The Works of Aphra Behn, Volume IV

THE WORKS

OF

APHRA BEHN

Edited by

MONTAGUE SUMMERS

VOL. IV

Sir Patient Fancy
The Amorous Prince—The Widow Ranter
The Younger Brother

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

[CONTENTS.]

The plays are located in two separate files, together with their respective Notes.

Printed by A. H. Bullen, at the Shakespeare Head Press, Stratford-upon-Avon.

[SIR PATIENT FANCY.]

Scenes described in (parentheses) are unnumbered.

[Argument.]

[Source.]

[Theatrical History.]

[To the Reader]

[Prologue.]

[Dramatis Personæ.]

[Act I.]

[Scene I.] A Room in Lady Knowell’s House.

[(A Chair and a Table)]

[Act II.]

[Scene I.] A Garden to Sir Patient Fancy’s House.

[Scene II.] A Chamber.

[Act III.]

[Scene I.] A room in Sir Patient Fancy’s house

[Scene II.] Lady Knowell’s Chamber

[Scene III.] A Garden.

[Scene IV.] A Chamber

[Scene V.] A Garden.

[Scene VI.] Lady Fancy’s Anti-chamber.

[Scene VII.] Lady Fancy’s Bed-chamber

[Scene VIII.] The Garden.

[Scene IX.] The long Street

[Act IV.]

[Scene I.] Lady Knowell’s House.

[Scene II.] A Chamber in Sir Patient Fancy’s House.

[Scene III.] A Hall.

[Scene IV.] Lady Fancy’s Bed-Chamber.

[Act V.]

[Scene I.] A Room in Sir Patient Fancy’s House.

[Epilogue.]

[Notes to Sir Patient Fancy]

[ARGUMENT.]

Sir Patient Fancy, a hypochondriacal old alderman, has taken a second wife, Lucia, a young and beautiful woman who, although feigning great affection and the strictest conjugal fidelity, intrigues with a gallant, Charles Wittmore, the only obstacle to their having long since married being mutual poverty. However, the jealousy and uxoriousness of the doting husband give the lovers few opportunities; on one occasion, indeed, as Lady Fancy is entertaining Wittmore in the garden they are surprised by Sir Patient, and she is obliged to pass her visitor off under the name of Fainlove as a suitor to her step-daughter, Isabella, in which rôle he is accepted by Sir Patient. But Isabella has betrothed herself to Lodwick, a son of the pedantic Lady Knowell: whilst Lucretia Knowell loves Leander, the alderman’s nephew, in spite of the fact that she is promised by her mother to Sir Credulous Easy, a bumpkinly knight from Devonshire. Lodwick, who is a close friend of Leander, has been previously known to Sir Credulous, and resolving to trick and befool the coxcomb warmly welcomes him on his arrival in town. He persuades him, in fine, to give a ridiculous serenade, or, rather, a hideous hubbub, of noisy instruments under his mistress’ window. A little before this Lady Knowell with a party of friends has visited Sir Patient, who is her next neighbour, and the loud laughter, talking, singing and foppery so enrage the precise old valetudinarian that he resolves to leave London immediately for his country house, a circumstance which would be fatal to his wife’s amours. Wittmore and she, however, persuade him that he is very ill, and on being shown his face in a looking-glass that magnifies instead of in his ordinary mirror, he imagines that he is suddenly swollen and puffed with disease, and so is led lamenting to bed, leaving the coast clear for the nonce. Isabella, however, has made an assignation with Lodwick at the same time that her stepmother eagerly awaits her own gallant, and in the dark young Knowell is by mistake escorted to Lucia’s chamber, whilst Wittmore encountering Isabella, and thinking her Lady Fancy, proceeds to act so amorously that the error is soon discovered and the girl flies from his ardour. In her hurry, however, she rushes blundering into Lucia’s bedchamber, where she finds Knowell. It is just at this moment that Sir Credulous Easy’s deafening fanfare re-echoes in the street, and Sir Patient, awakened and half-stunned by the pandemonium, is led grouty and bawling into his wife’s room, where he discovers Knowell, whom Lucia has all this time taken for Wittmore; but her obvious confusion and dismay thereon are such that Sir Patient does not suspect the real happenings, which she glozes over with a tale concerning Isabella. Meantime the serenaders are dispersed and routed by a band of the alderman’s servants and clerks. Sir Credulous courting Lucretia, who loathes him, meets Knowell bringing a tale of a jealous rival able to poison at a distance by means of some strangely subtle venom, upon which the Devonshire knight conceals himself in a basket, hoping to be conveyed away to his old uncle in Essex, whereas he is merely transported next door. Sir Patient, who surprises his lady writing a love-letter, which she turns off by appending Isabella’s name thereto, is so overwhelmed with her seeming affection and care for his family that he presents her with eight thousand pounds in gold and silver, and resolves to marry his daughter to Fainlove (Wittmore) without any further delay. But whilst he is gone down to prayers and Lucia is entertaining her lover, the old nurse informs him that his little daughter Fanny has long been privy to an intrigue between Knowell and Isabella, whereupon, in great perturbation, he rushes upstairs again to consult with his wife, who hurries Wittmore under the bed. Sir Patient, however, warmed with cordials which he quaffs to revive his drooping spirits, does not offer to quit the chamber, but lies down on the bed, and the gallant is only enabled to slip out unobserved after several accidents each of which nearly betrays his presence. Upon the marriage morning Isabella in a private interview rejects her pseudo-suitor with scorn and contumely, whereat Knowell, who has of intent been listening, reveals to her that it is his friend Wittmore and no real lover who is seemingly courting her, and with his help, whilst Sir Patient is occupied with a consultation of doctors (amongst whom Sir Credulous appears disguised as a learned member of the faculty), Isabella and Knowell are securely married. Lady Knowell, who has feigned a liking for Leander, generously gives him to Lucretia, Sir Patient’s attention being still engrossed by the physicians who assemble in great force. Soon after, at Leander’s instigation, in order to test his wife, Sir Patient feigns to be dead of a sudden apoplexy, and for a few moments, whilst others are present, Lucia laments him with many plaints and tears, but immediately changes when she is left alone with Wittmore. The lovers’ plans, however, are overheard by the husband, who promptly confronts his wife with her duplicity. Amazed and confounded indeed, he forgives Leander and his daughter for marrying contrary to his former wishes; and when Lucia coolly announces her intention to play the hypocrite and puritan no more, but simply to enjoy herself with the moneys he has settled on her without let or proviso, he humorously declares he will for his part also drop the prig and canter, and turn town gallant and spark.

[SOURCE.]

In spite of Mrs. Behn’s placid assertion in her address ‘To the Reader’ that she has only taken ‘but a very bare hint’ from a foreign source, Le Malade Imaginaire, the critics who cried out that Sir Patient Fancy ‘was made out of at least four French plays’ are patently right. Sir Patient is, of course, Argan throughout and in detail; moreover, in the scene where the old alderman feigns death, there is very copious and obvious borrowing from Act iii of Le Malade Imaginaire. Some of the doctors’ lingo also comes from the third and final interlude of Molière’s comedy, whilst the idea of the medical consultation is pilfered from L’Amour Médecin, Act ii, II. Sir Credulous Easy is Monsieur de Porceaugnac, but his first entrance is taken wholesale from Brome’s The Damoiselle; or, The New Ordinary (8vo, 1653), Act ii, I, where Amphilus and Trebasco discourse exactly as do Curry and his master. The pedantic Lady Knowell is a mixture of Philaminte and Bélise from Les Femmes Savantes. The circumstance in Act iv, II, when Lucia, to deceive her husband, appends Isabella’s name to the love-letter she has herself just written, had already been used by Wycherley at the commencement of Act v of that masterpiece of comedy, The Country Wife (4to, 1675, produced in 1672), where Mrs. Pinchwife, by writing ‘your slighted Alithea’ as the subscription of a letter, completely befools her churlish spouse.

Molière’s comedies, which were so largely conveyed in Sir Patient Fancy, have been a gold mine for many of our dramatists. From Le Malade Imaginaire Miller took his Mother-in-Law; or, The Doctor the Disease, produced at the Haymarket, 12 February, 1734, and Isaac Bickerstaffe, Dr. Last in his Chariot, produced at the same theatre 25 August, 1769. In this farce Bickerstaffe further introduces the famous consultation scene from L’Amour Médecin, a play which had been made use of by Lacy, The Dumb Lady; or, The Farrier made a Physician (1672); by Owen Swiney, The Quacks; or, Love’s the Physician, produced at Drury Lane, 18 March, 1705; by Miller, Art and Nature, produced at the same theatre 16 February, 1738; and in an anonymous one act piece, which is little more than a bare translation under the title Love is the Doctor, performed once only at Lincoln’s Inn Fields, 4 April, 1734.

Monsieur de Pourceaugnac supplied Ravenscroft with material no less than three times. In Mamamouchi; or, The Citizen turn’d Gentleman, acted early in 1672, we have Sir Simon Softhead, who is Pourceaugnac in detail; in The Careless Lovers, produced at the Duke’s House in 1673, and again in The Canterbury Guests; or, A Bargain Broken, played at the Theatre Royal in 1694, we have in extenso Act ii, Scenes VIII, IX, X, of the French comedy. Crowne’s Sir Mannerley Shallow (The Country Wit, 1675) comes from the same source. Squire Trelooby, produced at Lincoln’s Inn Fields, 20 March, 1704, and revived as The Cornish Squire at Drury Lane, 3 January, 1734, is ascribed to Vanbrugh, Congreve, and Walsh; but this, as well as a farce produced at Dublin in 1720 by Charles Shadwell and entitled The Plotting Lovers; or, The Dismal Squire, cannot claim to be anything but translations. Miller’s Mother-in-Law, again, includes much of Monsieur de Pourceaugnac; and Thomas Sheridan’s Captain O’Blunder; or, The Brave Irishman, produced at Goodman’s Fields, 31 January, 1746, is a poor adaptation. Mrs. Parsons abbreviated Molière to The Intrigues of a Morning, played at Covent Garden, 18 April, 1792, a jejune effort. Les Femmes Savantes was rather racily transformed by Thomas Wright into The Female Virtuosoes, and produced at Drury Lane in 1693. It was revived as No Fools like Wits at Lincoln’s Inn Fields, 10 January, 1721, to anticipate Cibber’s The Refusal; or, The Ladies’ Philosophy, which had a run of six nights. Miller, in his The Man of Taste, once more had resource to Molière. His play was produced at Drury Lane, 6 March, 1735. It has no value.

Of all these borrowers Mrs. Behn is infinitely the best. Sir Patient Fancy is, indeed, an excellent comedy, and had she used more leisure might have been improved to become quite first rate. Perhaps she plagiarized so largely owing to the haste with which her play was written and staged, but yet everything she touched has been invested with an irresistible humour. A glaring example of her hurry remains in the fact that the ‘precise clerk’ of Sir Patient has a double nomenclature. In Act iii he appears as Abel; in Act iv, III, he is referred to as Bartholomew, and under this last name has an exit marked in Act v. This character is only on the stage twice and is given but some three or four lines to speak. Obviously, when writing her fourth act, Aphra forgot she had already christened him.

[THEATRICAL HISTORY.]

Sir Patient Fancy was produced at the Duke’s Theatre, Dorset Garden, in January, 1678, with an exceptionally strong cast which included both Betterton and his wife. It met with the great success it fully deserved. The critics, indeed, were not slow to detect Mrs. Behn’s plagiarisms, but the only real opposition was negligible disapproval of a modest clique, who a few years later vainly tried to damn The Lucky Chance. After the death of the two famous comedians Antony Leigh and James Nokes in December, 1692, Sir Patient Fancy, owing to the inability of succeeding actors to sustain the two rôles, Sir Patient and Sir Credulous, which had been created by this gifted pair, completely dropped out of the repertory of the theatre. It was not singular in its fate, for Cibber expressly tells us that D’Urfey’s excellent comedy The Fond Husband, and Crowne’s satirical City Politics, ‘lived only by the extraordinary performance of Nokes and Leigh.’

[TO THE READER.]

I Printed this Play with all the impatient haste one ought to do, who would be vindicated from the most unjust and silly aspersion, Woman could invent to cast on Woman; and which only my being a Woman has procured me; That it was Baudy, the least and most Excusable fault in the Men writers, to whose Plays they all crowd, as if they came to no other end than to hear what they condemn in this: but from a Woman it was unnaturall: but how so Cruell an unkindness came into their imaginations I can by no means guess; unless by those whose Lovers by long absence, or those whom Age or Ugliness have rendered a little distant from those things they would fain imagin here—But if such as these durst profane their Chast ears with hearing it over again, or taking it into their serious Consideration in their Cabinets; they would find nothing that the most innocent Virgins can have cause to blush at: but confess with me that no Play either Ancient or Modern has less of that Bug-bear Bawdry in it. Others [to show their breeding (as Bays sayes)] cryed it was made out of at least four French Plays, when I had but a very bare hint from one, the Malad Imagenere, which was given me translated by a Gentleman infinitely to advantage; but how much of the French is in this, I leave to those who do indeed understand it and have seen it at the Court. The play had no other Misfortune but that of coming out for a Womans: had it been owned by a Man, though the most Dull Unthinking Rascally Scribler in Town, it had been a most admirable Play. Nor does it’s loss of Fame with the Ladies do it much hurt, though they ought to have had good Nature and justice enough to have attributed all its faults to the Authours unhappiness, who is forced to write for Bread and not ashamed to owne it, and consequently ought to write to please (if she can) an Age which has given severall proofs it was by this way of writing to be obliged, though it is a way too cheap for men of wit to pursue who write for Glory, and a way which even I despise as much below me.

[SIR PATIENT FANCY.]

[PROLOGUE,]

Spoken by Mr. Betterton.

We write not now, as th’ antient Poets writ,

For your Applause of Nature, Sense and Wit;

But, like good Tradesmen, what’s in fashion vent,

And cozen you, to give ye all content.

True Comedy, writ even in Dryden’s Style,

Will hardly raise your Humours to a Smile.

Long did his Sovereign Muse the Scepter sway,

And long with Joy you did true Homage pay:

But now, like happy States, luxurious grown,

The Monarch Wit unjustly you dethrone,

And a Tyrannick Commonwealth prefer,

Where each small Wit starts up and claims his share;

And all those Laurels are in pieces torn,

Which did e’er while one sacred Head adorn.

Nay, even the Women now pretend to reign;

Defend us from a Poet Joan again!

That Congregation’s in a hopeful way

To Heaven, where the Lay-Sisters teach and pray.

Oh the great Blessing of a little Wit!

I’ve seen an elevated Poet sit,

And hear the Audience laugh and clap, yet say,

Gad after all, ’tis a damn’d silly Play:

He unconcern’d, cries only—Is it so?

No matter, these unwitty things will do,

When your fine fustian useless Eloquence

Serves but to chime asleep a drousy Audience.

Who at the vast expence of Wit would treat,

That might so cheaply please the Appetite?

Such homely Fare you’re like to find to night:

Our Author

Knows better how to juggle than to write:

Alas! a Poet’s good for nothing now,

Unless he have the knack of conjuring too;

For ’tis beyond all natural Sense to guess

How their strange Miracles are brought to pass.

Your Presto Jack be gone, and come again,

With all the Hocus Art of Legerdemain;

Your dancing Tester, Nut-meg, and your Cups,

Out-does your Heroes and your amorous Fops.

And if this chance to please you, by that rule,

He that writes Wit is much the greater Fool.

[DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.]

SCENE London, in two Houses.

[ ACT I.]

[ Scene I.] A Room [in Lady Knowell’s House].

Enter Lucretia with Isabella.

Isab. ’Tis much I owe to Fortune, my dear Lucretia, for being so kind to make us Neighbours, where with Ease we may continually exchange our Souls and Thoughts without the attendance of a Coach, and those other little Formalities that make a Business of a Visit; it looks so like a Journey, I hate it.

Lucr. Attendance is that Curse to Greatness that confines the Soul, and spoils good Humour; we are free whilst thus alone, and can laugh at the abominable Fopperies of this Town.

Isab. And lament the numberless Impertinences wherewith they continually plague all young Women of Quality.

Lucr. Yet these are the precious things our grave Parents still chuse out to make us happy with, and all for a filthy Jointure, the undeniable argument for our Slavery to Fools.

Isab. Custom is unkind to our Sex, not to allow us free Choice; but we above all Creatures must be forced to endure the formal Recommendations of a Parent, and the more insupportable Addresses of an odious Fop; whilst the Obedient Daughter stands—thus—with her Hands pinn’d before her, a set Look, few Words, and a Mein that cries—Come marry me: out upon’t.

Lucr. I perceive then, whatever your Father designs, you are resolv’d to love your own way.

Isab. Thou mayst lay thy Maidenhead upon’t, and be sure of the Misfortune to win.

Lucr. My Brother Lodwick’s like to be a happy Man then.

Isab. Faith, my dear Lodwick or no body in my heart, and I hope thou art as well resolv’d for my Cousin Leander.

Lucr. Here’s my Hand upon’t, I am; yet there’s something sticks upon my stomach, which you must know.

Isab. Spare the Relation, for I have observ’d of late your Mother to have order’d her Eyes with some softness, her Mouth endeavouring to sweeten it self into Smiles and Dimples, as if she meant to recal Fifteen again, and gave it all to Leander, for at him she throws her Darts.

Lucr. Is’t possible thou should’st have perceived it already?

Isab. Long since.

Lucr. And now I begin to love him, ’twould vex me to see my Mother marry him—well, I shall never call him Father.

Isab. He’ll take care to give himself a better Title.

Lucr. This Devonshire Knight too, who is recommended to my Mother as a fit Husband for me, I shall be so tormented with—My Brother swears he’s the pertest, most unsufferable Fool he ever saw; when he was at my Uncle’s last Summer, he made all his Diversion.

Isab. Prithee let him make ours now, for of all Fops your Country Fop is the most tolerable Animal; those of the Town are the most unmanagable Beasts in Nature.

Lucr. And are the most noisy, keeping Fops.

Isab. Keeping begins to be as ridiculous as Matrimony, and is a greater Imposition upon the Liberty of Man; the Insolence and Expence of their Mistresses has almost tir’d out all but the Old and Doting part of Mankind: The rest begin to know their value, and set a price upon a good Shape, a tolerable Face and Mein:—and some there are who have made excellent Bargains for themselves that way, and will flatter ye and jilt ye an Antiquated Lady as artfully as the most experienc’d Miss of ’em all.

Lucr. Lord, Lord! what will this World come to?—but this Mother of mine—Isabella. Sighs.

Isab. Is discreet and virtuous enough, a little too affected, as being the most learned of her Sex.

Lucr. Methinks to be read in the Arts, as they call ’em, is the peculiar Province of the other Sex.

Isab. Indeed the Men would have us think so, and boast their Learning and Languages; but if they can find any of our Sex fuller of Words, and to so little purpose as some of their Gownmen, I’ll be content to change my Petticoats for Pantaloons, and go to a Grammar-school.

Lucr. Oh, they’re the greatest Babelards in Nature.

Isab. They call us easy and fond, and charge us with all weakness; but look into their Actions of Love, State or War, their roughest business, and you shall find ’em sway’d by some who have the luck to find their [Foibles]; witness my Father, a Man reasonable enough, till drawn away by doting Love and Religion: what a Monster my young Mother makes of him! flatter’d him first into Matrimony, and now into what sort of Fool or Beast she pleases to make him.

Lucr. I wonder she does not turn him to Christianity; methinks a Conventicle should ill agree with her Humour.

Isab. Oh, she finds it the only way to secure her from his Suspicion, which if she do not e’er long give him cause for, I am mistaken in her Humour.—

Enter L. Knowell and Leander.

But see your Mother and my Cousin Leander, who seems, poor man, under some great Consternation, for he looks as gravely as a Lay-Elder conducting his Spouse from a Sermon.

L. Kno. Oh, fy upon’t. See, Mr. Fancy, where your Cousin and my Lucretia are idling: Dii boni, what an insupportable loss of time’s this?

Lean. Which might be better imploy’d, if I might instruct ’em, Madam.

L. Kno. Ay, Mr. Fancy, in Consultation with the Antients.—Oh the delight of Books! when I was of their age, I always imploy’d my looser Hours in reading—if serious, ’twas Tacitus, Seneca, Plutarch’s Morals, or some such useful Author; if in an Humour gay, I was for Poetry, Virgil, Homer or Tasso. Oh that Love between Renaldo and [Armida], Mr. Fancy! Ah the Caresses that fair Corcereis gave, and received from the young Warrior, ah how soft, delicate and tender! Upon my Honour I cannot read them in the Excellence of their Original Language, without I know not what Emotions.

Lean. Methinks ’tis very well in our Mother Tongue, Madam.

L. Kno. O, Faugh, Mr. Fancy, what have you said, Mother Tongue! Can any thing that’s great or moving be express’d in filthy English?—I’ll give you an Energetical proof, Mr. Fancy; observe but divine Homer in the Grecian Language—[Ton d’ apamibominous prosiphe podas ochus Achilleus!] Ah how it sounds! which English’t dwindles into the most grating stuff:—Then the swift-foot Achilles made reply: oh, faugh.

Lucr. So now my Mother’s in her right Sphere.

L. Kno. Come, Mr. Fancy, we’ll pursue our first design of retiring into my Cabinet, and reading a leaf or two in Martial; I am a little dull, and wou’d fain laugh.

Lean. Methinks, Madam, Discourse were much better with these young Ladies. Dear Lucretia, find some way to release me. Aside.

L. Kno. Oh, how I hate the impertinence of Women, who for the generality have no other knowledge than that of dressing; I am uneasy with the unthinking Creatures.

Lucr. Indeed ’tis much better to be entertaining a young Lover alone; but I’ll prevent her, if possible. Aside.

L. Kno. No, I am for the substantial pleasure of an Author. Philosophemur! is my Motto,—I’m strangely fond of you, Mr. Fancy, for being a Scholar.

Lean. Who, Madam, I a Scholar? the greatest Dunce in Nature—Malicious Creatures, will you leave me to her mercy? To them aside.

Lucr. Prithee assist him in his misery, for I am [Mudd], and can do nothing towards it. Aside.

Isab. Who, my Cousin Leander a Scholar, Madam?

Lucr. Sure he’s too much a Gentleman to be a Scholar.

Isab. I vow, Madam, he spells worse than a Country Farrier when he prescribes a Drench.

Lean. Then, Madam, I write the leudest hand.

Isab. Worse than a Politician or a States-man.

Lucr. He cannot read it himself when he has done.

Lean. Not a word on’t, Madam.

L. Kno. This agreement to abuse him, I understand— Aside.

—Well, then, Mr. Fancy, let’s to my Cabinet—your hand.

Lean. Now shall I be teas’d unmercifully,—I’ll wait on you, Madam. Exit Lady.

—Find some means to redeem me, or I shall be mad. Exit Lean.

Enter Lodwick.

Lod. Hah, my dear Isabella here, and without a Spy! what a blessed opportunity must I be forc’d to lose, for there is just now arriv’d my Sister’s Lover, whom I am oblig’d to receive: but if you have a mind to laugh a little—

Isab. Laugh! why, are you turn’d Buffoon, Tumbler, or Presbyterian Preacher?

Lod. No, but there’s a Creature below more ridiculous than either of these.

Lucr. For love’s sake, what sort of Beast is that?

Lod. Sir Credulous Easy, your new Lover just come to town Bag and Baggage, and I was going to acquaint my Mother with it.

Isab. You’ll find her well employ’d with my Cousin Leander.

Lucr. A happy opportunity to free him: but what shall I do now, Brother?

Lod. Oh, let me alone to ruin him with my Mother: get you gone, I think I hear him coming, and this Apartment is appointed for him.

Lucr. Prithee haste then, and free Leander, we’ll into the Garden. Exeunt Luc. and Isab.

A [Chair and a Table]. Enter Sir Credulous in a riding habit. Curry his Groom carrying a Portmantle.

Lod. Yes—’tis the Right Worshipful, I’ll to my Mother with the News. Ex. Lod.

Sir Cred. Come undo my Portmantle, and equip me, that I may look like some body before I see the Ladies—Curry, thou shalt e’en remove [now, Curry, from] Groom to Footman; for I’ll ne’er keep Horse more, no, nor Mare neither, since my poor Gillian’s departed this Life.

Cur. ’Ds diggers, Sir, you have griev’d enough for your Mare in all Conscience; think of your Mistress now, Sir, and think of her no more.

Sir Cred. Not think of her! I shall think of her whilst I live, poor Fool, that I shall, though I had forty Mistresses.

Cur. Nay, to say truth, Sir, ’twas a good-natur’d civil beast, and so she remain’d to her last gasp, for she cou’d never have left this World in a better time, as the saying is, so near her Journey’s End.

Sir Cred. A civil Beast! Why, was it civilly done of her, thinkest thou, to die at [Branford], when had she liv’d till to morrow, she had been converted into Money and have been in my Pocket? for now I am to marry and live in Town, I’ll sell off all my Pads; poor Fool, I think she e’en died for grief I wou’d have sold her.

Cur. ’Twas unlucky to refuse Parson [Cuffet’s] Wife’s Money for her, Sir.

Sir Cred. Ay, and to refuse her another kindness too, that shall be nameless which she offer’d me, and which wou’d have given me good luck in Horse-flesh too; Zoz, I was a modest fool, that’s truth on’t.

Cur. Well, well, Sir, her time was come you must think, and we are all Mortal as the saying is.

Sir Cred. Well, ’twas the lovingst Tit:—but Grass and Hay, she’s gone—where be her Shoes, Curry?

Cur. Here, Sir, her Skin went for good Ale at Branford. Gives him the Shoes.

Sir Cred. Ah, how often has she carry’d me upon these Shoes to Mother Jumbles; thou remember’st her handsome Daughter, and what pure Ale she brew’d; between one and t’other my Rent came short home there; but let that pass too, and hang sorrow, as thou sayst, I have something else to think on. Takes his things out, lays them upon the Table.

And, Curry, as soon as I am drest, go you away to St. Clement’s Church-yard, to Jackson the Cobler there.

Cur. What, your Dog-tutor, Sir?

Sir Cred. Yes, and see how my Whelp proves, I put to him last Parliament.

Cur. Yes, Sir.

Enter Leander, and starts back seeing Sir Cred.

Sir Cred. And ask him what Gamesters come to the Ponds now adays, and what good Dogs.

Cur. Yes, Sir.

Lean. This is the Beast Lodwick spoke of; how could I laugh were he design’d for any but Lucretia! Aside.

Sir Cred. And dost hear, ask him if he have not sold his own Dog Diver with the white Ear; if I can purchase him, and my own Dog prove right, I’ll be Duke of Ducking-Pond, ads zoz. Sir Cred. dresses himself.

Well, I think I shall be fine anon, he.

Cur. But zo, zo, Sir, as the saying is, this Suit’s a little out of fashion, ’twas made that very year I came to your Worship, which is five Winters, and as many Summers.

Sir Cred. What then Mun, I never wear it, but when I go to be drunk, and give my Voice for a Knight o’th’ Shire, and here at London in Term time, and that but eight times in Eight Visits to Eight several Ladies to whom I was recommended.

Cur. I wonder that amongst eight you got not one, Sir.

Sir Cred. Eight! Zoz, I had Eight score, Mun; but the Devil was in ’em, they were all so forward, that before I cou’d seal and deliver, whip, quoth Jethro, they were either all married to some body else, or run quite away; so that I am resolv’d if this same Lucretia proves not right, I’ll e’en forswear this Town and all their false Wares, amongst which, zoz, I believe they vent as many false Wives as any Metropolitan in Christendom, I’ll say that for’t, and a Fiddle for’t, i’faith:—come give me my Watch out,—so, my Diamond Rings too: so, I think I shall appear pretty well all together, Curry, hah?

Lean. Like some thing monstrously ridiculous, I’ll be sworn. Aside.

Cur. Here’s your Purse of broad Gold, Sir, that your Grandmother gave you to go a wooing withal, I mean to shew, Sir.

Sir Cred. Ay, for she charg’d me never to part with it;—so, now for the Ladies. Shakes his Ribbons.

Enter Lodwick.

Lod. Leander, what mak’st thou here, like a Holy-day Fool gazing at a Monster?

Lean. Yes; And one I hope I have no great reason to fear.

Lod. I am of thy opinion; away, my Mother’s coming; take this opportunity with my Sister, she’s i’th’ Garden, and let me alone with this Fool, for an Entertainment that shall shew him all at once: away— Exit Lean. Lod. goes in to Sir Cred.

Sir Cred. Lodwick, my dear Friend! and little Spark of Ingenuity—Zoz, Man, I’m but just come to Town. Embrace.

Lod. ’Tis a joyful hearing, Sir.

Sir Cred. Not so joyful neither, Sir, when you shall know poor Gillian’s dead, my little grey Mare; thou knew’st her, mun: Zoz, ’thas made me as melancholy as the Drone of a Lancashire Bag-pipe. But let that pass; and now we talk of my Mare, Zoz, I long to see this Sister of thine.

Lod. She’ll be with you presently, Sir Credulous.

Sir Cred. But hark ye, Zoz, I have been so often fob’d off in these matters, that between you and I, Lodwick, if I thought I shou’d not have her, Zoz, I’d ne’er lose precious time about her.

Lod. Right, Sir; and to say truth, these Women have so much Contradiction in ’em, that ’tis ten to one but a Man fails in the Art of pleasing.

Sir Cred. Why, there’s it:—therefore prithee, dear Lodwick, tell me a few of thy Sister’s Humors, and if I fail,—then hang me, Ladies, at your Door, as the Song says.

Lod. Why, faith, she has many odd Humors hard enough to hit.

Sir Cred. Zoz, let ’em be as hard as Hercules his Labors in the Vale of Basse, I’ll not be frighted from attempting her.

Lod. Why, she’s one of those fantastick Creatures that must be courted her own way.

Sir Cred. Why, let’s hear her way.

Lod. She must be surpriz’d with strange Extravagancies wholly out of the Road and Method of common Courtship.

Sir Cred. Shaw, is that all? Zoz, I’m the best in Christendom at your out-of-the-way bus’nesses.—Now do I find the Reason of all my ill Success; for I us’d one and the same method to all I courted, whatever their Humors were; hark ye, prithee give me a hint or two, and let me alone to manage Matters.

Lod. I have just now thought of a way that cannot but take—

Sir Cred. Zoz, out with it, Man.

Lod. Why, what if you should represent a dumb Ambassador from the Blind God of Love.

Sir Cred. How, a dumb Ambassador? Zoz, Man, how shall I deliver my Embassy then, and tell her how much I love her?—besides, I had a pure Speech or two ready by heart, and that will be quite lost. Aside.

Lod. Fy, fy! how dull you are! why, you shall do it by Signs, and I’ll be your Interpreter.

Sir Cred. Why, faith, this will be pure; I understand you now, Zoz, I am old excellent at Signs;—I vow this will be rare.

Lod. It will not fail to do your business, if well manag’d—but stay, here’s my Sister, on your life not a syllable.

Enter Lean. Lucr. and Isab.

Sir Cred. I’ll be rackt first, [Mum budget],—prithee present me, I long to be at it, sure. He falls back, making Faces and Grimaces.

Lod. Sister, I here present you with a worthy Knight, struck dumb with Admiration of your Beauty; but that’s all one, he is employ’d Envoy Extraordinary from the blind God of Love: and since, like his young Master, he must be defective in one of his Senses, he chose rather to be dumb than blind.

Lucr. I hope the small Deity is in good Health, Sir?

Isab. And his Mistress Psyche, Sir? He smiles and bows, and makes Signs.

Lod. He says that Psyche has been sick of late, but somewhat recovered, and has sent you for a Token a pair of Jet Bracelets, and a Cambrick Handkerchief of her own spinning, with a Sentence wrought in’t, Heart in hand, at thy command. Looking every word upon Sir Credulous as he makes signs.

Sir Cred. Zoz, Lodwick, what do you mean? I’m the Son of an Egyptian if I understand thee. Pulls him, he signs to him to hold his peace.

Lod. Come, Sir, the Tokens, produce, produce— He falls back making damnable signs.

How! Faith, I’m sorry for that with all my heart,—he says, being somewhat put to’t on his Journey, he was forced to pawn the Bracelets for half a Crown, and the Handkerchief he gave his Landlady on the Road for a Kindness received,—this ’tis when People will be fooling—

Sir Cred. Why, the Devil’s in this Lodwick, for mistaking my Signs thus: hang me if ever I thought of Bracelets or a Handkerchief, or ever received a Civility from any Woman Breathing,—is he bewitcht trow? Aside.

Lean. Lodwick, you are mistaken in the Knight’s meaning all this while. Look on him, Sir,—do not you guess from that Look, and wrying of his Mouth, that you mistook the Bracelets for Diamond Rings, which he humbly begs, Madam, you would grace with your fair Hand?

Lod. Ah, now I perceive it plain.

Sir Cred. A Pox of his Compliment. Why, this is worse than t’other.—What shall I do in this case?—should I speak and undeceive them, they would swear ’twere to save my Jems: and to part with ’em—Zoz, how simply should I look!—but hang’t, when I have married her, they are my own again. Gives the Rings, and falls back into Grimaces. Leander whispers to Lodwick.

Lod. Enough—Then, Sister, she has sent you a Purse of her own knitting full of Broad Gold.

Sir. Cred. Broad Gold! why, what a Pox does the Man conjure?

Lod. Which, Sister, faith, you must accept of, you see by that Grimace how much ’twill grieve him else.

Sir Cred. A pretty civil way this to rob a Man.—Why, Lodwick,—why, what a Pox, will they have no mercy?—Zoz, I’ll see how far they’ll drive the Jest. Gives the Gold and bows, and scrapes and screws.

Lod. Say you so, Sir? well I’ll see what may be done.—Sister, behold him, and take pity on him; he has but one more humble request to make you, ’tis to receive a Gold Watch which he designs you from himself.

Sir Cred. Why, how long has this Fellow been a Conjurer? for he does deal with the Devil, that’s certain,—Lodwick— Pulls him.

Lod. Ay do, speak and spoil all, do.

Sir Cred. Speak and spoil all, quoth he! and the Duce take me if I am not provok’d to’t; why, how the Devil should he light slap-dash, as they say, upon every thing thus? Well, Zoz, I’m resolv’d to give it her, and shame her if she have any Conscience in her. Gives his Watch with pitiful Grimaces.

Lod. Now, Sister, you must know there’s a Mystery in this Watch, ’tis a kind of Hieroglyphick that will instruct you how a Married Woman of your Quality ought to live.

Sir Cred. How, my Watch Mysteries and Hieroglyphicks! the Devil take me, if I knew of any such Virtues it had. They are all looking on the Watch.

Lod. [Beginning at Eight], from which down to Twelve you ought to imploy in dressing, till Two at Dinner, till Five in Visits, till Seven at the Play, till Nine i’th’ Park, Ten at Supper with your Lover, if your Husband be [not] at home, or keep his distance, which he’s too well bred not to do; then from Ten to Twelve are the happy Hours [the Bergere], those of intire Enjoyment.—

Sir Cred. Say you so? hang me if I shall not go near to think I may chance to be a Cuckold by the shift.

Isab. Well, Sir, what must she do from Twelve till Eight again?

Lod. Oh! those are the dull Conjugal Hours for sleeping with her own Husband, and dreaming of Joys her absent Lover alone can give her.

Sir Cred. Nay, an she be for Sleeping, Zoz, I am as good at that as she can be for her Heart; or Snoring either.

Lod. But I have done; Sir Credulous has a dumb Oration to make you by way of farther Explanation.

Sir Cred. A dumb Oration! now do I know no more how to speak a dumb Speech than .

Luc. Oh, I love that sort of Eloquence extremely.

Lod. I told you this would take her.

Sir Cred. Nay, I know your silent Speeches are incomparable, and I have such a Speech in my Head.

Lod. Your Postures, your Postures, begin, Sir. He puts himself into a ready Posture as if he would speak, but only makes Faces.

Enter Page.

Pag. Sir, my Lady desires to speak with you. To Lean.

Lean. I’ll wait on her,—a Devil on’t.—

Pag. I have command to bring you, Sir, instantly.

Lean. This is ill luck, Madam, I cannot see the Farce out; I’ll wait on you as soon as my good Fortune will permit me. Exit [with Page].

Luc. He’s going to my Mother, dear Isabella, let’s go and hinder their Discourse: Farewel, Sir Ambassador, pray remember us to Psyche, not forgetting the little blind Archer, ha, ha, ha.— Ex. Lucr. and Isab. laughing.

Sir Cred. So, I have undone all, they are both gone, flown I protest; why, what a Devil ail’d em? Now have I been dumb all this while to no purpose, you too never told her my meaning right; as I hope to breathe, had any but yourself done this, I should have sworn by Helicon and all the rest of the Devils, you had had a design to have abus’d me, and cheated me of all my Moveables too.

Lod. What a hopeful Project was here defeated by my mistake! but courage, Sir Credulous, I’ll put you in a way shall fetch all about again.

Sir Cred. Say you so? ah, dear Lodwick, let me hear it.

Lod. Why, you shall this Night give your Mistress a Serenade.

Sir Cred. How! a Serenade!

Lod. Yes, but it must be perform’d after an Extravagant manner, none of your dull amorous Night-walking Noises so familiar in this Town; Lucretia loves nothing but what’s great and extravagant, and passes the reach of vulgar practice.

Sir Cred. What think you of a silent Serenade? Zoz, say but the word and it shall be done, Man, let me alone for Frolicks, i’faith.

Lod. A silent one! no, that’s to wear a good humour to the Stumps; I wou’d have this want for no Noise; the extremes of these two Addresses will set off one another.

Sir Cred. Say you so? what think you then of the Bagpipe, Tongs, and Gridiron, Cat-calls, and loud-sounding Cymbals?

Lod. Naught, naught, and of known use; you might as well treat her with Viols and Flute-doux, which were enough to disoblige her for ever.

Sir Cred. Why, what think you then of the King of Bantam’s own Musick.

Lod. How! the King of Bantam’s Musick?

Sir Cred. Ay, Sir, the King of Bantam’s: a Friend of mine had a Present sent him from thence, a most unheard of curiosity I’ll assure you.

Lod. That, that by all means, Sir.

Sir Cred. Well, I’ll go borrow ’em presently.

Lod. You must provide your self of a Song.

Sir Cred. A Song! hang’t, ’tis but rummaging the Play-Books, stealing thence is lawful Prize—Well, Sir, your Servant. Exit.

Enter Leander.

Lod. I hope ’twill be ridiculous enough, and then the Devil’s in’t if it do not do his Business with my Mother, for she hates all impertinent Noises but what she makes herself. She’s now going to make a Visit to your Uncle, purposely to give me an opportunity to Isabella.

Lean. And I’m ingag’d to wait on her thither, she designs to carry the Fiddles too; he’s mad enough already, but such a Visit will fit him for Bedlam.

Lod. No matter, for you have all a leud Hand with him; between his continual imaginary Sickness, and perpetual Physic, a Man might take more Pleasure in an Hospital. What the Devil did he marry a young Wife for? and they say a handsome Creature too.

Lean. To keep up his Title of Cuckold I think, for she has Beauty enough for Temptation, and no doubt makes the right use on’t: wou’d I cou’d know it, that I might prevent her cheating my Uncle longer to my undoing.

Lod. She’ll be cunning enough for that, if she have Wit: but now thou talk’st of Intrigues, when didst see Wittmore? that Rogue has some lucky Haunt which we must find out.—But my Mother expects your attendance; I’ll go seek my Sister, and make all the Interest there I can for you, whilst you pay me in the same Coin to Isabella. Adieu.

Lean. Trust my Friendship.—

[Ex. severally.]

[ ACT II.]