The town-fopp, or, Sir Timothy Tawdrey a comedy : as it is acted at His Royal Highness the Duke's theatre / written by Mrs. A. Behn.

ACT. I.

Scene 1. The Street.

Enter Sir Timothy Tawdrey, Sham and Sharpe.

Sir Tim.

HEreabouts is the House wherein dwells, the Mistriss of my heart; For she has money Boyes, mind me, money in abundance, or she were not for me—the Wench her self is good natur'd, and inclin'd to be civil, but a Pox on't—She has a Brother a conceited Fellow, whom the world mistakes for a fine Gentleman, for he has Travell'd, talks Languages, bows with a bone meine, and the rest, but by fortune he shall entertain you with nothing but words—

Sham.

Nothing else?—

Sir Tim.

No—He's no Countrey Squire Gentlemen, will not Game, Whore, nay, in my Conscience you will hardly get your selves Drunk in his Company—He Treats A-la-mode, half Wine, half Water, and the rest—But to the business, this Fellow loves his Sister dearly, and will not trust her in this lewd Town, as he calls it, without him, and hither he has brought her to marry me.

Sham.

A Pox upon him for his pains—

Sir Tim.

So say I—But my comfort is, I shall be as weary of her, as the best Husband of 'em all—But there's conveniency in it; besides, the match being as good as made up by the old Folks in the Countrey, I must submit—The Wench I never saw yet, but they say she's handsom— But no matter for that, there's Money, my Boyes!

Sharp.

Well Sir, we will follow you—but as dolefully as people do their Friends to the Grave, from whence they're never to return, at least not the same substance, the thin aiery Vision of a brave Good Fellow, we may see thee hereafter, but that's the most.

Sir Tim.

Your pardon, sweet Sharp, my whole design in it is to be Master of my self, and with part of her Portion to set up my Miss, Betty Flauntit, which, by the way, is the main end of my ••arrying, the rest you'll have your shares of—Now I am forc••d to take you up Suits at treble Prizes, have damn'd Wine and Meat put upon us, 'cause the Reckoning is to be Book'd: But ready Money ye Rogues! What Charms it has! Makes the Waiters flie Boyes, and the ••aster with Cap in hand— excuse what's amiss, Gentlemen—Your Worship shall command the best—and the rest—How briskly the Box and Dice dance, and the ready Money submits to the lucky Gamester, and the gay Wench consults with every Beauty to make her self agreeable to the Man with ready Money. In fine, dear Rogues! All things are sacrific'd to it's pow'r; and no Mor∣tal conceives the joy of, Argent Content. 'Tis this pow'rful God that makes me submit to the Devil Matrimony; and then thou art assur'd of me, my stout Lads of brisk Debauch.

Sham.

And is it possible you can be ty'd up to a Wife? Whil'st here in London, and free, you have the whole World to range in, and like a wan∣ton Heifer, eat of every Pasture.

Sir Tim.

Why dost think I'll be confin'd to my own dull Enclosure? No, I had rather feed coarsly upon the boundless Common, perhaps two or three dayes I may be in Love, and remain constant, but that's the most.

Sharp.

And in three Weeks, should you Wed a Cinthia, you'd be a Monster.

Sir Tim.

What, thou meanest a Cuckold, I warrant? God help thee▪ But a Monster is only so from its Rarity, and a Cuckold is no such••strange thing in our Age.

Enter Bellmour and Friendlove.

But who comes here? Bellmour! Ah my little dear Rogue! How dost thou! —Ned Friendlove too! Dear Lad, how dost thou too? Why welcome to Town i'faith, and I'm glad to see you both.

Friend.

Sir Tim. Tawdrey!—

Sir Tim.

The same, by fortune, dear Ned; And how, and how Man, how go matters?

Friend.

Between who Sir?

Sir Tim.

Why any body Man: But, by fortune, I'm overjoy'd to meet thee: But where dost think I was going?

Friend.

Is't possible one shou'd divine?

Sir Tim.

Is't possible you shou'd not, and meet me so near your Sisters Lodgings? Faith I was coming to pay my Respects and Services, and the rest—Thou know'st my meaning—The old business of the Silver World Ned; by Fortune it's a mad Age, we live in Ned, and here be so many—wicked Rogues, about this damn'd lewd Town, that 'Faith I am fain to speak, in the vulgar modish stile, in my own defence, and Rally Matrimony, and the rest.

Friend.

Matrimony!—I hope you are so exactly refin'd a Man of the Town, that you will not offer once to think of so dull a thing, let that alone for such cold complexions as Bellmour here, and I that have not attain'd to that most excellent faculty of keeping yet, as you, Sir Timothy, have done, much to your glory, I assure you.

Sir Tim.

Who I Sir? You do me much Honour: I must confess I do not find the softer Sex cruel; I am received as well as another Man of my Parts.

Friend.

Of your Money, you mean Sir.

Sir Tim.

Why Faith Ned, thou art i'th' right, I love to buy my plea∣sure, for, by Fortune, there's as much pleasure in Vanity and Variety, as any Sins I know; What think'st thou Ned?

Friend.

I am not of your mind, I love to love upon the square; and that I may be sure not to be cheated with false Ware, I present 'em no∣thing but my heart.

Sir Tim.

Yes, and have the consolation, of seeing your frugal Hus∣wifery Miss, sit in the Pit, at a Play, in a long Scarf, and Night-gown, for want of Points, and Garniture.

Friend.

If she be clean, and pretty, and drest in Love, I can excuse the rest, and so will she.

Sir Tim.

I vow to Fortune Ned, thou must come to London, and be a little manag'd: 'Slife Man, should'st thou talk so aloud in good Compa∣ny, thou would'st be counted a strange Fellow, Pretty—and drest with Love—a fine Figure, by Fortune; No, Ned, the painted Chariot, gives a Lustre, to every ordinary Face, and makes a Woman, look like Quality; ay, so like, by Fortune, that you shall not know one from t'other, till some scandalous, out-of-favor'd-laid-aside-Fellow of the Town, cry— Damn her, for a Bitch—how scornfully the Whore regards me—She has forgot since Iack—such a one, and I, club'd for the keeping of her, when both our Stocks, well manag'd, wou'd not amount to above seve•• shillings six pence a week; besides now and then a Treat of a Breasto•• Mutton▪ from the next Cooks—Then the other laughs, and cryes— I—Rott her—And tells his Story too, and concludes with who ma••nages the Gilt now? Why Faith some dismal Coxcomb or other, yo•• may be sure, replies the first: But Ned, these are R••gues, and Rascals, th•• value no Mans Reputation, because they despise their own: But Faith 〈◊〉〈◊〉 have laid aside all these vanities, now I have thought of Matrimony; b•••• I desire my Reformation may be a secret, because, as you know for 〈◊〉〈◊〉

Man of my Address, and the rest—'Tis not altogether so Jantee.

Friend.

Sir, I assure you, it shall be so great a Secret for me, that I will never ask you who the happy Woman is, that's chosen for this great work of your Conversion.

Sir Tim.

Ask me!—No, you need not, because you know al∣ready.

Friend.

Who I? I protest Sir Timothy—

Sir Tim.

No Swearing, dear Ned, for 'tis not such a Secret, but I will trust my Intimates; these are my Friends, Ned; pray know them— This Mr Sham and this—by fortune, a very honest Fellow

[Bows to 'em.]

Mr Sharp, and may be trusted with a bus'ness that concerns you as well as me.

Friend.

Me? What do you mean Sir Timothy?

Sir Tim.

Why Sir, you know what I mean.

Friend.

Not I Sir.

Sir Tim.

What, not that I am to marry your Sister Celinda?

Friend.

Not at all.

Bell.

O this unsufferable Sott!

[Aside.

Friend.

My Sister, Sir, is very nice.

Sir Tim.

That's all one, Sir, the old People have adjusted the matter, and they are the most proper 〈◊〉〈◊〉 a Negotiation of that kind, which saves us the trouble of a tedious Courtship.

Friend.

That the old People have agreed the matter, is more than I know.

Sir Tim.

Why Lord Sir, will you persuade me to that? don't you know that your Father (according to the method in such cases, being certain of my Estate) came to me thus—Sir Timothy Tawdrey!—You are a young Gentleman, and a Knight, I knew your Father well, and my right wor∣shipful Neighbor, our Estates lie together, therefore Sir, I have a desire to have a near Relation with you—At which, I interrupted him, and cry••d —Oh Lord Sir! I vow to Fortune, you do me the greatest Honour Sir, and the rest—

Bell.

I can endure no more, he marry fair Celinda?

Friend.

Prethee let him alone.

[Aside.

Sir Tim.

To which he answer'd—I have a good Fortune—Have but my Son Ned, and this Girl, call'd Celinda, whom I will make a For∣tune, sutable to yours▪ your honoured Mother, the Lady Tawdrey, and I, have as good as concluded the match already. To which I (who, tho I say it, am well eno••gh bred for a Knight) answer'd the Civility thus— I vow to Fortune Sir—I did not swear, but cry'd—I protest Sir, Celinda, deserves—no, no, I lye again, 'twas merits—I, Celinda— merits a much better Husband than I.

Friend.

You speak more truth than you are aware of.

[Aside.

Well, Sir, I'll bring you to my Sister, and if she likes you, as well as my

Father does, she's yours; otherwise, I have so much tenderness for her, as to leave her choice free.

Sir Tim.

Oh Sir you Compliment. Alons, Entrons.

[Exeunt.

Scene 2. A Chamber.

Enter Celinda, and Nurse.

Cel.

I wonder my Brother stayes so long; sure Mr Bellmour is not yet arriv'd, yet he sent us word he would be here to day. Lord how impa∣tient I grow.

Nur.

Ay, so methinks if I had the hopes of enjoying so sweet a Gentleman, as Mr Bellmour, I shou'd be so too—But I am past it— Well, I have had my pantings, and heavings, my impatience, and qualms, my heats, and my colds, and my I know not whats—But I thank my stars, I have done with all those Fooleries.

Cel.

Fooleries!— Is there any thing in life but Love? Wou'dst thou prai••e Heaven for thy Being, Without that grateful part of it? For I confess I Love.

Nur.

You need not, your sighs, and daily (nay, and nightly too) disorders, plainly enough betray the truth.

Cel.

Thou speak'st as if it were a Sin; But if it be so, you your self help'd to make me wicked. For e're I saw Mr Bellmour, you spoke the kindest things of him, As would have mov'd the dulle••t Maid to Love; And e're I saw him, I was quite undone.

Nur.

Quite undone! Now God forbid it: What, for Loving? You said but now there was no life without it.

Cel.

But since my Brother came from Italy, And brought young Bellmour to our house, How very little thou hadst said of him; How much above thy praise, I found the Youth?

Nur.

Very pretty! You are grown a notable Proficient in Love— And you are resolv'd (if he please) to Marry him.

Cel.

Or I must dye.

Nur.

I, but you know the Lord Plotwell, has the possession of all his Estate, and if he Marry without his liking, has power to take away all his Fortune, and then I think it were not so good Marrying him.

Cel.

Not Marrying him! Oh canst thou think so poorly of me? Yes, I wou'd Marry him, tho' our scanty Fortune, Cou'd onely purchase us A loanly Cottage, in some silent place,

All cover'd o••re with Thatch, Defended from the outrages of storms By leafless Trees, in Winter, and from heat, With shades, which their kind Boughs wou••d bear anew, Under whose Covert, wee'd feed, our gentle Flock; That shou••d in gratitude repay us Food, And mean and humble Cloathing.

Nur.

Very fine!

Cel.

There we wou••d practise such degrees of Love, Such lasting, innocent, unheard of joyes, As all the busie World should wonder at, And ami••st all the••r Glories, find none such.

N••r.

Good lack! how prettily Love teaches his Scholars to prattle? —But hear ye, fair Mrs Celinda, you have forgot to what end and pur∣pose you came to Town, not to Marry Mr Bellmour, as I take it—but Sir Timothy Tawdrey, that Spark of Men.

Cel.

Oh name him not—Let me not in one moment Descend from Heaven to Hell— How came that wretched thing into thy Noddle?

Nur.

Faith Mistriss I took pity of thee, I saw you so elevated with thoughts of Mr Bellmour, I found it necessary to take you down a degree lower.

Cel.

Why did not Heaven make all Men like to Bellmour? So strangely sweet and charming.

Nur.

Marry come up you speak well for your self; Oh intolerable loving Creature! But here comes the utmost of your wishes.

Cel.

My Brother and Bellmour! with strange Men!

Enter Friendlove, Bellmour, Sir Timothy, Sham, and Sharpe.

Friend.

Sister, I've brought you here a Lover, this is the worthy per∣son you have heard of, Sir Timothy Tawdrey.

Sir Tim.

Yes, ••aith Madam, I am Sir Timothy Tawdrey, at your ser∣vice —Pray are not you Mrs Celinda D••esswell?

Cel.

The same, but cannot return your Compliment.

Sir Tim.

Oh Lord, oh Lord, not return a Compliment, faith Ned thy Sister••s quite spoil'd, for want of Town Education; 'tis pity, for she••s Devilish pretty.

Friend.

She••s modest. Sir, before Company; therefore these G••ntle∣men and I will withdraw into the next Room.

Cel

Inhumane Brother, will you leave me alone with this Sott?

Friend.

Yes, and i•• you would be rid of the trouble of him, be not coy, nor witty; two things ••e hates.

Bell.

'Sdeath! Must she be blown upon by that Fool?

Friend.

Patience dear Frank, a little while.

[Exeunt Friendl. Bell. Sham and Sharpe.

[Sir Timothy walks about the Room, expecting when Celinda should speak.

Cel.

Oh dear Nurse, what shall I do?

Nur.

I that ever help you at a dead Lift, will not fail you now.

Sir Tim.

What a Pox not a word?

Cel.

Sure this Fellow believes I••ll begin.

Sir Tim.

Not yet—sure she has spoke her last—

Nur.

The Gentleman's good natur'd, and has took pity on you, and will not trouble you, I think.

Sir Tim.

—Hey day, here••s Wooing indeed—Will she never begin trow—This some would call an excellent quality in her Sex—But a Pox on••t I do not like it—Well, I see I must break silence at last— Madam—not answer me—shaw this is meer ill breeding—by For∣tune —it can be nothing else—Oh my Conscience, if I should kiss her, she w••uld not bid me stand off—I'll try—

Nur.

Hold, Sir, you mistake your Mark.

Sir Tim.

So I should, if I were to look in thy mouldy Chaps, good Matron—Can your Lady speak?

Nur.

Try Sir.

Sir Tim.

Which way?

Nur.

Why speak to her first.

Sir Tim.

I never knew a Woman want a Cue, for that, but all that I have met with, were still before-hand with me, in tittle tattle.

Nur.

Likely those you have met with may, but this is no such Crea∣ture Sir.

Sir Tim.

I must confess, I am unus'd to this kind of Dialogue, And I am an Ass, if I know what to say to such a Creature, —But come, will you answer me to one Question?

Cel.

If I can Sir.

Sir Tim.

But first I should ask you if you can speak? For that's a Question too.

Cel.

And if I cannot, how will you be answer'd?

Sir Tim.

Faith that's right; why then you must do't by signs.

Cel.

But grant I can speak, what is't you'll ask me?

Sir Tim.

Can you Love?

Cel.

Oh yes, Sir, many things; I love my Meat, I love abundance of Adorers, I love choice of new Cloaths, new Playes, and like a right Woman, I love to have my Will.

Sir Tim.

Spoke like a well-bred person, by Fortune; I see there's hopes of thee Celinda; thou wilt in time learn to make a very fashionable Wife, having so much Beauty too. I see Attracts, and Allurements, wan∣ton Eyes, the languishing turn of the Head, and all that invites to Tem∣ptation.

Cel.

Would that please you in a Wife?

Sir Tim.

Please me, why Madam, what do you take me to be? a Sott?—a Fool?—or a dull Italian, of the humor of your Bro∣ther? —No, no, I can assure you, she that Marries me, shall have Franchise—But my pretty Miss, you must learn to talk a little more.—

Cel.

I have not Wit, and Sense enough, for that.

Sir Tim.

Wit! Oh la, O la, Wit! as if there were any Wit requir'd in a Woman when she talks; no, no matter for Wit, or Sense: talk but loud, and a great deal, to shew your white teeth, and smile, and be very confident, and 'tis enough.—Lord what a ••ight 'tis to see a pretty Woman stand right up an end in the middle of a Room, playing with her Fan, for want of something to keep her in countenance. No, s••e that is mine, I will teach to entertain at another rate.

Nur.

How Sir? Why what do you take my young Mistriss to be?

Sir Tim.

A Woman—and a fine one, and so fine as she, ought to permit her self to be seen, and be ador••d.

Nur.

Out upon you, would you expose your Wife; by my troth and I were she, I know what I wou'd do.—

Sir Tim.

Thou do—what thou wouldst have done sixty Years ago, thou meanest.

Nur.

Marry come up, for a stinking Knight, worse than I have gone down with you, e're now—Sixty Years ago quoth ye—As old as I am—I live without Surgeons, wear my own Hair, am not in Debt to my Taylor, as thou art, and art fain to kiss his Wife, to persuade her Hus∣band to be merciful to thee—who wakes thee every morning with his Clamour and long Bills, at thy Chamber door.

Sir Tim.

Prethee good Matron peace, I'll Compound with thee.

Nur.

'Tis more than thou wilt do with thy Creditors, who, poor Souls, despair of a Groat in the Pound for all thou ow••st them, for Points, Lace, and Garniture—for all in fine, that makes thee a complete Fopp.

Sir Tim.

Hold, hold, thy eternal Clack.

Nur.

And when none would trust thee farther, give Judgments for twice the Money tho•• borrowest, and swear thy self at Age; and lastly, —to patch up your broken Fortune, you wou'd fain Marry my swe••t Mistriss Celinda here—But 'faith Sir, you're mistaken, her For••une shall not go to the maintenance of your Misses, which being once sure of, she, poor Soul, is sent down to the Coun••rey house, to learn Housewifery, and live without M••nkind, unless she can serve her s••lf with the handsom Steward, or so—whil'st you tear it away in Town, and live like Man and Wife with your Jilt, and are every day seen in the Glass Coach, whil'st your own natural Lady is hardly worth the hire of a Hack

Sir Tim.

Why thou damnabie confounded torment, wilt thou never cease?

Nur.

No, not till you raise your Siege, and be gone; go march to your Lady of Love, and debauch—go—You get no C••linda here.

Sir Tim.

The Devil's in her tongue.

Cel.

Good gentle Nurse, have mercy upon the poor Knight.

Nur.

No more Mistriss, than he'll have on you, if Heaven had so abandon'd you, to put you into his power:—Mercy—quoth ye—no, no more than his Mistriss will have, when all his money's gone.

Sir Tim.

Will she never end?

Cel.

Prethee forbear.

Nur.

No more, than the Usurer would, to whom he has mortgag'd his best part of his Estate, would forbear a day after the promis'd pay∣ment of the money. Forbear—

Sir Tim.

Not yet end: Can I Madam, give you a greater proof of my passion for you, than to endure this for your sake?

Nur.

This—thou art so sorry a creature, thou wilt endure any thing, for the lucre of her fortune; 'tis that thou hast a passion for: not that thou carest for money, but to sacrifice to thy lewdness, to purchase a Mi∣striss, to purchase the Reputation of as errant a Fool, as ever arriv'd at the honour of keeping, to purchase a little Grandeur, as you call it; that is, to make every one look at thee, and consider what a Fool thou art, who else might pass unreguarded amongst the common crowd.

Sir Tim.

The Devil's in her tongue, and so 'tis in most Womens of her Age; for when 't has quitted the Tail, it repairs to her upper Tire.

Nur.

Do not persuade me, Madam, I am resolv'd to make him weary of his Wooing.

Sir Tim.

So God be prais'd, the storm is laid—And now Mrs. Celin∣da▪ give me leave to ask you, if it be with your leave, this affront is put 〈…〉〈…〉 of my Quality?

N••r.

Thy Quality—

Sir Tim.

Yes, I am a Gentleman, and a Knight.

Nur.

Yes, Sir, Knight of the ill-favour'd Countenance is it?

Sir Tim.

You are beholding to Don Quixot for that, and ••tis so many Ages, since thou couldst see to read, I wonder thou hast not forgot all that ever belong••d to Books.

Nur.

My eye-sight••s good enough to see thee in all thy colours, thou Knight of the Burning Pestle thou.

Sir Tim.

Agen, that was out of a Play—heark ye Witch of Endor, hold your prating tongue, or I shall most well-••avourdly Cudgel ye.

Nur.

As your Friend the Hostess has it in a Play too, I take it, Ends which you pick up behind the Scenes, when you go to be laught at even by the Player Women.

Sir Tim.

Wilt thou have done, by Fortune I'll endure no more.

Nur.

Murder, Murder.

[A Letter.

Cel.

Hold, hold.

Enter Friendlove, Bellmour, Sham and Sharpe.

Friend.

Read here, the worst of News, that can arrive,

[Gives Bellm. a Letter.

—What's the matter here?—Why how now Sir Timothy, What up in Arms with the Women?

Sir Tim.

Oh Ned, i•• m glad thou••rt come—never was Tom Dove bait∣ed as I have been.

Friend.

By whom? my Sister.

Sir Tim.

No, no, that old Mastiff there;—the young Whelp, came not on, thanks be prais'd.

Bell.

How, her Father here to morrow, and here he sayes, that shall be the last moment, he will defer the Marriage of Celinda, to this Sott— Oh God, I shall grow mad, and so undo 'em all—I'll kill the Villain at the Altar—By my lost hopes I will—And yet there is some left—Could I but—speak to her—I must relie on Dresswells friendship—Oh God to morrow—Can I endure that thought—Can I endure to see the Tray∣tor there, who must to morrow rob me of my Heaven—I'll own my flame—and boldly tell this Fopp, she must be mine—

Friend.

I assure you, Sir Timothy, I am sorry, and will chastise her.

Sir Tim.

Ay Sir, I that am a Knight—a Man of Parts and Wit, and one that is to be your Brother, and design'd to be the glory of marrying Celinda.

Bell.

I can endure no more—How Sir—You marry fair Ce∣linda!

Sir Tim.

Ay Frank, Ay—Is she not a pretty little plump white Rogue, hah—

Bell.

Yes.

Sir Tim.

Oh I had forgot, thou art a modest Rogue, and to thy eternal shame, hadst never the Reputation of a Mistri••s—Lord, Lord, that I could see thee address thy self to a Lady—I fancy thee a very ridicu∣lous Figure, in that posture, by Fortune.

Bell.

Why Sir—I can Court a Lady—

Sir Tim.

No, no, thou'rt modest; that is to say, a Countrey Gentle∣man; that is to say, Ill-bred; that is to say, a Fool by Fortune, as the World goes.

Bell.

Neither Sir—I can Love—and tell it too—and that you may believe me—look on this Lady Sir—

Sir Tim.

Loo•• on this Lady Sir—Ha, ha, ha,—Well Sir— Well Sir—And what then—

Bell.

Nay view her well Sir—

Sir Tim.

Pleasant this—Well Frank I do—And what then?

Bell.

Is she not charming Fair—Fair to a wonder!

Sir Tim.

Well Sir, 'tis granted—

Bell.

And canst thou think this Beauty meant for thee, for thee dull common Man?

Sir Tim.

Very well, what will he say next?

Bell.

I say, let me no more see thee approach this Lady.

Sir Tim.

How Sir, how?

Bell.

Not speak to her, not look on her—by Heaven—not think of her.

Sir Tim.

How Frank, art in earnest?

Bell.

Try, if thou dar'st?

Sir Tim.

Not think of her—

Bell.

No not so much as in a Dream, could I Divine it.

Sir Tim.

Is he in earnest Mr Friendlove?

Friend.

I doubt so Sir Timothy.

Sir Tim.

What does he then pretend to your Sister?

Bell.

Yes, and no Man else, shall dare do so.

Sir Tim.

Take notice I am aff••onted in your Lodgings—for you Bellmour—You take me for an Ass—therefore meet me to morrow morning about 5, with your Sword in your hand, behind Southamp••on House.

Bell.

'Tis well—there we'll dispute our Title to Celinda.

[Ex.

Dull Animal! Ye Gods cou'd ne're Decree So bright a Maid shou'd be possest by thee.

The End of the First Act.