ACT I. SCENE I.
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.
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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.
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—
What if the Dauphin comes?
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.
She is a prize, my Lord, and oh what a night of pleasure has Cleve had with her—the first too!
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.
Madam, my Lord was just now asking for you.
Go tell him I'm coming—Is he dress'd?
Yes—But your Ladiship knows that's all one to him—
Honest Iaques, 'tis pity such. Honesty should not be en∣courag'd—
This comes of Pimping, which she calls Honesty.
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—
What of Nemours, whom you thus early visit?
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.But how is't possible to work the Princess from the Duke Nemours, who loves him as the Queen affects Ambition.
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
Madam—
I go.
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.
Your Lordship has all these in Perfection.
Sir your most faithful obliged humble Servant. Boy—
My Lord—
How many Bottles last night?
Five my Lord.
Boy.
My Lord.
How many Whores?
Six my Lord.
Boy—
My Lord.
What Quarrels, how many did I kill?
Not one my Lord— But the night before you Hamstrung a Beadle, and run a Link-man in the Back—
What, and no Blood nor Blows last night?
O yes my Lord, now I remember me, you drew upon a Gentleman that knock'd you down with a Bottle.
Not so loud you Urchin, lest I twist you neck round— Monsieur Iaques is his Grace stirring?
My Lord, he's at Council—
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.
UNdone, undone! will your sinful Grace never give over, will you never leave Ruining of Bodies and Damning of Souls—cou'd you imagine that I came for this? What have you done?
No harm, pretty Rogue, no harm, nay, prithee leave blub∣bering.
'Tis blubbering now, plain blubbering, but before you had your will 'twas another tone; why Madam do you wast
those precious Tears, each falling drop shines like an Orient Pearl, and sets a Gaity on a Face of Sorrow.
Thou art certainly the pleasantest of Womankind, and I the happiest of Men; dear delightful Rogue, let's have another Main like a winning Gamester, I long to make it t'other hundred Pound.
Inconsiderate horrid Peer, will you Damn your Soul deeper and deeper, can you be thus insensible of your Crime?
Why there's it, I was as a man may be, very dry, and thou kind Soul, gav'st me a good draught of Drink; now 'tis strange to me, if a man must be Damn'd for quenching his thirst.
Ha, Ha—Well, I'll swear you are such another man— who wou'd have thought you cou'd delude a Woman thus, and a Woman of Honour too, that resolv'd so much against it; Ah my Lord! your Grace has a cunning Tongue.
No cunning Tournon, my way is downright, leaving Body, State and Spirit, all for a pretty Woman, and when gray Hairs, Gout and Impotence come, no more but this, drink away pain, and be gathered to my Fathers.
Oh thou dissembler, give me your hand, this soft, this faithless violating hand, Heaven knows what this hand has to answer for.
And for this hand, with these long, white, round, pretty Bobbins, t'has the kindest gripe, and I so love it, now Gad's Blessing on't, that's all I say—But come tell me, what no new Game, for thou knowest I dye directly without variety.
Certainly never Woman lov'd like me, who am not sa∣tisfied with sacrificing my own Honour, unless I rob my delights by undoing others—
Come, come, out with it, I see thou art big with some new Intrigue, and it labours for a vent.
What think you of St. Andre's Lady?
That I'm in Bed with her, because thou darst befriend me.
Nay, there's more—Monsieur Poltrot lodges in his House, with a young English Wife of the true breed, and the prettier of the two.
Excellent Creature, but command me something extra∣vagant, as thy kindness, State, Life and Honour.
Yet all this will be lost when you are married to Marguerite.
Never, by Heaven I'm thine, with all the heat and vi∣gorous Inspiration of an unflesh'd Lover—and so will be while young Limbs and Lechery hold together, and that's a Bond me∣thinks shou'd last till Doomsday.
But do you believe if Marguerite shou'd know—
The question's too grave—when and where shall I see the Gems thou hast in store?
By Noon or thereabouts; take a turn in Lunemburg Gar∣den, and one, if not both, shall meet you.
And thou'lt appear in Person?
With Colours flying, a Handkerchief held out; and yet methinks it goes against my Conscience.
He was the Spirit of Wit—and had such an art in guilding his Failures, that it was hard not to love his Faults: He never spoke a Witty thing twice, tho to different Persons; his Imperfections were catching, and his Genius was so Luxuriant, that he was forc'd to tame it with a Hesitation in his Speech to keep it in view—But oh how awkard, how insipid, how poor and wretch∣edly dull is the imitation of those that have all the affectation of his Verse and none of his Wit.
My Lord, Monsieur Poltrot desires to kiss your Grace's hand.
Let's have him to drive away our Melancholy—
I wonder what pleasure you can take in such dull Dogs, Asses, Fools.
But this is a particular Fool Man, Fate's own Fool, and perhaps it will never hit the like again, he's ever the same thing, yet always pleasing,; in short, he's a finish'd Fool, and has a fine Wife; add to this his late leaving the Court of France, and going to England to learn breeding.
My Lord Duke, your Grace's most obedient humble Servant, My Lord of Chartres and Monsieur Iaques, yours Monsieur; St. Andre desires your Grace's presence at a Serenade of mine and his toge∣ther— And I must tell your Grace by the way, he is a great Master, and the fondest thing of my Labours—
And the greatest Oaf in the World.
How my Lord—
The whole Court wonders you will keep him company.
Such a passive Raskal, he had his Shins broke last night in the Presence, and were it not fear'd you wou'd second him, he wou'd be kick'd out of all Society.
I Second him my Lord, I'll see him Damn'd e'er I'll be Second to any Fool in Christendom—For to tell your Grace the truth, I keep him company and lye at his House, because I intend to lye with his Wife; a trick I learnt since I went into England, where o' my Conscience Cuckoldom is the Destiny of above half the Nation.
Indeed!
O there's not such another Drinking, Scowring, Roaring, Whoreing Nation in the World—And for little London, to my knowledge, if a Bill were taken of the weekly Cuckolds, it wou'd amount to more than the Number of Christnings and Burials put together.
What, and were you acquainted with the Wits?
O Lord Sir, I liv'd in the City a whole year together, my Lord Mayor and I, and the Common-Council were sworn Bro∣thers—I cou'd sing you twenty Catches and Drolls that I made for their Feast-days, but at present I'll only hint you one or two—
Pray do us the Favour Sir.
Why look you Sir, this is one of my chief ones, and I'll assure your Grace, 'twas much Sung at Court too.
O to Bed to me— to Bed to me—&c.
Excellent, incomparable.
Why is it not my Lord? This is no Kickshaw, there's sub∣stance in the Air, and weight in the words; nay, I'll give your Grace a taste of another, the Tune is, let me see—Ay, Ay—
Give me the Lass that is true Country bred—But I'll present your Grace with some words of my own, that I made on my Wife before I married her, as she sate singing one day in a low Parlour and playing on the Virginals.
For Heavens sake oblige us dear pleasant Creature—
I'll swear I'm so ticklish you'll put me out my Lord, for I am as wanton as any little Bartholomew Bore-Pig—
Dear soft delicate Rogue sing.
Nay, I protest my Lord, I vow and swear, but you'll make me run to a Whore—Lord Sir, what do you mean?
Come then begin—
Now a little Smutty my Lord is the fashion—
My Lord, the Serenade is just begun, and if you don't come just in the nick—I beg your Grace's Pardon for interrupting you—But if you have a mind to hear the sweetest Airs in the World—
With all my heart Sir—
Nay, since your Grace has put my hand in, I'll sing you my Lord, before you go, the softest thing—compos'd in the Nonage of my Muse; yet such a one as our best Authors borrow from. Nay, I'll be judg'd by your Grace, if they do not steal their Dying from my Killing—
Nay prithee Poltrot thou art so impertinent.
No more impertinent than your self Sir, nor do I doubt Sir, but my Character shall be drawn by the Poets for a Man of Wit and Sense Sir, as well as your self Sir—
Ay I'll be sworn shall it—
For I know how to Repartee with the best, to Rally my Wife, to kick her too if I please Sir, to make Similes as fast as Hops Sir, tho I lay a dying slap dash Sir, quickly off and quickly on Sir, and as round as a Hoop Sir—
I grant you Dear Bully all this, but let's have your Song another time, because mine are begun.
Nay, look you Dear Rogue, mine is but a Prologue to your Play, and by your leave his Grace has a mind to hear it, and he shall hear it Sir—
Ay and will hear it Sir, tho the Great Turk were at St. Dennis's Gate; come along my Orpheus, and then Sir we'll follow you to the Prince of Cleve's—
Ballad—When Phoebus had fetch'd, &c.
Madam there is a Letter fall'n by accident into your hands—my Friend comes in behalf of the Vidam of Chartres to retrieve it, when I am dismiss'd from the King my Lord, I'll wait you here again.
My Lord—
Not a step further.
Madam, I come most humbly to enquire, whether the Dauphin Queen sent you a Letter which the Vidam lost?