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

SCENE IV. Montalto's House.

Enter Pansa, Bianca.

Pan.

THey're all Abroad then?

Bian.

Whether they are or not, you're out of hearing.—But what does your Master mean by all this?—I over-heard them, when he was last here;—but never let him look to come agen.

Pan.

Not without thee, Bianca.

Bian.

I've had enough of it already;—my Lady has not given me a good Look ever since.

Pan.

Patience—(my Beloved) Time and Patience—

Bian.

Will do no good with her.—Besides you Men are so incon∣stant, —if ye had your Wish to day, you'd have another to morrow.

Pan.

And are not you Women the same;—as fond of an old Sweet∣heart, as a brisk Widow of her third Husband.

Bian.

E'en thank your selves that taught us.

Pan.

Sick of every thing but a new Face.

Bian.

Your own Picture to a Hair.

Pan.

And so fickle, fickle, fickle,—a Man knows not where to have ye.

Bian.

Beshrew me now, but that's a Fib;—where to have you, 's the Question:—Once fill your Belly, and ye drop off.

Pan.

And there I must confess, you have the 'vantage,—you stick the closer.—And perhaps, though I spake too soon,—what have we got here?

[He stroaks her Stomacher.

Bian.

Nothing of your's,—I'll secure ye.—I shall be married a Tuesday next.

Pan.

Still my good merry Girl!—But say he find it?

Bian.

You Men think you have all the Wit;—but I can tell ye, some Women come two, three, four, and sometimes five Months sooner than ordinary of the first Child;—but for the rest as right as others.—You're all for Nine Months at least, but I have known a nimble Fellow, not married above Eight Weeks, and his Wife has brought him a couple,—and so like the Father too!

Pan.

Still the same merry Rogue.

Bian.

But hark ye tho',—where are the Books you promis'd me?—I can't sleep for thinking of 'em.

Pan.

And thou shalt have them in a day or two.

Bian.

O! what a dainty thing it is, to see a Man here to day, and a Thousand Miles off to morrow;—mow Giants by the Waste, conquer Armies, ov'r-run Kingdoms, and all for the Love of some distress'd Princess he never saw; whilst she (poor Lady) apprehending it by instinct, sits bemoaning him in some Castle-Grate; and if she can bor∣row so much leisure from her Grief, Records his doughty Deeds to Posterity, in Window-cushions and Coverlets.

Pan.

And then, when over the Heads of Forty or Fifty Thousand Men, all slain by his own Hand, he cuts his way to her Chamber, O! what Sighs, Looks, Half-words, and I know not what! till the Lord of the Castle, having reinforc'd his Guards, Surprizes him ere he can recover Morglay; and from his Lady's Arms conveys him to a Dungeon, where he's fed with nothing but Horse-bisket and Puddle-water, till being fortunately releas'd by some Enchanter, his Friend, he's dropt in an unknown Desart, whence, within Three Days, he becomes Master of a great Kingdom, and within Four more (by some private mark) proves the rightful Heir of't.

Bian.

There were a Man for me!—I hate your Sots that turn Her∣mits, and can live Seven Years together on Nuts, Black-berries, and Acorns.—They Lovers!—O that I were a Man! that I might ha' been a Knight; or, being as I am, some little odd Princess.

Pansa.

And I have much of thy humour about me; for never had any Man greater desire of Wealth and Command than my self, and that only to eat well, drink lustick, care for nothing, and have my Flat∣terers as other Men.—But come, Bianca, though I cannot make thee a Princess, I can put thee in the way, shall make thee as fine as a Prin∣cess. —Two Hundred Pistoles would do no hurt, I take it.

Bian.

Ay Mary! but where's the Money?

Pan.

Thy Master now and then lies at his Country House, and do thou but give my Master the opportunity of getting into your Lady's Apartment, some such night, and I'll secure it thee.

Bian.

To what purpose?—I'm sure he will do no good.

Pan.

Do thou thy part, he'll venture that;—Two Hundred Pistoles is Money:

Bian.

And truly (to speak my Heart) I've often wonder'd how she can be so unkind.

[She hugs him.

Pan.

Good Nature—thou must;—and to let thee see he's in earnest, he has sent thee Fifty in hand.—

[Gives her a Purse.

Come, come, there are certain Critical minutes, when a Woman can deny nothing.

Bian.

But shall I be sure of the rest?

Pan.

If thou hast it not, never trust Pansa more.

Bian.

Well then,—you speak in a lucky hour, for my Master goes out of Town to morrow, and an hundred to one, if he return that Night.—Let your Master, and you, come about Midnight, and you'll find the Street-door unlock'd, and me, ready to receive ye.—But be sure now—

Pan.

That thou shou'dst doubt it!—

[Exeunt hand in hand.