Trick for trick, or, The debauch'd hypocrite a comedy, as it is acted at the Theatre-Royal by His Majestie's servants / written by Tho. Durfey.

SCENE I.

Franck Sick in a Chaire, a Bed standing by.

Enter 3 Physitians with a Urinal.

1. Phys.

A Pleurisie, I see it.

2. Phys.

I rather hold it for Tremor Cordis.

3. Phys.

Dee' mark the Foeces? 'tis a most pestilent Contagious Fe∣ver—a Surfeit, a Plaguy Surfeit, he must bleed.

1. Phys.

By no means—

3. Phys.

I say Bleed.

1. Phys.

I say 'tis dangerous, the person being so much spent before∣hand, Hypocondriaque humours being now in full Power, and Nature drawn so low—No, I rather think Clysters, cool Clysters.

2. Phys.

Now, with your favours—I shou'd think a Vomit; for, take away the Cause, the Effect will follow; his Stomach's foul, and the Intellect inflam'd.

3. Phys.

No, no, wee'l rectifie that part by milder means.

1. Phys.

Come Sir, you must have patience; Brother, I think we had best first clap on the Cataplasme.

Fra.

Good Gentlemen, good Learned Gentlemen.

2. Phys.

And see those Broaths made ready within this hour; Come Sir, pray be rul'd.

Fra.

Pray Sir will you leave me; I beseech you leave me: Convey your Cataplasmes to those that need 'em, your Vomits, and your Clysters.

3. Phys.

Bring in the Lettuce Caps—You must be shav'd Sir, and then wee'l make you sleep.

Fra.

Ay, till Dooms-day—What unnecessary Nothings are these?

2. Phys.

How do ye Sir?

Fra.

What Questions they propound too—how do you Sir, I'm glad to see you well.

1. Phys.

Open your Mouth, I pray Sir.

Fra.

Aw—well, can you tell me now how old I am?—There's my hand, pray shew how many broken shins I shall have within these two year—'S'Death, who wou'd be thus in Fetters, good Mr. Doctor, and you Dear Doctor, and the third sweet Doctor, and pre∣cious Master Pothecary, I beseech ye to give me leave to live a little longer—You stand before me like my Mourners.

3. Phys.

A great Distemper, his fancy now begins to turn too.

Enter Monsieur Thomas, Valentine, and Hylas Kew.

Pish, what more hindrance still?—Sir—'tis not our Custome to be rude—but dismiss your Company with what haste you can; for we must minister within this half hour.

Exeunt.

Fra.

Oh,—a fair riddance, my learned Horse-leeches.

Val.

Be not uncivil, Tom,—and use your pleasure—I know she will be here to visit him within this half hour: Do what you can to win her, but use no violence.

Tho.

I will not 'faith.

Val.

Where, where's this Sick Man?

Hyl.

Where are the Women, Man? there's my Province. Methinks these Women—

Tho.

Thou think'st nothing else.—

Val.

See Franck—here's two of thy Friends come to visit thee; Prithee look up—and bid 'em welcome—I'll go and see if they have got any thing for thee to eat—Come, sit up, and be merry, Man.

Exit Val.

Tho.

How do'st thou, Franck, ha?

Come, give me thy hand, and bear up boldly—what, shrinck ith' Sinews for a little Sickness? a petty, puny, paultry Fever—Pox upon't, sing it away, Man.

Fra.

I am on the mending hand, I thank ye.

Tho.

How like a Flute thou speak'st, on the mending hand? Gogs boars I'm well—Speak like a Man of honour.

Fra.

Thou art a Mad Fellow; what, never staid. Tom?

Tho.

Let Rogues be stai'd that have no habitation, a Gentleman may wander—turn thee round, Franck—and see what I have brought thee—Sirrah, open the Scene and let the Work appear—Francis, a Friend at need is worth a Million.

Boy discovers a Bottle.

Fra.

What hast thou there, a Julip?

Hyl.

He must not touch it, 'tis present Death.

Tho.

Ye are an Ass—

Thou minister? thou mend a Pack-Saddle-You must pardon him—my Friend Franck—but a plaguy simple Fellow.

Do'st thou see this Bottle?—Prithee view it well; Agen observe it.

Fra.

Well, I do, Tom.

Tho.

There are as many Lives in't as a Cat carries; It refines the Spirit, revives the Person, removes the Disease, Restores the blood; heats, nourishes, fills the Veins, Cures, comforts, warms, purges—hey—in fine, 'tis everlasting Liquor—and shou'd be spoken of with reverence.

Fra.

Prithee what is't?

Tho.

Why 'faith—Old Sack.

Old Spirit stirring Oyly, reverend Sack—which, maugre any thing I can read yet, was the Philosopher's Stone The Wife King Ptolomy did all his Wonders by.

Fra.

Nay, I see no harm Sir—if drunk with moderation.

Tho.

Moderation!—Drink with Walnuts, Man, which I have ready here, and a Glass too; take me

Sits down on the Stage, and pulls out Walnuts—and a Glass.

without my tools, and hang me.

Hyl.

Pray, Sir, use temperance, You know your own state best.

Tho.

Temperance!—ugh, ugh—Pox on him, I had like to bin choak't with a Wall-nut-shell—by giving ear to his damn'd temperance.

Fra.

I thank thee, Iack—I shall be careful—Yet a Glass or two can do no harm, your Friend Tom is grown very sober.

Tho.

A fool, a fool, he minds nothing now

Speaks this as he is Cracking the Nuts.

but Jelly-broth a mornings, and Bulking Whores at Night—Never cares for good Company, Fiddles, nor Glasses now—a very Coxcomb, that's the truth on't.

Hyl.

Where the Devil are these Women all this while?

Tho.

No, no, take my Counsel, Franck,

Hang up your Julips, and your Portugal Possets, Your Barly Broths—and Sorrel Sops; I hate 'em—they are mangy and breed the scratches onely—I wonder she does not come all this while—Come Franck, here's to thee.

Fra.

With all my heart—and methinks I feel a strange alteration on the sudden—my pulse beats quick, and lively.

Hyl.

So long, and yet no bolting.

Peeping about.

Tho.

Ay, I knew 'twou'd come to that— my presence is a Never-failing Cordial to both Sexes; here, take this off thrice, and then cry Heigh, like a Huntsman, with a clear heart, and no more fits I warrant thee.

Enter Physitians, and Servants.

1. Phys.

Are the things ready? and is the Barber come?

Servant.

An hour ago, Sir?

2. Phys.

Bring out the Oyles, then.

Fra.

S'death—here agen!—Now, or never, Tom, do me a kindness, and deliver me.

Tho.

Deliver thee,—from whom?

Fra.

From these things that talk there, Physitians, Tom, Scouring-sticks, they mean to read upon me.

Tho.

I'll do't,—Come hither, Iack.

1 Phys.

We desire all to depart the Room, and no longer disturb the Patient.

Tho.

Strike in with me for your part, and let us play upon these Rogues a little—for Look ye Doctor, suppose the Devil were sick now—his horns saw'd off, and his head bound with a Biggen—sick of a Calenture taken by a Surfeit of stincking Soules at his Ne∣phews, and St. Dunstans, what wou'd you minister upon the sudden? Your Judgment short, and sound.

1. Phys.

A Fool's head.

Tho.

No, Sir,—it must be a Physitian, for three causes; the first, because it is a ball'd head likely—which will down easily without Apple pap.

3. Phys.

A main cause.

Tho.

So 'tis, and well consider'd,

The second Cause, 'tis fill'd with broken Greek, Sir,

Which will so tumble in his stomach, Doctor, and Jumble and work upon the Crudities, the Faeces, and the Fiddle-strings, conceive me Doctor, that of meer reason they must dis-imbogue.

Hyl.

Or meeting with the Stygian humour.

Tho.

Right, Sir.

Hyl.

Forc'd with a Cataplasme of Crackers.

Tho.

Ever.

Hyl.

Scour all before him, like a Scavenger.

Tho.

Satis fecisti Domine—my last Cause.

My last, and not my least, most Learned Doctors,

Because in most Physitians heads—I mean those that are most excel∣lent—and Old withal—and angry; I say, because in most Doctors heads, there is a kind of Toadstone Bread and Crust, Sir, — whose virtue—the Doctor being stript and laid upon a Grid-iron

2. Phys.

What's that, Sir!—a Grid-iron?

Tho.

A Grid-iron, Sir! the Learned hold it necessary, then by an Instrument of his own Barber, his Nose being slit, incis'd, his Mouth gagg'd open, and his most bawdy excremental Tongue—bray'd in a Mortar—to Powder—the Cure's infallible, Not to be question'd.

3. Phys.

Bless me! what stuff's here? Mad Sir! what mean you?

Tho.

Onely a Question—Nothing else—for say the belly ake caus'd by an Inundation of Pease Porridge.

1. Phys.

This is not civil.

Tho.

I think not—that's all one: Or grant the Diaphragma by a Rupture—

Hyl.

The Sign being then in the head of Capricorne.

Tho.

Meet with the Passion Hypocondriaca, and so cause a Carnosity in the Kidneys, must not the Brains being butter'd with this humour cause a Cathartique Motion? answer me that.

3. Phys.

What shall we answer ye? what shall I say? Ye are an Ass, will that satisfie ye?

Tho.

Out still—for the Ass is yours by your long Ears, your Nose too which I will pull thus into form, and take possession of a Sattin Cap to give your thick Skull, and your Brains more aire.

2. Phys.

Come, come, let's be gone Sirs, we are abus'd.

Tho.

No 'faith, not yet, but shall be in good time—then if my Ladies Dog be laxative, troubled with qualms, grumblings, Windy Cholicks, Doctor; are ye therefore to open the Port Vein, or the Port Esquiline? your answer quickly.

3. Phys.

I'll answer no more—farewel, Sir, the next Fit you have, Bedlam shall find a Salve for; we came to do you good, But these young Roarers it seems have bor'd our Noses.

1. Phys.

Drink hard, and get unwholsome Wenches, 'tis ten to one then we shall hear further from your note alter'd.

Exeunt.

Tho.

And wilt thou be gone, sayes one?

Hyl.

And wilt thou be gone, sayes t'other?

Tho.

Then take the odd Crown, to mend thy old Gown, And wee'l be all gone together.

Fra.

Ha, ha, ha,—most excellent Rogue, I love thee heartily for this.

Enter a Servant.

Servant.

Sir, the Young Ladie—sent me to see what Company ye had with ye—and whether they may make a Visit?

Fra.

Pray tell 'em, with all my heart—they'l much honour me in't—You see my Company.

Tho.

Come hither Crab—is not my Mistress one of 'em?

Servant.

Yes Sir.

Hyl.

And who else?

Servant.

Madam Sabina▪

Tho.

Oh—heark Sirrah, not a word of my being here; Take that, and Mum.

Servant.

You have ty'd my Tongue up, Sir.

Enter Valentine.

Val.

Ah—nay if you look so brisk, farewel the Fever, Friend.

Fra.

Nay, I am much better, thank my Dear Tom here.

Val.

The Game is ready to begin, your Mistress is coming.

Tho.

I know it, therefore sit still good Franck, and not a word of me till you hear from me—then as you find my humour, follow it. You two come with me, and let us stand close, unseen—I warrant thee I catch her.

Exeunt.

Enter Cellide and Sabina.

Sab.

How dee' Sir?

Fra.

The favour of this Visit from you, Madam, gives me strength to tell ye, That my Enemy has done his worst; I am growing well agen.

Cell.

I am glad to hear it—Were you ever sick before, Sir?

Fra.

Of Love, Madam, not else.

Cell.

Of Love? Alas! for ye—but you had good hopes of your side▪ You know 'twas no Epidemick distemper; for 'tis as impossible, a man shou'd dye by Love, as that he shou'd live by it—and either of these are Miracles this Climate never produces.

Tho.

within.

No, no—I have no hope, nor is it fit Friend—my life has been so lewd, my loose condition, which I repent too late, so abo∣minable, That nothing but despair stands now before me.

Cell.

Who's that, Sir—another Sick Man?

Tho.

In all my Courses shameless—disobedience.

Sabin.

Sure, I shou'd know his voice—Pray, Sir, who is't?

Fra.

One that you little thought to have seen in such a condition; 'Tis the Wild Monsieur.

Cell.

Who my Monsieur?—Monsieur Thomas? ha, ha, ha, this is some trick.

Fra.

You'l think better, when you see him—he was seiz'd yesterday with a strange distraction—a perfect madness.

Cell.

That's like enough—he has been seiz'd with that, ever since I knew him.

Fra.

Not in this Nature, Madam; he is now, since he came to himself, much afflicted in's mind—he came hither to ask pardon of me for some things done long since, which his distemper made to appear like wrongs; but 'twas not so.

Cell.

Sure that is not possible.

Fra.

Here he comes—Pray observe him.

Enter Thomas as distracted, Valentine, Hylas.

Hyl.

Come, Sir, be comforted.

Tho.

To what end, Gentlemen—when all is perish't upon a wrack. Is there a hope remaining, the Sea, that never knew sorrow shou'd be pitiful—my Comfort's gone, my Life has made me Wretched—Nor is it possible, were I to live Ten Ages, Ever to recall the least part of my Follies.

Val.

Oh you despair too much. Madam, you see his condition, One word from you may yet recover him.

Cell.

I know not what to do, nor what to think—I am amaz'd 'twixt pity and admiration.

Sabin.

If it be real, 'tis no Jesting matter; a Man is not so soon made, Cousin.

Tho.

What are these Ladyes?—I had a Sister once, a Virtuous Sister, But I abus'd her—poor Soul, I wrong'd her—a Mistress too, a Kind sweet Beauteous Mistress.

Val.

Now, Madam, now's your time; now he's talking of ye.

Cell.

I'll do any thing, rather than see him thus.

Tho.

I wrong'd her too—I sent her a damn'd Letter full of Oaths, Wrack't her poor Innocent Ears with Damms and Devils, Wo worth the time I did so.

Val.

Now, Madam, speak, or never.

Cell.

By Heaven, I will; ah little do you know how my heart bleeds for him.

Hyl.

Ha, ha, ha—she comes apace—the Rogue counterfeits rarely.

Tho.

Oh my fortune. But 'tis but Just I be despis'd and hated.

Val.

Despair not, 'tis not Manly—Now Madam.

Cell.

How dee' Sir? pray be comforted—give me your hand—you us'd to meet this kindness with more haste; I swear I pity ye.

Tho.

By Heaven 'tis she—oh goodness! not to be equall'd—let me thus low implore thy pardon; I have been wild and wicked, I con∣fess it, but ah dear Saint, consider on our frailties; Youth often wanders from the way, and—

Cell.

Indeed Sir, you shan' not kneel.

Tho.

Not kneel? oh name it not, my Crimes are many, and nothing but repentance, low repentance—Iack.

Hyl.

I, I mind ye—proceed and she's thy own, Boy.

Cell.

Nay then I'll kneel too—for I have faults too many, I shou'd beg your pardon too, all things consider'd.

Tho.

Precious—Dearest, Lovely—Charming—Ah,

Kisses her.

all my whole lifes service—cannot merit half, half this blessing.

Enter Launce, running.

Launce.

Where, where's my Master?—oh Sir—the Fidler, Sir, is not at leisure yet, but he will be about half an hour hence. But I have got Sir, according to your order, a couple of the finest Black fat Whores yonder—'gad the Jades do so tumble about—ha, ha—

both start.

Tho.

Damn'd Dogg—

Kicks him.

Cell.

How's this?

Hyl.

'S'death—this damn'd dull Rogue will spoil all—what, what's that you say, Sirrah? who wou'd you speak with, ha?

Tho.

Ay, an Impudent Dog, who wou'd he speak with?—here's no body here knowes him—Kick him out o' doors there.

Launce.

What, not know Launce?—I am Launce, Sir, and a Pox take me, if I have not two of as fine fat Whores as a man wou'd desire to lay his Leg over.

Cell.

Oh Heaven! I'm betray'd! and this was onely a design upon me. I find it now 'tis so, Cousin—oh I cou'd curse my self now for being so credulous—this was a Plot betwixt 'em, and now by chance discover'd; stand off, and touch me not, Base Fellow—Come, let's away—Farewel Sir, and when you are mad next—let your fat Whores administer.

Sab.

Ha, ha, ha—this was a pleasant Jest.

Exeunt.

Tho.

Come ye hither, Sirrah, and lay your head down on this Chair, I'll be merciful to ye—I'll onely cut your Ears and Nose off; Your head shall scape—doo't quickly, Rogue, or I will hew thee into Mammocks.

Launce.

Oh for Heavens sake, Sir, what mean ye? You know I did nothing but what you bid me.

Tho.

Ah—Insipid Whelp.

Fra.

Hang him, let him wear his Nose a little longer—'Twill spoyl the fashion of his face else.

Val.

Though 'twas unluckily, 'twas Ignorantly done, and let him live to make amends.

Tho.

Pox on't—when I had bent her like a twigg—brought her to my hand—made her quite sure, my own, with art and Industry, and to be bubbled of her in the very last moment, by the negligence of a Dog, a Hound, a Son of a Whore, a plague—Prithee Val, let me have but one pass through his Guts, and I'll forgive him.

Launce.

Oh Gentlemen, for heavens sake hold him—for my guts are so empty, that he may easily rip 'em open.

Hyl.

Come forgive him—the Rogue I dare swear did it out of meer Kindness.

Launce.

By my Eight Languages, and so I did—I was so overjoy'd to bring him the good News, that I never minded who was with him▪

Tho.

A Devil on't—this is alwayes my damn'd fortune, and I have still observ'd if a Fool be in a Family—where any Person has a design—if his Ignorance does not discover it, his ill fortune will—and that's as bad—Well, I am resolv'd she shan'not scape thus—I will have one more bout with her. You will not leave me, Gentlemen?

Val.

Not I 'faith; I will not miss the sport.

Hyl.

Nor I—but when shall it be?

Tho.

To Night at her Window in a Serenade.

Val.

With all our hearts—Franck, wou'd thou wer't well to go too.

Fra.

I know not, 'tis as I feel my self—but it may be I may venture, For I can walk I find.

Tho.

Go Dog, get you to my Father, and tell him my last Nights Ramble, I'll come and second ye; away—I shall get the Rogue this way a beating at the second hand.

Launce.

Yes, Sir. I am glad I'm got off so well; for I was damnably afraid of losing my Ears, and Nose. Well Sir, I'll go and carry the Whores to the same Bulk, where I found 'em, and then let 'em seek their fortune.

Exit.

Tho.

Sirrah, that shall be my task.

Come Friends, let's prepare for the business; till Night I am employ'd—but then I am for ye.

Exeunt.