Sir Patient Fancy a comedy : as it is acted at the Duke's Theatre / written by Mrs. A. Behn ...

SCENE III. A Hall.

Enter Sir Patient and Roger.

Sir Pat.

Roger, is Prayer ready, Roger?

Rog.

Truely nay Sir, for Mr. Gogle hath taken too much of the Creature this Morning, and is not in case, Sir.

Sir Pat.

How mean you Sirrah, that Mr. Gogle is overtaken with Drink?

Rog.

Nay Sir, he hath over-eaten himself at Breakfast only.

Sir Pat.

Alas and that's soon done, for he hath a sickly Sto∣mach as well as I, poor man —where is Bartholomew, the Clerk, he must hold forth then to day.

Rog.

Verily he is also disabled, for going forth last night by your commandment to smite the wicked, he received a blow over the Pericranium.—

Sir Pat.

Why how now Sirrah, Latin! the Language of the Beast! hah—and what then Sir?

Rog.

Which blow I doubt Sir, hath spoiled both his Praying and his Eating.

Sir Pat.

Hah! what a Family's here? no prayer to day!

Enter Nurse and Fanny.

Nurs.

Nay verily it shall all out, I will be no more the dark lanthorn to the deeds of darkness.

Sir Pat.

What's the matter here?

Nurs.

Sir, this young Sinner has long been privy to all the daily and nightly meetings between Mr. Lodwick and Isabella, and just now I took her tying a letter to a string in the Garden which he drew up to his Window, and I have born it till my Conscience will bear it no longer.

Sir Pat.

Hah, so young a Bawd! —tell me Minion, —private

meeting! tell me truth I charge ye, when? where? how? and how often? oh she's debauch't! —her reputation's ruin'd, and she'le need a double Portion. Come tell me truth, for this little Finger here has told me all.

Fan.

Oh Geminy Sir, then that little Finger's the hougesest great Lyer as ever was.

Sir Pat.

Huzy huzy —I will have thee whipt most unmerci∣fully: Nurse fetch me the Rod.

Fan.

Oh pardon me Sir this one time and I'le tell all.

Kneels.

—Sir— I have seen him in the Garden, but not very often.

Sir Pat.

Often! oh, my Family's dishonoured, tell me truly what he us'd to do there—or I will have thee whipt without ces∣sation, oh I'me in a cold Sweat, there's my fine Maid, was he with her long?

Fan.

Long enough.

Sir Pat.

Long enough! —oh 'tis so, long enough—for what, hah? my dainty Miss, tell me, and didst thou leave 'em?

Fan.

They us'd to send me to gather flowers to make Nose∣gays Sir.

Sir Pat.

Ah, demonstration, 'tis evident if they were left alone that they were naught, I know't, —and where were they the while? in the close Arbour? —Aye Aye — I will have it cut down, it is the Pent-house of Iniquity, the very Coverlid of Sin.

Fan.

No Sir, they sat on the Primrose Bank.

Sir Pat.

What, did they sit all the while, or stand—or —lye —or— oh how was't?

Fan.

They only sat indeed Sir Father.

Sir Pat.

And thou didst not hear a word they said all the while?

Fan.

Yes I did Sir, and the man talkt a great deal of this, and of that, and of t'other, and all the while threw Jesimine in her bosome.

Sir Pat.

Well said, and did he nothing else?

Fan.

No indeed, Sir Father, nothing.

Sir Pat.

But what did she say to the man again?

Fan.

She said, let me see, —Aye she said, Lord you'le forget your self, and stay till somebody catch us.

Sir Pat.

Ah, very fine, —then what said he?

Fan.

Then he said, Well if I must be gon, let me leave thee with this hearty curse, A Pox take thee all over for making me love thee so confoundedly.

Sir Pat.

Oh horrible!

Fan.

—Oh I cou'd live here for ever, —that was when he kist her— her hand only, are you not a Damn'd woman for making so fond a Puppy of me?

Sir Pat.

Oh unheard of wickedness!

Fan.

Wou'd the Devil had thee and all thy family, e're I had seen thy Cursed face.

Sir Pat.

Oh I'le hear no more, —I'le hear no more—why what a Blasphemous wretch is this!

Fan.

Pray Sir Father, do not tell my Sister of this, she'le be horribly angry with me.

Sir Pat.

No no, get you gon, —oh I am heart-sick — I'le up and consult with my Lady what's fit to be done in this affair, oh never was the like heard of.—

Goes out, Fanny goes the other way.

Scene, the Lady Fancies Bedchamber, she's discovered with Wittmore in disorder. A Table, Sword, and Hatt.

Maun.

O Madam, Sir Patient's coming up.

La. Fan.

Coming up say you!

Maun.

He's almost on the top of the Stairs, Madam.

Witt.

What shall I doe?

La. Fa.

Oh Damn him, I know not, if he see thee here after my pretended Illness, he must needs discover why I feign'd, —I have no Excuse ready, —this Chamber's unlucky, there's no avoi∣ding him, here — step behind the Bed, perhaps he has only forgot his Psalm Book and will not stay long.

Wittmore runs behind the Bed.

Enter Sir Patient.

Sir Pat.

Oh, oh, pardon this interruption my Lady Fancy —oh I am half kill'd, my Daughter, my Honour—my Daughter, my Reputation.

La. Fa.

Good Heavens Sir, is she dead?

Sir Pat.

I wou'd she were, her Portion and her Honour wou'd then be sav'd, but oh I'me sick at heart, Maundy, fetch me the

Bottle of Mirabilis in the Closet, — she's wanton — unchast,

Enter Maundy with the Bottle.

oh I cannot speak it, oh the Bottle—

[Drinks]

she has lost her Fame, —her Shame—her Name—oh

[Drinks]

this is not the right Bottle—that with the red Cork

[Drinks]

Ex. Maundy.

—and is grown a very t'other end of the town Creature, a very Apple of Sodom, fair without and filthy within, what shall we

Enter Maundy.

doe with her? she's lost, undone;

[Drinks]

hah —let me see,

[Drinks]

this is—

[Drinks]

not as I take it—

[Drinks]

—no— 'tis not the right—she's naught, —she's lewd, —

[Drinks]

— oh how you Vex me—

[Drinks]

this is not the right Bottle, yet—

[Drinks]

no no—here.

Gives her the Bottle.

Maun.

You said, that with the Red Cork Sir.

Goes out.

Sir Pat.

I meant the Blew, — I know not what I say, — in fine, my Lady let us marry her out of hand, for she is fall'n, fall'n to Perdition; she understands more wickedness then had she been bred in a profane Nunnery —a Court, or a Play-house,

Enter Maundy.

[Drinks]

—therefore let's Marry her instantly—out of hand,

[Drinks]

Misfortune on Misfortune,

[Drinks]

— but Patience is a wonderfull Vertue,

[Drinks]

—ha—this is very Comfortable, —very Consoling, —I profess if it were not for these Creature ravishing Comforts, sometimes, a Man were a very odd sort of an Animal

[Drinks]

but ah—see how all things were ordain'd for the use and comfort of man

[Drinks.]

La. Fa.

I like this well; Ah Sir 'tis very true, therefore re∣ceive it plentifully and thankfully.

Sir Pat.

Drinks

Ingeniously —it hath made me marvel∣lous lightsome, —I profess it hath a very notable Faculty, —very knavish—and as—it were—waggish, —but —hah— what have we there on the Table? a Sword and Hat?

Sees Wittmore's Sword and Hat on the Table which he had forgot.

La. Fa.

Curse on my Dullness, —oh —these Sir, they are Mr. Fainloves— he being so soon to be Marry'd, and being straitned for time, sent these to Maundy to be new trim'd with

Ribbon Sir—that's all,—take 'em away you naughty Bag∣gage, must I have mens things seen in my Chamber?

Sir Pat.

Nay nay, be not angry my little Rogue, I like the young mans frugality well, — go go your ways, —get you gon—and finefy your knacks, and tranghams, and do your bu∣siness —goe.—

Smiling on Maundy, gently beating her with his hand: she goes out, he bolts the door after her, and sits down on the Beds feet.

La. Fa.

Heavens, what means he!

Sir Pat.

Come hither to me my little Apes face, —come —come I say—what must I come fetch you? —Catch her, catch her, catch her—catch her, catch her, catch her.

Running af∣ter her.

La. Fa.

Oh Sir I am so ill I can hardly stir.

Sir Pat.

I'le make ye well, come hither ye Monky face, did it, did it, did it? alas for it, a poor silly fools face, dive it a blow and I'le beat it.

La. Fa.

You neglect your Devotion Sir.

Sir Pat.

No no, no Prayer to day my little Rascall, —no Prayer to day —poor Gogle's sick — come hither—why you Refractory Baggage you, come or I shall touze you, ingenuously I shall, tom tom or I'le whip it.

La. Fa.

Have you forgot your Daughter Sir? and your dis∣grace?

Sir Pat.

A fiddle on my Daughter, she's a Chick of the old Cock I profess, I was just such another wag when young, —but she shall be marry'd to morrow, a good Cloke for her knavery; therefore come your ways, ye wag, we'le take a nap together, good faith my little Harlot I mean thee no harm.

La. Fa.

No o' my Conscience. —

Sir Pat.

Why then, why then you little Mungrel?

La. Fa.

His precise worship is as it were disguis'd, the out∣ward man is overtaken — pray Sir lye down, and I'le come to you presently.

Sir Pat.

Away you wag, will you? will you—catch her there, catch her.

La. Fa.

I will indeed —death there's no getting from him, —pray lye down—and I'le cover thee close enough I'le warrant thee. —

Aside. He lyes down, she covers him.

Had ever Lovers such spightfull Luck? hah —surely he sleeps, bless the mistaken Bottle—Aye, he sleeps, —whist, Wittmore.—

He coming out falls: pulls the Chair down, Sir Patient flings open the Curtain.

Witt.

Plague of my over Care, what shall I doe?

Sir Pat.

What's that, what noise is that? let me see, we are not safe, lock up the doors, what's the matter, what Thunder Clap was that?

Wittmore runs under the Bed: she runs to Sir Patient and holds him in his Bed.

La. Fa.

Pray Sir lye still, 'twas I was only going to sit down, and a suddain giddiness took me in my head which made me fall and with me the Chair, there is no danger near ye Sir—I was just coming to sleep by you.

Sir Pat.

Go you 're a flattering Huswife, goe, Catch her, catch her—catch her.—

Lyes down, she covers him.

La. Fa.

Oh how I tremble at the dismal apprehension of be∣ing discovered, had I secur'd my self of the Eight thousand Pound, I wou'd not value Wittmores being seen, but now to be found out wou'd call my Wit in question, for 'tis the fortunate alone are wise.—

Wittmore peeps from under the Bed: she goes softly to the door to open it.

Witt.

Was ever man so Plagu'd? —hah— what's this? — confound my tell-tale Watch, the Larum goes, and there▪ no getting to't to silence it; —Damn'd Misfortune!

Sir Patient rises and flings open the Curtains.

Sir Pat.

Hah, what's that!

La. Fa.

Heavens! what's the matter? we are destin'd to disco∣very.

She runs to Sir Patient, and leaves the door still fast.

Sir Pat.

What's that I say, what's that? let me see, let me see, what ringing's that, oh let me see what 'tis.

Strives to get up, she holds him down.

La. Fa.

Oh now I see my fate's inevitable, alas that ever I was born to see't.

Weeps.

Witt.

Death she'le tell him I am here! nay he must know't, a Pox of all invention and Mechanicks, and he were damn'd that first contriv'd a Watch.

Sir Pat.

Hah, dost weep, —why dost weep? I say what noise is that? what ringing? hah▪—

La. Fa.

'Tis that, 'tis that my dear that makes me weep, alas I never hear this fatall Noise but some dear friend dyes.

Sir Pat.

Hah, dyes! oh that must be I, Aye Aye, oh.

La. Fa.

I've heard it Sir this two dayes, but wou'd not tell you of it.

Sir Pat.

Hah! heard it these two dayes? oh, what is't, a death-watch? —hah.—

La. Fa.

Aye Sir, a death-watch, a certain Larum death-watch, a thing that has warn'd our Family this hundred years, oh —I'me the most undone Woman.

Witt.

A blessing on her for a dear dissembling Gilt —death and the Devil, will it never cease?

Sir Pat.

A death-watch? ah, 'tis so, I've often heard of these things —methinks it sounds as if 'twere under the Bed.—

Offers to look, she holds him.

La. Fa.

You think so Sir, but that 'tis about the Bed is my grief, it therefore threatens you: oh wretched Woman!

Sir Pat.

Aye, aye, I'me too happy in a wife to live long: well, I will settle my House at Hogsdowne with the Land about it, which is 500 l. a year upon thee, live or dye, —do not grieve.—

Lays himself down.

La. Fa.

Oh I never had more cause, come try to sleep; your fate may be diverted —whilst I'le to prayers for your dear health, — I have almost run

Covers him, draws the Curtains.

out all my stock of Hypocrisie, and that hated Art now fails me, —no all ye Powers that favour distrest Lovers, assist us now, and I'le provide against your future Malice.

She makes signes to Wittmore, he peeps.

Witt.

I'me impatient of Freedom, yet so much happiness as I but now injoy'd without this part of Suffering had made me too blest, — Death and Damnation! what curst luck have I?

Makes signs to her to open the Door: whilst he creeps softly from under the Bed to the Table, by which going to raise himself he pulls down all the Dressing things: at the same instant Sir Patient leaps from the Bed, and she returns from the door and sits on Wittmores back as he lies on his hands and knees, and makes as if she swounded.

Sir Pat.

What's the matter! what's the matter! has Satan broke his everlasting Chain and got loose abroad to Plague poor Mor∣talls? hah — what's the matter?

Runs to his Lady.

La. Fa.

Oh help, I dye, — I faint—run down and call for help.

Sir Pat.

My Lady dying? oh she's gon, she faints, — what ho, who waits?

Cries and baules.

La. Fa.

Oh, go down and bring me help, the door is lockt, — they cannot hear ye — oh — I goe — I dye.—

He opens the door and calls help, help.

Witt.

Damn him! there's no escaping without I kill the Dog.

from under her, peeping.

La. Fa.

Lye still or we are undone. —

Sir Patient returns with Maundy.

Maun.

Hah, discover'd!

Sir Pat.

Help, help my Lady dies. —

Maun.

Oh I perceive how 'tis — Alas she's dead, quite gone, oh rub her temples Sir.

Sir Pat.

Oh I'me undone then, —

[Weeps]

oh my dear, my Vertuous Lady? —

La. Fa.

Oh where's my Husband, my dearest Husband — oh bring him near me.

Sir Pat.

I'me here my Excellent Lady. —

She takes him about the neck and raises her self up, gives Wittmore a little kick behind.

Witt.

Oh the dear Lovely Hypocrite, was ever Man so near discovery? —

Goes out.

Sir Pat.

Oh how hard she presses my head to her Bosome!

Maun.

Ah, that grasping hard Sir, is a very bad sign.

Sir Pat.

How does my good, my dearest Lady Fancy?

La. Fa.

Something better now, give me more Air, —that dismall Larum Death-watch had almost kill'd me.

Sir Pat.

Ah Precious Creature, how she afflicts her self for me, — come let's walk into the Dining room, 'tis more Airie, from thence into my Study, and make thy self Mistress of that Fortune I have design'd thee, thou best of Women.

Exeunt, Leading her.