The Princess of Cleve, as it was acted at the Queens Theatre in Dorset-Garden / by Nath. Lee ...

ACT I. SCENE I.

Nemours, Bellamore. Fiddles Playing.

Nem.

HOld there you Monsieur Devol; prithe leave off play∣ing fine in Consort, and stick to Time and Tune—So now the Song, call in the Eunuch; come my pretty Stallion, Hem and begin.

SONG.

ALL other Blessings are but Toyes To his that in his sleep enjoyes, Who in his Fancy can possess The object of his Happiness; The Pleasure's purer for he spares The Pains, Expenses, and the Cares.

II.

Thus when Adonis got the stone, To Love the Boy still made his moan; Venus the Queen of Fancy came, And as he slept she cool'd his flame; The Fancy charm'd him as he lay, And Fancy brought the Stone away.

Nem.

Sirrah, stick to clean Pleasures, deep Sleep, moderate Wine, sincere Whores, and thou art happy; Now by this damask Cheek I love thee; keep but this gracious Form of thine in health, and I'll put thee in the way of living like a man—What I have trusted thee with—My Love to the Princess of Cleve, Trea∣sure it as thy Life, nor let the Vidam of Chartres know it; for how∣ever I seem to cherish him, because he has the knack of telling a Story maliciously, and is a great pretender to Nature, I cast him off here—'Tis too much for him: Besides he is her Uncle, and has a sort of affected Honour, that wou'd make him grin to see me leap her—Hey Iaques—When Madam Tournon comes, bring her in; and heark you Sir, whoever comes to speak with me, while she is with me—

Iaq.

What if the Dauphin comes?

Nem.

What if his Father comes, Dog—Slave—Fool! What if Paris were a fire, the President and Council of sixteen at the door! I'm sick, I'm not within—I'm a hundred mile off—My bosom Dear—So young, and yet I trust thee too—But away, to the Princess of Cleve, thou art acquainted with her Women, watch her Motions, my sweet-fac'd Pimp, and bring me word of her rising.

Bell.

She is a prize, my Lord, and oh what a night of pleasure has Cleve had with her—the first too!

Nem.

Any thing but what makes such a pleasure, wou'd I give for such another—But be gone, and no more of this provoking discourse, lest Ravishing shou'd follow thee at the heels, and spoil my sober design.

Exeunt severally.

Enter Tournon, La March.

Iaq.

Madam, my Lord was just now asking for you.

Tour.

Go tell him I'm coming—Is he dress'd?

Iaq.

Yes—But your Ladiship knows that's all one to him—

Tour.

Honest Iaques, 'tis pity such. Honesty should not be en∣courag'd—

Iaq.

This comes of Pimping, which she calls Honesty.

Exit. Iaq.

Tour.

Thus thou mayst see the method of the Queen—We are the lucky Sieves, where fond men trust their Hearts, and so she sifts 'em through us—

La M.

What of Nemours, whom you thus early visit?

Tour.

The Queen designs to rob him of a Mistress, Marguerite the Princess of Ianvill, whom he keeps from the knowledge of the Court; and if the Queen be a Judge, is contracted to her—

The Dauphin loves her too, whereon the Queen, Who works the Court quite round by Womankind, And thinks this way to mould his supple Soul, Resolves, if possible, to gain her for him.

La M.

But how is't possible to work the Princess from the Duke Nemours, who loves him as the Queen affects Ambition.

Tour.

Why thus she knows Nemours his Soul is bent Upon variety, therefore to gain her ends She has made me Sacrifice my Honour, nay I'm become his Bawd, and ply him ev'ry day With some new face, to wean his heart From Marguerite's Form, nor must you longer be Without your part.

La M.

Employ me, for you know the Queen commands me.

Tour.

There was a Letter dropt in the Tennis-Court Out of Nemours his Pocket, as I'm told, And read last night in the presence—'Tis your Task Slily to insinuate with Marguerite. This Note which came from some abandon'd Mistress, Is certainly the Dukes—

La M.

Then Jealousie's the ground on which you build.

Tour.

Right, we must make 'em jealous of each other; Jea∣lousie breeds disdain in haughty minds, and so from the extreams of violent Love, proceeds to fiercest hate. But see the gay, the brisk, the topping Gallant St. Andre

Enter St. A.

here, Couzen to Poltrot, who arrived from England with a pretty Wife last week, and Lodges in the Palace of this his related Fool—St. Andre has a Wife too of my acquaintance— Both for the Duke my Dear; but haste I'm call'd—

Exit La March.

Iaq.

Madam—

Tour.

I go.

Exit Tournon.

St. A.

Monsieur Iaques, your most obliged faithful humble Ser∣vant. What, his Grace continues the old Trade I see, by the Flux of Bawds and Whores that choak up his Avenues, and I must confess, excepting my self, there's no man so built for Whoring

as his Grace, black sanguine Brawny—a Roman Nose—long Foot and a stiff—calf of a Leg.

Iaq.

Your Lordship has all these in Perfection.

St. A.

Sir your most faithful obliged humble Servant. Boy—

B.

My Lord—

St. A.

How many Bottles last night?

B.

Five my Lord.

St. A.

Boy.

B.

My Lord.

St. A.

How many Whores?

B.

Six my Lord.

St. A.

Boy—

B.

My Lord.

St. A.

What Quarrels, how many did I kill?

B.

Not one my Lord— But the night before you Hamstrung a Beadle, and run a Link-man in the Back—

St. A.

What, and no Blood nor Blows last night?

B.

O yes my Lord, now I remember me, you drew upon a Gentleman that knock'd you down with a Bottle.

St. A.

Not so loud you Urchin, lest I twist you neck round— Monsieur Iaques is his Grace stirring?

Iaq.

My Lord, he's at Council—

St. A.

Od I beg his Pardon, pray give my duty to him, and tell him, if he pleased to hear a languishing Air or two, I am at the Princess of Cleve's with a Serenade—Go Raskal, go to Mon∣sieur Poltrot—tell him he'll be too late—Black airy shape—but then Madam Cleve is Vertuous, Chast, Cold—Gad I'll write to her, and then she's mine directly, for 'tis but reason of course, that he that has been Yoak'd to so many Dutchesses, should at last back a Princess: Sir, your most obliged faithful and very humble Servant Sir.

Exeunt.