for half the money, and je vous remercie into the bargain. Viz. Gone in her airs, say you! And did not you follow her? Wild. Whither should I follow her? Viz. Into her bed-chamber, man; she went on purpose. You a man of gallantry, and not understand that a lady's best pleased when she puts on her airs, as you call it! Wild. She talked to me of strict modesty, and stuff. Viz. Certainly. Most women magnify their modesty, for the same reason that cowards boast their courage-because they have least on't.Come, come, sir Harry, when you make your next assault, encourage your spirits with brisk Burgundy if you succeed, 'tis well; if not, you have a fair excuse for your rudeness. I'll go in, and make your peace for what's past. Oh, I had almost forgot-Colonel Standard wants to speak with you about some business. Wild. I'll wait upon him presently; d'ye know where he may be found? Oh, sir, are you come? I wonder, sir, how you have the confidence to approach me after so base a trick? Viz. In the piazza of Covent-Garden, about an hour hence, I promised to see him; and there you may meet him-to have your throat cut. [Aside.] I'll go in and intercede for you. Stand. Oh, madam, all your artifices won't avail. Wild. But no foul play with the lady, Vizard. Lure. Nay, sir, your artifices won't avail. I [Exit. thought, sir, that I gave you caution enough aExit.gainst troubling me with sir Harry Wildair's company, when I sent his letters back by you? yet you, forsooth, must tell him where I lodged, and expose me again to his impertinent courtship! Viz. No fair play, I can assure you. CLINCHER senior, and LUREWELL, coquetting in the balcony. Enter STANDARD. Stand. I expose you to his courtship! Lure. I'll lay my life you'll deny it now. Come, come, sir; a pitiful lie is as scandalous to a red coat, as an oath to a black. Did not sir Harry himself tell me, that he found out, by you, where lodged? Stand. How weak is reason in disputes of love! That daring reason, which so oft pretends to question works of high omnipotence, yet poorly truckles to our weakest passions, and yields implicit faith to foolish love, paying blind zeal to faithless women's eyes. I've heard her falsehood with such pressing proofs, that I no longer should distrust it. Yet still my love would baffle demonstration, and make impossibilities seem pro- Lure. As I hope for mercy, he's in the right bable. [Looks up.] Ha! That fool, too! What,n't. [Aside.] Hold, sir, you have got the playstoop so low as that animal?'Tis true, women house cant upon your tongue, and think, that wit once fallen, like cowards in despair, will stick at may privilege your railing: but, I must tell you, nothing; there's no medium in their actions. sir, that what is satire upon the stage, is ill manThey must be bright as angels, or black as fiends.ners here. But now for my revenge; I'll kick her cully before her face, call her whore, curse the whole sex, and leave her. [Goes in. Stand. You're all lies; first, your heart is. false; your eyes are double; one look belies another; and then, your tongue does contradict them all-Madam, I see a little devil just now hammering out a lie in your pericranium. LUREWELL comes down with CLINCHER senior. Stand. What is feigned upon the stage, is here, in reality, real falsehood. Yes, yes, madam-Í exposed you to the courtship of your fool Clincher, too; I hope your female wiles will impose that -also upon meLure. Clincher! Nay, now, you're stark mad. I know no such person. Stand. Oh, woman in perfection! not know him? 'Slife, madam, can my eyes, my piercing Clin. sen. Ah, your husband! Oh, I shall be jealous eyes, be so deluded? Nay, madam, my murdered! What shall I do? Where shall I run? nose could not mistake him; for I smelt the fop I'll creep into an oven; I'll climb up the chim-by his pulvilio from the balcony down to the street. VOL. II. 2 T Lure. The balcony! Ha, ha, ha! the balcony! I'll be hanged but he has mistaken sir Harry Wildair's footman with a new French livery for a beau! Stand. 'Sdeath, madam, what is there in me that looks like a cully? Did not I see him? Lure. No, no, you could not see him; you're dreaming, colonel. Will you believe your eyes, now that I have rubbed them open?-Here, you friend. Enter ERRAND in CLINCHER senior's clothes. Stand. This is illusion all; my eyes conspire against themselves. 'Tis legerdemain ! man. Lure. Legerdemain! Is that all your acknowledgment for your rude behaviour?-Oh, what a curse is it to love as I do!-But don't presume too far, sir, on my affection: for such ungenerous usage will soon return my tired heart.-Begone, sir, [To the Porter.] to your impertinent master, and tell him I shall never be at leisure to receive any of his troublesome visits. Send to me to know when I should be at home!-Begone, sir! I am sure he has made me an unfortunate wo[Weeps. Stand. Nay, then, there is no certainty in nature; and truth is only falsehood well disguised. Lure. Sir, had not I owned my fond, foolish passion, I should not have been subject to such unjust suspicions: but it is an ungrateful return. [Weeping. Stand. Now, where are all my firm resolves? I will believe her just. My passion raised my jealousy; then, why may'nt love be as blind in finding faults, as in excusing them?-I hope, madam, you'll pardon me, since jealousy, that magnified my suspicion, is as much the effect of love, as my easiness in being satisfied. Lure. Easiness in being satisfied! You men have got an insolent way of extorting pardon, by persisting in your faults. No, no, sir; cherish your suspicions, and feed upon your jealousy : 'tis fit meat for your squeamish stomach. With me all women should this rule pursue: Who think us false, should never find us true. [Exit in a rage. Enter CLINCHER senior in the porter's clothes. Clin. sen. Well, intriguing is the prettiest, pleasantest thing for a man of my parts. How shall we laugh at the husband when he is gone?-How sillily he looks! He's in labour of horns already. To make a colonel a cuckold! 'Twill be rare news for the alderman. [Apart. Stand. All this sir Harry has occasioned; but he's brave, and will afford me a just revenge. Oh, this is the porter I sent the challenge by Well, sir, have you found him? Clin, sen. What the devil does he mean now? Stand. Have you given sir Harry the note, fellow? Clin. sen. The note! What note? Stand. The letter, blockhead, which I sent by you to sir Harry Wildair. Have you seen him? Clin. sen. Oh, lord, what shall I say now? Seen him? Yes, sir-No, sir. I have, sir-I have not, sir. Stund. The fellow's mad! Answer me directly, sirrah, or I'll break your head. Clin. sen. I know sir Harry very well, sir; but, as to the note, sir, I can't remember a word on't: truth is, I have a very bad memory. Stand. Oh, sir, I'll quicken your memory. [Strikes him. Clin. sen. Zauns, sir, hold!—I did give him the note. Stand. And what answer? Clin. sen. I mean, I did not give him the note. [Strikes him again. Clin. sen. Hold, sir, hold! He did send an answer. Stand. What was't, villain? Clin. sen. Why, truly, sir, I have forgot it: I told you that I had a very treacherous memory. Stand. I'll engage you shall remember me this month, rascal. [Beats him off; and exit. Enter LUREWELL and PARLY. Lure. Fort-bon, fort-bon, fort-bon! This is better than I expected; but fortune still helps the industrious. Enter CLINCHER senior. Clin. sen. Ah! the devil take all intriguing, say I, and him who first invented canes-- -That cursed colonel has got such a knack of beating his men, that he has left the mark of a collar of bandiliers about my shoulders. Lure. Oh, my poor gentleman! and was it beaten? Clin. sen. Yes, I have been beaten. But where's my clothes? my clothes? Lure. What, you won't leave me so soon, my dear, will ye? Clin. sen. Will ye !-If ever I peep into a colonel's tent again, may I be forced to run the gauntlet! But my clothes, madam. Lure. I sent the porter down stairs with them : did not you meet him? Clin. sen. Meet him! No; not I. Par. No!-He went out at the back-door, and is run clear away, I'm afraid. Clin. sen. Gone, say you, and with my clothes, my fine Jubilee clothes?-Oh, the rogue, the thief!--I'll have him hanged for murder-But how shall I get home in this pickle? Par. I'm afraid, sir, the colonel will be back presently, for he dines at home. Clin. sen. Oh, then, I must sneak off. Was ever such an unfortunate beau, To have his back well thrashed, and lost his coat also? [Exit CLINCHER sen. Lure. Thus, the noble poet spoke truth: Nothing suits worse with vice than want of sense: Fools are still wicked at their own expence. Par. Methinks, madam, the injuries you have suffered by men must be very great, to raise such| heavy resentments against the whole sex. Lure. The greatest injury that woman could sustain: they robbed me of that jewel, which, preserved, exalts our sex almost to angels: but, destroyed, debases us below the worst of brutes, mankind. Par. But, I think, madam, your anger should be only confined to the author of your wrongs. Lure. The author! Alas, I know him not, which makes my wrongs the greater. Par. Not know him? 'Tis odd, madam, that a man should rob you of that same jewel you mentioned, and you not know him. Lure. Leave trifling: 'tis a subject that always sours my temper: but since, by thy faithful service, I have some reason to confide in your secrecy, hear the strange relation.-Some twelve years ago, I lived at my father's house in Oxfordshire, blest with innocence, the ornamental, but weak guard of blooming beauty: I was then just fifteen, an age fatal to the female sex. Our youth is tempting, our innocence credulous, romances moving, love powerful, and men are-villains. Then it happened, that three young gentlemen from the university, coming into the country, and being benighted, and strangers, called at my father's: he was very glad of their company, and offered them the entertainment of his house. Par. Which they accepted, no doubt. Oh, these strolling collegians are never abroad, but upon some mischief. Lure. They had some private frolic or design in their heads, as appeared by their not naming one another, which my father perceiving, out of civility made no inquiry into their affairs; two of them had a heavy, pedantic, university air; a sort of disagreeable scholastic boorishness in their behaviour; but the third Par. Ah, the third, madam—the third of all things, they say, is very critical. Lure. He was-but in short, nature cut him out for my undoing; he seemed to be about eighteen. Par. A fit match for your fifteen as could be. Lure. He had a gentcel sweetness in his face, a graceful comeliness in his person, and his tongue was fit to sooth soft innocence into ruin. His very looks were witty, and his expressive eyes spoke softer, prettier things, than words could frame. Par. There will be mischief by and by; I never heard a woman talk so much of eyes, but there were tears presently after. Lure. His discourse was directed to my father, but his looks to me. After supper, I went to my chamber, and read Cassandra, then went to bed, and dreamed of him all night, rose in the morning, and made verses, so fell desperately in love. My father was so well pleased with their conversation, that he begged their company next day; they consented, and next night, Parly Par. Ah! next night, madam- -next night (I'm afraid) was a night, indeed. Lure. He bribed my maid, with his gold, out of her honesty; and me, with his rhetoric, out of my honour-She admitted him into my chamber, and there he vowed, and swore, and wept, and sighed and conquered. Weep. Weep. Par. A-lack-a-day, poor fifteen! Lure. He swore that he would come down from Oxford in a fortnight, and marry me. Par. The old bait, the old bait-I was cheated just so myself. [Aside.] But had not you the wit to know his name all this while? Lure. Alas! what wit had innocence like mine? He told me, that he was under an obligation to his companions of concealing himself then, but that he would write to me in two days, and let me know his name and quality. After all the binding oaths of constancy, joining hands, exchanging hearts, I gave him a ing with this motto: Love and honour :-then we parted, and I never saw the dear deceiver more. Par. No, nor never will, I warrant you. Lure. I need not tell my griefs, which my father's death made a fair pretence for; he left me sole heiress and executrix to three thousand pounds a-year at last, my love for this single dissembler turned to a hatred of the whole sex; and, to direct my melancholy, and make my large fortune subservient to my pleasure and revenge, I went to travel, where, in most courts of Europe, I have done some execution. Here I will play my last scene: then retire to my country-house, live solitary, and die a penitent. Par. But don't you still love this fair dissembler? Lure. Most certainly. 'Tis love of him that keeps my anger warm, representing the baseness of mankind full in view; and makes my resentments work-We shall have that old impertinent letcher, Smuggler, here to-night; I have a plot to swinge him, and his precise nephew, Vizard. Par. I think, madam, you manage every body that comes in your way. Lure. No, Parly; those men, whose pretensions I found just and honourable, I fairly dismissed, by letting them know my firm resolutions never to marry. But those villains that would attempt my honour, I've seldom failed to manage. Par. What d'ye think of the colonel, madam? I suppose his designs are honourable. Lure. That man's a riddle; there's something of honour in his temper that pleases; I'm sure he loves me, too, because he's soon jealous, and soon satisfied. But he's a man still. When I once tried his pulse about marriage, his blood ran as low as a coward's. He swore, indeed, that he loved me, but could not marry me, forsooth, because he was engaged elsewhere. So poor a pretence made me disdain his passion, which otherwise might have been uneasy to me.—But hang him, I have teased him enough-Besides, | Fortune, this once assist me as before: Parly, I begin to be tired of my revenge: but, Two such machines can never work in vain, this buss and guinea I must maul once more. I'll As thy propitious wheel, and my projecting brain. handsel his women's clothes for him. Go, get me [Exeunt. pen and ink; I must write to Vizard, too. ACT IV. SCENE I.-Covent Garden. WILDAIR and STANDARD meeting. Stand. I THOUGHT, sir Harry, to have met you ere this in a more convenient place; but, since my wrongs were without ceremony, my revenge shall be so, too. Draw, sir. Wild. Draw, sir! What shall I draw? Stand. Come, come, sir, I like your facetious humour well enough; it shews courage and unconcern. I know you brave; and therefore use you thus.Draw your sword. Wild. Nay, to oblige you, I will draw; but, the devil take me if I fight. Perhaps, colonel, this is the prettiest blade you have seen. Stand. I doubt not but the arm is good; and, therefore, think both worth my resentment. Come, sir. Wild. But, prithee, colonel, dost think that I am such a madman, as to send my soul to the devil, and body to the worms- -upon every fool's errand? [Aside. Stand. I hope you're no coward, sir. Wild. Coward, sir! I have eight thousand pounds a-year, sir. Stand. You fought in Flanders, to my knowledge. Wild. Ay, for the same reason that I wore a red coat; because 'twas fashionable. Stand. Sir, you fought a French count in Paris. Wild. True, sir; but there was no danger of lands nor tenements: besides, he was a beau, like myself. Now you're a soldier, colonel, and fighting's your trade; and I think it downright madness to contend with any man in his profession. Stand. Come, sir, no more dallying; I shall take very unseemly methods, if you don't shew yourself a gentleman. Wild. A gentleman! Why, there again, now. A gentleman! I tell you once more, colonel, that I am a baronet, and have eight thousand pounds a-year. I can dance, sing, ride, fence, understand the languages-Now, I can't conceive how running you through the body should contribute one jot more to my gentility. But, pray, colonel, I had forgot to ask you, what's the quarrel? Stand. A woman, sir. Wild. Then I put up my sword. Take her. a woman, get it out of her hands as soon as you can. An honourable lover is the greatest slave in nature: some will say, the greatest fool. Come, come, colonel, that is something about the lady Lurewell, I warrant; I can give you satisfaction in that affair. Stand. Do so, then, immediately. Wild. Put up your sword first; you know I dare fight: but I had much rather make you a friend than an enemy. I can assure you, this lady will prove too hard for one of your temper. You have too much honour, too much in conscience, to be a favourite with the ladies. Stand. I'm assured, sir, she never gave you any encouragement. Wild. A man can never hear reason with a sword in his hand. Sheath your weapon; and then, if I don't satisfy you, sheath it in my body. Stand. Give me but demonstration of her granting you any favour, and it is enough. Wild. Will you take my word? Stand. Pardon me, sir-I cannot. Wild. Will you believe your own eyes? Stand. 'Tis ten to one whether I shall or no; they have deceived me already. Wild. That's hard-but some means I shall devise for your satisfaction-we must fly this place, else that cluster of mob will overwhelm us. [Exeunt. Enter mob; TOM ERRAND's wife hurrying in CLINCHER, sen. in ERRAND'S clothes. Wife. Oh! the villain, the rogue, he has murdered my husband. Ah, my poor Timothy! [Crying. Clin. sen. Dem your Timothy! your husband has murdered me, woman; for he has carried away my fine jubilee clothes. Wife. Aye, you cut-throat, have you not got his clothes upon your back there? Neighbours, don't you know poor Timothy's coat and apron? Mob. Aye, aye, it is the same. 1st Mob. What shall we do with him, neighbours? 2d Mob, We'll pull him in pieces. 1st Mob. No, no; then we may be hanged for murder; but we'll drown him, Clin. sen. Ah, good people, pray don't drown me; for I never learned to swim in all my life. Ah, this plaguy intriguing! Mob. Away with him! away with him to the Thames! Clin. sen. Oh! if I had but my swimming gir- | again, you're out. They're all alike, sir: I never dle now! Enter Constable. Con. Hold, neighbours; I command the peace. Wife. Oh, Mr Constable, here's a rogue that has murdered my husband, and robbed him of his clothes. Con. Murder and robbery! then he must be a gentleman. Hands off, there; he must not be abused. Give an account of yourself. Are you a gentleman ? Clin. sen. No, sir, I'm a beau. Con. A beau! Then you have killed nobody, I'm persuaded. How caine you by these clothes, sir? Clin. sen. You must know, sir, that walking along, sir, I don't know how, sir, I cannot tell where, sir, and so the porter and I changed clothes, sir. Con. Very well. The man speaks reason, and like a gentleman. Wife. But pray, Mr Constable, ask him how he changed clothes with him? Con. Silence, woman, and don't disturb the court. Well, sir, how did you change clothes? Clin. sen. Why, sir, he pulled off my coat, and I drew off his so I put on his coat, and he put on mine. Con. Why, neighbour, I don't find that he's guilty search him; and, if he carries no arms about him, we'll let him go. : [They search his pockets, and pull out his pistols.] Clin. sen. Oh, gemini! my jubilee pistols! Con. What, a case of pistols! then the case is plain. Speak, what are you, sir? whence came you, and whither go you? Clin. sen. Sir, I came from Russel-street, and am going to the jubilee. Wife. You shall go to the gallows, you rogue. Con. Away with him! away with him to Newgate, straight! Clin. sen. I shall go to the jubilee, now, indeed. [Exeunt. Re-enter WILDAIR and STANDARD. Wild. In short, colonel, 'tis all nonsense: fight for a woman! hard by is the lady's house; if you please we'll wait on her together: you shall draw your sword; I'll draw my snuff-box: : you shall produce your wounds received in war; I'll relate mine by Cupid's dart: you shall look big; I'll ogle: you shall swear; I'll sigh: you shall sa, sa, and I'll coupée; and if she flies not to my arms like a hawk to its perch, my dancing-master deserves to be damned. Stand. With the generality of women, I grant you, these arts may prevail. Wild. Generality of women! Why, there heard of any one that was particular, but one. Stand. Who was she, pray? Wild. Penelope, I think she's called, and that's a poetical story, too. When will you find a poet, in our age, make a woman so chaste? Stand. Well, sir Harry, your facetious humour can disguise falsehood, and make calumny pass for satire; but you have promised me ocular demonstration that she favours you make that good, and I shall then maintain faith and female to be as inconsistent as truth and falsehood. Wild. Nay, by what you told me, I am satisfied that she imposes on us all and Vizard, too, seems what I still suspected him: but his honesty once mistrusted, spoils his knavery. But will you be convinced, if our plot succeeds? Stand. I rely on your word and honour, sir Harry; which, if I doubted, my distrust would cancel the obligation of their security. Wild. Then meet me half an hour hence, at the Rummer; you must oblige me by taking a hearty glass with me, toward the fitting me out for a certain project, which this night I undertake. Stand. I guess, by the preparation, that woman's the design. Wild. Yes, faith! I am taken dangerous ill with two foolish maladies, modesty and love: the first I'll cure with Burgundy, and my love by a night's lodging with the damsel. A sure remedy. Probatum est. Stand. I'll certainly meet you, sir. [Exeunt severally. |