Love's a lottery and a woman the prize with a new masque call'd Love and riches reconcil'd : as it was acted by His Majesties servants at the theatre in Lincolns-Inn-Fields.

SCENE 2.

Enter Maggot and Isbell.

Maggot.

I tell thee, Fool, I don't wonder to see thee look with scorn on all those noble Pieces I have shown thee; for thou art young, and conse∣quently, the contempt of every thing that bears the resemblance of Antiqui∣ty, is natural to thee.

Isbell.

Not always, Sir, for I have known a handsome young Lady of Sixteen, throw her self into the gouty Arms of Threescore and Ten, when his Medals have been of the right stamp—But, Sir, that which vex∣es me, is to see you ruin your Estate and Fortune, by purchasing the rub∣bish of sack'd Cities, and so disable your self of providing for a Figure of your own erecting, a young handsom Daughter; yet not so young neither, but, I promise you, 'tis more than time she were well dispos'd of.

Maggot.

What a walking Statue of Ignorance thou art! Why I tell thee, that any one of those exquisite Pieces which I have shewn thee, is of worth sufficient to Marry her to an Earl.

Isbell.

Yes, if she wanted only a gilded Frame for a Husband: But, alas! the Custom now a-days is, no Money, no Matrimony—You may talk of Cupid, and his Quiver, but 'tis the God of Riches makes the Match.

Maggot.

Go to then, Harken to me with attention, and I'le tell thee a Secret.

Isbell.

Lord, Sir! don't burthen me with your Secrets— I tell you before hand I can't keep 'em.

Maggot.

I'le put no constraint upon thee, Child, yet 'tis something that will please thee, and thou may'st tell it to all the World if thou wilt.

Isbell.

Well, well, what is't?

Maggot.

Why you must know, that I have set up a Lottery.

Isbell.

How! a Lottery! why I hope you are not mad, that you are go∣ing thus to expose all that y'are worth, to the figgaries of Fortune.

Maggot.

No, no, Child, only a few Trifles that lie dead upon my Hands, that's all.

Isbell.

And what's your highest Lot?

Maggot

Thy Mistress and my Daughter, with Five Thousand Pounds in ready Money, which I will raise by some hundreds of other Curiosities which I have, at Three Guinea's a Lot—Nay, and I intend to tack a Woman for a Wife to every one of my Lots; some Handsome, and some so so; some Wise, and some otherwise—'Tis no matter for their Conditions, nor their Honesty, for that's Hab-nab, as if the Choice were their own—I le take care indeed, that they be Water-tite, and Wind-tite, and able of Body, and that's all I need to care for.

Isbell

Now the Devil take you for putting my Mistress among your Old Trumpery—By this means, the next Scoundrel of a Drawer, or Foot-man that ventures his Three Guinea's, shall run away with her—Od's∣flesh! would any Cannibal of a Father but you, commit the well-being of an only Daughter, to be broke upon the Wheel of Fortune?

Maggot.

Ne're trouble thy Head, Girl; I have taken that care, and gi∣ven such Power to Clitander's Man Trick-well, that I have made all cock-sure, I warrant thee—but I lose time, bid thy Mistress, since she has such a mind to marry, prepare to be a Bride, while I go in and get every thing ready for drawing the Lottery.

[Exit. Maggot]

Isbell.

Hold, yonder comes Trick-well; I'le hear what he says—

Enter Trickwell like a Doctor, in a black Gown.

Trick-well, well met— Whither away so fast, Man? prithee stay, And tell me what thou think'st of the grand Affair, Between thy Master and my Mistress; Will it fadge or no?

Trick-well.

Why faith, Isbell, I can't tell, for Love without Money is like a Summer Pippin, 'twill never last.

Isbell.

Oh, but Mr. Maggot's Lottery will soon supply all those Defects.

Trick-well.

I tell thee, once again, Isbell, That Love is hot in the Fourth Degree, but cold in the Fifti'th; so that 'tis rank Poison, take it which way you will.

Isbell.

Well, but what dost think of the Lottery it self, I hear thou art to be the chief Manager of it?

Trick-well.

Why truly, Isbell, I am contriving all things for the best.

Isbell.

That is to say, thou art plotting some cursed piece of Knavery and Roguery or other.

Trick-well.

Alas, Isbell! Roguery and Knavery reign'd powerfully in the World before I came into it; but indeed I got a terrible itch of it when I

was young; and then as I grew up in Years, I became so desperately infect∣ed with it, that I was all over like a Leaper, by that time I was One-and-Twenty.

Isbell.

Methinks a Quick-silver Girdle might have cur'd thee.

Trick-well.

Alas! I tri'd, but I'gad it wrought a contrary effect in me, for the Mercury got into my Head, and made me ten times worse.

Isbell.

But hast thou no sense of Reputation or Conscience, when Trust and Confidence rely on thy Engagements?

Trick well.

Why truly, Isbell, now I think on't, I left my Conscience, one Night drunk, behind me in a Hackney Coach, and could never hear of it since.

Isbell.

Well, but I hope you don't intend to shark any of your Tricks upon me; thou know'st I'm to be flesh of thy flesh, and bone of thy bone, Man.

Trick-well.

No, no, Isbell, never fear: We Serving-Men have all our lucid intervals of Honesty.

Isbell.

Pray then have a care of the grand Lot, that it may fall right without Coz ning and Deceit.

Trick well.

Set thy Heart at rest, Girl, and bid thy Mistress depend upon me. In the mean time, I'le read thee a List of some of my Lotts, for I fore∣see that we shall tumble in Gold, Child.

Isbell.

Come on—Let's hear a little.

[Trick-well Reads]

A general List of Mr. Maggot's Lottery, carry'd on, and ma∣nag'd by Squire Trick-well.

Isbell.

Squire Trick-well! Marry come up.

Trick well.

Yes, why not, as well as the Hang-man—Well, but to the purpose—

[Reads]

Here is first, and Imprimis, a Camphire Shirt, with a Woman's Shift of the same; the one to mortify rampant Lust in young Fops and Fluttering Beau's, and the other to keep poor Maids honest whether they will or no.

Isbell.

Thou should'st have a Million of the hirts, but make Tinder of the Shift; for a Woman has no thanks that's Honest against her will. But come, go on.

[Trick-well Reads]

Trick.

An Enchanted Crystal, which, if look't into by a pure Virgin, or a Woman with Child, will resolve all Questions touching either Physick, Love, or News.

Isbell.

As for the Women with Child, they may look in your Crystal as long as they please, but let the Maids have a care what they do, for I war∣rant you here are a great many that pass muster in the Rolls of Honesty, but I'm afraid your Crystal wou d put some of em to the blush.

[Trickwell Reads.]

Trick.

Next, here's a Pint of that singular Ladies Milk, that never knew any Man but her own Husband, which perfectly Cur'd an Aegyptian King of his Blindness, when all the Women besides, in his Kingdom could not do it.

Isbell.

Pray send some of that Milk to those Princes that can't see their own Interest, that they may Wash and clear their Eyes—

Well, what's next?

[Trick-well Reads.]

Trick.

Why another Venetian Looking-glass, made by the only Artist of the World.

Isbell.

What's the Rarity of it?

[Trickwell Reads.]

Trick.

I'le tell you—In the first place, if a debauch'd Chamber-maid dres∣ses her self by this Looking-glass, she'll dream the Night following of Kissing her Lord, and making her Lady a She Cuckold; then to sodder her crackt Virginity, her kind Lord shall Marry her to his Chaplain, and he have the next Living that falls.

Isbell.

Very good.

[Trick-well Reads.]

Trick.

If a stale antiquated Court Lady looks on this Reflexion, she'll see her Old Face thro' her new Complexion.

Isbell.

Better still.

[Trick-well Reads.]

Trick.

An Usurer can't see his Conscience in't, nor a Scrivener his Ears.

Isbell.

That I believe.

[Trick-well Reads.]

Trick.

If a Citizen chance to peep into't, his Brow-Antlers will spread and fill the Glass—And lastly, if a Blind-man see his Face in't, 'tis a sign he'll recover his sight again.

Isbell.

What more, good Trick-well?

[Trick-well Reads.]

Trick.

Why an indifferent large Viol of the Quintessence of Skull, Chi mically drawn from Aristotle's Pericranium.

Isbell.

Prithee what is't good for?

Trick-well.

Oh! it has admirable Virtues, and very strange Operations, assure you.

Isbell.

What are they?

[Trick-well Reads]

Trick.

Why if you pour but four drops into a Country Attorny's Ear, they'l make him write true Latin—Three drops will fill the Capital of an Universi∣ty Gander—Indeed ha••f a Dram's enough for the terrestrial Head of a High Constable; and three Scruples and a half will more than fill the empty Num∣scull of a Biggotted-Banbury Brother.

Isbell.

Hast' any more?

[Trick-well Reads.]

Trick.

Yes, several sorts of Nonparelio Italian Gloves—There is one pair that will almost sit any Lawyer—They are made of an entire Load-stone, and have a very strange and powerful Vertue to draw Gold unto 'em—They were perfum'd with the Lavender Conscience of a damn'd Usurer, and will keep their Scent 'till wrangling and bawling have left Westwinster-Hall; they are seam'd with Indentures, by the Needle-work of Mortgage, and both topp'd and stiffn'd with a Noverint Universi, & caetera—I would wil∣lingly describe the Vertues of several other pair, but that 'tis against the Sta∣tute—Besides, few or none now a days need Gloves, by reason all our Beau's have Cordivant Hands—But do'st hear, Isbell, I dare not be too busie, for Truth oftentimes offends.

Isbell.

I wonder where Mr. Maggot pick'd up all these Antiquities and Ra∣rities? In my mind he had better have laid out his Money upon new Gowns for my Mistress.

Trick-well.

Vertue, Isbell, Vertue's the best Ornament for a young La∣dy.

Isbell.

How like a Fool you talk now— Will Vertue glitter at the Play-House? Will Vertue distinguish her at Church? Or Cloath her Nakedness?

Trick-well.

As good go naked behind as before, the Temptation's the same, and a Woman's never more acceptable to us Men, than when she's out of her Cloaths—But here comes my Master with Joy in his Eyes.

Enter Clitander with a Letter.

Clitander.

News, good News, Trick-well; good News, Isbell.

Trick-well.

Has your Worship found either the Philosopher's Stone, or a Phoenix's Nest?

Clitander.

Yes, both.

Trick-well.

Nay, then good News say I—I have been a long time starv∣ing upon single Tiff, and mouldy Cheese, but now I hope I shall revel in Frycassees and Marrow-Puddings—Troath, Master, when you have got your Estate, take my Advice; don't spend it in Whoring and Gameing, as most of our young Sparks do now a-days, but keep a good House, Master; let the Chimnies smoak.

Clitander.

Thou art too hasty, Trick-well—Tho' the Treasure is found, yet 'tis all contain'd in this Letter.

Trick-well.

Oh Sir! an Estate in a Letter, is like a Marchant's Cargo floating upon some distant Sea—I wish no Pyrate of a new forg'd Will may meet with it.

Clitander

Oh, but I am Heir at Law.

Trick-well.

That's nothing; if another sets up a new Title, and gives but double Fees, there are those that will toss your Estate in a Noncupative Blan∣ket from the Common-Pleas to the King's Bench, and thence to the Chancery, 'till they have shook it into a Consumption.

Clitander.

No fear of that, Trick-well—— Moreover, this Letter assures me, that my Uncle Lies drawing on, past hopes, quite given over, as they call it; And that my Aunt is almost in the same condition.

Trick-well.

Send 'em a good Deliverance! I mean from the Cares and Troubles of this World— I long to be weeping for 'em in Sack and Sugar— Five Hundred a Year will do very well, Sir.

Clitander.

Besides, there's sufficient lying by 'em, That will serve for the present— And I tell thee again and again, That My Uncle is surely going to Heaven.

Trick-well.

Or somewhere else—But that's no matter to you: I'm sure you young Heirs do so rejoice at the death of your Parents, and Rich Re∣lations, that 'tis no wonder your Estates are no better blest when you have 'em.

Clitander.

Prithee, good Trick-well, no more of thy Morality—I say that being thus assur'd as I am of my Uncle's Death, I am going to shew Mr. Maggot my Letter, and demand Amaranta for my Lot.

Trick-well.

You cannot make use of a more perswasive Argument— Mammon is the World's Idol— Old and Young—Ugly and Handsom— Prince and Peasant—nay, Spiritual and Temporal— All lie prostrate before it— But here's the mischief on't, you know Your Mistress is put among the other Lotts, and Another may chance to have her as soon as you.

Clitander.

Then I'me undone!

Oh Trick-well, where is that Name of Faithful Servant, thou hast so oft pro∣tested to me in this days Adventure?

Trick-well.

Why faith, Sir, I found it worn so thread bare in the Subscri∣ptions of damn'd complementing nonsensical Letters, that for my part, I was quite asham'd on't, and therefore flung it in the Fire—However I may chance to prove a Man of Honour for all this, still.

Clitander.

But didst thou not assure both Isbell and me, that Amaranta shou'd depend upon thee? Oh, most unfortunate of Men! or rather, most accurst of Fools, to trust the happiness of my Life with such a Bull-rush of Iniquity as this!

Trick-well.

Pray, Sir, lay not too much upon your poor Servant neither—Am I Lord of the Stars, that hardly understand an Almanack? You know, Sir, Wedlock and Hanging go by Destiny—How then can I prevent the Influences of the Seven Planets?

Clitander.

Oh Trick-well! Thy mean Soul was never yet acquainted with the noble Passion of Love.

Trick-well.

Yes, yes, I have been in Love up to the Ears; but my woo∣ing (thanks to Heav'n!) ne're cost me so much as one single blast; no, nor a Pearl of Salt-Water—She was as coming, as I was forward.

Isbell.

Was she so, Mr. Malapert? But she's quite off of you now again, I assure you—No Flesh-pots of Egypt, unless you prove as good as your word.

Trick-well.

Nay, then it shall ne're be said, That Trick-well is not a Man of Honour— Thou shalt see me lead Destiny in a string, As Old Maids do Apes in Hell— But harkee me, Sir, Destiny's an honest Old Gentleman, That love's a Cup of good Conversation.

Clitander.

Oh, I understand thee— Thou woud'st have something to drink With thy Friend Destiny, as thou call'st him— There, there's Gold for thee, go and treat him handsomely.

[gives him Money.]

Trick-well.

Ay marry, Sir! This will do— These are the little Circumferences, that Incircle all the Temptations of Satan. Cou'd a Man but wean himself from these Provocations, There might be some probability, of his Forsaking the Devil and all his Works— But then again, Why is the hunger of Gold call'd sacred?— The Devil and Sacred, are two incompatible opposites— And yet I'm sure 'tis sacred, because Priests of all Religions love it, And they are my Guides—— Well, Sir, I'le go drink your health, And then consider what's to be done.

[Exit Trick-well.

Isbell.

And I'le to my Mistress, and Tell her the good News of your Uncle's dying.

[Exit Isbell.]

Clitander.

I'le be with you instantly.

[Exit. Clitander.