Belphegor, or, The marriage of the Devil a tragi-comedy, lately acted at the Queen's Theatre in Dorset-garden / by Mr. Wilson.

SCENE II. A stately Room in Grimaldi's House.

Enter Grimaldi, Marone, Fieschi, Pansa.

Gri.

YOU cannot say, but that he paid you honestly.

Mar.

I wish I could say, I were as well satisfy'd.—I ne∣ver found such honest Payments rais'd an Estate;—if ever I deal more on single Interest, may I lose my Principal.

Gri.

Who'd have expected even that, at least, taken it from one so

honourable, that has perish'd his own Fortune, to save the Publick.

Mar.

These honourable Rags are such fine Things!—how, I pray', do you find the price currant? Does the Frippery deal in such Lum∣ber? —I think not.—Good Sir, keep your whipt-posset for your better Friends, and give me, more substantial Fare.

Fies.

His Vertue, might deserve better Language; and it may be a Question, if it had not been for him, Whether the State had been—at least, what it now is.

Gri.

And true.—When the Sun could hold no longer, and the Moon slept, his Eyes have been our Sentinels.

Mar.

But what Money has he got with all this? Or what Share in the Government?—Simple Merit Lords few Mens Horoscope.

Gri.

Greater than both,—the Conscience of Worthy Actions.

Mar.

What Credit has it in the Bank?—for my part, I can boast I have kill'd mine.—And, if you'd here me, cou'd shew you a Man has done nothing of all this, and yet, even the Senate will confess him Wise, Prudent, Virtuous,—every thing.—And, that he is not one of themselves, I believe it more his own Fault, than theirs.

Gri.

Who should this be?

Mar.

What think ye of his Brother-in-Law?—Roderigo.— There's a Man for ye! and, to my Glory, he calls me Friend.

Gri.

But whence this Meteor?

Mar.

Whence e'er he came, he darkens all our Stars: You'd swear he were descended of the Goths, Or had been at the Siege of Constantinople.

Gri.

Some Moor, or Baptiz'd Jew?

Mar.

Be what he will, Turk, Pagan, or Infidel, wou'd I'd his Wealth With his Religion.—He's a Castilian. Were I that Man!

Fies.

You'd take't for an Affront His Catholick Majesty should call you Cousin.

Mar.

And yet you hear me not complain.—I've that Which finds me Friends, or makes 'em.—That one Thing That can do all Things.—How it makes a Door— Or shut, or open.

Fies.

Or your self (perhaps) Snore o'er your Cup, or find a Fly i'th' Ceiling.

Mar.

That matters not;—I'm sure it breeds Compunction, And Fellow-feeling in a Man of Office; Makes, and remits Offences;—even Justice, More Deaf than she is Blind.—And who would want it?

Gri.

That would Grimaldi, and every Man, whose Soul Is not compos'd of the same Dirt he treads. Want it, (I mean) rather than have't, on terms Dishonourable, or Sordid.

Mar.

But d'ye think Any ones Morals can reform the World? Don't they all thus? And, which is more, Court, Follow, Adore the Rich, and spurn the Unfortunate.

Gri.

And I as much the World.

Mar.

But say, that World Spurn you agen.—Did ever wise Man chuse Him for a Friend, that was deprest by Fortune? Rats quit a falling House—and Men, a Party, When they perceive it going.

Gri.

Where's Honesty and Honour, all this while?

Mar.

Nay, if you come to that, farewel Kingdoms. Nor is it mine to Question 'em.—Your Servant.

[Exit Mar.

Gri.

Well, Fieschi,—and what thinkst thou?

Fies.

As is his Name, such is the Slave himself: Who'd expect other from a Dog, but Snarling?

Gri.

His Soul is Sence; and as he has no Knowledge of Vertue, he has no use of it.—But how have you dispos'd Montalto's Matter? Is it so order'd, that it be not known from what Hand it came?

Fies.

'Twas the last thing I did.—I left the Writings in a seal'd Box, with Bianca, who has assur'd me, she'll watch an opportunity, and con∣vey it into her Ladies Closet.

Gri.

As well as I could wish.—Good Man! He could have sooner Perish'd, than told me, Told me, his Friend, he wanted me.—Who sees His Friend's Distress, and stays till he's entreated, He comes too late.—'Tis an Extorted Kindness; Lost ere it comes, and shews he wanted Will T'ave done't at all.—But, this Marone sticks in my Stomach.— Whence truly is he?

Fies.

Pansa (I think) remembers the first Plantation.

Pan.

That do I, Sir, from the time he first came to Town in Second-Mourning; —that is, in a Livery as ragged and tatter'd as an He-Goat; —his Hat, right Beggars-block, no Crown to't;—his Doublet and Breeches so suitable, that in a dark Morning, he'd have mistaken one for t'other;—his Stockings, without Feet or Anckles, like a Chandler's drawing-sleeves; and those too he durst not trust off his Legs, for fear of crawling away.—In a word, a Thing made up of so many several Parishes, that you'd have taken him, at first sight, for a Frontispiece of the Resurrection.

Fies.

Thence, he came in as a Sub-subcollector; and thence, into S^t George's Bank; and now, being in his Nature insolent, this imagina∣ry Reputation has made him intolerable.

Gri.

And for his other Qualities, I know somewhat my self:—He never forgave beyond the Opportunity of a Revenge; or spake well of

any Man, but to his greater Disadvantage.—A pretty Gentleman.—But—'tis pity.—

Fies.

Nay worse, shall play both the Devil's Parts, of Tempter and Accuser: Provoke his Friend into a freedom of Talk, and then in∣form it.

Gri.

Enough—And for fear of any mistake, make another step to Bincaa.

[Exeunt Fies. and Pan. Manet Gri.

And this Man thrive!—O Lucian thy Gods!—The Groans of deprest Vertue, and loud Laughters of exalted Folly, gave first name to the Fortunate Islands, where Men slept themselves away in the melancholy Contemplations, between Vertue and Success.

[To him enter Montalto and Portia.

You have prevented me—I was just coming To give you joy.—The Senate have, at last, Consider'd your Services.

Mon.

And sent me a Gugaw,

[Mon. takes out a Chain and Medal, and shews it.

An empty Nothing—Pth—

Gri.

'Twas never intended Beyond a Mark of Honour, and a Pledge Of future Kindness.

Mon.

He's a Beast that serves A Commonwealth; for when he has spent his Blood, And sunk his Fortune, to support the Pride And Luxury of those few that Cheat the rest, He streight becomes the Object of their Scorn Or Jealousie.

Gri.

How odly my Friend argues Against himself.—Have you not served the State These Twenty Years? And can you think it Wisdom To quarrel now? Or now, when reasonably You might expect the Fruit of all your Hazards, Arm them against you?—Vertue, Merit, Worth, Ne'er wanted Enemies; make not you more.

Mon.

When they behold themselves through their false Opticks, They swell a Gnat into an Elephant; When others,—how they turn the Glass, and lessen A Mountain to a Mole-hill.

Gri.

Are you the only Man has been so serv'd? Who deserv'd better for a Law-giver, Than Solon? Or Captain, than Thrasibulus? Or Orator, than Demosthenes? Yet Athens, Ungrateful Athens, banish'd the two first, And slew the latter.—Unto whom ow'd Rome

More, than to Manlius; who, when her Capitol Was grown too hot for Jupiter, preserved it? Or what might not Camillus have pretence to, Who, when she was reduc'd to her last Stake, Push'd it, and won it?—What should I mention Rutilius, Scipio, Hannibal, Themistocles, Men, famous in their Ages? Yet they fell: Fell, where they most deserv'd.

Mon.

How my Blood curdles at it! And me-thinks, I feel a kind of Currishness, shot through me; And want no property of a Dog, but fawning, Tho' necessary to a rising Man.

Por.

Is this that Fortitude, my Montalto? This, that heroick Vertue you taught me? Sure, 'tis not the Montalto I have seen, When Victory sate perching on his Helm; Or that Montalto, when Opprest by Numbers He lost the Day, and yet brought Home more Glory, Than if he had been Conqueror: Yet still, Still the same even Temper; Unconcern'd At Loss, or Vict'ry.

Mon.

Wou'd it not heat a Man, To view his Wounds, which, like so many Mouths, Speak out his Wrongs the lowder? t'ave consum'd Himself, to warm Ingratitude?

Por.

The Fruit Of worthy Actions, is, to have done 'em; And every Man, that will, may give't himself.

Mon.

How can I stand my Breast, against a Torrent Of adverse Fortune?

Por.

'Tis your greater Glory, To stem that Flood.—How 're you beholding to her, That she cou'd pass the Heard, and single you, To Combate her?

Mon.

But she has cut my Sinews.

Por.

The more your Honour:—I have heard you say, That a Roman, was more Glorious in his scorch'd, Than armed Hand.—Do not distrust your self, And you must Conquer her.—The Constant Man Is Master of himself and Fortune too.

Mon.

Bless me!—Thou glorious Woman, never made Of common Earth!—I am concern'd for thee.

Por.

To the World's Fondlings, be their World,—with me, My own Montalt' out-weighs the Apparition, The Airy Dream, which, when they think a Substance,

Grasp at it, they awake, and find it nothing: Sure, had it any thing worthy our Love, It were a mind that can contemn it.

Gri.

Brave Woman! And who might'st bring Philosophy to manners.

Por.

If you call this Philosophy, 'tis what Its first Inventers meant it, ere our Pedants Had made it, rather difficult, than great. Come, my Montalto, come; and let th' Example Of others Virtue, now, engage your own; Their Glory, your imitation.

Mon.

Thou hast o'ercome my, Portia—and I'll try If that Content, the larger World denies, May be found in our selves.—Even Poverty, If it can be content, has lost its Name. He never has enough that gapes for more; Opinion was never Rich, nor Content Poor.

Gri.

Now how I love this rugged Honesty! Like the first Matter, 't'as all the Seeds of Good, Only wants Form and Order.

[Exeunt.