rover! I perceive all your hot Shot is not yet spent
in Battel, you have a Volley in reserve for me still—Faith, Officer, the
Town has wanted Mirth in your Absence.
Will. And so might all the wiser part for thee, who hast no Mirth, no
Gaiety about thee, and when thou wouldst design some Coxcomb’s ruin;
to all the rest, a Soul thou hast so dull, that neither Love nor Mirth, nor
Wit or Wine can wake it to good Nature—thou’rt one who lazily work’st
in thy Trade, and sell’st for ready Mony so much Kindness; a tame cold
Sufferer only, and no more.
La Nu. What, you would have a Mistress like a Squirrel in a Cage, always
in Action—one who is as free of her Favours as I am sparing of mine—
Well, Captain, I have known the time when La Nuche was such a Wit,
such a Humour, such a Shape, and such a Voice, (tho to say Truth I sing
but scurvily) ’twas Comedy to see and hear me.
Will. Why, yes Faith for once thou wert, and for once mayst be again, till
thou know’st thy Man, and knowest him to be poor. At first you lik’d me
too, you saw me gay, no marks of Poverty dwelt in my Face or Dress, and
then I was the dearest loveliest Man—all this was to my outside; Death,
you made love to my Breeches, caress’d my Garniture and Feather, an
English Fool of Quality you thought me—’Sheart, I have known a Woman
doat on Quality, tho he has stunk thro all his Perfumes; one who never
went all to Bed to her, but left his Teeth, an Eye, false Back and Breast,
sometimes his Palate too upon her Toilet, whilst her fair Arms hug’d the
dismember’d Carcase, and swore him all Perfection, because of Quality.

La Nu. But he was rich, good Captain, was he not?
Will. Oh most damnably, and a confounded Blockhead, two certain
Remedies against your Pride and Scorn.
La Nu. Have you done, Sir?
Will. With thee and all thy Sex, of which I’ve try’d an hundred, and found
none true or honest.
La Nu. Oh, I doubt not the number: for you are one of those healthy-
stomacht Lovers, that can digest a Mistress in a Night, and hunger again
next Morning: a Pox of your whining consumptive Constitution, who are
only constant for want of Appetite: you have a swinging Stomach to
Variety, and Want having set an edge upon your Invention, (with which
you cut thro all Difficulties) you grow more impudent by Success.
Will. I am not always scorn’d then.
La Nu. I have known you as confidently put your Hands into your Pockets
for Money in a Morning, as if the Devil had been your Banker, when you
knew you put ’em off at Night as empty as your Gloves.
Will. And it may be found Money there too.
La Nu. Then with this Poverty so proud you are, you will not give the
Wall to the Catholick King, unless his Picture hung upon’t. No Servants,
no Money, no Meat, always on foot, and yet undaunted still.
Will. Allow me that, Child.
La Nu. I wonder what the Devil makes you so termagant on our Sex, ’tis
not your high feeding, for your Grandees only dine, and that but when
Fortune pleases—For your parts, who are the poor dependent, brown
Bread and old Adam’s Ale is only current amongst ye; yet if little Eve walk
in the Garden, the starv’d lean Rogues neigh after her, as if they were in
Paradise.
Will. Still true to Love you see—-
La Nu. I heard an English Capuchin swear, that if the King’s Followers
could be brought to pray as well as fast, there would be more Saints

among ’em than the Church has ever canoniz’d.
Will. All this with Pride I own, since ’tis a royal Cause I suffer for; go
pursue your Business your own way, insnare the Fool—I saw the Toils you
set, and how that Face was ordered for the Conquest, your Eyes brimful of
dying lying Love; and now and then a wishing Glance or Sigh thrown as
by chance; which when the happy Coxcomb caught—you feign’d a Blush,
as angry and asham’d of the Discovery: and all this Cunning’s for a little
mercenary Gain—fine Clothes, perhaps some Jewels too, whilst all the
Finery cannot hide the Whore!
La Nu. There’s your eternal Quarrel to our Sex, ’twere a fine Trade indeed
to keep a Shop and give your Ware for Love: would it turn to account
think ye, Captain, to trick and dress, to receive all wou’d enter? faith,
Captain, try the Trade.
Pet. What in Discourse with this Railer!—come away; Poverty’s catching.
[Returns from Discourse with Feth. speaks to San.
Will. So is the Pox, good Matron, of which you can afford good
Penniworths.
La Nu. He charms me even with his angry Looks, and will undo me yet.
Pet. Let’s leave this Place, I’ll tell you my Success as we go.
[Ex. all, some one way, some another, the Forepart of the Church
shuts over, except Will. Blunt, Aria, and Lucia.
Will. She’s gone, and all the Plagues of Pride go with her.
Blunt. Heartlikins, follow her—Pox on’t, an I’d but as good a Hand at this
Game as thou hast, I’ll venture upon any Chance—
Will. Damn her, come, let’s to Dinner. Where’s Fetherfool?
Blunt. Follow’d a good Woodman, who gave him the Sign: he’ll lodge the
Deer e’er night.
Will. Follow’d her—he durst not, the Fool wants Confidence enough to
look on her.

Blunt. Oh you know not how a Country Justice may be improved by
Travel; the Rogue was hedg’d in at home with the Fear of his Neighbours
and the Penal Statutes, now he’s broke loose, he runs neighing like a
Stone-Horse upon the Common.
Will. However, I’ll not believe this—let’s follow ’em.
[Ex. Will. and Blunt.
Aria. He is in love, but with a Courtezan—some Comfort that. We’ll after
him—’Tis a faint-hearted Lover, Who for the first Discouragement gives
over. [Ex. Ariadne and Lucia.

ACT II.

Scene I. The Street.
Enter Fetherfool and Sancho, passing over the Stage; after them
Willmore and Blunt, follow’d by Ariadne and Lucia.
Will. ’Tis so, by Heaven, he’s chaffering with her Pimp. I’ll spare my
Curses on him for having her, he has a Plague beyond ’em.
—Harkye, I’ll never love, nor lie with Women more, those Slaves to Lust,
to Vanity and Interest.
Blunt. Ha, Captain! [Shaking his Head and smiling.
Will. Come, let’s go drink Damnation to ’em all.
Blunt. Not all, good Captain.
Will. All, for I hate ’em all—
Aria. Heavens! if he should indeed! [Aside.
Blunt. But, Robert, I have found you most inclined to a Damsel when you
had a Bottle in your Head.
Will. Give me thy Hand, Ned—Curse me, despise me, point me out for
Cowardice if e’er thou see’st me court a Woman more: Nay, when thou
knowest I ask any of the Sex a civil Question again—a Plague upon ’em,

how they’ve handled me—come, let’s go drink, I say—Confusion to the
Race—A Woman!—no, I will be burnt with my own Fire to Cinders e’er
any of the Brood shall lay my Flame—
Aria. He cannot be so wicked to keep this Resolution sure—
[She passes by.
Faith, I must be resolv’d—you’ve made a pious Resolution, Sir, had you
the Grace to keep it— [Passing on he pauses, and looks on her.
Will. Hum—What’s that?
Blunt. That—O—nothing—but a Woman—come away.
Will. A Woman! Damn her, what Mischief made her cross my way just on
the Point of Reformation!
Blunt. I find the Devil will not lose so hopeful a Sinner. Hold, hold,
Captain, have you no Regard to your own Soul? ’dsheartlikins, ’tis a
Woman, a very errant Woman.
Aria. Your Friend informs you right, Sir, I am a Woman.
Will. Ay, Child, or I were a lost Man—therefore, dear lovely Creature—
Aria. How can you tell, Sir?
Will. Oh, I have naturally a large Faith, Child, and thou’st a promising
Form, a tempting Motion, clean Limbs, well drest, and a most damnable
inviting Air.
Aria. I am not to be sold, nor fond of Praise I merit not.
Will. How, not to be sold too! By this light, Child, thou speakest like a
Cherubim, I have not heard so obliging a Sound from the Mouth of
Woman-kind this many a Day—I find we must be better acquainted, my
Dear.
Aria. Your Reason, good familiar Sir, I see no such Necessity.
Will. Child, you are mistaken, I am in great Necessity; for first I love thee
—desperately—have I not damn’d my Soul already for thee, and wouldst
thou be so wicked to refuse a little Consolation to my Body? Then
secondly, I see thou art frank and good-natur’d, and wilt do Reason gratis.

Aria. How prove ye that, good Mr. Philospher?
Will. Thou say’st thou’rt not to be sold, and I’m sure thou’rt to be had—
that lovely Body of so divine a Form, those soft smooth Arms and Hands,
were made t’embrace as well as be embrac’d; that delicate white rising
Bosom to be prest, and all thy other Charms to be enjoy’d.
Aria. By one that can esteem ’em to their worth, can set a Value and a
Rate upon ’em.
Will. Name not those Words, they grate my Ears like Jointure, that dull
conjugal Cant that frights the generous Lover. Rate—Death, let the old
Dotards talk of Rates, and pay it t’atone for the Defects of Impotence. Let
the sly Statesman, who jilts the Commonwealth with his grave Politicks,
pay for the Sin, that he may doat in secret; let the brisk Fool inch out his
scanted Sense with a large Purse more eloquent than he: But tell not me of
Rates, who bring a Heart, Youth, Vigor, and a Tongue to sing the Praise of
every single Pleasure thou shalt give me.
Aria. Then if I should be kind, I perceive you would not keep the Secret.
Will. Secrecy is a damn’d ungrateful Sin, Child, known only where
Religion and Small-beer are current, despis’d where Apollo and the Vine
bless the Country: you find none of Jove’s Mistresses hid in Roots and
Plants, but fixt Stars in Heaven for all to gaze and wonder at—and tho I
am no God, my Dear, I’ll do a Mortal’s Part, and generously tell the
admiring World what hidden Charms thou hast: Come, lead me to some
Place of Happiness—
Blunt. Prithee, honest Damsel, be not so full of Questions; will a Pistole
or two do thee any hurt?
Luc. None at all, Sir—
Blunt. Thou speak’st like a hearty Wench—and I believe hast not been
one of Venus’ Hand-maids so long, but thou understand thy Trade—In
short, fair Damsel, this honest Fellow here who is so termagant upon thy
Lady, is my Friend, my particular Friend, and therefore I would have him
handsomly, and well-favour’dly abus’d—you conceive me.
Luc. Truly, Sir, a friendly Request—but in what Nature abus’d?

Blunt. Nature!—why any of your Tricks would serve—but if he could be
conveniently strip’d and beaten, or tost in a Blanket, or any such trivial
Business, thou wouldst do me a singular Kindness; as for Robbery he
defies the Devil: an empty Pocket is an Antidote against that Ill.
Luc. Your Money, Sir: and if he be not cozen’d, say a Spanish Woman has
neither Wit nor Invention upon Occasion.
Blunt. Sheartlikins, how I shall love and honour thee for’t—here’s earnest
— [Talks to her with Joy and Grimace.
Aria. But who was that you entertain’d at Church but now?
Will. Faith, one, who for her Beauty merits that glorious Title she wears, it
was—a Whore, Child.
Aria. That’s but a scurvy Name; yet, if I’m not mistaken in those false
Eyes of yours, they look with longing Love upon that—Whore, Child.
Will. Thou are i’th’ right, and by this hand, my Soul was full as wishing as
my Eyes: but a Pox on’t, you Women have all a certain Jargon, or
Gibberish, peculiar to your selves; of Value, Rate, Present, Interest,
Settlement, Advantage, Price, Maintenance, and the Devil and all of
Fopperies, which in plain Terms signify ready Money, by way of Fine
before Entrance; so that an honest well-meaning Merchant of Love finds
no Credit amongst ye, without his Bill of Lading.
Aria. We are not all so cruel—but the Devil on’t is, your good-natur’d
Heart is likely accompanied with an ill Face and worse Wit.
Will. Faith, Child, a ready Dish when a Man’s Stomach is up, is better
than a tedious Feast. I never saw any Man yet cut my piece; some are for
Beauty, some are for Wit, and some for the Secret, but I for all, so it be in
a kind Girl: and for Wit in Woman, so she say pretty fond things, we
understand; tho true or false, no matter.
Aria. Give the Devil his due, you are a very conscientious Lover: I love a
Man that scorns to impose dull Truth and Constancy on a Mistress.
Will. Constancy, that current Coin with Fools! No, Child, Heaven keep
that Curse from our Doors.

Aria. Hang it, it loses Time and Profit, new Lovers have new Vows and
new Presents, whilst the old feed upon a dull repetition of what they did
when they were Lovers; ’tis like eating the cold Meat ones self, after
having given a Friend a Feast.
Will. Yes, that’s the thrifty Food for the Family when the Guests are gone.
Faith, Child, thou hast made a neat and a hearty Speech: But prithee, my
Dear, for the future, leave out that same Profit and Present, for I have a
natural Aversion to hard words; and for matter of quick Dispatch in the
Business—give me thy Hand, Child—let us but start fair, and if thou
outstripst me, thou’rt a nimble Racer. [Lucia sees Shift.
Luc. Oh, Madam, let’s be gone: yonder’s Lieutenant Shift, who, if he sees
us, will certainly give an Account of it to Mr. Beaumond. Let’s get in thro
the Garden, I have the Key.
Aria. Here’s Company coming, and for several reasons I would not be
seen. [Offers to go.
Will. Gad, Child, nor I; Reputation is tender—therefore prithee let’s retire.
[Offers to go with her.
Aria. You must not stir a step.
Will. Not stir! no Magick Circle can detain me if you go.
Aria. Follow me then at a distance, and observe where I enter; and at
night (if your Passion lasts so long) return, and you shall find Admittance
into the Garden. [Speaking hastily.
[He runs out after her.
Enter Shift.
Shift. Well, Sir, the Mountebank’s come, and just going to begin in the
Piazza; I have order’d Matters, that you shall have a Sight of the
Monsters, and leave to court ’em, and when won, to give the Guardian a
fourth part of the Portions.
Blunt. Good: But Mum—here’s the Captain, who must by no means know
our good Fortune, till he see us in State.
Enter Willmore, Shift goes to him.

Shift. All things are ready, Sir, for our Design, the House prepar’d as you
directed me, the Guardian wrought upon by the Persuasions of the two
Monsters, to take a Lodging there, and try the Bath of Reformation: The
Bank’s preparing, and the Operators and Musick all ready, and the
impatient Town flockt together to behold the Man of Wonders, and
nothing wanting but your Donship and a proper Speech.
Will. ’Tis well, I’ll go fit my self with a Dress, and think of a Speech the
while: In the mean time, go you and amuse the gaping Fools that expect
my coming. [Goes out.

Enter Fetherfool singing and dancing.
Feth. Have you heard of a Spanish Lady,
How she woo’d an English Man?
Blunt. Why, how now, Fetherfool?
Feth. Garments gay, and rich as may be,
Deckt with Jewels, had she on.
Blunt. Why, how now, Justice, what run mad out of Dog-days?
Feth. Of a comely Countenance and Grace is she,
A sweeter Creature in the World there could not be.
Shift. Why, what the Devil’s the matter, Sir?
Blunt. Stark mad, ’dshartlikins.
Feth. Of a Comely Countenance—well, Lieutenant, the most heroick and
illustrious Madona! Thou saw’st her, Ned: And of a comely Counte—The
most Magnetick Face—well—I knew the Charms of these Eyes of mine
were not made in vain: I was design’d for great things, that’s certain—And
a sweeter Creature in the World there could not be. [Singing.
Blunt. What then the two Lady Monsters are forgotten? the Design upon
the Million of Money, the Coach and Six, and Patent for Right Worshipful,
all drown’d in the Joy of this new Mistress?—But well, Lieutenant, since
he is so well provided for, you may put in with me for a Monster; such a
Jest, and such a Sum, is not to be lost.

Shift. Nor shall not, or I have lost my Aim. [Aside.
Feth. [Putting off his Hat.] Your Pardons, good Gentlemen; and tho I
perceive I shall have no great need for so trifling a Sum as a hundred
thousand Pound, or so, yet a Bargain’s a Bargain, Gentlemen.
Blunt. Nay,’dsheartlikins, the Lieutenant scorns to do a foul thing, d’ye
see, but we would not have the Monsters slighted.
Feth. Slighted! no, Sir, I scorn your Words, I’d have ye to know, that I
have as high a Respect for Madam Monster, as any Gentleman in
Christendom, and so I desire she should understand.
Blunt. Why, this is that that’s handsom.
Shift. Well, the Mountebank’s come, Lodgings are taken at his House, and
the Guardian prepar’d to receive you on the aforesaid Terms, and some
fifty Pistoles to the Mountebank to stand your Friend, and the Business is
done. Feth. Which shall be perform’d accordingly, I have it ready
about me.
Blunt. And here’s mine, put ’em together, and let’s be speedy, lest some
should bribe higher, and put in before us.
[Feth. takes the Money, and looks pitiful on’t.
Feth. Tis a plaguy round Sum, Ned, pray God it turn to Account.
Blunt. Account, ’dsheartlikins, ’tis not in the Power of mortal Man to
cozen ’me.
Shift. Oh fie, Sir, cozen you, Sir!—well, you’ll stay here and see the
Mountebank, he’s coming forth.
[A Hollowing. Enter from the Front a Bank, a Pageant, which they fix
on the Stage at one side, a little Pavilion on’t, Musick playing, and
Operators round below, or Antickers.
[Musick plays, and an Antick Dance.
Enter Willmore like a Mountebank, with a Dagger in one Hand, and
a Viol in the other, Harlequin and Scaramouche; Carlo with other

Spaniards below, and Rabble; Ariadne and Lucia above in the
Balcony, others on the other side, Fetherfool and Blunt below.
Will. (bowing) Behold this little Viol, which contains in its narrow Bounds
what the whole Universe cannot purchase, if sold to its true Value; this
admirable, this miraculous Elixir, drawn from the Hearts of Mandrakes,
Phenix Livers, and Tongues of Maremaids, and distill’d by contracted
Sun-Beams, has besides the unknown Virtue of curing all Distempers both
of Mind and Body, that divine one of animating the Heart of Man to that
Degree, that however remiss, cold and cowardly by Nature, he shall
become vigorous and brave. Oh stupid and insensible Man, when Honour
and secure Renown invites you, to treat it with Neglect, even when you
need but passive Valour, to become the Heroes of the Age; receive a
thousand Wounds, each of which wou’d let out fleeting Life: Here’s that
can snatch the parting Soul in its full Career, and bring it back to its native
Mansion; baffles grim Death, and disappoints even Fate.
Feth. Oh Pox, an a Man were sure of that now—
Will. Behold, here’s Demonstration—
[Harlequin stabs himself, and falls as dead.
Feth. Hold, hold, why, what the Devil is the Fellow mad?
Blunt. Why, do’st think he has hurt himself?
Feth. Hurt himself! why, he’s murder’d, Man; ’tis flat Felo de se, in any
ground in England, if I understand Law, and I have been a Justice o’th’
Peace.
Will. See, Gentlemen, he’s dead—
Feth. Look ye there now, I’ll be gone lest I be taken as an Accessary.
[Going out.
Will. Coffin him, inter him, yet after four and twenty Hours, as many
Drops of this divine Elixir give him new Life again; this will recover
whole Fields of slain, and all the Dead shall rise and fight again—’twas
this that made the Roman Lemons numerous, and now makes France so
formidable, and this alone—may be the Occasion of the loss of Germany.

[Pours in Harlequin’s Wound, he rises.
Feth. Why this Fellow’s the Devil, Ned, that’s for certain.
Blunt. Oh plague, a damn’d Conjurer, this—
Will. Come, buy this Coward’s Comfort, quickly buy; what Fop would be
abus’d, mimick’d and scorn’d, for fear of Wounds can be so easily cured?
Who is’t wou’d bear the Insolence and Pride of domineering great Men,
proud Officers or Magistrates? or who wou’d cringe to Statesmen out of
Fear? What Cully wou’d be cuckolded? What foolish Heir undone by
cheating Gamesters? What Lord wou’d be lampoon’d? What Poet fear the
Malice of his satirical Brother, or Atheist fear to fight for fear of Death?
Come buy my Coward’s Comfort, quickly buy.
Feth. Egad, Ned, a very excellent thing this; I’ll lay out ten Reals upon
this Commodity.
[They buy, whilst another Part of the Dance is danc’d.
Will. Behold this little Paper, which contains a Pouder, whose Value
surmounts that of Rocks of Diamonds and Hills of Gold; ’twas this made
Venus a Goddess, and was given her by Apollo, from her deriv’d to Helen,
and in the Sack of Troy lost, till recover’d by me out of some Ruins of
Asia. Come, buy it, Ladies, you that wou’d be fair and wear eternal Youth;
and you in whom the amorous Fire remains, when all the Charms are fled:
You that dress young and gay, and would be thought so, that patch and
paint, to fill up sometimes old Furrows on your Brows, and set yourselves
for Conquest, tho in vain; here’s that will give you aubern Hair, white
Teeth, red Lips, and Dimples on your Cheeks: Come, buy it all you that
are past bewitching, and wou’d have handsom, young and active Lovers.
Feth. Another good thing, Ned.
Car. I’ll lay out a Pistole or two in this, if it have the same Effect on Men.
Will. Come, all you City Wives, that wou’d advance your Husbands to
Lord Mayors, come, buy of me new Beauty; this will give it tho now
decay’d, as are your Shop Commodities; this will retrieve your Customers,
and vend your false and out of fashion’d Wares: cheat, lye, protest and

cozen as you please, a handsom Wife makes all a lawful Gain. Come, City
Wives, come, buy.
Feth. A most prodigious Fellow!
[They buy, he sits, the other Part is danc’d.
Will. But here, behold the Life and Soul of Man! this is the amorous
Pouder, which Venus made and gave the God of Love, which made him
first a Deity; you talk of Arrows, Bow, and killing Darts; Fables, poetical
Fictions, and no more: ’tis this alone that wounds and fires the Heart,
makes Women kind, and equals Men to Gods; ’tis this that makes your
great Lady doat on the ill-favour’d Fop; your great Man be jilted by his
little Mistress, the Judge cajol’d by his Semstress, and your Politican by
his Comedian; your young Lady doat on her decrepid Husband, your
Chaplain on my Lady’s Waiting-Woman, and the young Squire on the
Landry-Maid—In fine, Messieurs,
’Tis this that cures the Lover’s Pain,
And Celia of her cold Disdain.
Feth. A most devilish Fellow this!
Blunt. Hold, shartlikins, Fetherfool, let’s have a Dose or two of this
Pouder for quick Dispatch with our Monsters.
Feth. Why Pox, Man, Jugg my Giant would swallow a whole Cart-Load
before ’twould operate.
Blunt. No hurt in trying a Paper or two however.
Car. A most admirable Receit, I shall have need on’t.
Will. I need say nothing of my divine Baths of Reformation, nor the
wonders of the old Oracle of the Box, which resolves all Questions, my
Bills sufficiently declare their Virtue. [Sits down. They buy.
Enter Petronella Elenora carried in a Chair, dress’d like a Girl of
Fifteen.
Shift. Room there, Gentlemen, room for a Patient.
Blunt. Pray, Seignior, who may this be thus muzzl’d by old Gaffer Time?

Car. One Petronella Elenora, Sir, a famous outworn Curtezan.
Blunt. Elenora! she may be that of Troy for her Antiquity, tho fitter for
God Priapus to ravish than Paris.
Shift. Hunt, a word; dost thou see that same formal Politician yonder, on
the Jennet, the nobler Animal of the two?
Hunt. What of him?
Shift. ’Tis the same drew on the Captain this Morning, and I must revenge
the Affront.
Hunt. Have a care of Revenges in Spain, upon Persons of his Quality.
Shift. Nay, I’ll only steal his Horse from under him.
Hunt. Steal it! thou may’st take it by force perhaps; but how safely is a
Question.
Shift. I’ll warrant thee—shoulder you up one side of his great Saddle, I’ll
do the like on t’other; then heaving him gently up, Harlequin shall lead the
Horse from between his Worship’s Legs: All this in the Crowd will not be
perceiv’d, where all Eyes are imploy’d on the Mountebank.
Hunt. I apprehend you now—
[Whilst they are lifting Petronella on the Mountebank’s Stage, they go
into the Crowd, shoulder up Carlo’s Saddle. Harlequin leads the
Horse forward, whilst Carlo is gazing, and turning up his
Mustachios; they hold him up a little while, then let him drop: he
rises and stares about for his Horse.
Car. This is flat Conjuration.
Shift. What’s your Worship on foot?
Hunt. I never saw his Worship on foot before.
Car. Sirrah, none of your Jests, this must be by diabolical Art, and shall
cost the Seignior dear—Men of my Garb affronted—my Jennet vanisht—
most miraculous—by St. Jago I’ll be revenged—hah, what’s here—La
Nuche— [Surveys her at a distance.

Enter La Nuche, Aurelia, Sancho.
La Nu. We are pursu’d by Beaumond, who will certainly hinder our
speaking to Willmore, should we have the good fortune to see him in this
Crowd—and yet there’s no avoiding him.
Beau. ’Tis she, how carefully she shuns me!
Aur. I’m satisfied he knows us by the jealous Concern which appears in
that prying Countenance of his.
Beau. Stay, Cruel, is it Love or Curiosity, that wings those nimble Feet?
[Holds her.
[Lucia above and Ariadne.]
Aria. Beaumond with a Woman!
Beau. Have you forgot this is the glorious Day that ushers in the Night
shall make you mine? the happiest Night that ever favour’d Love!
La Nu. Or if I have, I find you’ll take care to remember me.
Beau. Sooner I could forget the Aids of Life, sooner forget how first that
Beauty charm’d me.
La Nu. Well, since your Memory’s so good, I need not doubt your
coming.
Beau. Still cold and unconcern’d! How have I doated, and how sacrific’d,
regardless of my Fame, lain idling here, when all the Youth of Spain were
gaining Honour, valuing one Smile of thine above their Laurels!
La Nu. And in return, I do submit to yield, preferring you above those
fighting Fools, who safe in Multitudes reap Honour cheaper.
Beau. Yet there is one—one of those fighting Fools which should’st thou
see, I fear I were undone; brave, handsome, gay, and all that Women doat
on, unfortunate in every good of Life, but that one Blessing of obtaining
Women: Be wise, for if thou seest him thou art lost—Why dost thou
blush?
La Nu. Because you doubt my Heart—’tis Willmore that he means.
[Aside.] We’ve Eyes upon us, Don Carlo may grow jealous, and he’s a

powerful Rival—at night. I shall expect ye.
Beau. Whilst I prepare my self for such a Blessing. [Ex. Beau.
Car. Hah! a Cavalier in conference with La Nuche! and entertain’d
without my knowledge! I must prevent this Lover, for he’s young—and
this Night will surprise her. [Aside.
Will. And you would be restor’d? [To Petro.
Pet. Yes, if there be that Divinity in your Baths of Reformation.
Will. There are.
New Flames shall sparkle in those Eyes;
And these grey Hairs flowing and bright shall rise:
These Cheeks fresh Buds of Roses wear,
And all your withered Limbs so smooth and clear,
As shall a general Wonder move,
And wound a thousand Hearts with Love.
Pet. A Blessing on you, Sir, there’s fifty Pistoles for you, and as I earn it
you shall have more. [They lift her down.
[Exit Willmore bowing.
Shift. Messieurs, ’tis late, and the Seignior’s Patients stay for him at his
Laboratory, to morrow you shall see the conclusion of this Experiment,
and so I humbly take my leave at this time.
Enter Willmore, below sees La Nuche, makes up to her, whilst the last
part of the Dance is dancing.
La Nu. What makes you follow me, Sir?
[She goes from him, he pursues.
Will. Madam, I see something in that lovely Face of yours, which if not
timely prevented will be your ruin: I’m now in haste, but I have more to
say— [Goes off.
La Nu. Stay, Sir—he’s gone—and fill’d me with a curiosity that will not
let me rest till it be satisfied: Follow me, Aurelia, for I must know my
Destiny.

[Goes out.
[The Dance ended, the Bank removes, the People go off.
Feth. Come, Ned, now for our amorous Visit to the two Lady Monsters.
[Ex. Feth. and Blunt.

Scene II. Changes to a fine Chamber.
Enter Ariadne and Lucia.
Aria. I’m thoughtful: Prithee, Cousin, sing some foolish Song—

SONG.
Phillis, whose Heart was unconfin’d
And free as Flowers on Meads and Plains,
None boasted of her being kind,
’Mongst all the languishing and amorous Swains:
No Sighs nor Tears the Nymph could move [bis.
To pity or return their Love.
Till on a time, the hapless Maid
Retired to shun the heat o’th’ Day,
Into a Grove, beneath whose Shade
Strephon, the careless Shepherd, sleeping lay:
But oh such Charms the Youth adorn, [bis.
Love is revenged for all her Scorn.
Her Cheeks with Blushes covered were,
And tender Sighs her Bosom warm;
A softness in her Eyes appear,
Unusual Pains she feels from every Charm:
To Woods and Echoes now she cries, [bis.
For Modesty to speak denies.
Aria. Come, help to undress me, for I’ll to this Mountebank, to know
what success I shall have with my Cavalier.

[Unpins her things before a great Glass that is fasten’d.
Luc. You are resolv’d then to give him admittance?
Aria. Where’s the danger of a handsom young Fellow?
Luc. But you don’t know him, Madam.
Aria. But I desire to do, and time may bring it about without Miracle.
Luc. Your Cousin Beaumond will forbid the Banes.
Aria. No, nor old Carlos neither, my Mother’s precious Choice, who is as
sollicitous for the old Gentleman, as my Father-in-Law is for his Nephew.
Therefore, Lucia, like a good and gracious Child, I’ll end the Dispute
between my Father and Mother, and please my self in the choice of this
Stranger, if he be to be had.
Luc. I should as soon be enamour’d on the North Wind, a Tempest, or a
Clap of Thunder. Bless me from such a Blast.
Aria. I’d have a Lover rough as Seas in Storms, upon occasion; I hate
your dull temperate Lover, ’tis such a husbandly quality, like Beaumond’s
Addresses to me, whom neither Joy nor Anger puts in motion; or if it do,
’tis visibly forc’d—I’m glad I saw him entertain a Woman to day, not that
I care, but wou’d be fairly rid of him.
Luc. You’ll hardly mend your self in this.
Aria. What, because he held Discourse with a Curtezan?
Luc. Why, is there no danger in her Eyes, do ye think?
Aria. None that I fear, that Stranger’s not such a fool to give his Heart to a
common Woman; and she that’s concern’d where her Lover bestows his
Body, were I the Man, I should think she had a mind to’t her self.
Luc. And reason, Madam: in a lawful way ’tis your due.
Aria. What all? unconscionable Lucia! I am more merciful; but be he
what he will, I’ll to this cunning Man, to know whether ever any part of
him shall be mine.
Luc. Lord, Madam, sure he’s a Conjurer.

Aria. Let him be the Devil, I’ll try his Skill, and to that end will put on a
Suit of my Cousin Endymion; there are two or three very pretty ones of his
in the Wardrobe, go carry ’em to my Chamber, and we’ll fit our selves and
away—Go haste whilst I undress. [Ex. Lucia.
[Ariadne undressing before the Glass.
Enter Beaumond tricking himself, and looks on himself.
Beau. Now for my charming Beauty, fair La Nuche—hah—Ariadne—
damn the dull Property, how shall I free my self?
[She turns, sees him, and walks from the Glass, he takes no notice of
her, but tricks himself in the Glass, humming a Song.
Aria. Beaumond! What Devil brought him hither to prevent me? I hate the
formal matrimonial Fop.
[He walks about and sings.
Sommes nous pas trop heureux,
Belle Irise, que nous ensemble.
A Devil on him, he may chance to plague me till night, and hinder my dear
Assignation.
[Sings again.
La Nuit et le Sombre voiles
Coverie nos desires ardentes;
Et l’Amour et les Etoiles
Sont nos secrets confidents.
Beau. Pox on’t, how dull am I at an excuse?
[Sets his Wig in the Glass, and sings.
A Pox of Love and Woman-kind,
And all the Fops adore ’em.
[Puts on his Hat, cocks it, and goes to her.
How is’t, Cuz?

Aria. So, here’s the saucy freedom of a Husband Lover—a blest Invention
this of marrying, whoe’er first found it out.
Beau. Damn this English Dog of a Perriwig-maker, what an ungainly Air
it gives the Face, and for a Wedding Perriwig too—how dost thou like it,
Ariadne? [Uneasy.
Aria. As ill as the Man—I perceive you have taken more care for your
Perriwig than your Bride.
Beau. And with reason, Ariadne, the Bride was never the care of the
Lover, but the business of the Parents; ’tis a serious Affair, and ought to be
manag’d by the grave and wise: Thy Mother and my Uncle have agreed
the Matter, and would it not look very sillily in me now to whine a tedious
Tale of Love in your Ear, when the business is at an end? ’tis like saying a
Grace when a Man should give Thanks.
Aria. Why did you not begin sooner then?
Beau. Faith, Ariadne, because I know nothing of the Design in hand; had
I had civil warning, thou shouldst have had as pretty smart Speeches from
me, as any Coxcomb Lover of ’em all could have made thee.
Aria. I shall never marry like a Jew in my own Tribe; I’ll rather be possest
by honest old doating Age, than by saucy conceited Youth, whose
Inconstancy never leaves a Woman safe or quiet.
Beau. You know the Proverb of the half Loaf, Ariadne; a Husband that
will deal thee some Love is better than one who can give thee none: you
would have a blessed time on’t with old Father Carlo.
Aria. No matter, a Woman may with some lawful excuse cuckold him,
and ’twould be scarce a Sin.
Beau. Not so much as lying with him, whose reverend Age wou’d make it
look like Incest.
Aria. But to marry thee—would be a Tyranny from whence there’s no
Appeal: A drinking whoring Husband! ’tis the Devil—
Beau. You are deceiv’d, if you think Don Carlo more chaste than I; only
duller, and more a Miser, one that fears his Flesh more, and loves his

Money better.—Then to be condemn’d to lie with him—oh, who would
not rejoice to meet a Woollen-Waistcoat, and knit Night-Cap without a
Lining, a Shirt so nasty, a cleanly Ghost would not appear in’t at the latter
Day? then the compound of nasty Smells about him, stinking Breath,
Mustachoes stuft with villainous snush, Tobacco, and hollow Teeth: thus
prepar’d for Delight, you meet in Bed, where you may lie and sigh whole
Nights away, he snores it out till Morning, and then rises to his sordid
business.
Aria. All this frights me not: ’tis still much better than a keeping Husband,
whom neither Beauty nor Honour in a Wife can oblige.
Beau. Oh, you know not the good-nature of a Man of Wit, at least I shall
bear a Conscience, and do thee reason, which Heaven denies to old Carlo,
were he willing.
Aria. Oh, he talks as high, and thinks as well of himself as any young
Coxcomb of ye all.
Beau. He has reason, for if his Faith were no better than his Works, he’d
be damn’d.
Aria. Death, who wou’d marry, who wou’d be chaffer’d thus, and sold to
Slavery? I’d rather buy a Friend at any Price that I could love and trust.
Beau. Ay, could we but drive on such a Bargain.
Aria. You should not be the Man; You have a Mistress, Sir, that has your
Heart, and all your softer Hours: I know’t, and if I were so wretched as to
marry thee, must see my Fortune lavisht out on her; her Coaches, Dress,
and Equipage exceed mine by far: Possess she all the day thy Hours of
Mirth, good Humour and Expence, thy Smiles, thy Kisses, and thy Charms
of Wit. Oh how you talk and look when in her Presence! but when with
me,
A Pox of Love and Woman-kind, [Sings.
And all the Fops adore ’em.
How it’s, Cuz—then slap, on goes the Beaver, which being cock’d, you
bear up briskly, with the second Part to the same Tune—Harkye, Sir, let
me advise you to pack up your Trumpery and be gone, your honourable

Love, your matrimonial Foppery, with your other Trinkets thereunto
belonging; or I shall talk aloud, and let your Uncle hear you.
Beau. Sure she cannot know I love La Nuche. [Aside.] The Devil take
me, spoil’d! What Rascal has inveigled thee? What lying fawning Coward
has abus’d thee? When fell you into this Leudness? Pox, thou art hardly
worth the loving now, that canst be such a Fool, to wish me chaste, or love
me for that Virtue; or that wouldst have me a ceremonious Whelp, one that
makes handsom Legs to Knights without laughing, or with a sneaking
modest Squirish Countenance; assure you, I have my Maidenhead.
A Curse upon thee, the very thought of Wife has made thee formal.
Aria. I must dissemble, or he’ll stay all day to make his peace again—
why, have you ne’er—a Mistress then?
Beau. A hundred, by this day, as many as I like, they are my Mirth, the
business of my loose and wanton Hours; but thou art my Devotion, the
grave, the solemn Pleasure of my Soul—Pox, would I were handsomly rid
of thee too. [Aside.] —Come, I have business—send me pleas’d away.
Aria. Would to Heaven thou wert gone; [Aside.] You’re going to some
Woman now.
Beau. Oh damn the Sex, I hate ’em all—but thee—farewell, my pretty
jealous-sullen-Fool. [Goes out.
Aria. Farewel, believing Coxcomb. [Enter Lucia.
Lucia. Madam, the Clothes are ready in your Chamber.
Aria. Let’s haste and put ’em on then. [Runs out.

ACT III.

Scene I. A House.
Enter Fetherfool and Blunt, staring about, after them Shift.

Shift. Well, Gentlemen, this is the Doctor’s House, and your fifty Pistoles
has made him intirely yours; the Ladies too are here in safe Custody—
Come, draw Lots who shall have the Dwarf, and who the Giant.
[They draw.
Feth. I have the Giant.
Blunt. And I the little tiny Gentlewoman.
Shift. Well, you shall first see the Ladies, and then prepare for your Uncle
Moses, the old Jew Guardian, before whom you must be very grave and
sententious: You know the old Law was full of Ceremony.
Feth. Well, I long to see the Ladies, and to have the first Onset over.
Shift. I’ll cause ’em to walk forth immediately. [Goes out.
Feth. My Heart begins to fail me plaguily—would I could see ’em a little
at a Distance before they come slap dash upon a Man. [Peeping.
Hah!—Mercy upon us!—What’s yonder!—Ah, Ned, my Monster is as big
as the Whore of Babylon—Oh I’m in a cold Sweat—
[Blunt pulls him to peep, and both do so.
Oh Lord! she’s as tall as the St. Christopher in Notre-dame at Paris, and
the little one looks like the Christo upon his Shoulders—I shall ne’er be
able to stand the first Brunt.
Blunt. ’Dsheartlikins, whither art going? [Pulls him back.
Feth. Why only—to—say my Prayers a little—I’ll be with thee presently.
[Offers to go, he pulls him.
Blunt. What a Pox, art thou afraid of a Woman—
Feth. Not of a Woman, Ned, but of a She Gargantua, I am of a Hercules
in Petticoats.
Blunt. The less Resemblance the better. ’Shartlikins, I’d rather mine were
a Centaur than a Woman: No, since my Naples Adventure, I am clearly for
your Monster.
Feth. Prithee, Ned, there’s Reason in all things—

Blunt. But villainous Woman—’Dshartlikins, stand your Ground, or I’ll
nail you to’t: Why, what a Pox are you so quezy stomach’d, a Monster
won’t down with you, with a hundred thousand Pound to boot.
[Pulling him.
Feth. Nay, Ned, that mollifies something; and I scorn it should be said of
Nich. Fetherfool that he left his Friend in danger, or did an ill thing:
therefore, as thou say’st, Ned, tho she were a Centaur, I’ll not budg an
Inch.
Blunt. Why God a Mercy.
Enter the Giant and Dwarf, with them Shift as an Operator, and
Harlequin attending.
Feth. Oh—they come—Prithee, Ned, advance— [Puts him forward.
Shift. Most beautiful Ladies.
Feth. Why, what a flattering Son of a Whore’s this?
Shift. These are the illustrious Persons your Uncle designs your humble
Servants, and who have so extraordinary a Passion for your
Seignioraships.
Feth. Oh yes, a most damnable one: Wou’d I were cleanlily off the Lay,
and had my Money again.
Blunt. Think of a Million, Rogue, and do not hang an Arse thus.
Giant. What, does the Cavalier think I’ll devour him? [To Shift.
Feth. Something inclin’d to such a Fear.
Blunt. Go and salute her, or, Adsheartlikins, I’ll leave you to her Mercy.
Feth. Oh, dear Ned, have pity on me—but as for saluting her, you speak
of more than may be done, dear Heart, without a Scaling Ladder.
[Exit Shift.
Dwarf. Sure, Seignior Harlequin, these Gentlemen are dumb.
Blunt. No, my little diminutive Mistress, my small Epitomy of Woman-
kind, we can prattle when our Hands are in, but we are raw and bashful,

young Beginners; for this is the first time we ever were in love: we are
something aukard, or so, but we shall come on in time, and mend upon
Incouragement.
Feth. Pox on him, what a delicate Speech has he made now—’Gad, I’d
give a thousand Pounds a Year for Ned’s concise Wit, but not a Groat for
his Judgment in Womankind.
Enter Shift with a Ladder, sets it against the Giant, and bows to
Fetherfool.
Shift. Here, Seignior, Don, approach, mount, and salute the Lady.
Feth. Mount! why,’twould turn my Brains to look down from her
Shoulders—But hang’t, ’Gad, I will be brave and venture.
[Runs up the Ladder, salutes her, and runs down again.
And Egad this was an Adventure and a bold one—but since I am come off
with a whole Skin, I am flesht for the next onset—Madam—has your
Greatness any mind to marry?
[Goes to her, speaks, and runs back; Blunt claps him on the Back.
Giant. What if I have?
Feth. Why then, Madam, without inchanted Sword or Buckler, I’m your
Man.
Giant. My Man? my Mouse. I’ll marry none whose Person and Courage
shall not bear some Proportion to mine.
Feth. Your Mightiness I fear will die a Maid then.
Giant. I doubt you’ll scarce secure me from that Fear, who court my
Fortune, not my Beauty.
Feth. Hu, how scornful she is, I’ll warrant you—why I must confess, your
Person is something heroical and masculine, but I protest to your
Highness, I love and honour ye.
Dwarf. Prithee, Sister, be not so coy, I like my Lover well enough; and if
Seignior Mountebank keep his Word in making us of reasonable
Proportions, I think the Gentlemen may serve for Husbands.

Shift. Dissemble, or you betray your Love for us. [Aside to the Giant.
Giant. And if he do keep his Word, I should make a better Choice, not that
I would change this noble Frame of mine, cou’d I but meet my Match, and
keep up the first Race of Man intire: But since this scanty World affords
none such, I to be happy, must be new created, and then shall expect a
wiser Lover.
Feth. Why, what a peevish Titt’s this; nay, look ye, Madam, as for that
matter, your Extraordinariness may do what you please—but ’tis not done
like a Monster of Honour, when a Man has set his Heart upon you, to cast
him off—Therefore I hope you’ll pity a despairing Lover, and cast down
an Eye of Consolation upon me; for I vow, most Amazonian Princess,
I love ye as if Heaven and Earth wou’d come together.
Dwarf. My Sister will do much, I’m sure, to save the Man that loves her
so passionately—she has a Heart.
Feth. And a swinger ’tis—’Sbud—she moves like the Royal Sovereign,
and is as long a tacking about. [Aside.
Giant. Then your Religion, Sir.
Feth. Nay, as for that, Madam, we are English, a Nation I thank God, that
stand as little upon Religion as any Nation under the Sun, unless it be in
Contradiction; and at this time have so many amongst us, a Man knows
not which to turn his Hand to—neither will I stand with your Hugeness for
a small matter of Faith or so—Religion shall shall break no squares.
Dwarf. I hope, Sir, you are of your Friend’s Opinion.
Blunt. My little Spark of a Diamond, I am, I was born a Jew, with an
Aversion to Swines Flesh.
Dwarf. Well, Sir, I shall hasten Seignior Doctor to compleat my Beauty,
by some small Addition, to appear the more grateful to you.
Blunt. Lady, do not trouble your self with transitory Parts, ’Dshartlikins
thou’rt as handsom as needs be for a Wife.
Dwarf. A little taller, Seignior, wou’d not do amiss, my younger Sister has
got so much the Start of me.

Blunt. In troth she has, and now I think on’t, a little taller wou’d do well
for Propagation; I should be both the Posterity of the antient Family of the
Blunts of Essex should dwindle into Pigmies or Fairies.
Giant. Well, Seigniors, since you come with our Uncle’s liking, we give
ye leave to hope, hope—and be happy— [They go out with Harlequin.
Feth. Egad, and that’s great and gracious—
Enter Willmore and an Operator.
Will. Well, Gentlemen, and how like you the Ladies?
Blunt. Faith, well enough for the first Course, Sir.
Will. The Uncle, by my indeavour, is intirely yours—but whilst the Baths
are preparing,’twould be well if you would think of what Age, Shape, and
Complexion you would have your Ladies form’d in.
Feth. Why, may we chuse, Mr. Doctor?
Will. What Beauties you please.
Feth. Then will I have my Giant, Ned, just such another Gentlewoman as
I saw at Church to day—and about some fifteen.
Blunt. Hum, fifteen—I begin to have a plaguy Itch about me too, towards
a handsome Damsel of fifteen; but first let’s marry, lest they should be
boiled away in these Baths of Reformation.
Feth. But, Doctor, can you do all this without the help of the Devil?
Will. Hum, some small Hand he has in the Business? we make an
Exchange with him, give him the clippings of the Giant for so much of his
Store as will serve to build the Dwarf.
Blunt. Why, then mine will be more than three Parts Devil, Mr. Doctor.
Will. Not so, the Stock is only Devil, the Graft is your own little Wife
inoculated.
Blunt. Well, let the Devil and you agree about this matter as soon as you
please.

Enter Shift as an Operator.
Shift. Sir, there is without a Person of an extraordinary Size wou’d speak
with you.
Will. Admit him.
Enter Harlequin, ushers in Hunt as a Giant.
Feth. Hah—some o’ergrown Rival, on my Life. [Feth. gets from it.
Will. What the Devil have we here? [Aside.
Hunt. Bezolos mano’s, Seignior, I understand there is a Lady whose
Beauty and Proportion can only merit me: I’ll say no more—but shall be
grateful to you for your Assistance.
Feth. ’Tis so.
Hunt. The Devil’s in’t if this does not fright ’em from a farther Courtship.
[Aside.
Will. Fear nothing, Seignior—Seignior, you may try your Chance, and
visit the Ladies. [Talks to Hunt.
Feth. Why, where the Devil could this Monster conceal himself all this
while, that we should neither see nor hear of him?
Blunt. Oh—he lay disguis’d; I have heard of an Army that has done so.
Feth. Pox, no single House cou’d hold him.
Blunt. No—he dispos’d himself in several parcels up and down the Town,
here a Leg, and there an Arm; and hearing of this proper Match for him,
put himself together to court his fellow Monster.
Feth. Good Lord! I wonder what Religion he’s of.
Blunt. Some heathen Papist, by his notable Plots and Contrivances.
Will. ’Tis Hunt, that Rogue— [Aside.] Sir, I confess there is great
Power in Sympathy—Conduct him to the Ladies—
[He tries to go in at the Door.

—I am sorry you cannot enter at that low Door, Seignior, I’ll have it
broken down—
Hunt. No, Seignior, I can go in at twice.
Feth. How, at twice! what a Pox can he mean?
Will. Oh, Sir,’tis a frequent thing by way of Inchantment.
[Hunt being all Doublet, leaps off from another Man who is all
Breeches, and goes out; Breeches follows stalking.
Feth. Oh Pox, Mr. Doctor, this must be the Devil.
Will. Oh fie, Sir, the Devil! no ’tis all done by an inchanted Girdle—
These damn’d Rascals will spoil all by too gross an Imposition on the
Fools. [Aside.
Feth. This is the Devil, Ned, that’s certain—But hark ye, Mr. Doctor,
I hope I shall not have my Mistress inchanted from me by this inchanted
Rival, hah?
Will. Oh, no, Sir, the Inquisition will never let ’em marry, for fear of a
Race of Giants,’twill be worse than the Invasion of the Moors, or the
French: but go—think of your Mistresses Names and Ages, here’s
Company, and you would not be seen. [Ex. Blunt and Feth.
Enter La Nuche and Aurelia; Will. bows to her.
La Nu. Sir, the Fame of your excellent Knowledge, and what you said to
me this day; has given me a Curiosity to learn my Fate, at least that Fate
you threatened.
Will. Madam, from the Oracle in the Box you may be resolved any
Question—
[Leads her to the Table, where stands a Box full of Balls; he stares on
her.
—How lovely every absent minute makes her—Madam, be pleas’d to
draw from out this Box what Ball you will.
[She draws, he takes it, and gazes on her and on it.

Madam, upon this little Globe is character’d your Fate and Fortune; the
History of your Life to come and past—first, Madam—you’re—a Whore.
La Nu. A very plain beginning.
Will. My Art speaks simple Truth; the Moon is your Ascendent, that
covetous Planet that borrows all her Light, and is in opposition still to
Venus; and Interest more prevails with you than Love: yet here I find a
cross—intruding Line—that does inform me—you have an Itch that way,
but Interest still opposes: you are a slavish mercenary Prostitute.
La Nu. Your Art is so, tho call’d divine, and all the Universe is sway’d by
Interest: and would you wish this Beauty which adorns me, should be
dispos’d about for Charity? Proceed and speak more Reason.
Will. But Venus here gets the Ascent again, and spite of—Interest, spite of
all Aversion, will make you doat upon a Man—
[Still looking on, and turning the Ball.
Wild, fickle, restless, faithless as the Winds!—a Man of Arms he is—and
by this Line—a Captain— [Looking on her.] for Mars and Venus were
in conjunction at his Birth—and Love and War’s his business.
La Nu. There thou hast toucht my Heart, and spoke so true, that all thou
say’st I shall receive as Oracle. Well, grant I love, that shall not make me
yield.
Will. I must confess you’re ruin’d if you yield, and yet not all your Pride,
not all your Vows, your Wit, your Resolution, or your Cunning, can hinder
him from conquering absolutely: your Stars are fixt, and Fate irrevocable.
La Nu. No,—I will controul my Stars and Inclinations; and tho I love him
more than Power or Interest, I will be Mistress of my fixt Resolves—One
Question more—Does this same Captain, this wild happy Man love me?
Will. I do not—find—it here—only a possibility incourag’d by your Love
—Oh that you cou’d resist—but you are destin’d his, and to be ruin’d.
[Sighs, and looks on her, she grows in a Rage.
La Nu. Why do you tell me this? I am betray’d, and every caution blows
my kindling Flame—hold—tell me no more—I might have guess’d my

Fate, from my own Soul have guest it—but yet I will be brave, I will resist
in spite of Inclinations, Stars, or Devils.
Will. Strive not, fair Creature, with the Net that holds you, you’ll but
intangle more. Alas! you must submit and be undone.
La Nu. Damn your false Art—had he but lov’d me too, it had excus’d the
Malice of my Stars.
Will. Indeed, his Love is doubtful; for here—I trace him in a new pursuit
—which if you can this Night prevent, perhaps you fix him.
La Nu. Hah, pursuing a new Mistress! there thou hast met the little
Resolution I had left, and dasht it into nothing—but I have vow’d
Allegiance to my Interest—Curse on my Stars, they cou’d not give me
Love where that might be advanc’d—I’ll hear no more.
[Gives him Money.
Enter Shift.
Shift. Sir, there are several Strangers arriv’d, who talk of the old Oracle.
How will you receive ’em?
Will. I’ve business now, and must be excus’d, a while.—Thus far—I’m
well; but I may tell my Tale so often o’er, till, like the Trick of Love,
I spoil the pleasure by the repetition.—Now I’ll uncase, and see what
Effects my Art has wrought on La Nuche, for she’s the promis’d Good, the
Philosophick Treasure that terminates my Toil and Industry. Wait you here.
[Ex. Will.
Enter Ariadne in Mens Clothes, with Lucia so drest, and other
Strangers.
Aria. How now, Seignior Operator, where’s this renowned Man of Arts
and Sciences, this Don of Wonders?—hah! may a Man have a Pistole’s
Worth or two of his Tricks? will he shew, Seignior?
Shift. Whatever you dare see, Sir.
Aria. And I dare see the greatest Bug-bear he can conjure up, my
Mistress’s Face in a Glass excepted.

Shift. That he can shew, Sir, but is now busied in weighty Affairs with a
Grandee.
Aria. Pox, must we wait the Leisure of formal Grandees and Statesmen—
ha, who’s this?—the lovely Conqueress of my Heart, La Nuche.
[Goes to her, she is talking with Aurel.
La Nu. What foolish thing art thou?
Aria. Nay, do not frown, nor fly; for if you do, I must arrest you, fair one.
La Nu. At whose Suit, pray?
Aria. At Love’s—you have stol’n a Heart of mine, and us’d it scurvily.
La Nu. By what marks do you know the Toy, that I may be no longer
troubled with it?
Aria. By a fresh Wound, which toucht by her that gave it bleeds anew,
a Heart all over kind and amorous.
La Nu. When was this pretty Robbery committed?
Ana. To day, most sacrilegiously, at Church, where you debauch’d my
Zeal; and when I wou’d have pray’d, your Eyes had put the Change upon
my Tongue, and made it utter Railings: Heav’n forgive ye!
La Nu. You are the gayest thing without a Heart, I ever saw.
Aria. I scorn to flinch for a bare Wound or two; nor is he routed that has
lost the day, he may again rally, renew the Fight, and vanquish.
La Nu. You have a good opinion of that Beauty, which I find not so
forcible, nor that fond Prattle uttered with such Confidence.
Aria. But I have Quality and Fortune too.
La Nu. So had you need. I should have guest the first by your pertness; for
your saucy thing of Quality acts the Man as impudently at fourteen, as
another at thirty: nor is there any thing so hateful as to hear it talk of Love,
Women and Drinking; nay, to see it marry too at that Age, and get itself a
Play-fellow in its Son and Heir.

Aria. This Satyr on my Youth shall never put me out of countenance, or
make me think you wish me one day older; and egad, I’ll warrant them
that tries me, shall find me ne’er an hour too young.
La Nu. You mistake my Humour, I hate the Person of a fair conceited
Boy.
Enter Willmore drest, singing.
Will. Vole, vole dans cette Cage,
Petite Oyseau dans cet bocage.
—How now, Fool, where’s the Doctor?
Shift. A little busy, Sir.
Will. Call him, I am in haste, and come to cheapen the Price of Monster.
Shift. As how, Sir?
Will. In an honourable way, I will lawfully marry one of ’em, and have
pitcht upon the Giant; I’ll bid as fair as any Man.
Shift. No doubt but you will speed, Sir: please you, Sir, to walk in.
Will. I’ll follow—Vole, vole dans cette Cage, &c.
Luc. Why,’tis the Captain, Madam— [Aside to Aria.
La Nu. Hah—marry—harkye, Sir,—a word, pray.
[As he is going out she pulls him.
Will. Your Servant, Madam, your Servant—Vole, vole, &c.
[Puts his Hat off carelesly, and walks by, going out.
Luc. And to be marry’d, mark that.
Aria. Then there’s one doubt over, I’m glad he is not married.
La Nu. Come back—Death, I shall burst with Anger—this Coldness
blows my Flame, which if once visible, makes him a Tyrant—
Will. Fool, what’s a Clock, fool? this noise hinders me from hearing it
strike. [Shakes his Pockets, and walks up and down.

La Nu. A blessed sound, if no Hue and Cry pursue it.—what—you are
resolv’d then upon this notable Exploit?
Will. What Exploit, good Madam?
La Nu. Why, marrying of a Monster, and an ugly Monster.
Will. Yes faith, Child, here stands the bold Knight, that singly, and
unarm’d, designs to enter the List with Thogogandiga the Giant; a good
Sword will defend a worse cause than an ugly Wife. I know no danger
worse than fighting for my Living, and I have don’t this dozen years for
Bread.
La Nu. This is the common trick of all Rogues, when they have done an
ill thing to face it out.
Will. An ill thing—your Pardon, Sweet-heart, compare it but to
Banishment, a frozen Sentry with brown George and Spanish Pay; and if it
be not better to be Master of a Monster, than Slave to a damn’d
Commonwealth—I submit—and since my Fortune has thrown this good in
my way—
La Nu. You’ll not be so ungrateful to refuse it; besides then you may hope
to sleep again, without dreaming of Famine, or the Sword, two Plagues a
Soldier of Fortune is subject to.
Will. Besides Cashiering, a third Plague.
La Nu. Still unconcern’d!—you call me mercenary, but I would starve
e’er suffer my self to be possest by a thing of Horror.
Will. You lye, you would by any thing of Horror: yet these things of
Horror have Beauties too, Beauties thou canst not boast of, Beauties that
will not fade; Diamonds to supply the lustre of their Eyes, and Gold the
brightness of their Hair, a well-got Million to atone for Shape, and Orient
Pearls, more white, more plump and smooth, than that fair Body Men so
languish for, and thou hast set such Price on.
Aria. I like not this so well, ’tis a trick to make her jealous.
Will. Their Hands too have their Beauties, whose very mark finds credit
and respect, their Bills are current o’er the Universe; besides these, you

shall see waiting at my Door, four Footmen, a Velvet Coach, with Six
Flanders Beauties more: And are not these most comely Virtues in a
Soldier’s Wife, in this most wicked peaceable Age?
Luc. He’s poor too, there’s another comfort. [Aside.
Aria. The most incouraging one I have met with yet.
Will. Pox on’t, I grow weary of this virtuous Poverty. There goes a gallant
Fellow, says one, but gives him not an Onion; the Women too, faith, ’tis a
handsom Gentleman, but the Devil a Kiss he gets gratis.
Aria. Oh, how I long to undeceive him of that Error.
La Nu. He speaks not of me; sure he knows me not. [Aside.
Will. —No, Child, Money speaks sense in a Language all Nations
understand, ’tis Beauty, Wit, Courage, Honour, and undisputable Reason
—see the virtue of a Wager, that new philosophical way lately found out
of deciding all hard Questions—Socrates, without ready Money to lay
down, must yield.
Aria. Well, I must have this gallant Fellow. [Aside.
La Nu. Sure he has forgot this trival thing.
Will. —Even thou—who seest me dying unregarded, wou’d then be fond
and kind, and flatter me. [Soft tone.
By Heaven, I’ll hate thee then; nay, I will marry to be rich to hate thee: the
worst of that, is but to suffer nine Days Wonderment. Is not that better than
an Age of Scorn from a proud faithless Beauty?
La Nu. Oh, there’s Resentment left—why, yes faith, such a Wedding
would give the Town diversion: we should have a lamentable Ditty made
on it, entitled, The Captain’s Wedding, with the doleful Relation of his
being over-laid by an o’er-grown Monster.
Will. I’ll warrant ye I escape that as sure as cuckolding; for I would fain
see that hardy Wight that dares attempt my Lady Bright, either by Force or
Flattery.
La Nu. So, then you intend to bed her?

Will. Yes faith, and beget a Race of Heroes, the Mother’s Form with all
the Father’s Qualities.
La Nu. Faith, such a Brood may prove a pretty Livelihood for a poor
decay’d Officer; you may chance to get a Patent to shew ’em in England,
that Nation of Change and Novelty.
Will. A provision old Carlo cannot make for you against the abandon’d
day.
La Nu. He can supply the want of Issue a better way; and tho he be not so
fine a fellow as your self, he’s a better Friend, he can keep a Mistress: give
me a Man can feed and clothe me, as well as hug and all to bekiss me, and
tho his Sword be not so good as yours, his Bond’s worth a thousand
Captains. This will not do, I’ll try what Jealousy will do. [Aside.] Your
Servant, Captain—your Hand, Sir. [Takes Ariadne by the Hand.
Will. Hah, what new Coxcomb’s that—hold, Sir—
[Takes her from him.
Aria. What would you, Sir, ought with this Lady?
Will. Yes, that which thy Youth will only let thee guess at—this—Child, is
Man’s Meat; there are other Toys for Children. [Offers to lead her off.
La Nu. Oh insolent! and whither would’st thou lead me?
Will. Only out of harm’s way, Child, here are pretty near Conveniences
within: the Doctor will be civil—’tis part of his Calling—Your Servant,
Sir— [Going off with her.
Aria. I must huff now, tho I may chance to be beaten—come back—or I
have something here that will oblige ye to’t.
[Laying his hand on his Sword.
Will. Yes faith, thou’rt a pretty Youth; but at this time I’ve more occasion
for a thing in Petticoats—go home, and do not walk the Streets so much;
that tempting Face of thine will debauch the grave men of business, and
make the Magistrates lust after Wickedness.
Aria. You are a scurvy Fellow, Sir. [Going to draw.

Will. Keep in your Sword, for fear it cut your Fingers, Child.
Aria. So ’twill your Throat, Sir—here’s Company coming that will part
us, and I’ll venture to draw. [Draws, Will. draws.
Enter Beaumond.
Beau. Hold, hold—hah, Willmore! thou Man of constant mischief, what’s
the matter?
La Nu. Beaumond! undone!
Aria. —Beaumond!—
Will. Why, here’s a young Spark will take my Lady Bright from me; the
unmanner’d Hot-spur would not have patience till I had finish’d my small
Affair with her. [Puts up his Sword.
Aria. Death, he’ll know me—Sir, you see we are prevented.
[Draws him aside.
—or—
[Seems to talk to him, Beau. gazes on La Nuche, who has pull’d down
her Veil.
Beau. ’Tis she! Madam, this Veil’s too thin to hide the perjur’d Beauty
underneath. Oh, have I been searching thee, with all the diligence of
impatient Love, and am I thus rewarded, to find thee here incompass’d
round with Strangers, fighting, who first should take my right away?—
Gods! take your Reason back, take all your Love; for easy Man’s
unworthy of the Blessings.
Will. Harkye, Harry—the—Woman—the almighty Whore—thou told’st
me of to day.
Beau. Death, do’st thou mock my Grief—unhand me strait, for tho I
cannot blame thee, I must hate thee.— [Goes out.
Will. What the Devil ails he?
Aria. You will be sure to come.

Will. At night in the Piazza; I have an Assignation with a Woman, that
once dispatch’d, I will not fail ye, Sir.
Luc. And will you leave him with her?
Aria. Oh, yes, he’ll be ne’er the worse for my use when he has done with
her.
[Ex. Luc. and Aria. Will. looks with scorn on La Nuche.
Will. Now you may go o’ertake him, lie with him—and ruin him: the Fool
was made for such a Destiny—if he escapes my Sword.
[He offers to go.
La Nu. I must prevent his visit to this Woman—but dare not tell him so.
[Aside.] —I would not have ye meet this angry Youth.
Will. Oh, you would preserve him for a farther use.
La Nu. Stay—you must not fight—by Heaven, I cannot see—that Bosom
—wounded. [Turns and weeps.
Will. Hah! weep’st thou? curse me when I refuse a faith to that obliging
Language of thy Eyes—Oh give me one proof more, and after that, thou
conquerest all my Soul; Thy Eyes speak Love—come, let us in, my Dear,
e’er the bright Fire allays that warms my Heart. [Goes to lead her out.
La Nu. Your Love grows rude, and saucily demands it. [Flings away.
Will. Love knows no Ceremony, no respect when once approacht so near
the happy minute.
La Nu. What desperate easiness have you seen in me, or what mistaken
merit in your self, should make you so ridiculously vain, to think I’d give
myself to such a Wretch, one fal’n even to the last degree of Poverty,
whilst all the World is prostrate at my Feet, whence I might chuse the
Brave, the Great, the Rich? [He stands spitefully gazing at her.
—Still as he fires, I find my Pride augment, and when he cools I burn.
[Aside.
Will. Death, thou’rt a—vain, conceited, taudry Jilt, who wou’st draw me
in as Rooks their Cullies do, to make me venture all my stock of Love, and

then you turn me out despis’d and poor— [Offers to go.
La Nu. You think you’re gone now—
Will. Not all thy Arts nor Charms shall hold me longer.
La Nu. I must submit—and can you part thus from me?— [Pulls him.
Will. I can—nay, by Heaven, I will not turn, nor look at thee. No, when I
do, or trust that faithless Tongue again—may I be—
La Nu. Oh do not swear—
Will. Ever curst— [Breaks from her, she holds him.
La Nu. You shall not go—Plague of this needless Pride, [Aside.
—stay—and I’ll follow all the dictates of my Love.
Will. Oh never hope to flatter me to faith again.
[His back to her, she holding him.
La Nu. I must, I will; what wou’d you have me do?
Will. [turning softly to her.] Never—deceive me more, it may be fatal to
wind me up to an impatient height, then dash my eager Hopes. [Sighing.
Forgive my roughness—and be kind, La Nuche, I know thou wo’t—
La Nu. Will you then be ever kind and true?
Will. Ask thy own Charms, and to confirm thee more, yield and disarm
me quite.
La Nu. Will you not marry then? for tho you never can be mine that way,
I cannot think that you should be another’s.
Will. No more delays, by Heaven, ’twas but a trick.
La Nu. And will you never see that Woman neither, whom you’re this
Night to visit?
Will. Damn all the rest of thy weak Sex, when thou look’st thus, and art so
soft and charming. [Offers to lead her out.
La Nu. Sancho—my Coach. [Turns in scorn.

Will. Take heed, what mean ye?
La Nu. Not to be pointed at by all the envying Women of the Town, who’l
laugh and cry, Is this the high-priz’d Lady, now fall’n so low, to doat upon
a Captain? a poor disbanded Captain? defend me from that Infamy.
Will. Now all the Plagues—but yet I will not curse thee, ’tis lost on thee,
for thou art destin’d damn’d. [Going out.
La Nu. Whither so fast?
Will. Why,—I am so indifferent grown, that I can tell thee now—to a
Woman, young, fair and honest; she’ll be kind and thankful—farewel, Jilt
—now should’st thou die for one sight more of me, thou should’st not ha’t;
nay, should’st thou sacrifice all thou hast couzen’d other Coxcombs of, to
buy one single visit, I am so proud, by Heaven, thou shouldst not have it—
To grieve thee more, see here, insatiate Woman [Shews her a Purse or
hands full of Gold] the Charm that makes me lovely in thine Eyes: it had
all been thine hadst thou not basely bargain’d with me, now ’tis the Prize
of some well-meaning Whore, whose Modesty will trust my Generosity.
[Goes out.
La Nu. Now I cou’d rave, t’have lost an opportunity which industry nor
chance can give again—when on the yielding point, a cursed fit of Pride
comes cross my Soul, and stops the kind Career—I’ll follow him, yes I’ll
follow him, even to the Arms of her to whom he’s gone.
Aur. Madam, ’tis dark, and we may meet with Insolence.
La Nu. No matter: Sancho, let the Coach go home, and do you follow me
—
Women may boast their Honour and their Pride,
But Love soon lays those feebler Powr’s aside. [Exeunt.

ACT IV.

Scene I. The Street, or Backside of the Piazza dark.

Enter Willmore alone.
Will. A Pox upon this Woman that has jilted me, and I for being a fond
believing Puppy to be in earnest with so great a Devil. Where be these
Coxcombs too? this Blunt and Fetherfool? when a Man needs ’em not,
they are plaguing him with their unseasonable Jests—could I but light on
them, I would be very drunk to night—but first I’ll try my Fortune with
this Woman—let me see—hereabouts is the Door.
[Gropes about for the Door.
Enter Beaumond, follow’d by La Nuche, and Sancho.
La Nu. ’Tis he, I know it by his often and uneasy pauses—
Beau. And shall I home and sleep upon my injury, whilst this more happy
Rover takes my right away?—no, damn me then for a cold senseless
Coward. [Pauses and pulls out a Key.
Will. This Damsel, by the part o’th’ Town she lives in, shou’d be of
Quality, and therefore can have no dishonest design on me, it must be right
down substantial Love, that’s certain.
Beau. Yet I’ll in and arm my self for the Encounter, for ’twill be rough
between us, tho we’re Friends. [Groping about, finds the Door.
Will. Oh, ’tis this I’m sure, because the Door is open.
Beau. Hah—who’s there?—
[Beau. advances to unlock the Door, runs against Will. draws.
Will. That Voice is of Authority, some Husband, Lover, or a Brother, on
my Life—this is a Nation of a word and a blow, therefore I’ll betake me to
Toledo— [Draws.
[Willmore in drawing hits his Sword against that of Beaumond, who
turns and fights, La Nuche runs into the Garden frighted.
Beau. Hah, are you there?
Sanc. I’ll draw in defence of the Captain—
[Sancho fights for Beau. and beats out Will.
Will. Hah, two to one? [Turns and goes in.

Beau. The Garden Door clapt to; sure he’s got in; nay, then I have him
sure.
The Scene changes to a Garden, La Nuche in it, to her Beau. who
takes hold of her sleeve.
La Nu. Heavens, where am I?
Beau. Hah—a Woman! and by these Jewels—should be Ariadne.
[feels.] ’Tis so! Death, are all Women false?
[She struggles to get away, he holds her.
—Oh,’tis in vain thou fly’st, thy Infamy will stay behind thee still.
La Nu. Hah, ’tis Beaumond’s Voice!—Now for an Art to turn the trick
upon him; I must not lose his Friendship. [Aside.
Enter Willmore softly, peeping behind.
Will. What a Devil have we here, more Mischief yet;—hah—my Woman
with a Man—I shall spoil all—I ever had an excellent knack of doing so.
Beau. Oh Modesty, where art thou? Is this the effect of all your put on
Jealousy, that Mask to hide your own new falshood in? New!—by
Heaven, I believe thou’rt old in cunning, that couldst contrive, so near thy
Wedding-night, this, to deprive me of the Rites of Love.
La Nu. Hah, what says he? [Aside.
Will. How, a Maid, and young, and to be marry’d too! a rare Wench this to
contrive Matters so conveniently: Oh, for some Mischief now to send him
neatly off. [Aside.
Beau. Now you are silent; but you could talk to day loudly of Virtue, and
upbraid my Vice: oh how you hated a young keeping Husband, whom
neither Beauty nor Honour in a Wife cou’d oblige to reason—oh, damn
your Honour, ’tis that’s the sly pretence of all your domineering insolent
Wives—Death—what didst thou see in me, should make thee think that I
would be a tame contented Cuckold? [Going, she holds him.
La Nu. I must not lose this lavish loving Fool— [Aside.

Will. So, I hope he will be civil and withdraw, and leave me in possession
—
Beau. No, tho my Fortune should depend on thee; nay, all my hope of
future happiness—by Heaven, I scorn to marry thee, unless thou couldst
convince me thou wer’t honest—a Whore!—Death, how it cools my
Blood—
Will. And fires mine extremely—
La Nu. Nay, then I am provok’d tho I spoil all— [Aside.
And is a Whore a thing so much despis’d?
Turn back, thou false forsworn—turn back, and blush at thy mistaken
folly. [He stands amaz’d.
Beau. La Nuche!
Enter Aria. peeping, advancing cautiously undrest, Luc. following.
Aria. Oh, he is here—Lucia, attend me in the Orange-grove—
[Ex. Lucia.
Hah, a Woman with him!
Will. Hum—what have we here? another Damsel?—she’s gay too, and
seems young and handsom—sure one of these will fall to my share; no
matter which, so I am sure of one.
La Nu. Who’s silent now? are you struck dumb with Guilt? thou shame to
noble Love; thou scandal to all brave Debauchery, thou Fop of Fortune;
thou slavish Heir to Estate and Wife, born rich and damn’d to Matrimony.
Will. Egad, a noble Wench—I am divided yet.
La Nu. Thou formal Ass disguis’d in generous Leudness, see—when the
Vizor’s off, how sneakingly that empty form appears—Nay ’tis thy own—
Make much on’t, marry with it, and be damn’d. [Offers to go.
Will. I hope she’ll beat him for suspecting her.
[He holds her, she turns.
Aria. Hah—who the Devil can these be?

La Nu. What silly honest Fool did you mistake me for? what senseless
modest thing? Death, am I grown so despicable? have I deserv’d no better
from thy Love than to be taken for a virtuous Changeling?
Will. Egad, ’twas an Affront. [Aside.
La Nu. I’m glad I’ve found thee out to be an errant Coxcomb, one that
esteems a Woman for being chaste forsooth! ’Sheart, I shall have thee call
me pious shortly, a most—religious Matron!
Will. Egad, she has reason— [Aside.
Beau. Forgive me—for I took ye—for another. [Sighing.
La Nu. Oh did you so? it seems you keep fine Company the while—
Death, that I should e’er be seen with such a vile Dissembler, with one so
vain, so dull and so impertinent, as can be entertain’d by honest Women!
Will. A Heavenly Soul, and to my Wish, were I but sure of her.
Beau. Oh you do wondrous well t’accuse me first! yes, I am a Coxcomb
—a confounded one, to doat upon so false a Prostitute; nay to love
seriously, and tell it too: yet such an amorous Coxcomb I was born, to hate
the Enjoyment of the loveliest Woman, without I have the Heart: the fond
soft Prattle, and the lolling Dalliance, the Frowns, the little Quarrels, and
the kind Degrees of making Peace again, are Joys which I prefer to all the
sensual, whilst I endeavour to forget the Whore, and pay my Vows to Wit,
to Youth and Beauty.
Aria. Now hang me, if it be not Beaumond.
Beau. Would any Devil less than common Woman have serv’d me as thou
didst? say, was not this my Night? my paid for Night? my own by right of
Bargain, and by Love? and hast not thou deceiv’d me for a Stranger?
Will. So—make me thankful, then she will be kind. [Hugs himself.
Beau. —Was this done like a Whore of Honour think ye? and would not
such an Injury make me forswear all Joys of Womankind, and marry in
mere spite?
La Nu. Why where had been the Crime had I been kind?

Beau. Thou dost confess it then.
La Nu. Why not?
Beau. Those Bills of Love the oftner paid and drawn, make Women better
Merchants than Lovers.
La Nu. And ’tis the better Trade.
Will. Oh Pox, there she dasht all again. I find they calm upon’t, and will
agree, therefore I’ll bear up to this small Frigate and lay her aboard.
[Goes to Ariadne.
La Nu. However I’m glad the Vizor’s off; you might have fool’d me on,
and sworn I was the only Conqueror of your Heart, had not Good-nature
made me follow you, to undeceive your false Suspicions of me: How have
you sworn never to marry? how rail’d at Wives, and satir’d Fools oblig’d
to Wedlock? And now at last, to thy eternal Shame, thou hast betray’d thy
self to be a most pernicious honourable Lover, a perjur’d—honest—nay,
a very Husband. [Turns away, he holds her.
Aria. Hah, sure ’tis the Captain.
Will. Prithee, Child, let’s leave ’em to themselves, they’l agree matters I’ll
warrant them when they are alone; and let us try how Love and Good-
nature will provide for us.
Aria. Sure he cannot know me?—Us!—pray who are you, and who am I?
Will. Why look ye, Child, I am a very honest civil Fellow, for my part,
and thou’rt a Woman for thine; and I desire to know no more at present.
Aria. ’Tis he, and knows not me to be the same he appointed to day—Sir,
pursue that Path on your right Hand, that Grove of Orange-Trees, and I’ll
follow you immediately.
Will. Kind and civil—prithee make haste, dear Child. [Exit. Will.
Beau. And did you come to call me back again? [Lovingly.
La Nu. No matter, you are to be marry’d, Sir—
Beau. No more, ’tis true, to please my Uncle, I have talk’d of some such
thing; but I’ll pursue it no farther, so thou wilt yet be mine, and mine

intirely—I hate this Ariadne—for a Wife—by Heaven I do.
Aria. A very plain Confession. [Claps him on the back.
Beau. Ariadne!
La Nu. I’m glad of this, now I shall be rid of him. [Aside.] —How
is’t, Sir? I see you struggle hard ’twixt Love and Honour, and I’ll resign
my Place— [Offers to go, Ariadne pulls her back.
Aria. Hold, if she take him not away, I shall disappoint my Man—faith,
I’ll not be out-done in Generosity. [Gives him to La Nuche.
Here—Love deserves him best—and I resign him—Pox on’t I’m honest,
tho that’s no fault of mine; ’twas Fortune who has made a worse
Exchange, and you and I should suit most damnably together.
[To Beau.
Beau. I am sure there’s something in the Wind, she being in the Garden,
and the Door left open. [Aside.] —Yes, I believe you are willing
enough to part with me, when you expect another you like better.
Aria. I’m glad I was before-hand with you then.
Beau. Very good, and the Door was left open to give admittance to a
Lover.
Aria. ’Tis visible it was to let one in to you, false as you are.
La Nu. Faith, Madam, you mistake my Constitution, my Beauty and my
Business is only to be belov’d not to love; I leave that Slavery for you
Women of Quality, who must invite, or die without the Blessing; for likely
the Fool you make choice of wants Wit or Confidence to ask first; you are
fain to whistle before the Dogs will fetch and carry, and then too they
approach by stealth: and having done the Drudgery, the submissive Curs
are turn’d out for fear of dirtying your Apartment, or that the Mungrils
should scandalize ye; whilst all my Lovers of the noble kind throng to
adore and fill my Presence daily, gay as if each were triumphing for
Victory.
Aria. Ay this is something; what a poor sneaking thing an honest
Woman is!

La Nu. And if we chance to love still, there’s a difference, your Hours of
Love are like the Deeds of Darkness, and mine like cheerful Birds in open
Day.
Aria. You may, you have no Honour to lose.
La Nu. Or if I had, why should I double the Sin by Hypocrisy?
[Lucia squeaks within, crying, help, help.
Aria. Heavens, that’s Lucia’s Voice.
Beau. Hah, more caterwauling?
Enter Lucia in haste.
Luc. Oh, Madam, we’re undone; and, Sir, for Heaven’s sake do you retire.
Beau. What’s the matter?
Luc. Oh you have brought the most villainous mad Friend with you—he
found me sitting on a Bank—and did so ruffle me.
Aria. Death, she takes Beaumond for the Stranger, and will ruin me.
Luc. Nay, made love so loud, that my Lord your Father-in-law, who was
in his Cabinet, heard us from the Orange-Grove, and has sent to search the
Garden—and should he find a Stranger with you—do but you retire, Sir,
and all’s well yet. [To Beaumond.
Aria. The Devil’s in her Tongue. [Aside.
Luc. For if Mr. Beaumond be in the House, we shall have the Devil to do
with his Jealousy.
Aria. So, there ’tis out.
Beau. She takes me for another—I am jilted every where—what Friend?
—I brought none with me.—Madam, do you retire— [To La Nuche.
La Nu. Glad of my Freedom too— [Goes out.
[A clashing of Swords within. Enter Willm. fighting, prest back by
three or four Men, and Abevile, Aria. and Luc. run out.

Beau. Hah, set on by odds; hold, tho thou be’st my Rival, I will free thee,
on condition thou wilt meet me to morrow morning in the Piazza by day
break. [Puts himself between their Swords, and speaks to Will. Aside.
Will. By Heaven I’ll do it.
Beau. Retire in safety then, you have your pass.
Abev. Fall on, fall on, the number is increas’d. [Fall on Beau.
Beau. Rascals, do you not know me?
[Falls in with ’em and beats them back, and goes out with them.
Will. Nay, and you be so well acquainted, I’ll leave you—unfortunate still
I am; my own well meaning, but ill Management, is my eternal Foe:
Plague on ’em, they have wounded me—yet not one drop of Blood’s
departed from me that warm’d my Heart for Woman, and I’m not willing
to quit this Fairy-ground till some kind Devil have been civil to me.
Enter Ariadne and Lucia.
Aria. I say, ’tis he: thou’st made so many dull Mistakes to Night, thou
darest not trust thy Senses when they’re true—How do you, Sir?
Will. That Voice has Comfort in’t, for ’tis a Woman’s: hah, more
Interruption?
Aria. A little this way, Sir. [Ex. Aria, and Will. into the Garden.
Enter Beaumond, Abevile in a submissive Posture.
Beau. No more excuses—By all these Circumstances, I know this
Ariadne is a Gipsy. What difference then beween a money-taking Mistress
and her that gives her Love? only perhaps this sins the closer by’t, and
talks of Honour more: What Fool wou’d be a Slave to empty Name, or
value Woman for dissembling well? I’ll to La Nuche—the honester o’th’
two—Abevile—get me my Musick ready, and attend me at La Nuche’s.
[Ex. severally.
Luc. He’s gone, and to his Mistress too.

Enter Ariadne pursu’d by Willmore.

Will. My little Daphne, ’tis in vain to fly, unless like her, you cou’d be
chang’d into a Tree: Apollo’s self pursu’d not with more eager Fire than I.
[Holds her.
Aria. Will you not grant a Parly e’er I yield?
Will. I’m better at a Storm.
Aria. Besides, you’re wounded too.
Will. Oh leave those Wounds of Honour to my Surgeon, thy Business is to
cure those of Love. Your true bred Soldier ever fights with the more heat
for a Wound or two.
Aria. Hardly in Venus’ Wars.
Will. Her self ne’er thought so when she snatcht her Joys between the
rough Encounters of the God of War. Come, let’s pursue the Business we
came for: See the kind Night invites, and all the ruffling Winds are husht
and still, only the Zephirs spread their tender Wings, courting in gentle
Murmurs the gay Boughs; ’twas in a Night like this, Diana taught the
Mysteries of Love to the fair Boy Endymion. I am plaguy full of History
and Simile to night.
Aria. You see how well he far’d for being modest.
Will. He might be modest, but ’twas not over-civil to put her Goddessship
to asking first; thou seest I’m better bred—Come let’s haste to silent Grots
that attend us, dark Groves where none can see, and murmuring Fountains.
Aria. Stay, let me consider first, you are a Stranger, inconstant too as
Island Winds, and every day are fighting for your Mistresses, of which
you’ve had at least four since I saw you first, which is not a whole day.
Will. I grant ye, before I was a Lover I ran at random, but I’ll take up now,
be a patient Man, and keep to one Woman a Month.
Aria. A Month!
Will. And a fair Reason, Child; time was, I wou’d have worn one Shirt, or
one pair of Shoos so long as have let the Sun set twice upon the same Sin:
but see the Power of Love; thou hast bewitched me, that’s certain.

Aria. Have a care of giving me the ascendent over ye, for fear I make ye
marry me.
Will. Hold, I bar that cast, Child; no, I’m none of those Spirits that can be
conjur’d into a Wedding-ring, and dance in the dull matrimonial Circle all
my Days.
Aria. But what think you of a hundred thousand Crowns, and a Beauty of
sixteen?
Will. As of most admirable Blessings: but harkye, Child, I am plaguily
afraid thou’rt some scurvy honest thing of Quality by these odd Questions
of thine, and hast some wicked Design upon my Body.
Aria. What, to have and to hold I’ll warrant.—No Faith, Sir, Maids of my
Quality expect better Jointures than a Buff-coat, Scarf and Feather: such
Portions as mine are better Ornaments in a Family than a Captain and his
Commission.
Will. Why well said, now thou hast explain’d thy self like a Woman of
Honour—Come, come, let’s away.
Aria. Explain my self! How mean ye?
Will. —Thou say’st I am not fit to marry thee—and I believe this
Assignation was not made to tell me so, nor yet to hear me whistle to the
Birds.
Aria. Faith no, I saw you, lik’d ye, and had a mind to ye.
Will. Ay, Child—
Aria. In short, I took ye for a Man of Honour.
Will. Nay, if I tell the Devil take me.
Aria. I am a Virgin in Distress.
Will. Poor Heart.
Aria. To be marry’d within a Day or two to one I like not.
Will. Hum—and therefore wouldst dispose of a small Virgin Treasure (too
good for silly Husbands) in a Friend’s Hands: faith, Child—I was ever a

good religious charitable Christian, and shall acquit my self as honestly
and piously in this Affair as becomes a Gentleman.
Enter Abevile with Musick.
Abev. Come away, are ye all arm’d for the Business?
Aria. Hah, arm’d! we are surpriz’d again.
Will. Fear not. [Draws.
Aria. Oh God, Sir, haste a way, you are already wounded: but I conjure
you, as a Man of Honour, be here at the Garden Gate to night again, and
bring a Friend, in case of Danger, with you; and if possible I’ll put my self
into your Hands, for this Night’s Work has ruin’d me—
[Speaking quick, and pushing him forwards runs off.
Abev. My Master sure not gone yet— [Peeping advancing.
Will. Rascals, tho you are odds, you’ll find hot Work in vanquishing.
[Falls on ’em.
Abev. Hold, Sir, I am your Page. Do you not know me? and these the
Musick you commanded—shall I carry ’em where you order’d, Sir?
Will. They take me for some other, this was lucky. [Aside.] O, aye
—’tis well—I’ll follow—but whither?—Plague of my dull Mistakes, the
Woman’s gone—yet stay— [Calls ’em.
For now I think on’t, this Mistake may help me to another—stay—I must
dispose of this mad Fire about me, which all these Disappointments cannot
lay—Oh for some young kind Sinner in the nick—How I cou’d souse
upon her like a Bird of Prey, and worry her with Kindness. [Aside.] —
Go on, I follow. [Exeunt.
Scene changes to La Nuche’s House.
Enter Petronella and Aurelia with Light.
Aur. Well, the Stranger is in Bed, and most impatiently expects our
Patrona, who is not yet returned.

Pet. Curse of this Love! I know she’s in pursuit of this Rover, this English
Piece of Impudence; Pox on ’em, I know nothing good in the whole Race
of ’em, but giving all to their Shirts when they’re drunk. What shall we do,
Aurelia? This Stranger must not be put off, nor Carlo neither, who has
fin’d again as if for a new Maidenhead.
Aur. You are so covetous, you might have put ’em off, but now ’tis too
late.
Pet. Put off! Are these Fools to be put off think ye? a fine Fop
Englishman, and an old doating Grandee?—No, I cou’d put the old trick
on ’em still, had she been here but to have entertain’d ’em: but hark, one
knocks, ’tis Carlo on my Life—
Enter Carlo, gives Petronella Gold.
Car. Let this plead for me.
Pet. Sweet Don, you are the most eloquent Person.
Car. I would regale to night—I know it is not mine, but I’ve sent five
hundred Crowns to purchase it, because I saw another bargaining for’t;
and Persons of my Quality must not be refus’d: you apprehend me.
Pet. Most rightly—that was the Reason then she came so out of Humour
home—and is gone to Bed in such a sullen Fit.
Car. To Bed, and all alone! I would surprize her there. Oh how it pleases
me to think of stealing into her Arms like a fine Dream, Wench, hah.
Aur. ’Twill be a pleasant one, no doubt.
Pet. He lays the way out how he’ll be cozen’d. [Aside.] —The
Seigniora perhaps may be angry, Sir, but I’ll venture that to accommodate
you; and that you may surprize her the more readily, be pleased to stay in
my Chamber, till you think she may be asleep.
Car. Thou art a perfect Mistress of thy Trade.
Pet. So, now will I to the Seigniora’s Bed my self, drest and perfum’d,
and finish two good Works at once; earn five hundred Crowns, and keep
up the Honour of the House. [Aside.] —Softly, sweet Don.

[Lights him out.
Aur. And I will do two more good things, and disappoint your
Expectations; jilt the young English Fool, and have old Carlo well bang’d,
if t’other have any Courage.
Enter La Nuche in Rage, and Sancho.
La Nu. Aurelia, help, help me to be reveng’d upon this wretched
unconsidering Heart.
Aur. Heavens, have you made the Rover happy, Madam?
La Nu. Oh wou’d I had! or that or any Sin wou’d change this Rage into
some easier Passion: Sickness and Poverty, Disgrace and Pity, all met in
one, were kinder than this Love, this raging Fire of a proud amorous
Heart.
Enter Petronella.
Pet. Heavens, what’s the matter?
Aur. Here’s Petronella, dissemble but your Rage a little.
La Nu. Damn all dissembling now, it is too late—
The Tyrant Love reigns absolute within,
And I am lost, Aurelia.
Pet. How, Love! forbid it Heaven! will Love maintain ye?
La Nu. Curse on your Maxims, will they ease my Heart? Can your wise
Counsel fetch me back my Rover?
Pet. Hah, your Rover, a Pox upon him.
La Nu. He’s gone—gone to the Arms of some gay generous Maid, who
nobly follows Love’s diviner Dictates, whilst I ’gainst Nature studying thy
dull Precepts, and to be base and infamously rich, have barter’d all the
Joys of human Life—Oh give me Love: I will be poor and love.
Pet. She’s lost—but hear me—
La Nu. I won’t, from Childhood thou hast trained me up in Cunning, read
Lectures to me of the use of Man, but kept me from the knowledge of the

Right; taught me to jilt, to flatter and deceive: and hard it was to learn th’
ungrateful Lessons. But oh how soon plain Nature taught me Love, and
shew’d me all the cheat of thy false Tenents—No—give me Love with any
other Curse.
Pet. But who will give you that when you are poor? when you are
wretchedly despis’d and poor?
La Nu. Hah!
Pet. Do you not daily see fine Clothes, rich Furniture, Jewels and Plate
are more inviting than Beauty unadorn’d? be old, diseas’d, deform’d, be
any thing, so you be rich and splendidly attended, you’ll find your self
lov’d and ador’d by all—But I’m an old fool still—Well, Petronella,
had’st thou been half as industrious in thy Youth as in thy Age—thou hadst
not come to this. [Weeps.
La Nu. She’s in the right.
Pet. What can this mad poor Captain do for you, love you whilst you can
buy him Breeches, and then leave you? A Woman has a sweet time on’t
with any Soldier-Lover of ’em all, with their Iron Minds, and Buff Hearts;
feather’d Inamorato’s have nothing that belongs to Love but his Wings,
the Devil clip ’em for Petronella.
La Nu. True—he can ne’er be constant. [Pausing.
Pet. Heaven forbid he should! No, if you are so unhappy as that you must
have him, give him a Night or two and pay him for’t, and send him to feed
again: But for your Heart, ’Sdeath, I would as soon part with my Beauty,
or Youth, and as necessary a Tool ’tis for your Trade—A Curtezan and
love! but all my Counsel’s thrown away upon ye. [Weeps.
La Nu. No more, I will be rul’d—I will be wise, be rich; and since I must
yield somewhere, and some time, Beaumond shall be the Man, and this the
Night; he’s handsom, young, and lavishly profuse: This Night he comes,
and I’ll submit to Interest. Let the gilded Apartment be made ready, and
strew it o’er with Flowers, adorn my Bed of State; let all be fine; perfume
my Chamber like the Phœnix’s Nest, I’ll be luxurious in my Pride to
Night, and make the amorous prodigal Youth my Slave.

Pet. Nobly resolv’d! and for these other two who wait your coming, let
me alone to manage. [Goes out.
Scene changes to a Chamber, discovers Fetherfool in Bed.
Feth. This Gentlewoman is plaguy long in coming:—some Nicety now,
some perfum’d Smock, or Point Night-Clothes to make her more lovely in
my Eyes: Well, these Women are right City Cooks, they stay so long to
garnish the Dish, till the Meat be cold—but hark, the Door opens.
Enter Carlo softly, half undrest.
Car. This Wench stays long, and Love’s impatient; this is the Chamber of
La Nuche, I take it: If she be awake, I’ll let her know who I am; if not, I’ll
steal a Joy before she thinks of it.
Feth. Sure ’tis she, pretty modest Rogue, she comes i’th’ dark to hide her
Blushes—hum, I’m plaguy eloquent o’th’ sudden—who’s there?
[Whispering.
Car. ’Tis I, my Love.
Feth. Hah, sweet Soul, make haste.—There ’twas again.
Car. So kind, sure she takes me for some other, or has some inkling of my
Design— [To himself.
Where are you, Sweetest?
Feth. Here, my Love, give me your Hand—
[Puts out his Hand; Carlo kneels and kisses it.
Car. Here let me worship the fair Shrine before I dare approach so fair a
Saint. [Kisses the Hand.
Feth. Hah, what a Pox have we here?—wou’d I were well out o’ t’other
side—perhaps—’tis her Husband, and then I’m a dead Man, if I’m
discover’d. [Removes to t’other side, Carlo holds his Hand.
Car. Nay, do not fly—I know you took me for some happier Person.
[Feth. struggles, Car. rises and takes him in his Arms, and kisses him.
Feth. What, will you ravish me? [In a shrill Voice.

Car. Hah, that Voice is not La Nuche’s—Lights there, Lights.
Feth. Nay, I can hold a bearded Venus, Sir, as well as any Man.
[Holds Carlo.
Car. What art thou, Rogue, Villain, Slave?
[They fall to Cuffs, and fight till they are bloody, fall from the Bed
and fight on the Floor.
Enter Petronella, Sancho, and Aurelia.
Pet. Heaven, what noise is this?—we are undone, part ’em, Sancho.
[They part ’em.
Feth. Give me my Sword; nay, give me but a Knife, that I may cut yon
Fellow’s Throat—
Car. Sirrah, I’m a Grandee, and a Spaniard, and will be reveng’d.
Feth. And I’m an English-man, and a Justice, and will have Law, Sir.
Pet. Say ’tis her Husband, or any thing to get him hence.
[Aside to Sancho, who whispers him.
These English, Sir, are Devils, and on my Life ’tis unknown to the
Seigniora that he’s i’th’ House. [To Carlo aside.
Car. Come, I’m abus’d, but I must put it up for fear of my Honour;
a Statesman’s Reputation is a tender thing: Convey me out the back way.
I’ll be reveng’d. [Goes out.
Feth. (Aurelia whispers to him aside.) How, her Husband! Prithee convey
me out; my Clothes, my Clothes, quickly—
Aur. Out, Sir! he has lock’d the Door, and designs to have ye murder’d.
Feth. Oh, gentle Soul—take pity on me—where, oh what shall I do?—my
Clothes, my Sword and Money.
Aur. Quickly, Sancho, tie a Sheet to the Window, and let him slide down
by that—Be speedy, and we’ll throw your Clothes out after ye. Here,
follow me to the Window.

Feth. Oh, any whither, any whither. That I could not be warn’d from
whoring in a strange Country, by my Friend Ned Blunt’s Example—if I
can but keep it secret now, I care not. [Exeunt.
Scene, the Street, a Sheet tyd to the Balcony, and Feth. sitting cross to
slide down.
Feth. So—now your Neck, or your Throat, chuse ye either, wise Mr.
Nicholas Fetherfool—But stay, I hear Company. Now dare not I budg an
Inch.
Enter Beaumond alone.
Beau. Where can this Rascal, my Page, be all this while? I waited in the
Piazza so long, that I believed he had mistook my Order, and gone directly
to La Nuche’s House—but here’s no sign of him—
Feth. Hah—I hear no noise, I’ll venture down.
[Goes halfway down and stops.
Enter Abevile, Harlequin, Musick and Willmore.
Will. Whither will this Boy conduct me?—but since to a Woman, no
matter whither ’tis.
Feth. Hah, more Company; now dare not I stir up nor down, they may be
Bravoes to cut my Throat.
Beau. Oh sure these are they—
Will. Come, my Heart, lose no time, but tune your Pipes.
[Harlequin plays on his Guittar, and sings.
Beau. How, sure this is some Rival. [Goes near and listens.
Will. Harkye, Child, hast thou ne’er an amorous Ditty, short and sweet,
hah—
Abev. Shall I not sing that you gave me, Sir?
Will. I shall spoil all with hard Questions—Ay, Child—that that.
[Abev. sings, Beau. listens, and seems angry the while.

SONG.
A Pox upon this needless Scorn!
Silvia, for shame the Cheat give o’er;
The end to which the fair are born,
Is not to keep their Charms in store,
But lavishly dispose in haste,
Of Joys—which none but Youth improve;
Joys which decay when Beauty’s past:
And who when Beauty’s past will love?
When Age those Glories shall deface,
Revenging all your cold Disdain,
And Silvia shall neglected pass,
By every once admiring Swain;
And we can only Pity pay,
When you in vain too late shall burn:
If Love increase, and Youth delay,
Ah, Silvia, who will make return?
Then haste, my Silvia, to the Grove,
Where all the Sweets of May conspire,
To teach us every Art of Love,
And raise our Charms of Pleasure higher;
Where, whilst imbracing we should lie
Loosely in Shades, on Banks of Flowers:
The duller World whilst we defy,
Years will be Minutes, Ages Hours.
Beau. ’Sdeath, that’s my Page’s Voice: Who the Devil is’t that ploughs
with my Heifer!
Aur. Don Henrick, Don Henrick—
[The Door opens, Beau. goes up to’t; Will. puts him by, and offers to
go in, he pulls him back.
Will. How now, what intruding Slave art thou?