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.]

Fetherfool.

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.

Fetherfool.

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.]

Fetherfool.

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.]

Fetherfool.

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—

Fetherfool.

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.

Fetherfool.

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.]

Fetherfool.

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.

Fetherfool.

Oh—they come—Prithee, Ned, advance— [Puts him forward.]

Shift.

Most beautiful Ladies.

Fetherfool.

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.

Fetherfool.

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.]

Fetherfool.

Something inclin’d to such a Fear.

Blunt.

Go and salute her, or, Adsheartlikins, I’ll leave you to her
Mercy.

Fetherfool.

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.

Fetherfool.

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.

Fetherfool.

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 have?

Fetherfool.

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.

Fetherfool.

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.

Fetherfool.

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.

Fetherfool.

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.

Fetherfool.

And a swinger ’tis—’Sbud—she moves like the Royal
Sovereign, and is as long a tacking about. [Aside.]

Giant.

Then your Religion, Sir.

Fetherfool.

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 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 yourself 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 loth 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.]

Fetherfool.

Egad, and that’s great and gracious—

Enter Willmore and an Operator.

Willmore.

Well, Gentlemen, and how like you the Ladies?

Blunt.

Faith, well enough for the first Course, Sir.

Willmore.

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.

Fetherfool.

Why, may we chuse, Mr. Doctor?

Willmore.

What Beauties you please.

Fetherfool.

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.

Fetherfool.

But, Doctor, can you do all this without the help of the
Devil?

Willmore.

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.

Willmore.

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.

Willmore.

Admit him.

Enter Harlequin, ushers in Hunt as a Giant.

Fetherfool.

Hah—some o’ergrown Rival, on my Life.

[Feth. gets from it.]

Willmore.

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.

Fetherfool.

’Tis so.

Hunt.

The Devil’s in’t if this does not fright ’em from a farther
Courtship. [Aside.]

Willmore.

Fear nothing, Seignior—Seignior, you may try your Chance,
and visit the Ladies. [Talks to Hunt.]

Fetherfool.

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.

Fetherfool.

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.

Fetherfool.

Good Lord! I wonder what Religion he’s of.

Blunt.

Some heathen Papist, by his notable Plots and Contrivances.

Willmore.

’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.

Fetherfool.

How, at twice! what a Pox can he mean?

Willmore.

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.]

Fetherfool.

Oh Pox, Mr. Doctor, this must be the Devil.

Willmore.

Oh fie, Sir, the Devil! no ’tis all done inchanted Girdle—
These damn’d Rascals will spoil all by too gross an Imposition
on the Fools. [Aside.]

Fetherfool.

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?

Willmore.

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 Nuche.

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.

Willmore.

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 Nuche.

A very plain beginning.

Willmore.

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 Nuche.

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.

Willmore.

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 Nuche.

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.

Willmore.

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 Nuche.

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?

Willmore.

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 Nuche.

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.

Willmore.

Strive not, fair Creature, with the Net that holds you,
you’ll but intangle more. Alas! you must submit and be undone.

La Nuche.

Damn your false Art—had he but lov’d me too, it had excus’d
the Malice of my Stars.

Willmore.

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 Nuche.

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.]

Enter Shift.

Shift.

Sir, there are several Strangers arriv’d, who talk of the
old Oracle. How will you receive ’em?

Willmore.

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.

Ariadne.

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, Seignor?

Shift.

Whatever you dare see, Sir.

Ariadne.

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.

Ariadne.

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 Nuche.

What foolish thing art thou?

Ariadne.

Nay, do not frown, nor fly; for if you do, I must arrest you,
fair one.

La Nuche.

At whose Suit, pray?

Ariadne.

At Love’s—you have stol’n a Heart of mine, and us’d it
scurvily.

La Nuche.

By what marks do you know the Toy, that I may be no longer
troubled with it?

Ariadne.

By a fresh Wound, which toucht by her that gave it bleeds
anew, a Heart all over kind and amorous.

La Nuche.

When was this pretty Robbery committed?

Ariadne.

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 Nuche.

You are the gayest thing without a Heart, I ever saw.

Ariadne.

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 Nuche.

You have a good opinion of that Beauty, which I find not so
forcible, nor that fond Prattle uttered with such Confidence.

Ariadne.

But I have Quality and Fortune too.

La Nuche.

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.

Ariadne.

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 Nuche.

You mistake my Humour, I hate the Person of a fair conceited
Boy.

Enter Willmore drest, singing.

Willmore.

Vole, vole dans cette Cage, Petite Oyseau dans cet bocage.
—How now, Fool, where’s the Doctor?

Shift.

A little busy, Sir.

Willmore.

Call him, I am in haste, and come to cheapen the Price of
Monster.

Shift.

As how, Sir?

Willmore.

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.

Willmore.

I’ll follow—Vole, vole dans cette Cage, &c.

Lucia.

Why, ’tis the Captain, Madam— [Aside to Aria.]

La Nuche.

Hah—marry—harkye, Sir,—a word, pray.

[As he is going out she pulls him.]

Willmore.

Your Servant, Madam, your Servant—Vole, vole, &c.

[Puts his Hat off carelesly, and walks by, going out.]

Lucia.

And to be marry’d, mark that.

Ariadne.

Then there’s one doubt over, I’m glad he is not married.

La Nuche.

Come back—Death, I shall burst with Anger—this Coldness
blows my Flame, which if once visible, makes him a Tyrant—

Willmore.

Fool, what’s a Clock, fool? this noise hinders me from
hearing it strike.

[Shakes his Pockets, and walks up and down.]

La Nuche.

A blessed sound, if no Hue and Cry pursue it.
—what—you are resolv’d then upon this notable Exploit?

Willmore.

What Exploit, good Madam?

La Nuche.

Why, marrying of a Monster, and an ugly Monster.

Willmore.

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 Nuche.

This is the common trick of all Rogues, when they have done
an ill thing to face it out.

Willmore.

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 Nuche.

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.

Willmore.

Besides Cashiering, a third Plague.

La Nuche.

Still unconcern’d!—you call me mercenary, but I would
starve e’er suffer my self to be possest by a thing of Horror.

Willmore.

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.

Ariadne.

I like not this so well, ’tis a trick to make her jealous.

Willmore.

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?

Lucia.

He’s poor too, there’s another comfort. [Aside.]

Ariadne.

The most incouraging one I have met with yet.

Willmore.

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.

Ariadne.

Oh, how I long to undeceive him of that Error.

La Nuche.

He speaks not of me; sure he knows me not. [Aside.]

Willmore.

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.

Ariadne.

Well, I must have this gallant Fellow. [Aside.]

La Nuche.

Sure he has forgot this trival thing.

Willmore.

–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 Nuche.

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, it, entitled, The Captain’s Wedding, with the
doleful Relation of his being over–laid by an o’er–grown
Monster.

Willmore.

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 Nuche.

So, then you intend to bed her?

Willmore.

Yes faith, and beget a Race of Heroes, the Mother’s Form with
all the Father’s Qualities.

La Nuche.

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.

Willmore.

A provision old Carlo cannot make for you against the
abandon’d day.

La Nuche.

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.]

Willmore.

Hah, what new Coxcomb’s that—hold, Sir— [Takes her from him.]

Ariadne.

What would you, Sir, ought with this Lady?

Willmore.

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 Nuche.

Oh insolent! and whither would’st thou lead me?

Willmore.

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.]

Ariadne.

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.]

Willmore.

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.

Ariadne.

You are a scurvy Fellow, Sir. [Going to draw.]

Willmore.

Keep in your Sword, for fear it cut your Fingers, Child.

Ariadne.

So ’twill your Throat, Sir—here’s Company coming that will
part us, and I’ll venture to draw. [Draws, Will. draws.]

Enter Beaumond.

Beaumond.

Hold, hold—hah, Willmore! thou Man of constant mischief,
what’s the matter?

La Nuche.

Beaumond! undone!

Ariadne.

–Beaumond!—

Willmore.

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.]

Ariadne.

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.]

Beaumond.

’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.

Willmore.

Harkye, Harry—the—Woman—the almighty Whore—thou told’st
me of to day.

Beaumond.

Death, do’st thou mock my Grief—unhand me strait, for tho I
cannot blame thee, I must hate thee.

[Goes out.]

Willmore.

What the Devil ails he?

Ariadne.

You will be sure to come.

Willmore.

At night in the Piazza; I have an Assignation with a Woman,
that once dispatch’d, I will not fail ye, Sir.

Lucia.

And will you leave him with her?

Ariadne.

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.]

Willmore.

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 Nuche.

I must prevent his visit to this Woman—but dare not tell
him so. [Aside.]
—I would not have ye meet this angry Youth.

Willmore.

Oh, you would preserve him for a farther use.

La Nuche.

Stay—you must not fight—by Heaven, I cannot see—that
Bosom—wounded. [Turns and weeps.]

Willmore.

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 Nuche.

Your Love grows rude, and saucily demands it. [Flings away.]

Willmore.

Love knows no Ceremony, no respect when once approacht so
near the happy minute.

La Nuche.

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 my self 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.]

Willmore.

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 Nuche.

You think you’re gone now—

Willmore.

Not all thy Arts nor Charms shall hold me longer.

La Nuche.

I must submit—and can you part thus from me?— [Pulls him.]

Willmore.

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 Nuche.

Oh do not swear—

Willmore.

Ever curst— [Breaks from her, she holds him.]

La Nuche.

You shall not go—Plague of this needles Pride. [Aside.]
—stay—and I’ll follow all the dictates of my Love.

Willmore.

Oh never hope to flatter me to faith again. [His back to her, she holding him.]

La Nuche.

I must, I will; what wou’d you have me do?

Willmore.

[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 Nuche.

Will you then be ever kind and true?

Willmore.

Ask thy own Charms, and to confirm thee more, yield and
disarm me quite.

La Nuche.

Will you not marry then? for tho you never can be mine that
way, I cannot think that you should be another’s.

Willmore.

No more delays, by Heaven, ’twas but a trick.

La Nuche.

And will you never see that Woman neither, whom you’re this
Night to visit?

Willmore.

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 Nuche.

Sancho—my Coach. [Turns in scorn.]

Willmore.

Take heed, what mean ye?

La Nuche.

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.

Willmore.

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 Nuche.

Whither so fast?

Willmore.

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 Nuche.

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.

Aurelia.

Madam, tis dark, and we may meet with Insolence.

La Nuche.

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.]

 

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