Love for love. A comedy: Acted at the Theatre in Little-Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, by His Majesty's servants. Written by Mr. Congreve.

ACT I. SCENE I.

Valentine in his Chamber Reading. Jeremy Waiting. Several Books upon the Table.

Val.

JEremy.

Jere.

Sir.

Val.

Here, take away; I'll walk a Turn, and digest what I have read—

Jere.

You'll grow Devilish Fat upon this Paper-Diet.

[Aside, and taking away the Books.

Val.

And d'ye here, go you to Breakfast—There's a Page doubled down in Epictetus, that is a Feast for an Emperor.

Jere.

Was Epictetus a real Cook, or did he only write Receipts?

Val.

Read, read, Sirrah, and refine your Appetite; learn to live up|on Instruction; feast your Mind, and mortifie your Flesh; read, and take your Nourishment in at your Eyes; shut up your Mouth, and chew the Gud of Understanding. So Epictetus advises.

Jere.

O Lord! I have heard much of him, when I waited upon a Gentleman at Cambridge: Pray what was that Epictetus?

Val.

A very rich Man.—Not worth a Groat.

Jere.

Humph, and so he has made a very fine Feast, where there is nothing to be eaten.

Val.

Yes.

Jere.

Sir, you're a Gentleman, and probably understand this fine Feeding: But if you please, I had rather be at Board-Wages. Does your Epictetus, or your Seneca here, or any of these poor, rich Rogues, teach you how to pay your Debts without Mony? Will they shut up the Mouths of your Creditors? Will Plato be Bail for you! Or Dio|genes, because he understands Confinements, and liv'd in a Tub, go to Prison for you? 'Slife, Sir, what do you mean, to mew your self up here with three or four musty Books, in Commendation of Starving and Poverty.

Val.

Why, Sirrah, I have no Mony, you know it; and there|fore resolve to rail at all that have: And in that I but follow the Examples of the wisest and wittiest Men in all Ages; these Poets and Philosophers whom you naturally hate, for just such another Reason; because they abound in Sense, and you are a Fool.

Jere.

Ay, Sir, I am a Fool, I know it: And yet, Heav'n help me, I'm poor enough to be a Wit—But I was always a Fool, when I told you what your Expences would bring you to; your Coaches and your Liveries; your Treats and your Balls; your being in Love with a Lady, that did not care a Farthing for you in your Prosperity; and keeping Company with Wits, that car'd for nothing but your Prospe|rity; and now when you are poor, hate you as much as they do one another.

Val.

Well; and now I am poor, I have an opportunity to be re|veng'd on 'em all; I'll pursue Angelica with more Love than ever, and appear more notoriously her Admirer in this Restraint, than when I openly rival'd the rich Fops that made Court to her; so shall my Po|verty be a Mortification to her Pride, and perhaps make her compassi|onate the Love, which has principally reduc'd me to this Lowness of Fortune. And for the Wits, I'm sure I'm in a Condition to be e|ven with them.—

Jere.

Nay, your Condition is pretty even with theirs, that's the truth on't.

Val.

I'll take some of their Trade out of their Hands.

Jere.

Now Heav'n of Mercy continue the Tax upon Paper; you don't mean to Write!

Val.

Yes, I do; I'll write a Play.

Jere.

Hem!—Sir, if you please to give me a small Certificate of three Lines—only to certifie those whom it may concern, That the Bearer hereof, Jeremy Fetch by Name, has for the space of seven Years truly and faithfuly serv'd Valentine Legend, Esq and that he is not now turn'd away for any Misdemeanour, but does voluntarily dismiss his Master from any future Authority over him.—

Val.

No, Sirrah, you shall live with me still.

Jere.

Sir, it's impossible—I may die with you, starve with you, or be damn'd with your Works: But to live even three Days, the Life of a Play, I no more expect it, than to be Cannoniz'd for a Muse after my Decease.

Val.

You are witty, you Rogue, I shall want your help;—I'll have you learn to make Couplets, to tag the Ends of Acts; d'ye hear, get the Maids to Crambo in an Evening, and learn the knack of rhiming, you may arrive at the height of a Song, sent by an unknown Hand, or a Chocolate-House Lampoon.

Jere.

But Sir, is this the way to recover your Father's Favour? Why Sir Sampson will be irreconcilable. If your younger Brother shou'd come from Sea, he'd never look upon you again. You're un|done, Sir; you're ruin'd; you won't have a Friend left in the World, if you turn Poet—Ah Pox confound that Will's Coffee-House, it has ruin'd more Young Men than the Royal-Oak Lottery—Nothing thrives that belongs to't. The Man of the House would have been an Alderman by this time with half the Trade, if he had set up in the City—For my part, I never sit at the Door, that I don't get dou|ble the Stomach that I do at a Horse-Race. The Air upon Banstead-Downs is nothing to it for a Whetter; yet I never see it, but the Spirit of Famine appears to me, sometimes like a decay'd Porter, worn out with Pimping, and carrying Billet-doux and Songs; not like other Porters for Hire, but for the Jest's sake. Now like a thin Chair-man, melted down to half his Proportion, with carrying a Poet upon Tick to visit some great Fortune; and his Fare to be paid him like the Wages of Sin, either at the Day of Marriage, or the Day of Death.

Val.

Very well, Sir; can you proceed?

Jere.

Sometimes like a bilk'd Bookseller, with a meagre terri|fy'd Countenance, that looks as if he had written for himself, or were resolv'd to turn Author, and bring the rest of his Brethren into the same Condition. And lastly, in the Form of a worn-out Punk, with Verses in her Hand, which her Vanity had preferr'd to Settlements, without a whole Tatter to her Tail, but as ragged as one of the Muses; or as if she were carrying her Linnen to the Paper-Mill, to be converted into Folio Books, of Warning to all young Maids not to prefer Poetry to good Sense; or lying in the Arms of a needy Wit, before the Embraces of a wealthy Fool.

Enter Scandal.

Scan.

What, Jeremy holding forth?

Val.

The Rogue has (with all the Wit he could muster up) been declaiming against Wit.

Scan.

Ay? Why then I'm afraid Jeremy has Wit: For where|ever it is, it's always contriving its own Ruin.

Jere.

Why so I have been telling my Master, Sir: Mr. Scandal, for Heaven's sake, Sir, try if you can dissuade him from turning Poet.

Scan.

Poet! He shall turn Soldier first, and rather depend upon the outside of his Head than the Lining. Why, what the Devil has not your Poverty made you Enemies enough? Must you needs shew your Wit to get more?

Jere.

Ay, more indeed; for who cares for any Body that has more Wit than himself?

Scan.

Jeremy speaks like an Oracle. Don't you see how worthless great Men, and dull rich Rogues, avoid a witty Man of small For|tune? Why, he looks like a Writ of Enquiry into their Titles and E|states, and seems Commission'd by Heav'n to seize the better half.

Val.

Therefore I would rail in my Writings, and be reveng'd.

Scan.

Rail? At whom? the whole World? Impotent and Vain? Who would die a Martyr to Sense in a Country where the Religion is Folly? You may stand at Bay for a while; but when the full Cry is a|gainst you, you won't have fair Play for your Life. If you can't be fairly run down by the Hounds, you will be treacherously shot by the Huntsmen.—No, turn Pimp, Flatterer, Quack, Lawyer, Par|son, be Chaplain to an Atheist, or Stallion to an Old Woman, a|ny thing but Poet; a Modern Poet is worse, more servile, timo|rous and fawning, than any I have nam'd: Without you could re|trieve the Ancient Honours of the Name, recal the Stage of Athens, and be allow'd the force of open honest Satire.

Val.

You are as inveterate against our Poets, as if your Chara|cter had been lately expos'd upon the Stage.—Nay, I am not vio|lently bent upon the Trade—

[One knocks.]

Jeremy, see who's there.

[Ex. Jeremy.]

But tell me what you would have me do?—What do the World say of me, and my forc'd Confinement?

Scan.

The World behaves it self as it used to do on such Occasions; some pity you, and condemn your Father; others excuse him, and blame you; only the Ladies are merciful, and wish you well, since Love and pleasurable Expence have been your greatest Faults.

Enter Jeremy.

Val.

How now?

Jere.

Nothing new, Sir; I have dispatch'd some half a Dozen Duns, with as much Dexterity as a hungry Judge do's Causes at Dinner-time.

Val.

What Answer have you given 'em?

Scan.

Patience, I suppose, the old Receipt.

Jere.

No, Faith Sir; I have put 'em off so long with Patience and Forbearance, and other fair Words, that I was forc'd now to tell 'em in plain downright English—

Val.

What?

Jere.

That they should be paid.

Val.

When?

Jere.

To Morrow.

Val.

And how the Devil do you mean to keep your Word?

Jere.

Keep it? Not at all; it has been so very much stretch'd, that I reckon it will break of course by to Morrow, and no Body be sur|priz'd

at the Matter—

[Knocking.]

—Again! Sir, if you don't like my Negotiation, will you be pleas'd to answer these your self.

Val.

See who they are,

[Exit Jere.

By this, Scandal, you may see what it is to be great; Secretaries of State, Presidents of the Council, and Generals of an Army lead just such a Life as I do; have just such Crowds of Visitants in a Morning, all solliciting of past Promises; which are but a civiller sort of Duns, that lay claim to voluntary Debts.

Scan.

And you, like a true great Man, having engaged their At|tendance, and promis'd more than ever you intend to perform, are more perplex'd to find Evasions, than you would be to invent the ho|nest Means of keeping your Word, and gratifying your Creditors.

Val.

Scandal, learn to spare your Friends, and do not provoke your Enemies; this Liberty of your Tongue, will one Day bring a Confinement on your Body, my Friend.

Re-enter Jeremy.

Jere.

O Sir, there's Trapland the Scrivener, with two suspicious Fellows, like lawful Pads, that would knock a Man down with Pocket-Tipstaves—And there's your Father's Steward, and the Nurse with one of your Children from Twitnam.

Val.

Pox on her, cou'd she find no other time to fling my Sins in my Face? Here, give her this

[Gives Mony.]

and bid her trou|ble me no more; a thoughtless two-handed Whore, she knows my Condition well enough, and might have over-laid the Child a Fort|night ago, if she had had any Fore-cast in her.

Scan.

What, is it bouncing Margery, and my God-son?

Jere.

Yes, Sir.

Scan.

My Blessing to the Boy, with this Token of my Love.

[Gives Mony.]

And d'ye hear, bid Margery put more Flocks in her Bed, shift twice a Week, and not work so hard, that she may not smell so vigorously.—I shall take the Air shortly.

Val.

Scandal, don't spoil my Boy's Milk:—Bid Trapland come in. If I can give that Cerberus a Sop, I shall be at rest for one day.

[Exit Jeremy.

Enter Trapland and Jeremy.

O Mr. Trapland! my old Friend! Welcome. Jeremy, a Chair quickly: A Bottle of Sack and a Toast—fly—a Chair first.

Trap.

A good Morning to you Mr. Valentine, and to you Mr. Scandal.

Scan.

The Morning's a very good Morning, if you don't spoil it.

Val.

Come sit you down, you know his way.

Trap.

sits.

There is a Debt, Mr. Valentine, of 1500l. of pretty long standing—

Val.

I cannot talk about Business with a thirsty Palate.—Sirrah the Sack.

Trap.

And I desire to know what Course you have taken for the Payment?

Val.

Faith and Troth, I am heartily glad to see you,—my Ser|vice to you—fill, fill, to honest Mr. Trapland; fuller.

Trap.

Hold, Sweet-heart.—This is not to our Business:—my Service to you, Mr. Scandal—

[Drinks.]

—I have forborn as long—

Val.

T'other Glass, and then we'll talk. Fill, Jeremy.

Trap.

No more, in truth.—I have forborn, I say—

Val.

Sirrah, fill when I bid you.—And how does your hand|som Daughter?—Come, a good Husband to her.

[Drinks.

Trap.

Thank you—I have been out of this Mony—

Val.

Drink first. Scandal, why do you not drink?

[They Drink.

Trap.

And in short I can be put off no longer.

Val.

I was much oblig'd to you for your Supply: It did me sig|nal Service in my Necessity. But you delight in doing good.—Scandal, Drink to me, my Friend Trapland's Health. An honester Man lives not, nor one more ready to serve his Friend in Distress, tho' I say it to his Face. Come, fill each Man his Glass.

Scan.

What! I know Trapland has been a Whoremaster, and loves a Wench still. You never knew a Whoremaster, that was not an honest Fellow.

Trap.

Fie, Mr. Scandal, you never knew—

Scan.

What don't I know?—I know the Buxom black Widow 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the Poultry—800l. a Year Joynture, and 20000l. in Mony. A hah! Old Trap.

Val.

Say you so, I'faith? Come, we'll remember the Widow: I know whereabouts you are; come, to the Widow—

Trap.

No more indeed.

Val.

What, the Widow's Health; give it him—off with it:

[They drink.

A lovely Girl, I'faith, black sparkling Eyes, soft pouting Ruby-Lips! better sealing there, than a Bond for a Million; hah!

Trap.

No, no, there's no such thing, we'd better mind our Busi|ness—You're a Wag.

Val.

No faith, we'll mind the Widow's Business; fill again—Pretty round heaving Breasts—a Barbary Shape, and a Jut with her Bum, would stir an Anchoret: And the prettiest Foot! Oh if a Man could but fasten his Eyes to her Feet, as they steal in and out, and play at Bo-peep under her Petticoats, ah! Mr. Trap|land?

Trap.

Verily, give me a Glass—you're a Wag,—and here's to the Widow.

[Drinks.

Scan.

He begins to Chuckle;—ply him close, or he'll relapse into a Dun.

Enter Officer.

Off.

By your Leave, Gentlemen,—Mr. Trapland, if we must do our Office tell us.—We have half a dozen Gentlemen to ar|rest in Pall-mall and Covent-Garden; and if we don't make haste the Chair-men will be abroad, and block up the Chocolate-Houses, and then our Labour's lost.

Trap.

Udso that's true. Mr. Valentine, I love Mirth, but Busi|ness must be done, are you ready to—

Jere.

Sir, your Father's Steward says he comes to make Propo|sals concerning your Debts.

Val.

Bid him come in: Mr. Trapland, send away your Officer, you shall have an Answer presently.

Trap.

Mr. Snap, stay within Call

[Exit Officer.

[Enter Steward and whispers Valentine.

Scan.

Here's a Dog now, a Traitor in his Wine; Sirrah refund the Sack: Jeremy, fetch him some warm Water, or I'll rip up his Stomach, and go the shortest way to his Conscience.

Trap.

Mr. Scandal, you are uncivil; I did not value your Sack, but you cannot expect it again when I have drank it.

Scan.

And how do you expect to have your Mony again, when a Gentleman has spent it?

Val.

You need say no more, I understand the Conditions, they are very hard, but my Necessity is very pressing, I agree to 'em; take Mr. Trapland with you, and let him draw the Writing—Mr. Trapland, you know this Man, he shall satisfie you.

Trap.

Sincerely, I am loth to be thus pressing, but my necessity

Val.

No Apology, good Mr. Scrivener, you shall be paid.

Trap.

I hope you forgive me, my Business requires—

[Exeunt Steward, Trap. and Jere.

Scan.

He begs Pardon like a Hangman at an Execution.

Val.

But I have got a Reprieve.

Scan.

I am surpriz'd; what, does your Father relent?

Val.

No; he has sent me the hardest Conditions in the World: You have heard of a Booby-Brother of mine, that was sent to Sea three Years ago? This Brother my Father hears is landed; where|upon he very affectionately sends me word, If I will make a Deed of Conveyance of my Right to his Estate after his Death to my younger Brother, he will immediately furnish me with four thou|sand

Pound to pay my Debts, and make my Fortune. This was once propos'd before, and I refus'd it; but the present Impatience of my Creditors for their Mony, and my own Impatience of Con|finement, and Absence from Angelica, force me to consent.

Scan.

A very desperate Demonstration of your Love to Angeli|ca: And I think she has never given you any Assurance of hers.

Val.

You know her Temper; she never gave me any great rea|son either for Hope or Despair.

Scan.

Women of her airy Temper, as they seldom think before they act, so they rarely give us any Light to guess at what they mean: But you have little reason to believe that a Woman of this Age, who has had an Indifference for you in your Prosperity, will fall in love with your ill Fortune; besides, Angelica has a great Fortune of her own; and great Fortunes either expect another great Fortune, or a Fool.

Enter Jeremy.

Jere.

More Misfortunes, Sir.

Val.

What, another Dun?

Jere.

No Sir, but Mr. Tattle is come to wait upon you.

Val.

Well, I can't help it,—you must bring him up; He knows I don't go abroad.

[Exit Jeremy.

Scan.

Pox on him, I'll be gone.

Val.

No, prithee stay: Tattle and you should never be asunder; you are Light and Shadow, and shew one another; he is perfectly thy Reverse both in Humour and Understanding; and as you set up for Defamation, he is a Mender of Reputations.

Scan.

A Mender of Reputations! ay, just as he is a Keeper of Secrets, another Virtue that he sets up for in the same manner. For the Rogue will speak aloud in the posture of a Whisper; and deny a Woman's Name, while he gives you the Marks of her Person: He will forswear receiving a Letter from her, and at the same time shew you her Hand upon the Superscription: And yet perhaps he has counterfeited the Hand too, and sworn to a Truth; but he hopes not to be believ'd; and refuses the Reputation of a Ladies Favour, as a Doctor says No to a Bishoprick, only that it may be granted him.—In short, he is a publick Professor of Secresie, and makes Proclamation that he holds private Intelligence.—He's here.

Enter Tattle.

Tatt.

Valentine, good Morrow; Scandal, I am yours,—that is, when you speak well of me.

Scan.

That is, when I am yours; for while I am my own, or any body's else, that will never happen.

Tatt.

How Inhuman!

Val.

Why, Tattle, you need not be much concern'd at any thing that he says: For to converse with Scandal, is to play at Losing Loadum; you must lose a good Name to him, before you can win it for your self.

Tatt.

But how barbarous that is, and how unfortunate for him, that the World shall think the better of any Person for his Calumnia|tion!—I thank Heav'n, it has always been a part of my Character, to handle the Reputation of others very tenderly.

Scan.

Ay, such rotten Reputations as you have to deal with, are to be handl'd tenderly indeed.

Tatt.

Nay, but why rotten? Why should you say rotten, when you know not the Persons of whom you speak? How cruel that is?

Scan.

Not know 'em? Why, thou never hadst to do with any Body that did not stink to all the Town.

Tatt.

Ha, ha, ha; nay, now you make a Jest of it indeed. For there is nothing more known, than that no Body knows any thing of that nature of me: As I hope to be sav'd, Valentine, I never ex|pos'd a Woman since I knew what Woman was.

Val.

And yet you have convers'd with several.

Tatt.

To be free with you, I have—I don't care if I own that—Nay more (I'm going to say a bold Word now) I never could meddle with a Woman that had to do with any Body else.

Scan.

How!

Val.

Nay Faith, I'm apt to believe him—Except her Hus|band, Tattle.

Tatt.

Oh that—

Scan.

What think you of that Noble Commoner, Mrs. Drab?

Tatt.

Pooh, I know Madam Drab has made her Brags in three or four places, that I said this and that, and writ to her, and did I know not what—But, upon my Reputation, she did me wrong—Well, well, that was Malice—But I know the bottom of it. She was brib'd to that by one that we all know—A Man too. Only to bring me into Disgrace with a certain Woman of Quality—

Scan.

Whom we all know.

Tatt.

No matter for that—Yes, yes, every Body knows—No doubt on't, every Body knows my Secrets—But I soon satis|fy'd the Lady of my Innocence; for I told her—Madam, says I, there are some Persons who make it their Business to tell Stories, and say this and that of one and t'other, and every thing in the World; and, says I, if your Grace—

Scan.

Grace!

Tatt.

O Lord, what have I said? my unlucky Tongue!

Val.

Ha, ha, ha.

Scan.

Why, Tattle, thou hast more Impudence than one can in reason expect: I shall have an Esteem for thee, well, and ha, ha, ha, well, go on, and what did you say to her Grace?

Val.

I confess this is something extraordinary.

Tatt.

Not a Word, as I hope to be sav'd; an errant Lapsus Lin|guae—Come, let's talk of something else.

Val.

Well, but how did you acquit your self?

Tatt.

Pooh, pooh, nothing at all, I only rally'd with you—a Woman of ord'nary Rank was a little jealous of me, and I told her something or other, Faith—I know not what—Come, let's talk of something else.

[Hums a Song.

Scan.

Hang him, let him alone, he has a Mind we should enquire.

Tatt.

Valentine, I Supp'd last Night with your Mistress, and her Uncle Old Foresight: I think your Father lyes at Foresight's.

Val.

Yes.

Tatt.

Upon my Soul Angelica's a fine Woman—And so is Mrs. Foresight, and her Sister Mrs. Frail.

Scan.

Yes, Mrs. Frail is a very fine Woman, we all know her.

Tatt.

Oh that is not fair.

Scan.

What?

Tatt.

To tell.

Scan.

To tell what? Why, what do you know of Mrs. Frail?

Tatt.

Who I? Upon Honour I don't know whether she be Man or Woman, but by the smoothness of her Chin, and roundness of her Lips.

Scan.

No!

Tatt.

No.

Scan.

She says otherwise.

Tatt.

Impossible!

Scan.

Yes Faith. Ask Valentine else.

Tatt.

Why then, as I hope to be sav'd, I believe a Woman on|ly obliges a Man to Secresie, that she may have the Pleasure of telling her self.

Scan.

No doubt on't. Well, but has she done you Wrong, or no? You have had her? Ha?

Tatt.

Tho' I have more Honour than to tell first; I have more Manners than to contradict what a Lady has declar'd.

Scan.

Well, you own it?

Tatt.

I am strangely surpriz'd! Yes, yes, I can't deny't, if she taxes me with it.

Scan.

She'll be here by and by, she sees Valentine every Morning.

Tatt.

How!

Val.

She does me the Favour—I mean of a Visit sometimes. I did not think she had granted more to any Body.

Scan.

Nor I, Faith—But Tattle does not use to belie a Lady; it is contrary to his Character—How one may be deceiv'd in a Woman, Valentine?

Tatt.

Nay, what do you mean, Gentlemen?

Scan.

I'm resolv'd I'll ask her.

Tatt.

O Barbarous! why did you not tell me—

Scan.

No, you told us.

Tatt.

And bid me ask Valentine.

Val.

What did I say? I hope you won't bring me to confess an Answer, when you never ask'd me the Question.

Tatt.

But, Gentlemen, this is the most Inhuman Proceeding—

Val.

Nay, if you have known Scandal thus long, and cannot a|void such a palpable Decoy as this was, the Ladies have a fine time, whose Reputations are in your keeping.

Enter Jeremy.

Jere.

Sir, Mrs. Frail has sent to know if you are stirring.

Val.

Shew her up when she comes.

[Exit Jere.

Tatt.

I'll be gone.

Val.

You'll meet her.

Tatt.

Have you not a back way?

Val.

If there were, you have more Discretion, than to give Scandal such an Advantage; why, your running away will prove all that he can tell her.

Tatt.

Scandal, you will not be so ungenerous—O, I shall lose my Reputation of Secresie for ever—I shall never be receiv'd but upon Publick Days, and my Visits will never be admitted beyond a Drawing-Room: I shall never see a Bed-Chamber again, never be lock'd in a Closet, nor run behind a Screen, or under a Table; never be distinguish'd among the Waiting-Women by the Name of Trusty Mr. Tattle more—You will not be so cruel.

Val.

Scandal, have Pity on him; he'll yield to any Conditions.

Tatt.

Any, any Terms.

Scan.

Come then, sacrifice half a Dozen Women of good Repu|tation to me presently—Come, where are your familiar—And see that they are Women of Quality too, the first Quality.—

Tatt.

'Tis very hard—Won't a Baronet's Lady pass?

Scan.

No, nothing under a Right Honourable.

Tatt.

O Inhuman! You don't expect their Names.

Scan.

No, their Titles shall serve.

Tatt.

Alas, that's the same thing: Pray spare me their Titles; I'll describe their Persons.

Scan.

Well, begin then: But take notice, if you are so ill a Painter, that I cannot know the Person by your Picture of her, you must be con|demn'd, like other bad Painters, to write the Name at the bottom.

Tatt.

Well, first then—

Enter Mrs. Frail.

O unfortunate! she's come already; will you have Patience 'till a|nother time—I'll double the number.

Scan.

Well, on that Condition—Take heed you don't fail me.

Mrs. Frail.

Hey Day! I shall get a fine Reputation by coming to see Fellows in a Morning. Scandal, you Devil, are you here too? Oh Mr. Tattle, every thing is safe with you, we know.

Scan.

Tattle.

Tatt.

Mum—O Madam, you do me too much Honour.

Val.

Well Lady Galloper, how does Angelica?

Frail.

Angelica? Manners!

Val.

What, you will allow an absent Lover—

Frail.

No, I'll allow a Lover present with his Mistress to be par|ticular—But otherwise I think his Passion ought to give place to his Manners.

Val.

But what if he have more Passion than Manners?

Frail.

Then let him Marry and reform.

Val.

Marriage indeed may qualifie the Fury of his Passion, but it very rarely mends a Man's Manners.

F••••il.

You are the most mistaken in the World; there is no Crea|ture perfectly Civil but a Husband. For in a little time he grows only rude to his Wife, and that is the highest good Breeding, for it begets his Civility to other People. Well, I'll tell you News; but I suppose you hear your Brother Benjamin is landed: And my Brother Fore|sight's Daughter is come out of the Country—I assure you, there's a Match talk'd of by the Old People—Well, if he be but as great a Sea-Beast as she is a Land-Monster, we shall have a most Amphibious Breed—The Progeny will be all Otters; he has been bred at Sea, and she has never been out of the Country.

Val.

Pox take'em, their Conjunction bodes me no good, I'm sure.

Frail.

Now you talk of Conjunction, my Brother Foresight has cast both their Nativities, and Prognosticates an Admiral and an eminent Justice of the Peace to be the Issue-Male of their two Bo|dies; 'tis the most superstitious Old Fool! He would have per|suaded me, that this was an unlucky Day, and would not let me come abroad: But I invented a Dream, and sent him to Artime|dorus

for Interpretation, and so stole out to see you. Well, and what will you give me now? Come, I must have something.

Val.

Step into the next Room—and I'll give you something.

Scan.

Ay, we'll all give you something.

Frail.

Well, what will you all give me?

Val.

Mine's a Secret.

Frail.

I thought you would give me something, that would be a Trouble to you to keep.

Val.

And Scandal shall give you a good Name.

Frail.

That's more than he has for himself. And what will you give me, Mr. Tattle?

Tatt.

I? My Soul, Madam.

Frail.

Pooh, No I thank you, I have enough to do to take care of my own. Well; but I'll come and see you one of these Morn|ings: I here you have a great many Pictures.

Tatt.

I have a pretty good Collection at your Service, some O|riginals.

Scan.

Hang him, he has nothing but the Seasons and the Twelve Caesars, paultry Copies; and the Five Senses, as ill represented as they are in himself: And he himself is the only Original you will see there.

Frail.

Ay, but I hear he has a Closet of Beauties.

Scan.

Yes, all that have done him Favours, if you will believe him.

Frail.

Ay, let me see those, Mr. Tattle.

Tatt.

Oh Madam, those are sacred to Love and Contemplation. No Man but the Painter and my self was ever bless'd with the Sight.

Frail.

Well, but a Woman—

Tatt.

Nor Woman, 'till she consented to have her Picture there too—for then she is obliged to keep the Secret.

Scan.

No, no; come to me if you wou'd see Pictures.

Frail.

You?

Scan.

Yes faith, I can shew you your own Picture, and most of your Acquaintance to the Life, and as like as at Kneller's.

Frail.

O lying Creature—Valentine, does not he lye?—I can't believe a Word he says.

Val.

No indeed, he speaks Truth now: For as Tattle has Pi|ctures of all that have granted him Favours, he has the Pictures of all that have refus'd him; if Satires, Descriptions, Characters and Lampoons are Pictures.

Scan.

Yes, mine are most in black and white.—And yet there are some set out in their true Colours, both Men and Women. I can shew you Pride, Folly, Affectation, Wantonness, Inconstancy, Cove|tousness,

Dissimulation, Malice, and Ignorance, all in one Piece. Then I can shew you Lying, Foppery, Vanity, Cowardise, Bragging, Leche|ry, Impotence, and Ugliness, in another Piece; and yet one of these is a celebrated Beauty, and t'other a profest Beau. I have Paintings too, some pleasant enough.

Frail.

Come, let's hear 'em.

Scan.

Why, I have a Beau in a Bagnio, Cupping for a Comple|xion, and Sweating for a Shape.

Frail.

So.

Scan.

Then I have a Lady burning of Brandy in a Cellar with a Hackney-Coachman.

Frail.

O Devil! Well, but that Story is not true.

Scan.

I have some Hieroglyphicks too, I have a Lawyer with a hundred Hands, two Heads, and but one Face; a Divine with two Faces, and one Head; and I have a Soldier with his Brains in his Belly, and his Heart where his Head should be.

Frail.

And no Head?

Scan.

No Head.

Frail.

Pooh, this is all Invention. Have you ne'er a Poet?

Scan.

Yes, I have a Poet weighing Words, and selling Praise for Praise, and a Critick picking his Pocket. I have another large Piece too, representing a School, where there are huge proportion'd Criticks, with long Wigs, lac'd Coats, Steinkirk Cravats, and terrible Faces; with Cat-calls in their Hands, and Hornbooks about their Necks. I have many more of this kind, very well Painted, as you shall see.

••••ail.

Well, I'll come, if it be only to disprove you.

Enter Jeremy.

Jere.

Sir, here's the Steward again from your Father.

Val.

I'll come to him—will you give me leave, I'll wait on you again presently.

Frail.

No, I'll be gone. Come, who Squires me to the Ex|change? I must call my Sister Foresight there.

Scan.

I will; I have a mind to your Sister.

Frail.

Civil!

Tatt.

I will; because I have a Tender for your Ladyship.

Frail.

That's somewhat the better Reason, to my Opinion.

Scan.

Well, if Tattle entertains you, I have the better Oppor|tunity to engage your Sister.

Val.

Teli Angelica, I am about to make hard Conditions to come abroad, and be at Liberty to see her.

Scan.

I'll give an account of you and your Proceedings. If Indi|scretion be a sign of Love, you are the most a Lover of any Body

that I know: You fancy that parting with your Estate, will help you to your Mistress—In my Mind he is a thoughtless Adventurer,

Who hopes to purchase Wealth, by selling Land; Or win a Mistress, with a losing Hand.

[Exeunt.