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 1. The Town.

Enter Trick-well and Isbell.

Trick.

FAITH, Isbel, I'm afraid I shan't answer my Master's Expectations.

Isbell.

How, Man! Why you have promis'd him so sincerely, And sworn to him so solemnly, that should you Not be as good as your word, you'd perjure your self In the Court of your own Conscience.

Trick.

That's true; But the Court of my Conscience is no Court of Record; And you know, Isbell, 'tis such a delicious thing To be counted a rich Rogue, and be out of the reach of the Law, That I'm in a great quandary.

Isbell.

Thou talk'st like a Runagate from all Christianity.

Trick.

Ay, ay, it may be so— What of that? I find as little Religion Among the Christians as among the Turks, When they act for their own Int'rest.

Isbell.

Who the Devil taught thee this Doctrine?

Trick.

Why when bad Company come once To be pot Companions, they spoil one another— Now as I was speaking one day to my Lady Fortune, In my Masters behalf, she ask'd me Why I did not speak for my self; And at last, in the kindness of her Liquor, Promis'd me the grand Lot.

Isbell.

So far you're in the right, And then to give it your Master.

Trick.

Not so neither— If Amaranta be good for Clitander, Amaranta's as good for me—— I am not the first Serving-man that has had His Master's Daughter by the help of Fortune.

Isbell.

What, and leave thy own dear Isbell?

Trick.

Not so neither——But marry a rich Wise To maintain a poor Mistress as the Fashion is.

Isbell.

By my Troth, Sir, if I cannot be your Wife, I'le ne're be your Whore— So good-buy to you, noble Squire.

Trick.

Hold, Isbell, hold—— These are but the first Temptations of Satan, There's nothing as yet resolv'd on; Therefore prithee be patient— Hold, here come's one of our Customers: Prithee be gone, and leave him to me.

[Exit Isbell.

Enter Mr. Scribble.

Scribble.

Friend, a word with you.

Trick.

Keep your Friendship and your Distance to your self, Sir——you're a little too familiar with one of my gravity.

Scribble.

You're mistaken, Sir, For I make bold with all Mankind.

Trick.

Say you so, Sir? why what are you?

Scribble.

An Author that writes Books.

Trick.

Oh Sir! I know you now, your Name is Scribble—You are one of those serious Triflers, whose Works are very serviceable for every thing else, but what they were intended for; and whose worth is never known 'till they come to the Pastry-Cooks, or Trunk-makers—Good for nothing while living in the Book-sellers Shops, but many ways useful when pull'd to pieces.

Scribble.

But d'you hear, Sir, my Works are more estimable—I am now writing a Book, which I intend to call the Mirror of the Age.

Trick.

Then as a Friend, let me advise you to dedicate it to some Noble, Generous Patron or other, such as my Lord Rattle-brains, Sir Philip Whim∣sey, or that eternal Blockhead of a Beau, Tom Starch. I assure you, Sir, one of these noble Patrons, gave a Friend of mine no less than a whole round Guinea for the Dedication of one of his Plays; therefore you may judge by that, what your Reward will be.

Scribble.

How, Sir! But one Guinea? Sure you're mistaken—— I have been told 'twas Twenty.

Trick.

But one, upon my Honour! And Nineteen lusty Promises.

Scribble.

Well, well, then the rest are in reserve— He must have patience— The same Misfortune happen d to my first Endeavours,

'Twas an Essay of Eatables and Potables.

Trick.

Oh, I remember it— 'Twas a Manual compil'd in Three Volumes, Which treated chiefly of the Original Of sower-Whey, and Black-Puddings.

Scribble.

You're in the right; 'twas so.

Trick.

Sir, I shall be proud to serve you— What are your Commands?

Scribble.

Why, I am come for a Bird That flies where e're you send it, And neither eats nor drinks— I expect it, as coming from this place, To be a Black Swan— Rara Avis in Terris—

Trick.

You have hit it, Sir— Your Black Swan is very well, but at roost at present— You have mistaken the time, Sir, this is no Lottery Day; Therefore pray be pleas'd to come to morrow, And you shall have your Black Swan— So in great haste, I rest your very humble Servant.

Scribble.

Yours intrinsically, And impatiently 'till then—Farewell.

[Exeunt severally.