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.

ACT II. (Book 2)

SCENE 1.

Enter Amaranta and Isbell.

Ama.

WILL Clitander be here, say'st thou?

Isbell.

Yes, Madam, immediately— Lord! what makes you so melancholy? Come, I'le sing you a new Song of my own making, To divert you 'till he comes.

Ama.

Prithee, Isbell, how long hast thou been a Poetess?

Isbell.

Oh, Madam, I love to be in the Mode— Female Poets are now in Fashion.

Ama.

Come, then, let's hear thy Song.

Isbell.

You shall.

A New SONG,

set by Mr. Akeroyde, and Sung by Mrs. Willis.

LOving, and belov'd again! How terrible are our pains, To live under the Roof, Of a Father's Reproof, Like so many Slaves in Chains? Yet Parent Nature, well we know, Freedom in Love allows to every Creature; What Duty then do we to Parents owe, Who break the Laws of their grand Parent, Nature.

''They all forget, ''Their youthful Heat;

''And when grown old, ''Think us as cold: ''But let 'em forget, and doat on, ''By their senseless Morals betray'd, ''For when all their Tittle-tattle is done, '''Tis Nature must be obey'd.

Enter Clitander.

Clitander.

So, Madam, I'me glad to hear you so merry.

Ama.

Alas! I was afraid it had been some body else.

Isbel.

No, no; Y'are safe enough from being surpriz'd, As long as Love is your Guard.

Ama.

But dost thou not consider, Isbell, That Love is blind; So that there is no trusting to his Watch— However I'le trust in Heaven, I or they say, all Marriages are made there.

Isbell.

Yes, all but a Thousand for one that the Devil makes.

Ama.

But is there no Faith in Man? Has not my Father and Trick-well both assur'd us—

Isbell.

Troth, Madam, you are like the Man that believ'd himself no Cuck∣old, because his Wife said so—But were my Case as yours, I'de trust neither Father nor Mother, Brother nor Sister, Uncle nor Aunt; no, nor ne're a Trick-well, or Lottery in the World—I'de make sure of the main chance, Marry the Man I like, and take my pleasure, and then trust Fortune, as Usurers do their Debtors—Poor Souls! 'tis a hard case when two Lo∣vers lie Parent-bound—But I'le e'en leave 'em together; perhaps, when they're alone they may take one another's Word.

[Exit. Isbell.]

Ama.

Well, Clitander, I have discours'd my Father since I saw you, and he's mightily pleas'd to hear your Uncle lies a dying.

Clitander.

Ay, ay: Your Father's like all the rest of the World; now he smells an Estate, he's willing I shou'd have his Daughter—As if 'twere not better to Marry his Daughter to an honest reclaim'd Gentleman with a small Estate, rather than to a Wild extravagant Spark with a great one; that is resolv'd to sell all he has; and so the poor Wife comes home again to earn her living by stitching to the Sempstresses shops. The remembrance of a short plenty, is but a light weight to ballance the suffering of a long Life in penury and want.

Enter a Servant.

Serv.

Madam, Mr. Flash is come to wait upon you.

Amaranta.

Say, I'me not within.

Clitander.

Oh, he'll divert your Melancholly— Pray admit him.

[Exit. Servant.]

Enter Mr. Flash and his Boy.

Flash.

Madam, your most humble Servant! The Learned say, that all our Words, are to Our Thoughts, but as the Cork is to the Bottle— As the Wine can't be sill'd out, 'till the Cork Is pull'd out, so neither can our Thoughts, 'Till the Mouth opens— And so, as if a Man should say, with a whip And a jerk, and so forth; I'm come to give you the honour of my Company, And to chat a while of things of profundity— By the way, Madam, you must know, That I slept bolt upright in my Bed Last Night, for fear of the Fleas.

Amaranta.

Bid him strew his Sheets with Bay-Salt.

[Aside to Clitander.

Flash.

D'ye talk of me, Madam?

Amaranta.

By no means, Sir, The incivility would be unparallel'd.

Flash.

I'me sorry for't, for I love to be talk'd of— I'me more plagu'd to make my self talk'd of, Than I am to speak like Cicero, or Demosthenes— I'gad, I'de be contented to be hang'd for a Plotter, So I might but be talk'd of.

Amaranta.

'Tis your modesty, Sir, to say so; for I assure you, the whole Town rings of you, as if you were the unknown Author of the whole Duty of Man.

Flash.

Pshaw, Pshaw, Madam, naw, naw, 'tis your pleasure to say so, Ma∣dam, but let that pass—

Troth this is a very pretty House— I swear I saw just such another, when I was at Rome— Was it built in this City, Madam?

Amaranta.

No, sure, I believe 'twas sent by the Post.

Flash.

I'le warrant it made the Courier sweat to bring it— But what Man would not sweat to serve Such a Lady as you are, Madam!

Amaranta.

Oh, Mr. Flash! I find you're a Courtier.

Flash.

a Courtier, Madam, Yes, to my very Sword Knot—— This Ribbond I bespoke, Madam, and I desie both The Universities to invent me such another Motto— Imperial, Aerial, and Aethereal—— Only three Words, Madam, comprehending all The Perfections of the Female Sex— Imperial, to shew the grandeur of their Authority—

Aerial, to denote the variety and sublimity of their Inclinations; and Aethe∣rial, to signifie the Beauty and Graces, both of their Minds and Bodies.

Clitander.

Most superlative indeed, Sir!

Flash.

Ay, Sir, you have Fancy, For I find you apprehend me— And so do you too, Madam, don't you?

Amaranta.

Yes, yes, Sir.

Flash.

I thought so; but let that pass— Pray, Madam, was not that your Picture I saw in one of the Rooms, as I past along?

Amaranta.

Not unlikely, Sir.

Flash.

By all the Honour of my Ancestors, The Painter has out-done Apelles. I shou'd have known you in the dark, Tho' I had ne're seen you before— I'le send for him, he shall draw me reading with a loud voice, And my Foot-man standing within call, At a Corner of the Room, where he mayn't be seen— Your Painters now a-days have no Invention.

Amaranta.

Alas, poor Fellows! they mind Nothing, Sir, but the stroaks of their Pencils.

Flash.

Now you talk of Pencils, Madam, Pray, what think you of the times?

Amaranta.

I never mind 'em, Sir; Pray, what are your Sentiments of 'em?

Flash.

Why Faith, Madam, the World's turn'd Topsy-turvy— The Women wear the Breeches, and the Men the Muffs— And then in the State— All things off the Hinges— The great Thieves, and the rich Rogues, they escape, But the little and poor ones, they are surely hang'd— Candles rise, and Soap rises—

I find that by my Landladies Bill— Were I at the Helm— But enough of this World, I'm almost weary of it—— Pray, what think you of the other World, Madam?

Amaranta.

Which of 'em, Sir, there are two?

Flash.

I mean the lower World, Madam, To which most Men now a-days pay their greatest Devotion.

Clitander.

How, Sir!

Flash.

No such wonder, Sir, For where one Man desires Heav'n to bless him, You shall hear a Thousand cry, the Devil setch 'em— But here come's a Friend of mine, I must needs go and salute him.

Clitander.

Uncivil Blockhead!

Enter Mr. Finical, and his Boy.

Flash.

Dear Mr. Finical! Your most obsequious, very humble Servant! What are you come to augment the number of the Virtuosi?

Finical.

I am come, Sir, but as your shadow, To make the lustre of your worth appear more glorious.

Flash.

Lord, Sir! what d'you mean? My Worth! is it for me to pretend To Worth, or Gallantry, in your presence?

Finical.

Nay, pray Sir!

Flash.

I beseech you, Sir!

Finical.

By no means, Sir.

Flash.

I protest, you make me blush.

[After these ridiculous strivings to give each other the upper∣hand, Finical adresses himself to Amaranta.

Finical.

Madam, this Gentleman's kindness and civility, Had like to have made me forget my Duty, which now I pay to your Perfections with a prostrate Devotion.

Amaranta.

Oh Sir, you soar too high a Flight for me.

Finical.

Madam, 'tis more than I dare attempt, Lest the Rays of your Beauty should melt the Wings of my Fancy, And drop me into an utter oblivion of my self.

Ama.

I shall think the better of my self, Sir, For the value which you put upon me.

Finical.

Madam, your humble Servant— I am just come, Madam, from a rich Farmer's House in the Country, who had No reason to repent of my company—— He told me, that one of the choicest pieces Of Ground which he had, was so infested

With Moles, that 'twas almost spoil'd— Presently, out of the quickness of my apprehension, I bid him pave it with Free-stone.

Ama.

How, Sir! so young, and so sharp-witted! Surely, Sir, you must have been a great reader of Books.

Fini.

A reader of Books, Madam? Yes Madam, I have read a hundred Thousand in my time— But very few pleas'd me— A man must have a great Genius that reads Books— But, Madam, I study Men as well as Books.

Ama.

And Moles too—

Fini.

Moles and Men, Madam, are the same thing— They both work under-ground; And truly Men of late, have cast up so many Hillocks of Disputes and Controversies, As have almost defac'd the surface of the Earth.

Ama.

Why then, I think 'twould be the best way, To pave the whole World with Free-stone.

Fini

Madam, I swear you are so ingenious, And take a man up so quick at the first rebound, that—

Flash.

Lord, Madam, I find you don't know this Gentleman— Why he's a large Folio of himself, bound up in Calves Leather, and gilt o'th' edges.

Fini.

This Mr. Flash, Madam, will have his Jests— But I never take any exceptions at what he says, By reason he gives such an admirable Tour to all his Expressions.

Flash.

Sir, you do me too much honour, I protest— But let that pass—— That Copy of Verses you made upon your Mistresses Needle-case, Was so sharp, and so well sown together, That I never heard any thing like it— But here comes Mr. Brush-beard the Philosopher—— Bless me! What a strange Figure he is?

Enter Brush-beard.

By the Ghost of Solon, I'le embrace him, Were he as ugly as Socrates. Worthy Sir—

Brush-beard

Friend, when you salute a Philosopher, You ought to do it in form, as thus— Every Learned Philosopher merits Honour, there's the major; Now, you Mr. Brush-beard are a Learned Philosopher, There's the minor; therefore you deserv'd To be honour'd, there's the Conclusion.

Flash.

I don't mind your Majors nor Minors— I only say that——

Brush.

You only say, Sir—

Flash.

Lord, Sir, Won't you give me leave to speak my speech out?

Brush.

No, Sir, not 'till your turn comes.

Flash.

Then, venerable Sir, I beg your pardon For this interruption; therefore pray proceed, And enrich us with the Treasures of your profound Knowledge.

Brush.

You dont mind Majors nor Minors— Go to then, y'are a Fool— Your true Philosophers mind little or nothing else.

Fini.

Nay, 'tis most certain, that you Philosophers Lead the most delicious lives in the World, for You are always handling the Secrets of Nature.

Brush.

Right——

And was it not a most stupendious Invention, to make a Saddle amble upon the back of a trotting Horse? And was it not, moreover, most transcendent∣ly found out, to tap both sides of a Man's Ribbs, and whilst his own Blood spun out of one side, to infuse a Rivolet of sheeps Blood into the other? A miraculous supply of Natures vacuum! And all this, that a Man might never want any other Cloathing, than the Wool of his own growth.

Clitander.

Miraculous indeed, Sir!

Brush.

Pshaw, This is nothing—

I my self, by computing the Mites in the Liver of a Cod-fish, found out the full number of all the Men, Women, and Children, alive at one time in the World.

Flash.

Prodigious!

Brush.

Then again,

I never measure things by Inches and Feet as the vulgar, but by something ex∣traordinary! as the skips of a Flea—

As for Example, instead of saying England is so many Miles long or broad, I only say, England is so many skips of a Flea broad or long.

Fini.

With submission to your profound Learning, How may a Man know how far a Flea skips?

Brush.

Th'art a meer Boy— I'le tell you, rowl but a quantity of soft Wax, As thin as a sheet of Paper, and as large as a Beau's Cravat, then let a Flea loose upon't, And your Compasses will tell you.

Flash.

Oh, the sublimities of Philosophical Contemplations!

Brush.

Then there's Cheese— Some Men love it, and some Men hate it— Now I have div'd into the nature of Cheese

Clitander.

And, pray Sir, what are your sentiments of it?

Brush.

Why they that hate it, suck'd fowre Milk from Their Nurses; that's the Philosophical reason of it— They that love it— Let me see— They that love it— But stay, who's this coming to disturb us?

Ama.

A Friend of my Fathers, Sir, as you are, That comes to look after his Lot.

Enter Doctor Non-such.

Dr. Non.

Madam, and Gentlemen, I am your's most obsequiously— May the Fortune of this Days Adventure, Prove as propiticus to ye all, as the humblest Of your Admirers, and Servants does heartily wish.

Ama.

Ch Doctor, you exceed in Gallantry, As far as you transcend in Learning and Eminency, The rest of your wise Metaphysical College.

Doctor.

Madam, I am yours eternally.

Clitander.

Who is this, I pray, Madam?

Ama.

Don't you know him?— He's the wonder of our Age, I assure you— He's call'd Dr. Non-such—

He sets up, and pretends to be a Licens'd Physician, but is, at the best, but an Impudent Mountebank—You'l hear presently by his Rodomontades, what he is.

Doctor.

Gentlemen, I find you don't know me—'Tis very strange ye shou'd not have heard of the Never born Doctor—Nay, 'tis very true, I assure ye; for I was dissected from my Mother's Womb, and commenced Do∣ctor before I came into the World—My Art and Experience, since that, has stretch'd my Fame throughout the wide Universe, especially in China, where I perform'd a very strange and wonderful Operation indeed—Which was this, a certain Emperour that was newly dead when I came there—What d'ye call him? Let me see—. Pugh, I can't think of his Name now—. He that I did the great Cure on that I told you of just now—Ye have all hear'd on't I'me sure.

Clitander.

Well, Sir, and what of him?

Doctor.

Why I took his Head that had been sever'd from his Body, and buryed a whole Fortnight, and set it on his Shoulders again, and made him as brisk and lively, as e're I saw him in all my life—

And yet to think that I should n't remember his Name— Oh, I have it now—

Prester John:

Ay, ay, a Pox on't, Prester John, 'twas he i'faith—I might have had his Daughter, if I had not been a Fool, and have liv d like a Prince all the Days of my Life—Nay, perhaps I might have inherited the Crown after his Death—But a pox on't, her Lips were too thick for me—And that I should n't think of Prester John!

Omnes.

Most Prodigious!

Doctor.

Ay, ay, Gentlemen, I have done Cures beyond Sea that won't be believ'd in England.

Clitander.

Very likely, Sir, and Cures in England that won't be believ'd beyond Sea, nor here perhaps neither; for, in this respect, half the World are Insidels.

Doctor.

The Great Turk can witness the truth of what I say, tho'; for I'm sure the Eyes that he has in his Head, are of my making.

Clitander.

Then he was an Eye witness— But I hope he wears Spectacles.

Doctor.

Why, you won't believe it, but I'le tell you, Gentlemen, and 'tis matter of fact, I cur'd the late King of Poland's Uncle of a Wart on his Nose, as big as a Turky-Egg; and Bethlem Gaber of a Ring-worm.

Flash.

The one with raw Beef, and the other with some of Harbins's Roy∣al shining Ink, I suppose.

Doctor.

Pox of your Old Wives Receipts and Medicins; the worst of my Ingredients is an Unicorn's Horn, or a Bezar's stone—

Raw Beef and Harbins's Ink, quotha.

Finical.

No, no, such a wonderful, a wonderful Cure, cou'd not have been done without Green sawce, or an Oat-meal Poultice at least.

Doctor.

In the last Siege of Namur, I gave a certain French Lady that the Governour had a particular kindness for, an admirable Receipt, to keep her Linnen from being Animated, tho' she didn't shift her self for a whole Twelve-month.

Brush.

Believe me, Sir, And that was beyond Scoggin's Fleas.

Doctor.

Why, Sir, there was never a Man in all the Kingdom of Fez, or Morocco, either French, Spanish, or Italian Doctors, but my self, that wou'd, or durst undertake to cure that Emperour of his Corns; but I did, and after that, I drank a Health to him.

Ama.

Oh happy Man! That has confer'd Notes with the King of Morocco.

Doctor.

Alas, Madam, this is nothing— I have eat and drank with the Pope and all his Cardinals.

Ama.

Indeed, Sir?

Doctor.

Yes, indeed; And they have been very fond and proud of my Company, And so have many Kings and Princes besides.

Ama.

No doubt on't, Sir!

Doctor.

Why I'le tell you, Gentlemen, what I did, A far greater Wonder than any of these—

As I was travelling with a dear Friend of mine in the Canibal's Country, un∣fortunately one Day we lost Company—Well, a while after I happen'd to fall into the hands of about Threescore or Fourscore devouring Monsters, that were feeding on my Friends Body; in short, they had eaten the better half of him—Well, you must needs imagine that I was not a little con∣cern'd at his misfortune (or rather mine) having lost so dear and worthy a Companion—Now, what did me I, but immediately bethought me of a Powder that I had about me—I put it into their Wine, which they had no sooner drunk of, but they presently disgorg'd their Stomachs, and fell asleep—I watched my opportunity, and with all dexterity, gather'd up the miserable morsels of my Friend, and plac'd 'em together—And upon my word, in less than half an hour, I restor'd him to as perfect Life, Health and Strength, as e're I saw him since I was born, and if he were here now, he'd tell ye the same.

Omnes.

Most amazing!

Clitander.

Unheard of Prodigy!

Doctor.

Ay, ay, I can tell you a thousand times more than all this.

Clitander.

That you can, I dare swear, And all as much Truth as what we have heard already.

Doctor.

You're in the right, 'tis so— But another time shall serve; Sufficit quod super est, say the Learned, that is to say, Enough's as good as a Feast.

Enter a Servant.

Servant.

Madam, my Master desires the Company to come into the Hall, where they are beginning to draw the Lottery.

Ama.

Come, Gentlemen, I'le show ye the way.

Omnes.

We'll wait on you, Madam.

[Exeunt.