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

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ACT II. (Book 2)

SCENE I.

Tournon, La March.

Tour.

IT works, my Dear, it works beyond belief, The Letter which he lost has sprung a Mine That shatters all the Court, each Jealous Dutchess Concludes her Man concern'd, and strait employs A Confident to find the Mystery out. But that which takes the Queen, and makes me dye With Pleasure, is, that Marguerite thinks Spite of the Imprecations of Nemours, The Letter sent to him—

La M.

I see 'em move this way.

Tour.

Hast to St. Andre's Palace, watch their Wives, till I appear— I have promis'd Nemours an Afternoon Assignation with 'em in Luxemburg Garden, but I will antedate the bus'ness as he is wait∣ing, and set Marguerite upon him just as he meets 'em, which will heighten the design; be gone while I attend the bus'ness here—

Exit La March.

Enter Nemours, Marguerite.

Nem.

You have heard me more than once Affirm, the Vidam (if you'll give him leave) Will own it to your Face.

Marg.

Hear, hear him Heav'n; By all Extreams thou art False, therefore be gone, For if I look upon thee in this Rage, I shall do mischief; speak not, but away—

Nemours beckens the Vidam, they steal off.

Enter Tournon.

Tour.

Madam, the Duke has taken you at your word, and is gone with the Vidam; I made bold to over-hear part of your Discourse, be∣cause I have more of his Infidelity to tell you—Betwixt one and two in Luxemburg Garden he has appointed some Ladies—

Marg.

Furies and Hell!—

Tour.

Have Patience for an hour, I'll bring you to the place, where, if you please, you may flesh your Fingers in the Blood of those young Women, whom he meets to enjoy.

Marg.

No, no, I have a better Cast, if I can conquer this rising Spleen— How long will it be e'er your call me?

Tour.

An hour or thereabouts—

Marg.

And by that time I'll put on a Disguise; fail not—

Tour.

But what do you intend?

Marg.

I know not yet my self; Revenge—

Tour.

You had a Lover once, Francis the Dauphin—

Marg.

Be that then the last Card—I know not what; The Dauphin shall—I'll do't, and openly affront him— And as the little Worshippers adore me, Spy the Duke out, and leaning on the Prince, Enquire who's that: It shall be so, I will— Revenge, Revenge, and shew thy self true Woman. Down then, proud Heart, down Woman, down, I'll try, I'll do't, I've sworn, to curb my Will or dye.

Exeunt.

SCENE II.

St. Andre, Poltrot, Bellamore.

Bell.

WELL, Gentlemen, good Morrow, and remember my Counsel.

Pol.

What, to bear our selves like Men of Wit and Sense, Snub our Wives, Rally 'em, and be as Witty as the Devil?

St. A.

With all my heart, 'tis not my time of Assignation yet with my Dutchesses, and this is very Fashionable.

Bell.

I've put you in the way—And so good Morrow.

Exit.

Pol.

They come, they come,

Enter Elianor and Celia.

Walk by 'em, take no notice, and Repeat Verses. Phillis did in so strange a Posture lye Panting and Breathless, languishing her Eye, She seem'd to live, and yet she seem'd to Dye.

St. A.

I grow sick of the Wife—Prithe Poltrot let's go.

Pol.

Whither thou wilt, so we get rid of 'em—Z'life I am as weary of mine, as a Modish Lady of her old Cloaths—

Cel.

What does the Maggot bite, you must be jogging from this place of little Ease? yet I am resolv'd to know some reason, why a Wife may not be as good Company as a Wench.

Pol.

Prithe Spouse—do not provoke me, for I'm in the Witty Vein, and shall Repartee thee to the Devil.

El.

Pray, St. Andre, leave trising your Curls, your affected Nods, Grimaces, taking of Snuff, and answer me—Why are we not as plea∣sing as formerly?

St. A.

Why, Nell—Gad 'tis special—This Amarum is very pun∣gent—Why, Nell, I can give no more reason for my change of humour, than for the turning of a Weather-cock; only this, I love Whoring; because I love Whoring.

Pol.

Nay, since you provoke us, know I can give a reason; we run after Whores, because you bar us from 'em—As some take pleasure to go a Deer-steeling that have fine Parks of their own—Gad, and there I was with her—This itch of the Blood, Spouse, is nothing but a Spice of the first great Jilt ••our Grand-mother Eve; we long for the Fruit, because it is forbidden.

St. A.

Nay, that's not all, for Misses are really more pleasant than a Wife can be, Probatum est. A Wife dares not assume the Liberty of pleasing like a Miss, for fear of being thought one. A Wife may pretend to dutiful affection, and bustle below, but must be still at night. 'Tis Miss alone may be allow'd Flame and Rapture, and all that—

Cel.

Yet how do you know, but a Wife may have Flame and Rapture, and all that—

Pol.

'Tis impossible, 'tis the Nature of a Wife to be as cold as a Stone—There's Slap Dash for you—

Cel.

Yet out of a Stone a Man of Sense wou'd strike Fire: There's Slap Dash for you—

El.

Will you be Constant to us, if we make it appear by your own Confession, that we can please as well as the subtl'st She that ever charm'd you?

St. A.

Till which Miracle come to pass, since 'twas your own Propo∣sition, I St. Andre and thou Elianor come not between a pair of Sheets—

El.

How shou'd they know then?

Pol.

Nor I Antony with thee Celia.

El.

But we hope you are not in earnest, you cannot be so Inhumane.

Cel.

'Tis a Curse beyond all Curses, to have a Man that can and will not; 'tis worse than teaching a Fool, or leading the Blind.

El.

To Marry and live thus, is to be like Fish in Frosty Weather, have Water, but pine for want of Air.

Cel.

Yet, who knows but Heav'n may send some Kind Good Man, that in meer pity may break the Ice, and give us a Breathing?

El.

Can you be so hard-hearted?

Pol.

Come Bully, let's away, for fear we shou'd melt; look ye Spouses of ours, if our Wenches prove ill-humour'd, we'll come back to you.

St. A.

Agreed, rather than grow Rusty let our Wives File us— But I thank Heav'n 'tis not come to that yet—There's no such want,

I'll have you to know Nell, there's no Woman can resist me if she wou'd, no Dutchess scapes me, if I make it my bus'ness to compass her.

Pol.

Any Man of Wit and Sense like us, Charms all Women, as one Key unlocks all Doors at Court—Nay, I'll say a bold word for my self, Turn me to the sharpest Shrow that ever Bit or Scratch'd, if I do not make her feed out of my hand like a tame Pidgeon, may I be condemn'd to lye with my Wife.

Eli.

Flesh and Blood can endure no longer, you are the vainest lying Fellows that ever liv'd, you compass a Dutchess—There's not a Foot∣man but wou'd shame you.

St. A.

Z'Death and Fury, if they shou'd try—

Cel.

You pitiful, sneaking, rascally Cuckold, countenanc'd Scoundrels, that dare Bespatter Ladies of Honour thus—For Heaven sake what are you, how do you live, and where do you spend your time? in Ten∣nis-Courts, Taverns, Eating-houses, Bawdy-houses, where you quarrel in Drink for your Trulls, who while you Manfully Fight their Cause, they run away with your Hats and Belts—

Eli.

Then you come home, and swear you'll be reveng'd on this Lord, or that Duke, that assaulted you single, with all his Foot men.

Cel.

And, says my Gentleman, if I had not been the most Skillful Person alive, my Body had been by this time like an Old-fashion'd Suit, Pink'd all over, and full of Ilet-holes.

Eli.

But did he not disarm my Lord at last?

Cel.

By all means, and made him beg his Life.

Eli.

When indeed he compounded with the Constable for his own Liberty.

Cel.

You Persons of Quality—What Person of Honour wou'd keep company with such Debauches? Z'life Madam, an Orange-wench is above their Ambition.

Eli.

An Orange-wench! If they can but run in her debt, and the poor Creature come dunning 'em to their Lodgings, they'll Swear they lay with her, when they dare not be known that they are within.

Cel.

Sometimes lye Lolling upon a long Scarf in the Play-house, talk∣ing loud and affectedly, and Swear at night they had the prettiest thing just come out of the Country.

Eli.

And wish themselves Damn'd if she did not smell of the Grass.

Cel.

When in truth 'twas some disguis'd Bawd, that met 'em there ac∣cording to Assignation.

Pol.

Heark you Potiphar's Wife of mine, by Pharaoh's lean Kine thou shalt starve for this.

St. A.

And for thee Nell—Mark me, thou shalt Dream and be tor∣mented with Imagination, like one that having drunk hard is thirsty in the Night, dreams of Vessels brim-full, and drinks and drinks, yet never is satisfied.

Pol.

For my part, I'll serve my Damn'd Wife as Tantalus was punish'd the Fruit shall bob at her Lips, which she shall never enjoy.

Exeunt St. A. Pol.

Eli.

Very well, the World's come to a fine pass; if this be Marrying, wou'd I were a Maid agen. Men take Wives now as they snatch up a Gazette, look it over and then fling it by.

Cel.

They forget us in a day or two, or if they read us over agen, 'tis only to rub up Remembrance, and commonly they fall asleep so.

Eli.

What's to be done Child? for rather than live thus—

Cel.

Rather than live thus let's do any thing.

Eli.

Any thing Rogue, why Cuckolds are things.

Cel.

Perhaps they think we have no such thing as Flesh and Blood about us, but we'll make 'em know, a young Woman in the flour of her Age, is not like painted Fruit in a Glass, only to be look'd on— Perhaps you are a more Contemplative Person, and will go farther about.

Eli.

What, Dear Rogue, dost think I will leave thee? by this Kiss not I.

Cel.

Thus then we'll slip on long Scarfs, and black Gowns, put on Masks, and ramble about.

Eli.

Rare Rogue, let me Kiss thee agen—Certainly Intrigueing is the pleasantest part of Life; to meet a Gallant abroad in a Summers Evening, and Laugh away an hour or two in a Garden Bower, where no body sees nor no body knows, methinks 'tis so pretty and harmless, Lord, how it works in my Fancy—

Cel.

We must tell Madam Tournon by all means—

Eli.

I believe her Secret, and know her very good Natur'd; but for all that, methinks she has the Cant of a refin'd Florence Bawd—

Enter Tournon.

Cel.

The better for our purpose, she comes as wish'd.

Tour.

Dear Precious Rosebuds your Servant, now for all the World you look as you were New-blown; and how do ye my pretty Primroses? 'tis a whole day since I saw ye.

Cel.

Oh Madam! we have a Suit to your Ladiship.

Tour.

I grant it whate'er it be; speak my Hyacinth.

Eli.

Our Husbands are worse than ever.

Cel.

They use us as if we had neither Beauty nor Portion.

Tour.

What's this I hear? O Ingrate and Ignoble! Revenge your selves Sweetings—'Tis time to pule and put Finger in Eye, when you are past Propagation. But my Lady-birds you are in your Prime, let me touch your delicate Hands—Well, and do not these humid Palms claim a Man—Nay, and your Breasts, Lord! Lord! how swoll'n and hard they are, how they heave and pant now, by Cynthia, as if they

were ready to burst? look to't, have a care of a Cancer, draw 'em down, draw 'em down, for let me tell you Jewels, it may be dangerous for you to go thus long without Cultivation—

Eli.

What wou'd you have us do Madam?

Tour.

Do Violet? why do as all the World does beside, lose no Time, catch him by the Forelock, get a Man to your mind—I'll acquaint you with one that's as true as the day, that will Fight like a Lion, and Love like a Sparrow—He has Eyes as black as Slows, you can hardly look on 'em, and a Skin so white—and soft as Sattin with the Grain: And for thee Tulip—

Cel.

For me Madam!

Tour.

For thee Hony-Suckle, such a Man, well, I shall never forget him, such a strait bole of a Body, such a Trunk, such a shape, such a quick strength, he will over any thing he can lay his hand on, and Vaults to Admiration.

Eli.

But Madam, will you provide us Lodgings on occasion—

Tour.

The Richest in the Town, the costliest Hangings, great Glasses, China Dishes, Silver Tables, Silver Stands, and Silver Urinals—And then these Gallants are the closest Lovers, so good at keeping a Secret— Well, give me your Man that says nothing, but minds the bus'ness in hand—For a Secret Lover's like a Gun charg'd with White Powder, does Execution but makes no noise.

Cel.

Well, and let me tell you that's the Point, Madam—

Tour.

Ay, and 'tis a Precious Point, a Feeling Point, and a Pleasing Point; you shall know him, you must know him, I shall dye if you don't know him—He has the fling of a Gentleman.

Eli.

Pray Madam, how's that?

Tour.

Why thus Apricock—Into your Arms, then stops your Mouth with a double-tongu'd English Kiss, that you can't be angry with him for your Blood.

Cel.

I know 'tis my filthy Country way—But I'll assure you if he should serve me so, my Blood would rise at him.

Tour.

But then you'd repent and fall before him, for he has the most particular obliging way, and she whom he particularly loves, is so oblig'd with his Particular—Well, for my part, my Twins of Beauty, I set an infinite Value on their Charesses, Distresses and Addresses; nay, I cou'd refuse a Quilt Imperial, to be oblig'd by them, tho on the bare Boards, or the cold Stones.

Eli.

But, Madam, are they in being—

Tour.

They are my Blossoms—Then they Kiss beyond Imagination, just for all the World as when you cut a pure Juicy China Orange, the Goodness runs over—Lord! now it comes in my Cogitation, I'm just now going to take a View of'em in Luxemburg Garden, where, if you

please to walk, they shall Sun themselves in your Smiles—Come my Carnations, nay, I protest I will not go before ye.

Cel.

But, Madam, we're at home.

Tour.

O Lord, Beauties! I know not the way.

Eli.

Indeed Madam you must—or we shall use Violence—

Tour.

Well Ladies, since 'tis your command, I dare not but obey.

Exeunt.

SCENE III.

Nemours, Bellamore.

Nem.

THou Dear Soft Rogue, my Spouse, my Hephestion, my Ga∣nymed, nay, if I dye to night my Dukedom's thine—But art thou sure the Princess of Cleve withdraws here after Dinner—

Bell.

One of her Women whom I have Debauch'd, tells me 'tis her Custom; you may slip into the Closet and over-hear all, and yet me∣thinks 'tis hard, because the Prince of Cleve loves you as his Life.

Nem.

I sav'd his Life, Sweet-heart, when he was assaulted by a mi∣stake in the dark, and shall he grudge me a little Fooling with his Wife, for so serious an Obligation?

Enter the Vidam—

A Pox upon him, here comes the Vidam with his sowre Morals—

Vid.

'Tis certain I like her—She's very pretty, and Tournon shall help me to her—

Nem.

In Love, by my Lechery—Ay, and she shall help thee to her— But who, but who is't my Man of Principles—

Vid.

To tell your Grace, I am sure were to be a Man of none for my self—You that are the Whores Ingrosser—Let me see—There's Tournon your Ubiquitary Whore, your Bawd, your Bawd Barber or Bawd Surgeon, for you're ever under her hands, and she Plaisters you every day with new Wenches—Then there's your Domestick Ter∣magant—Elianor and Celia, with something new in Chase—Why you outdo Cesar himself in your way, and dictate to more Whores at once than he did to Knaves—Believe me Sir, in a little time you'll be nick'd the Town Bull.

Nem.

Why there's the difference betwixt my Sense and yours; wou'd I were, and your Darklin Mistress the first shou'd come in my way, Iove and Europa, I'd leap her in thy Face—Why, how now Vidam, what Devil has turn'd thee Grave, the Devil of Love, or the Devil of Envy?

Vid.

Friendship, mere Friendship and care of your Soul; I thought it but just, to tell you the whole Town takes notice of your way.

Nem.

Why then the whole Town does me wrong, because I take no notice of theirs; thus t'other night I was in company with two or three well-bred Fops, that found fault with my Obscenity, and protested 'twas such a way—Why 'tis the way of ye all, only you sneak with it under your Cloaks like Taylors and Barbers; and I, as a Gentleman shou'd do, walk with it in my hand. For prithee observe, does not your Priest the same thing? did not I see Father Patrick declaiming against Flesh in Lent, strip up to the Elbow; and telling the Congre∣gation he had eat nothing but Fish these twenty years, yet protest to the Ladies, that Fat Arm of his, which was a chopping one, was the least Member about him?

Bell.

Faith, and it may be so too.

Nem.

Does not your Politician, your little great Man of bus'ness, that sets the World together by the Ears, after all his Plotting, Drudging and Sweating at Lying, retire to some little Punk and untap at Night?

Vid.

I submit to the weight of your Reasons, and confess the whole World does you Injustice, wherefore I judge it fit that they Bring your Grace their Wives and Daughters to make you amends.

Nem.

Why now thou talk'st like an honest Fellow, for never let bus'ness Flatter thee Frank into Nonsense: Women are the sole Plea∣sure of the World; nay, I had rather part with my whole Estate, Health and Sense, than lose an Inch of my Love—I was t'other day at a pretty Entertainment, where two or three Grave Politick Rogues were won∣d'ring, why Women shou'd be brought into Plays; I as gravely reply'd, the World was not made without 'em; he full Pop upon me—But Sir, it had been better if it had—

Vid.

And then no doubt a gloomy Smile arose—

Nem.

These are your Rogues, Frank, that wou'd be thought Cri∣ticks, that are never pleas'd but with something new, as they call it, just, proper, and never as men speak; you're out of the way, men that hate us Rogues with a way—

Bell.

But after all this they'll run you down, and say your Grace is no Scholar—

Nem.

Why, Faith, nor wou'd be, if Learning must wrench a Man's Head quite round; I understand my Mother-tongue well enough, and some others just as I do Women, not to be married to 'em, but to serve my turn; what's good in 'em never scapes me, but as for Points and Tags, for which those solemn Fops are to be valued, I slight 'em, nor wou'd remember 'em if I cou'd; for he that once listens to Jingling, ten to one if ever he gets it out of his head while he lives—But prithee be gone, and leave me to my Musing; find Tournon out, my Vidam, and bid her remember the Handkercher—Away, thou art concern'd in the bus'ness, therefore away.

Exeunt Vid. Bell.

Enter the Princess of Cleve, Irene.

Nem.

She comes, ye Gods, with what a pompous State; The Stars and all Heav'ns Glories on her wait. That's out of the way too—But now for my Closet.

Exit.

Princess C.

No, no, I charge thee pity me no longer, But on the Earth let us consult our Woes: For Earth I shall be shortly; sit and hear me, While on thy Faithful Bosom thus I lean My akeing Head, and breath my cruel Sorrows.

Iren.

Speak Madam, speak, they'll strangle if contain'd—

Princess C.

As late I lay upon a flow'ry Bank, My Head a little heav'd beyond the Verge, To look my Troubles in the Rockless Stream, I slept, and dreamt I saw The bosom of the Flood unfold; I saw the Naked Nymphs ten Fathom down, With all the Crystal Thrones in their Green Courts below, Where in their busie Arms Nemours appear'd: His Head reclin'd, and swoll'n as he were drown'd, While each kind Goddess dew'd his Senseless Face With Nectars drops to bring back Life in vain: When on a sudden the whole Synod rose And laid him to my Lips—Oh my Irene! Forgive me Honour, Duty—Love forgive me, I found a Pleasure I ne'er felt before, Dissolving Pains, and Swimming shuddering Joys, To which my Bridal Night with Cleve was dull—

Enter the Prince of Cleve.

Iren.

Behold him, Madam.

P. C.

Ha! my Chartres—How— Why on the Earth?

Princess C.

Because, my Lord, it suits The humble posture of my sad Condition.

P. C.

These Starts agen; but why thy sad Condition? O rise and tell me why this Melancholy! Why fall those Tears? Why heaves this Bosom thus? Nay, I must then constrain thee with my Arms.

Rise.

Is't possible? does then thy load of Grief Oppress thee so, thou canst not speak for Sighing— Ah Chartres, Chartres! then thou didst but sooth me,

There is some cause, too frightful to be told, And thou hast learnt the art too to dissemble.

Princess C.

O Heavens! dissemble when I strip my Soul, Shew it all bear, and trembling to your view; Can you suspect me Sir, for a Dissembler?

P. C.

By all my Hopes, Doubts, Jealousies and Fears, I know not what to think, I think thou show'st Thy inmost thought, and now I think thou dost not. I think there is a Bosom secret still, And have a dawn of it through all thy Folds That hide it from my view: O trust me Cleve! Trust me whate'er it be; I love thee more Than thou lov'st help for that which thus inthrauls thee. Trust thy Dear Husband, O let loose the pain That makes thee droop, though it shou'd be my death! By thy dear self I'll welcome it to ease thee.

Princess C.

Thou best of all thy Kind, why shou'd you rack me, Who dare not, cannot speak—No more but this, Take me from Paris from the Court.

P. C.

Ha, Chartres, how! What from the Court of Paris, why?

Princess C.

Because—my Mothers Death-bed Counsel so advised me, Because the Court has Charms, because I love A Grotto best, because 'tis best for you And me, and all the World.

P. C.

Because, O Heaven! Because there is some cursed Charm at Court, Which you love better than me and all the World. The Reason's plain, for which you wou'd remove. To lose the Mem'ry of some lawless Love.

Princess C.

Why then am I detain'd, if that's your fear?

P. C.

It is, it ought, and shall, and Oh! you must Confess this horrid Falshood to my Face.

Princess C.

Never, my Lord, never confess a Lye, By Heav'ns I love your Life above my own.

P. C.

Not that, not that, speak home and fly not wide, Swear by thy self, thou dearly purchas'd Pleasure, Swear by those Chaster Sweets thy Mother left thee; Swear that thy Soul, which cannot hide a Treason, Prefers me ev'n to all the World; Hold Precious, Swear that thou lov'st him more—And only lov'st him, And in such Sense as not to love another.

Princess C.

Ah, Sir! why will you sink me to your Feet, Where I must lye and groan my Life away?

P. C.

Speak Chartres, Speak, nor let the name of Husband Sound Terror to thy Soul; for by my hopes Of Paradice, howe'er thou usest me, I am thy Creature, still to make and mould me Thy cringing crawling Slave, and will adore The hand that kills me—

Princess C.

O you are too good! And I must never hope for Pardon—Yet I cou'd excuse it; but my Lord I will not. Know then—I cannot speak.

P. C.

Nor I by Heav'n.

Princes C.

I Love.

P. C.

Go on.

Princess C.

I love you as my Soul.

P. C.

Ha—But the rest.

Princess C.

Alas, alas, I dare not—

P. C.

Why then farewel for ever—

Princess C.

Stay and take it— Take the extreamest Pang of tortur'd Vertue, Take all, I love, I love thee Cleve as Life; But Oh! I love, I love another more—

P. C.

Oh Chartres! Oh—

Princess C.

Why did you rack me then? You were resolv'd, and now you have it all.

P. C.

All Chartres! All! Why, can there then be more? But rise, and know I by this Kiss forgive thee. Thou hast made me wretched by the clearest proof Of perfect Honour that e'er flow'd from Woman. But crown the misery which you have begun, And let me know who 'tis you wou'd avoid, Who is the happy man that had the power To burn that Heart which I cou'd never warm.

Princess C.

Forgive me Sir, in this Prudence commands Eternal silence—

P. C.

Ha! if silent now, Why didst thou speak at all? If here thou stop'st I shall conclude that which I thought thy vertue, A start of passion which thou cou'dst not hide, And now Vexation gnaws thy guilty Soul With a too late Repentance for confessing His name—

Princess C.

You shall not know it—Yes my Lord, Now a too late Repentance tears my Soul, And tells me I have done amiss to trust you;

Yet by my hopes of ease at last by Death, I swear my Love has never yet appear'd. To any Man but you—

P. C.

Weep not my Chartres, for howe'er my Tongue Upbraid thy Fame, my Heart still worships thee, And by the Blood that chills me round—I swear From this sad Moment, I'll ne'er urge thee more; All that I beg of thee, is not to hate me.

Princess C.

The study of my Life shall be to love you.

P. C.

Never, Oh never! I were mad to hope it, Yet thou shalt give me leave to fold thy hand, To press it with my Lips, to sigh upon it, And wash it with my Tears—

Princess C.

I cannot bear this kindness without dying.

P. C.

Nay, we will walk and talk sometimes together, Like Age we'll call to mind the Pleasures past; Pleasures like theirs, which never shall return, For Oh! my Chartres, since thy Heart's estrang'd, The pleasure of thy Beauty is no more, Yet I each night will see thee softly laid, Kneel by thy side, and when thy Vows are paid, Take one last kiss, e'er I to Death retire, Wish that the Heav'ns had giv'n us equal fire; Then sigh, it cannot be, and so expire.

Exeunt.

Enter Nemours.

She Loves, she Loves, and I'm the happy Man, She has avow'd it, past all president, Before her Husbands Face— Ha! but from Love like hers such daring virtue, That like a bleeding Quarry lately chas'd, Plunges among the Waves, or turns at Bay, What is there to expect—But— let it come The worst can happ'n, yet 'tis glorious still. To bring to such Extreams so chast a mind, And charm to love the wisest of her Kind.

Enter Vidam.

Ah Vidam! I cou'd tell thee such a Story of such a Friend of mine, the oddest, prettiest, out of the way of bus'ness, but thou art so flippant there's no trusting thee.

Vid.

Tournon says the Flag's held out—

Nem.

Tournon be Damn'd—Know then, but be secret, there is a Friend of mine belov'd—But by a Soul so Vertuous,

Vid.

That was too much—

Nem.

That quite from the method of all Womankind, she told it to her Husband.

Vid.

That's strange indeed: And how did her Husband like it?

Nem.

Why, after a tedious passionate Discourse, approved her car∣riage, and swore he lov'd her more than ever; so they cry'd and kiss'd, and went away most lovingly together.

Vid.

Why then she Cuckolds him to rights, nor can he take the Law of her; and I'll be judge by any Bawd in Christendom—And so my Lord farewell, I have bus'ness of my own, and Tournon waits you—

Nem.

But heark you, Frank, I have occasion for you, and must press thee, I hope, to no unwellcome Office—only a Second—

Vid.

With all my heart, my Lord, the time and place.

Nem.

Just now in Luxemburg Garden, betwixt one and two, a Chal∣lenge from a couple, the smartest, briskest, prettiest Tilting Ladies —

Vid.

Your Servant Sir, and as you thrive, let me hear from your Grace, and so Fate speed your Plow.

Exit.

Enter Tournon with Marguerite.

Nem.

And so Fate speed your Plow, and you go to that, and I shall tell you Sir, 'twas not handsomly done, to leave me thus to the Mercy of two unreasonable Women at once.

Tour.

You have him now in view, and so I leave you.

Exit. Tour.

Marg.

Stand Sir.

Nem.

To a Lady, while I have breath.

Marg.

Wou'd you not fall to a Lady too, if she shou'd ask the Favour?

Nem.

Ay, Gad, any pretty Woman may bring me upon my Knees at her pleasure.

Marg.

O Devil —

Nem.

Prithee my dear soft warm Rogue, let thee and I be kind—

Marg.

And Kiss, you were going to say.

Nem.

Z'Life, how pat she hits me, why thou and I were made for one another—Let's try how our Lips fit.

Marg.

Is that your fitting?

Nem.

'Fore Heaven she's wond'rous quick; Nay, my Dear, and you go to that, I can fit you every way—

Marg.

You are a notorious talker.

Nem.

And a better doer; prithee try.

Marg.

As if that were to do now.

Nem.

Nay then I'm sure of thee, for never was a Woman mine once, but was mine always.

Marg.

Know then you are a heavy sluggish Fellow; but I see there is no more Faith in Man than Woman, Cork and Feathers.

Nem.

Make a Shittlecork that's Woman, let me, if you please, be Battledoor, and by Gad for a day and a night I'll keep up with any Fel∣low in Christendom.

Marg.

Come away then and I'll keep count I warrant you—Monster— Villain —

Nem.

Now is the Devil and I as great as ever—I come my Dear— But then what becomes of my other Dears—For whom I was Prim'd and Charg'd—

Marg.

Why dont you come my Dear?

Nem.

There with that sweet word she cock'd me—

Marg.

Lord! how you tremble—

Nem.

There the Pan flash'd—

Marg.

I'll set my Teeth in you.

Nem.

Now I go off—O Man! O Woman! O Flesh! O Devil!

Finis Actus Secundi.