The old batchelour a comedy, as it is acted at the Theatre Royal, by Their Majesties servants / written by Mr. Congreve.

SCENE I. The Street.

Silvia and Lucy.

Silvia.

WILL a' not come then?

Lucy,

Yes Yes, come, I warrant him, if you will go in and be ready to receive him.

Silv.

Why did you not tell me?—Whom mean you?

Lucy.

Whom you should mean, Heartwell.

Silv.

Senseless Creature, I meant my Vainlove.

Lucy.

You may as soon hope, to recover your own Maidenhead, as his Love. Therefore e'n set your Heart at rest, and in the name of oppor∣tunity mind your own Business. Strike, Heartwell home, before the Bait's worn off the Hook, Age will come; he nibbled fairly yesterday, and no doubt will be eager enough to day, to swallow the Temptation.

Silv.

Well, since there's no remedy—Yet tell me—For I would know, though to the anguish of my Soul; how did he refuse? Tell me—how did he receive my Letter, in Anger or in Scorn?

Lucy.

Neither; but what was ten times worse, with damn'd, senseless indifference. By this Light I could have spit in his Face—Receive it! why he receiv'd it, as I would one of your Lovers that should come empty∣handed; as a Court Lord does his Mercers Bill, or a begging Dedica∣tion; —a' receiv'd it, as if 'thad been a Letter from his Wife.

Silv.

What did he not read it?

Lcuy.

Hum'd it over, gave you his Respects, and said, he would take time to peruse it—But then he was in haste.

Silv.

Respects, and peruse it! He's gone, and Araminta has bewitch'd him from me—Oh, how the name of Rival fires my Blood—I could curse 'em both; eternal Jealousie attend her Love; and Disappointment, meet his Lust. Oh that I could revenge the Torment he has caus'd—Methinks I feel the Woman strong within me, and Vengeance itches in the room of Love.

Lucy.

I have that in my Head may make Mischief.

Silv.

How, dear Lucy.

Lucy.

You know Aramintas dissembled Coyness has won, and keeps him hers—

Silv.

Could we perswade him, that she Loves another—

Lucy.

No, you're out; could we perswade him, that she doats on him, himself—Contrive a kind Letter as from her, 'twould disgust his nice∣ly, and take away his Stomach.

Silv.

Impossible, 'twill never take.

Lucy.

Trouble not your Head. Let me alone—I will inform my self of what past between 'em to Day, and about it streight—Hold, I'me mistaken, or that's Heartwell, who stands talking at the Corner—'tis he—Go get you in Madam, receive him pleasantly, dress up your Face in Innocence and Smiles; and dissemble the very want of Dissimulation—You know what will take him.

Salv.

'Tis as hard to Counterfeit Love, as it is to conceal it: but I'le do my weak endeavour, though I fear I have not Art.

Lucy.

Hang Art, Madam, and trust to Nature for Dissembling.

Man, was by Nature Womans Cully made: We, never are but by our selves betray'd.

Exeunt.

Enter Heartwell, Vainlove and Bellmour following.

Bell.

Hist hist, is not that Heartwell going to Silvia?

Vain.

He's talking to himself, I think; Prithee lets try if we can hear him

Heart.

Why whither in the Devils name am I going now? Hum—Let me think—Is not this Silvia's House, the Cave of that Enchantress and which consequently I ought to shun as I would infection? To enter here, is to put on the envenom'd Shirt, to run into the Embraces of a Faver, and in some raving fit, be led to plunge my self into that more Consuming Fire, a Womans Arms. Ha! well recollected, I will recover my reason and be gone.

Bell.

Now Venus forbid!

Vain.

Hust—

Heart.

Well, Why do you not move? Feet do your Office—Not one Inch; no, Foregod I'me caught—There stands my North, and thi∣ther my Needle points—Now could I curse my self, yet cannot re∣pent. O thou Delicious, Damn'd, Dear, destructive Woman! S'death how the young Fellows will hoot me! I shall be the Jest of the Town: Nay in two Days, I expect to be Chronicled in Ditty, and sung in wo∣ful Ballad, to the Tune of the Superanuated Maidens Comfort, or the Batchelors Fall; and upon the third, I shall be hang'd in Effigie, pasted up for the exemplary Ornament of necessary Houses and Coblers S'talls—Death, I can't think out—He run into the danger to loose the apprehension.

Goes in.

Bell.

A very certain remedy, probatum est—Ha, ha, ha, poor George, thou art it'h right, thou hast sold thy self to Laughter; the ill-natur'd Town will find the Jest just where thou hast lost it. Ha, ha, how a' strugled, like an Old Lawyer, between two Fees.

Vain.

Or a young Wench, betwixt pleasure and reputation.

Bell.

Or as you did to day, when half afraid you snatch'd a kiss from Araminta.

Vain.

She has made a quarrel on't.

Bell.

Pauh, Women are only angry at such offences, to have the plea∣sure of forgiving 'em.

Vain.

And I love to have the pleasure of making my peace—I should not esteem a Pardon if too easie won.

Bell.

Thou dost not know what thou would'st be at; whether thou wouldst have her angry or pleas'd. Couldst thou be content to marry Araminta?

Vain.

Could you be content to go to Heaven?

Bell.

Hum, not immediately, in my conscience not heartily? I'de do a little more good in my generation first, in order to deserve it.

Vain.

Nor I to marry Araminta till I merit her.

Bell.

But how the Devil dost thou expect to get her if she never yield?

Vain.

That's true; but I would—

Bell.

Marry her without her Consent; thour't a Riddle beyond Woman.—

Enter Setter.

Trusty Setter what tidings? How goes the project?

Setter.

As a lew'd projects do Sir, where the Devil prevents our endeavours with success.

Bell.

A good hearing, Setter.

Vain.

Well, I'le leave you with your Engineer.

Exit.

Bell.

And hast thou provided necessaries?

Setter.

All, all Sir; the large sanctified Hat, and the little precise Band, with a swinging long Spiritual Cloak, to Cover Carnal Knavery— not forgetting the Black Patch, which Tribulation Spintext wears as I'm inform'd, upon one Eye, as a penal Mourning for the ogling Offences of his Youth; and some say, with that Eye, he first discover'd the frailty of his Wife.

Bell.

Well in this Fanatick Fathers habit, will I confess Latitia.

Setter.

Rather pepare her for Confession, Sir by helping her to Sin.

Bell.

Be at your Masters Lodging in the Evening—I shall use the Robes.

Exit. Bell.

Setter.

I shall Sir—I wonder to which of these two Gentlemen I do most properly appertain—The one uses me as his Attendant; the other (be∣ing the better acquainted with my parts) employs me as a Pimp: why that's much the more honourable employment—by all means—I follow one as my Master, but the tother follows me as his Conductor.

Enter Lucy.

Lucy.

Ther's the Hang-Dog his Man—I had a power over him in the Reign of my Mistress; but he is too true a Valet-de-chambre not to affect his Masters faults; and consequently is revolted from his Allegiance.

Setter.

Undoubtedly 'tis impossible to be a Pimp and not a Man of parts. That is without being politick, diligent, secret, wary and soforth—And to all this valiant as Hercules—That is, passively valiant and actively obedient. Ah! Setter what a treasure is here lost for want of being known.

Lucy.

Here's some Villany a Foot lies so thoughtful; may be I, may dis∣cover something in my Masque—Worthy Sir, a word with you.

Puts on her Masque.

Setter.

Why if I were known, I might come to be a great Man.—

Lucy.

Not to intempt your meditation.—

Setter.

And I should not be the first that has procur'd his greatness by Pimping.

Lucy.

Now Poverty and the Pox light upon thee, for a Contempla∣tive Pimp.

Setter.

Ha! what art, who thus maliciously hast awakned me, from my Dream of Glory? speak thou vile Disturber—

Lucy.

Of thy most vile Cogitations—Thou poor, Conceited Wretch, how, wer't thou valuing thy self, upon thy Masters employ∣ment. For he's the head Pimp to Mr. Bellmour.

Setter.

Good Words, Damsel, or I shall—But how dost thou know my Master or me?

Lucy.

Yes, I know both Master and Man to be.—

Setter.

To be Men perhaps; nay faith like enough; I often march in the rear of my Master, and enter the Breaches which he was made.

Lucy.

Ay, the Breach of Faith, which he has begun: Thou Traytor to thy lawful Princess.

Setter.

Why how now! prithee who art? lay by that Worldly Face and produce your natural Vizor.

Lucy.

No Sirrah, I'le keep it on to abuse thee and leave thee without hopes of revenge.

Setter.

Oh! I begin to smoak ye, thou art some forsaken Abigail, we have dallied with heretofore—And art come to tickle thy Imagaination with remembrance of inicuity past.

Lucy.

No thou pitiful Flatterer of thy Masters imperfections; thou Maukin made up of the Shreds and Pairings of his superfluous Fopperies.

Setter.

Thou art thy Mistresses foul self, Composed of her fully'd ini∣quities and Cloathing.

Lucy.

Hang thee—Beggars Curr—Thy Master is but a Mumper in Love, lies Canting at the gate; but never dare presume to enter the House.

Setter.

Thou art the Wicket to thy Mistresses Gate; to be opened for all Comers. In Fine thou art the high Road to thy Mistress, as a Clap is to the Pox.

Lucy.

Beast, filthy Toad, I can hold no longer, look and tremble. Vmasques.

Setter.

How, Mrs. Lucy!

Lucy.

I wonder thou hast the impudence to look me in the Face.

Setter.

Adsbud who's in fault, Mistress Mine? who slung the first Stone? who undervalued my Function? and who the Devil could know you by instinct?

Lucy.

You could know my Office by instinct, an behang'd, which you have slander'd most abominably. It vexes me not what you said of my Person; but that my innocent Calling should be expos'd and scandaliz'd—I cannot bear it.

Cries.

Setter.

Nay faith Lucy I'me sorry, I'le own my self to blame, though we were both in fault as to our Offices—Come I'le make you any re∣paration.

Lucy.

Swear.

Setter.

I do swear to the utmost of my power.

Lucy.

To be brief then; what is the reason your Master did not appear to Day according to the Summons I brought him?

Set.

To answer you as briefly—He has a cause to be try'd in another Court.

Lucy.

Come tell me in plain Terms, how forward he is with Araminta.

Setter.

Too forward to be turn'd back—Though he's a little in disgrace at present about a Kiss which he forced. You and I can Kiss Lucy without all that.

Lucy.

Stand off—He's a precious Jewel.

Setter.

And therefore you'd have him to set in your Ladies Locket.

Lucy.

Where is he now?

Setter.

He'l be in the Piaza presently.

Lucy.

Remember to Days behaviour—Let me see you with a penitent Face.

Setter.

What no Token of amity Lucy? you and I don't use to part with dry Lips.

Lucy.

No no, avaunt—I'le not be slabber'd and kiss'd now—I'me not 'ith humour.

Exit.

Setter.

I'le not quit you so—I'le Follow and put you into the humour.

Exit after her.

Enter Sr. Joseph Wittell, Bluffe.

Bluff.

And so out of your unwonted Generosity.—

Sr. Jo.

And good Nature, Back; I am good Natur'd and I can't help it.

Bluff.

You have given him a note upon Fumblewife for a hundred Pound.

Sr. Jo.

Ay ay, poor, Fellow, he ventur'd fair fort.

Bluff.

You have disoblig'd me in it—for I have occasion for the Mony, and if you would look me in the Face again and live, go, and force him, to redeliver you the Note—go—and bring it me hither. I'le stay here for you.

Sir Jo.

You may stay till the day of Judgment then, by the Lord Harry. I know better things than to be run through the Guts for a hundred Pound—Why I gave that hundred Pound for being saved, and d'••e think, an there were no danger, I'le be so ungrateful to take it from the Gentle∣man again?

Bluff.

Well, go to him from me—Tell him, I say, he must refund—

or Bilbo's the Word, and Slaughter will ensue—If he refuse, tell him—But whisper that—Tell him—I'll pink his Soul—but whisper that softly to him.

Sir Io.

So softly, that he shall never hear on't I warrant you—Why what a Devil's the Matter, Bully, are you mad? Or de'e think I'm mad? Agad for my part, I don't love to be the Messenger of ill News; 'tis an ungrateful Office—So tell him your self.

Bluff.

By these Hilts I believe he frightned you into this Composition; I believe you gave it him out of fear, pure paultry fear—confess.

Sir Io.

No, no, hang't I was not afraid neither—Tho' I confess he did in a manner snap me up—Yet I can't say that it was altogether out of fear, but partly to prevent mischief—For he was a devilish cholerick Fellow: And if my Choller had been up too, agad there would have been mischief done, that's flat. And yet I believe if you had been by, I would as soon have let him a' had a hundred of my Teeth. Adheart if he should come just now when I'm angry, I'd tell him—Mum.

Enter Sharper, Bellmour.

Bell.

Thou'rt a lucky Rogue; there's your Benefactor, you ought to re∣turn him Thanks now you have receiv'd the Favour.

Sharp.

Sir Ioseph—Your Note was accepted, and the Mony paid at sight: I'm come to return my Thanks—

Sir Io.

They won't be accepted, so readily as the Bill, Sir.

Bell.

I doubt the Knight repents, Tom—He looks like the Knight of the sorrowful Face.

Sharp.

This is a double Generosity—Do me a Kindness and refuse my Thanks—But I hope you are not offended that I offer'd 'em.

Sir Io.

May be I am Sir, may be I am not Sir, may be I am both Sir; what then? I hope I may be offended, without any offence to you Sir.

Sharp.

Hey day! Captain, what's the matter? You can tell.

Bluff.

Mr. Sharper, the matter is plain—Sir Ioseph has found out your Trick, and does not care to be put upon; being a Man of Honour.

Sharp.

Trick, Sir.

Sir Io.

Ay Trick, Sir, and won't be put upon Sir, being a Man of Ho∣nour Sir, and so Sir—

Sharp.

Hearkee, Sir Joseph, a word with ye—In consideration of some favours lately receiv'd; I would not have you draw your self into a Pre∣munire, by trusting to that sign of a Man there—That Pot gun charg'd with Wind.

Sir Io.

O Lord, O Lord, Captain, come justifie your self—I'll give him the Lie if you'll stand to it.

Sharp.

Nay then I'l be beforehand with you, take that—Oafe.

Cuffs him. Bluff.

Sir Io.

Captain, will you see this? Won't you pink his Soul?

Bluff.

Husht, 'tis not so convenient now—I shall find a time.

Sharp.

What do you mutter about a time, Rascal—You were the In∣cendiary—There's to put you in mind of your time—A Memoran∣dum.

Kicks him.

Bluff.

O this is your time Sir, you had best make use on't.

Sharp.

I Gad and so I will: There's again for you.

Kicks him.

Bluff.

You are obliging Sir, but this is too publick a Place to thank you in: But in your Ear, you are to be seen again.

Sharp.

Ay thou inimitable Coward and to be felt—As for Example.

Kicks him.

Bell.

Ha, ha, ha, prithee come away, 'tis scandalous to kick this Puppy without a Man were cold, and had no other way to get himself a heat.

Exit Bell. Sharp.

Bluff.

Yery well—Very fine—But 'tis no matter—Is not this fine, sir Joseph?

Sir Io.

Indifferent, agad in my opinion very indifferent—I'd rather go plain all my Life, than wear such Finery.

Bluff.

Death and Hell to be affronted thus! I'l die before I'l suffer it.

draws.

Sir Io.

O Lord his Anger was not raised before—Nay, dear Captain, don't be in Passion now, he's gone—Put up, put up, dear Back, 'tis your Sir Ioseph begs, come let me kiss thee, so so, put up, put up.

Bluff.

By Heav'n 'tis not to be put up.

Sir. Io.

What, Bully? Bluff. Th' Affront.

Sir Io.

No agad no more, 'tis for that's put up already; thy Sword I mean.

Bluff.

Well, Sir Ioseph, at your entreaty—But were not you my Friend; Abus'd and Cuff'd and Kick'd.

Putting up his Sword.

Sir Io.

Ay, ay, so were you too; no matter, 'tis past.

Bluff.

By the immortal Thunder of great Guns, 'tis false—He sucks not vital Air who dares affirm it to this Face.

Looks big.

Sir Io.

To that Face I grant you Captain—No, no, I grant you—Not to that Face by the Lord Harry—If you had put on your fighting Face be∣fore, you had done his Business—He durst as soon have kiss'd you, as kick'd you to your Face—But a Man can no more help what's done be∣hind his Back, than what's said—Come wee'l think no more of what's past.

Bluff.

I'll call a Council of War within to consider of my Revenge to come.

Exeunt.