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. Of Montalto's House.

Enter Pansa with a dark Lanthorn, conducting Fieschi.

Pan.

SHE's as good as her word.—The Door was unlockt.

Fies.

And I may trust her?

Pan.

My Life ye may—for she ever made it a matter of Consci∣ence, to take a Gentleman's Money, and do nothing for't.

Enter Bianca.

Bian.

What shall we do, Sir?—our Master's return'd—but in his own Apartment—Consider.

Fies.

It must be—And why not now?

Bian.

Then follow me close and softly—and do you Pansa, stay here till I return.

[Exeunt Bianca and Fieschi.

Pan.

And if it hits, I'm made—and who knows but I may marry the Jade my self, for all her Tuesday next.—O but—but what?—To be a Cuckold.—And how many are there in the World, yet live con∣tentedly? —But—your own Cuckold—forestal the Market—antidate your own Fortune—And what of that? I am not the first has don't, and sha'n't be the last.—This I am sure, I am the less deceiv'd.—What ere it be, Two hundred Pistoles, and my Masters Kindness, will make amends for all.

[Bianca returns.

Now Bianca, I was thinking, what if thou and I should join Jiblets, in an honourable Way?—What think ye of Matrimony Bianca?

Bian.

No, Pansa, no—for tho' I love ye well enough, you shall never twit me with any thing of your own Knowledge—but for old Acquaintance, I'll recommend ye—She is!

Pan.

The very Mop of Modesty! But what has she?

Bian.

Enough for you, and to spare.—The truth is—not above Sixteen or Seventeen Thousand Duckats ready Money, and as much more, after the Death of her Grannum—But for Vertue!

Pan.

The Lord knows what!—But say, she won't ha' me?

Bian.

I'll put in a good Word for ye.—This for your comfort, She'll sip Verdua—privately tho'—and then—so good natur'd.

Pan.

That's half the work: For I never knew the Devil at one end, but his Dam was at t'other.

[A noise within, as of a falling down Stairs.

Bian.

Here, Pansa, here.

[She puts him in a Closet, takes his Lan∣thorn, and Exit by one Door. Enter Fieschi running by another. He falls, and drops his Dagger.

Fies.

Where am I? Blind Fortune assist my blinder self.

[He re∣covers, and exit by the Door he first came in at. Bianca peeps in with her dark Lanthorn; sees the Dagger, takes it up, and gives both to Pansa, then likewise peeping.

Bian.

There—bolt the Door t'ye, while I look out another way.

[Exit.

Enter Montalto with a Case of Pistols (in his Night-Gown) by the same Door Fieschi ran in at.

Mon.

The last noise lay this way—within there, Ho!

[He knocks.

What's here!—methinks I see a faint glimmering of a Light within that Closet. [He endeavours to open the Door.] Bolted within too—nay then—

[He fires at the Door, Pansa slips the bolt, glares him in the Face with his dark Lanthorn. Montalto fires at him, and closes with him. Both fall. Pansa stabs him, and by that means gets from him; but not without the loss of his Dagger. Exit Pansa by the same Door as his Master: Montalto rises. Enter Servants (with Lights and Swords) undrest.

1 Ser.

Thieves, Thieves!—'waken my Lord, he may be kill'd in's Bed.

2 Ser.

Hold—where he stands!—He bleeds—a Handkercher, to keep the Wound from Air.

Mon.

What needs this noise?—One of ye stay with me—another get me a Chirurgeon.—

3 Ser.

I run, I run.

[Exit.

Mon.

The rest, look about the House—'tis almost impossible he should escape.

[Third Servant returns.

3 Ser.

The Street Door (my Lord) is open.

[He runs off agen.

Mon.

Nay, then the Bird is flown.—However, see what Servants

are wanting, or out of Bed. That Men knew when, to put on Arms.

[First Servant sees a Dagger on the floor, takes it up, and gives it Montalto. He starts.

1 Ser.

Here's some ones Bloody Dagger.

Mon.

And I know whose—I gave it him—That was unkind.

[He throws it carelesly.

Enter Portia in a Night-Gown.

Por.

My Husband Bloody!—What have I done, good Heaven!—Now, pity me—And press me not with more than I can bear, or give me strength—

[She staggers; 1 Servant supports her.

Mon.

Do not thou stab me too—

[Montalto breaks from the other.

'Tis but a scratch, and thy Montalto lives: Stay! stay my Portia!—yet one minute stay, And take me with thee.

[He runs to take the Dagger, 2 Ser. prevents him.

2 Ser.

She begins to stir, Sir.

[Montalto runs to her, and shakes her.

Mon.

Return, return! at least but give an Eye, And see who calls thee back.—

Por.

My hovering Soul Was on the Wing, and nothing, but that voice, Had checkt its flight.

Mon.

Do not torment thy self: Thou maist accuse, but canst not alter Fate. Heav'n, Earth, all Things, have their Period.

Por.

But Portia has resolv'd, she will be Portia, In not surviving you.

Mon.

Respite till then: Ev'ry Wound is not Mortal; or if 'twere, Who comes to his last Period, dies old. If l've liv'd well, it's enough; if ill, too long: Life's measur'd, not by Years, but Actions.

Por.

But to be thus rent from me—

Mon.

If I must leave the Town, what matter is't What Port I go out at? Or which way I die? Death has a Thousand Roads, but all of then Meet at the Journeys end—How happy then Is Man, that he can neither lose his Way, Nor pass it twice.

[Third Servant returns.

3 Ser.

The Chirurgeons (Sir) are coming.

Mon.

Bring them into the next Room—Come (my Dear) I hope there's no danger—However, happen what will, it sha'n't sur∣prize me.