Love in the dark, or, The man of bus'ness a comedy : acted at the Theatre Royal by His Majesties servants / written by Sir Francis Fane, Junior, Knight of the Bath.

The SCENE, the Doge's Palace, with the same Furniture as before.

Sforza walking in it with his veil'd Mistress.

Sfor.

Bless me, great Gods, what do I see, my glorious Prison! the very same Room, the same Furniture, and the same Guards in Masks!

The Princess unveils, and he falls on his knees.

Oh Heavens, the self-same person!

Parh.

What, will you yet adore your shame-fac'd Idol? (Sure she's an Angel, 'cause invisible) Or must I force you once again?

Drollingly,

Sfor.

Mysterious Goddess, Blame not my disobedience, mis-led by duty. I'm yours by such a cloud of Titles, that I'm lost in't:

Slave to your Beauty, Subject to your Wit, And Captive to your Power, but as wise Princes Who conquer Kingdoms, though by Law their own, Claim by the Sword as the sublimest tenure, And scorn all other wrangling competitions: So let me be the Vassal of your greatness; (Though Wit and Beauty, Empires without Arms, Chain me too fast) kept in material Shackles; And in the meanest Drudgeries employ'd, Where I may view my Tyrants glorious Image.

Parh.

I'll not mistrust your Virtue, nor my Charms; Your constancy has made me value both; Nor call him Captive that's invincible: Love's no Usurper, but a Natural Prince; So good, he needs no Laws nor Customs to Restrain him; nor to protect him, Arms: Harmless with Forces irresistible; Invulnerable with naked Innocence. Then you shall be my Prisoner, but at large; Confin'd from nothing Love invites you to

Sfor.

And Honor shall be judge what Love shall do.

Enter Cornanti leading Aurana, and Trivultio leading Bellinganna.

Corn.

A jolly company y'faith, if we had the Fiddles.

Walks about Singing.

Parh.

What, broke loose again, Cousin?

Aur.

Pray, Madam, how came you to hear of my escape?

Parh.

Oh, my Consin Bellinganna and I, have kept a con∣stant correspondence. Well, Count, that you may not be mi∣serable alone, here are some other fellow-Prisoners to Ma∣trimony.

Sfor.

If happiness may be increas'd by participation, or if I can receive any addition to what I have already, it is to see my friend Trivultio so.

Triv.

Thanks, dear Count.

Sfor.

But, Madam, one doubt remains yet unresolv'd; Who were your Angels, and who your Ghosts?

Parh.

These were my Ghosts:

Pointing to her Guards.

And these my Angels.

Pointing to her Women and Pages.

Cor.

I have a pretty crochet just now come into my Head: Yonder

Parhelia and Bellin∣ganna talk together.

Trivultio, o'my conscience, is very ho∣nest, and would not cuckold me, if he might; and my Wife's a Woman of Honor: I have try'd 'em both; therefore will I cuckold him. Ah quil est doux de faire, son cher amy Cocu. Come hither pretty Soul, I do intend to make Trivultio my Heir: will you give me leave to visit you, when your Husband's from home?

Aur.

'Twill be the greater favor, Sir, that you will own me in his absence.

Cor.

So, so; Done and Done; as plain as up and ride. Look how the poor fellows looks at me! As jea∣lous

Triv. and Bell. pry at him, and counter∣feit a jealousie.

as a Goose! And my Wife too! I, Sir, if you knew how near you were being a Cuckold!

(Laughs.)

How sneakingly a man looks that's jea∣lous!

(Aside.)

But, me thinks the Rogue begins to look a squint at me.

Triv.

I'll fright him a little. Hark you, Sir, do you endea∣vour to corrupt my Mistress?

Angrily.

Cor.

'Slife, what shall I say? Thy Mistress! not for a world? I'm not such a Rogue. Make a Whore of her I intend shall bring Heirs to my Family!

Triv.

It seems you intend to get 'em your self. Come, come, Sir; 'tis no jesting matter; I over-heard you.

Cor.

Ha, ha, he. Was it not fit for me to try whether she were honest, or no? Thou shouldst never have had her else: my Son and Heir marry a Whore! I'de see her burnt first. If it had been any other Woman, I had been in earnest, la.

Triv.

Was it only so? I'm satisfy'd.

Cor.

Oh, are you so? There's wit for you, at a dead pinch, la! Poor easy Milk-sop, that shan't serve thy turn. Thou art already Listed and Inroll'd Into the Honorable Society.

Corna, Corna, Corna chi vuol hauer di Corna

Sings.

Hark thee, Trivultio, I have forty thousand Crowns to spare; let me see, how many Whores will that make?

Triv.

Faith, Sir, I want Arithmetick to count 'em. Shall I reckon by Julio's, or Halfe Crowns?

Cor.

Halfe Crowns. A good Market-rate. Let me see, about eight hundred thousand of 'em. That's all. I have a project, that every one of these Women shall bear me two Male Chil∣dren at a birth every year: so that about twenty years hence, I shall be able to bring every year a fresh Army of Sixteen hundred thousand fighting Men into the Field, out of my own Loyns, Boy. The old Patriarchs were Asses to me: poor impotent broken-belly'd Fumblers.

Triv.

But, at this rate, you must get more Children in a night than Hercules.

Cor.

Hercules! Why, Hercules never eat French Pottage, nor Jelly, nor Champignons. A poor Carret-eating Rogue! I'll have all the Cordials and Elixirs, that Nature treasures up for the industrious, payd by the rich. My Physitians shall study nothing else but the Art of Procreation; I'll have none but those that can turn all Nerves into Bones, and all Meat into Marrow.

Triv.

Right, Sir. You shall have all the three Concoctions in a minute, and the time gain'd from them shall be employ'd to lengthen Generation.

Enter Visconti with Melinda; Visconti, in his French Habit, stuck with Pistols, and a Musquetoon at's back.

Parh.

Well escap'd, Madam. I see you're as good as your word.

Mel.

Oh, Madam, I am as it were at home, under the wings of my Tutor here.

Visc.

And, Begar, me vil now teche you de finest leson in de vol vorld.

Mel.

No other Lesson, Mounsieur, but the French Song:

Sings a ridiculous French Song.

Cor.

What the Devil's this fellow that Melind has got?

Visc.

Me be de Exant of de Guard to de Princesse: vat is dat to you?

Cor.

Ex:ang, with a pox to't! what's that?

Aside.

Good Mr. Exang be patient.—

Turns his Head always at the word Exang, and laughs, for fear the other should see him.

Visc.

Do you laughé at me?

Cor.

Pray excuse me, Sir; 'tis new word I had not heard before, a fine word: but I honor your Person as much as any man living, good Mr. Ex∣ang.

Turns his Head and laughs.

Sfor.

We shall have some Blood-shed by and by, between these two Heroes.

Cor.

If I might be hang'd, I cannot forbear talking to him Hark you, Mounsieur Exang,—

(Turns his Head and laughs.)

are not you some Dancing-Master, or some such kind of fel∣low? pray throw off your fighting Tools a little, and teach me a Corante.

Walking about, and singing.

Visc.

Me Dancing-Metre! Begar you lye in de troate; me corn dat. Me Metre Dance?

Cor.

What are you then? a Fencing-Master? will you teach me the Stocade? the Sa, Sa?

Visc.

Morbleu: de affront to de Noblesse. Me no Metre-Dance, Metre-Fence, no Artizan, no Burgeois, no Fout-man. Me be Gentil homme. You be de Son of de Whore, and de Beech, and de Kishen Wench, to say so: me marry dis Lady de grand kalité. Me vil have satisfacseeon.

Triv.

'Slife, what have you done? The Frenchmen are all Gentlemen abroad, unless their Cloaths disprove 'em. The Ladies never question it. We shall have a Challenge present∣ly: will you please to accept of me for a Second?

Cor.

No, no; I hope, no need of that.

Trembling.

Visc.

Me Bourgeois! Me Roturier! Me Metre Dance!

Walking angrily.

Cor.

I did not care neither, but that I strain'd my Arm t'o∣ther day, fighting with the Watch: I can hardly stretch it out. And you know the chief Thrust lies in the Allongee. I hate to kill a man by halves.

A Dance; in the middle of which, Enter Parson.

Bell.

Come, come, we lose time: are you ready to be married?

To the work presently, Mr. Parson.

The three Couples joyn hands, Sforza and Parhelia; Visconti and Melinda; Trivultio and Aurana. A great noise without. (stand off, stand off; Tray∣tors, Traytors.) Clashing of Swords, the Women squeak.

Parh.

Oh Lord, we are undone! who would have thought. of any bodies coming here at this time?

Aur.

Heaven defend us.

Visc.

Que Diable est sa!

Triv.

Have a good Heart, man, 'tis nothing.

Cornanti trembles.

Cor.

Sayst thou so, Boy? Some frolick I warrant you.

Some of the Vizarded Men, are upon the Stage, others come running in. Enter the Doge and the Procura∣tors, the Yeomen of the Guard going before.

Doge.

Seize on the Conspirators.

Yeomem.

Deliver, deliver.

They seize 'em.

Doge.

If I had not come hither by accident, contrary to my custom, what a scandal had I layn under!

Bless me! my Daughter!

Parh.

I humbly beg your Highness pardon: 'twas but harmless mirth.

Doge.

With Arm'd Men in Vizards? and in my Palace too, To wound my Servants, and oppose my Entrance? I grieve at the dishonor of my spotless Race.

Hir.

Just Heaven, my Daughter with her hair-brain'd Gallant so soon again! Oh the wandring Whore!

Grim.

And mine too with her sharking Frenchman! You Pow'rs above, why am I not struck blind? Degenerate Strumpet, couldst thou find none to make Thy Paramour, but this poor Mushroom?

Visc.

Begar, me corn your word: me no Mushroom, no Stool-toad.

Grim.

If you be his Wife, you shall soon be Widow: I'll have our French Cock roasted alive, with his Gizards and Sausages about him there.

Mel.

Oh Lord!

Doge.

I'm sorry Sir, to find you here, after so late an Ho∣nor given by the Senate.

Sfor.

Sir, you will find Ingratitude a stranger to my thoughts.

Doge.

A Parson too? The Trumpet of Rebellion! But, what ranting modish Gentleman's that?

Sfor.

'Tis old Signior Cornanti in disguise.

Cor.

No, 'tis false, Sir, 'tis young Signior Cornanti.

Hir.

How have I been abus'd then.

Doge.

The Metamorphosis!

Cor.

What, you're but in jest, Cousin! 'will you never ha done? you'll fright the poor Wenches out of their little wits.

Grim.

'Twill prove a sad jest, good Mounsieur.

Cor.

Come, come, what a pox, this'll not pass. Ha, ha, he. Do you think to make a fool of me too? How you leer now! Do you think, if there had been any Treason in't, I, as a Se∣nator, would not have discover'd it? Have not I as great a love for the Commonwealth, as your self, Sir?—Hark you, Sir, have you found out a Buona-roba for me yet?

To Hircanio.

Doge.

This Gentleman's strangely alter'd, from a penurious Melancholly, to an exorbitant gayety. Sure he counterfeits.

Hir.

No doubt on't, Sir,—I know this poor fellow's folly; but let him be hang'd however, that he may tell no tales.

Aside.

Cor.

Trivultio, dost thou see how finely they act their Parts! as if it were a Stage-Play.

Doge.

I cannot guess what this design may be. These two are Subjects of the King of Spain.

Hir.

The Case is plain, these strangers have design'd To whore our Daughter, cut our Throats, and put A Spanish Yoak upon this free-born State. I hear there's an Army ready, marching from Milan: 'Tis no time to think, Sir.

Now, with this lye, will I come even with my Daughter's Ravisher, and my happy Rival though she hang for't too, no matter.

Aside.

Sfor.

Great Gods, assert our innocence,

Doge.

Gentlemen, this is no time time to defend your selves, The danger urges. I must speedily Provide for the safety of the Republick.

Visconti slips away.

Guards look to the Prisoners, and keep 'em all in several Rooms, with a Guard to each, that there may be no contri∣ving, or packing of sett Tales. And you, Tipstaves, let the Council of Forty be Assembled immediately; and let the Pope's Legate, Cardinal Colonna, though he arriv'd here but last night, and has not yet appear'd in publick, be desir'd to attend the Senate, in case of Ecclesiastical Censure, upon the lesser Offendors of this numerous Riot:

That our neglect, Posterity condemn not, Nor the least Wheel in this rare Frame be shaken, Though to the ruine of our private Houses.

Exit.

Hir.

Look especially to this wild Traytor Trivultio.

1 Gua.

I'll warrant you, Sir.

Exit with Triv.

2 Gua.

What's become of the Frenchman?

3 Gua.

I believe he's run away.

2 Gua.

That's like 'em.

Exit.

Cor.

What a pox means this? Hark you, Ladies, if they should be in sober sadness after all, 'twould vex one.

Parh.

'Tis too true, Cousin.

Cor.

Pox o'these grave fellows, there's more malice in one of 'em, than in twenty of us young merry scabs.

3 Gua.

Come away, Sir, do you rail at his Highness?

Cor.

What, I warrant you, you're in good earnest, are you, you'll be hang'd as soon.

3 Gua.

I'll try that.

Takes him.

Cor.

Nay, prithee good Beef-eater, stay a little; prythee, prythee.

3 Gua.

Come aloft, Sir.

The great fellow tucks him under his arm, and goes out with his heels foremost.

Cor.

Do you know who I am? A Senator, a Senator, a Senator,

Kicks and strugles. Exeunt Guarded.