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. A Street.

Enter Crispo and Mingo (by cross doors.) They meet, jostle, and lay their Hands to their Swords.

Min.

SIgnior Crispo?—Mio multo illustre.

[They make their drunken scrapes, and Embrace.

Cris.

Min' Here Mingo?—Vestre tres humble.—That Comerades shou'd know one another no better?

Min.

And which becomes us, least of all others.—Us, that shou'd unite against the Common Enemy, Mankind.

Cris.

Thou'rt right.—And now, that we're Pot-valiant, what think'st thou of a Frolick?

Min.

And kill the next we meet.

Cris.

My very thought.—A match—

[They shake hands.]

Our Master will not hear of our return; and if I'm hang'd, 'tis what I wou'd.

Min.

And better far, than living under the Dominion of this super∣devilified Imperia.

Cris.

Poor Belphegor—I have known him somewhat in my time, but now, so sotted on her, he's not himself; and all this to please her, that will be pleas'd with nothing.

Min.

How one may be mistaken?—I remember, while he court∣ed her, Almond-butter wou'd not melt in her mouth—so innocent, she'd have blusht t'ave seen her own Hand naked—and a Voice so low, she cou'd not hear her self.—But not Three Days married, ere (like an Alarm Clock) the House rang of her.

Cris.

I'm sure I bear her marks.—Time was, I cou'd have bolted through a Key-hole; cut Capers on the point of a Needle; giv'n the Double-Somerset on a Pins-head; felt no more blows than a Sack of Wool; but now she'as beaten me to mash.

Min.

And made me meer Gut-founder'd—and I'm afraid, our Ma∣ster (return when he will) will make but a ragged Accompt of it.

Cris.

My only hopes are, he'll be weary in time, and leave her behind him; for if ere she come among us below, we break up House for certain.

Min.

A Lion (they say) runs from a Cock; and well may the Devil from a Crowing Hen.

Cris.

I am glad to see this amendment, Friend Mingo, and hope now, you are not so matrimonially inclin'd, as once you were?

Min.

I tell thee, Crispo, I know not what to make of 'em.—Some are so skittish, no ground will hold 'em.—Others so resty, one can bring 'em to nothing.—And others agen (like a Rattle at a Dogs Tail) run where you will, and it still follows ye.

Cris.

When all's done, there's nothing like an honest private Friend: And (between our selves) I have such a piece.

Min.

As mine, I warrant ye—so loving!

Cris.

So careful of her Honour, yet so obliging!

Min.

As if I did not know your old Flora—a meer Rag of a Jade; I wonder thou durst venture on her, for fear of Navel-gauling.

Cris.

And, I think, you have not much reason to brag of your greasie Tripe-wife▪ for my part, I hate Bog-trotting.

Min.

What need this reservedness among Friends.—Upon Ho∣nour now—who shall say first.

Cris.

And wound Reputation!—Fie.

Enter Marone, and a large Watch. Crispo and Mingo run; the Watch follow.

Mar.

You may believe Neighbours, there's somewhat more than or∣dinary, that I am here in person.—Every man wou'd not have don't.—But see, who are those Fellows running there—follow, follow. There is a dangerous Plot now brewing, and I know who has a Finger in it up to the Elbow.—Follow, follow 'em.

[Exeunt.