The lost lover, or, The jealous husband a comedy, as it is acted at the Theatre Royal by His Majesty's servants / written by Mrs. Manley.

SCENE I.

Olivia's Chamber. Olivia and Phoebe.

Phoe.

BY my Troth, Madam, if all Ladies should follow your Exam∣ple, Solitude wou'd make them soon turn honest; and then where were the Employment for Wit and Scandal? You need not be in such a Terror of my Master, he sleeps as sound as a Top; and should Mr. Wildman come in the Interim, we might introduce him to your Ladyship without his being the wiser.

Oliv.

I hear knocking at the Gate; go see if your Master be awake. Why do I tremble thus? I neither distrust my Vertue, nor his Care of it. Yet a secret Guilt condemns me, because I exceed in Form. If the Shadow of an Injury gives such Uneasiness, what do they suffer by Remorse who actually offend?

Enter Wildman like a Physician, Phoebe.

Wild.

My Life! my charming, bright Olivia!

Oliv.

Alas, Mr. Wildman, these Transports are not my Due; you know I am honest; neither my Husband nor you can make me other∣wise: Therefore urged by your Thousand Importunities, I have in∣deed sent for you, but 'tis to forbid any more Billet Douxes, not one Love Letter more, as you hope to have all those kindly received which you shall dispatch to your next Mistress.

Wild.

You amaze me, Madam!

Oliv.

Secondly, no Corrupting Presents to my Woman; no at∣tempting her weak Vertue, in hopes to prevail upon her Ladies; for the first moment I suspect it, I shall be offended at you, and send her packing, to carry you the News of it.

Phoe.

I was afraid I should suffer as an Accomplice.

Oliv.

Thirdly, no extravagant Civilities to Mr. Smyrna; no re∣turning cold Affronts with fond Caresses; no carrying him to the

Tavern, and paying his Club there, as if that were to be the Price of his Wife at home; nor vain Hopes of having the Proverb of your side, That Cuckolds are kind to those who make them so.

Wild.

'Twas something indeed, he was always so damn'd jealous of me; had he had but the Title, I wou'd not have questioned the Bene∣fit of the Proverb, his Horns would have blinded him.

Enter Doctor Pulse.

Pulse.

Madam, a good Morning to you.

Oliv.

My Husband's Physician unsent for! What's to be done?

Pulse.

I have been at Mr. Simpler's your Apothecary, who told me Mr. Smyrna was taken dangerously ill; whereupon I thought it my Duty to visit him: But, blessed be God, he's in a fine breathing Sweat: When he has taken what I shall prescribe, I hope he may be better.

Oliv.

Indeed, Dr. Pulse, he has had a very bad Night.

Pulse.

By his Habit, I should guess this Gentleman to be of the Fa∣culty. Pray, Sir, if it may be without Offence, what are you call'd? I do not believe you to be of the Colledge; I never saw your Face be∣fore, to my knowledge.

Wild.

My Business, Sir, is with my Patients, and not to answer im∣pertinent Questions.

Pulse.

Cry you mercy, good Mr. Mountebank; a Stage, I suppose, is your Occupation. Madam, since you have employed this Quack, e'en make use of him for good and all. A lawful Consultation I should not have refused; and so much good may do you with your Merry Andrew.

Exit Pulse.

Oliv.

I'm glad he's gone. Mr. Wildman, you know your Doom; we must part upon't.

Wild.

Prithee, dear Olivia, have more good Nature: Do I deserve no Reward for all my unwearied Hours of Love? No soft Compassion due for all I have suffer'd? This is mortifying one beyond any thing.

Oliv.

They say Revenge is natural. For your Comfort then, you have yours upon me, since I can't punish you, but I must share in't my self.

Wild.

Were that true, Olivia, you cou'd not use me thus. That Kindness you once flatter'd me with, tho' it were but a Name, has now lost that. You tell me, I am to be sacrific'd to your Vertue— but I'm afraid 'tis to some more happy Lover.

Oliv.

Why, I have never enjoy'd you. If Love were my Business, might I not find it with you? I never heard before, that any thing besides Possession brought Satiety.

Wil.

Did you never stay so long for your Dinner, that your A pe∣tite was lost when you came to it? methinks I see you reasoning with it, then surveying me— And crying 'twon't do, it this the Treat I long'd for?

Oliv.

Your comparison might hold indeed, if you cou'd prove I had stay'd my Stomach before I came to Dinner: But my Husband's no such inviting Dish, and I can assure you, too provident, to allow me much variety.

Enter Smyrna sick in his Night-Gown, led by Pulse.

Pulse.

He's a meer Quack, and so you'l say when you see him; if you make use of him, he'l certainly be the Death of you.

Smyr.

Ay Doctor Pulse, not unlikely.

Oliv.

Oh Heavens defend me, here's my Husband! Lord, Mr. Smyr∣na you have affrighted me out of my Wits, my very Heart beats in my Body. Doctor Pulse said, you were all in a Sweat, and I'm afraid you'l catch your Death, by rising in the Cold.

Smyr.

'Twill be very well Mistress, if I find your Heart agree with your Tongue. But what Quack have you brought me here— Nay, face about Doctor, I don't doubt your Experience, nor Mur∣dering by the Rules of Art— Mercy on us— Ay marry Sir, this is like a Wife indeed—What, Mr. Wildman turned Physician! Friend Pulse, you need never have troubled your head about this business, my Wife meant to keep this able Doctor to her self; this Gentle∣mans design lay in supplanting me, not you.

Wil.

Impudence must carry me through,

aside.

Doctor, your Patient is certainly Distracted, a meer Frenzy has seized him— Feel but his Pulse, ay he's fitter for his Bed than any place else; I can't commend your Judgment in suffering him to rise in this desperate Condition, let's force him back to his Chamber.

Smyr.

If I am mad, 'tis horn mad; you'd carry me to my Chamber, that you might Iye with my Wife in hers— Pray Doctor Wild∣man be pleas'd to march, I shall be able to wait upon you down, and secure the Doors after you. Be pleas'd to lead the way without fur∣ther Ceremony— I must own 'tis uncivil, but I make bold by your own example, for I fear, you have bin more so than welcome, with a certain Acquaintance of yours.

Oliv.

'Tis as I say, Doctor, retrieve your blunder, or I am lost.

Pulse.

Never fear it, Madam.

apart to Pulse.

Wild.

Brother Doctor, won't you assist me? The Gentlemans unruly, see how he struggles. O Sir, if you did but understand your own good you'd to go Bed, else you're a lost Man.

Smyr.

Pulse, Pulse, Friend Pulse, I say, will you let me be murder'd by this Rogue, this Villain Wildman— I'm almost strangl'd, help,

help there, I say, I won't be carried from my Wife— Wife— Wife— Where are you? Pray Sir be satisfied, and think me Cuckold enough for the first time.

Oliv.

O dear Husband, be perswaded and go to Bed, you look strangely wild.

Phoe.

Ay Master, if you did but see your self, what an altered Man your are; bless me one wou'd not know you again.

Smyr.

Thanks to honest Whoring, Mr. Wildman— I always thought Horns wou'd bring a strange Alteration.

Pulse.

Good Lord, what a Frenzy is this, to mistake a Physician for a Lover— To bed with him, by all means, and let him have some Cooling Tysans, and refreshing Juleps to allay the heat of the Distemper, perhaps a little sleep may restore him— Your Hand, Master Doctor.

Smyr.

Nay, if you are in the same Song too, I must be mad indeed— When a man is to be made a Cuckold, nothing can prevent it— But pray, let Master Doctor with the Whoring Countenance be dis∣mist.

Phoe.

He has never bin well since that Rogue of a Fortune-teller be∣witch'd him.

Pulse.

Nay, if that be his case, it may be beyond our Art, Brother; best send for some godly Divine to Pray over him.

Oliv.

That shall be my Care— God restore him, Doctor Pulse. Phoebe, lend your Hand, he'l struggle: But we must prevail, 'tis for his good.

Smyr.

What's the Devil in you all? I am no more mad than any of you; only a Cuckold, and a little troubled at that Calamity; no further Frantick I profess.

Pulse.

That's enough, of all Conscience. In, in with him.

Smyr.

Murder, help, Murder, Murder.

They carry him off strugling.

Re-enter Wildman.

Wild.

I have enough of the sport, and had much rather see Olivia return.

Enter Phoebe.

Phoe.

My Lady Sir, desires you would please to be gone; she's resol∣ved to stay by my Master for the better quieting of him— But don't let this dishearten you, your affairs shall go better than they have done, or I'll lose my Place, and my Reputation too.

Wild.

No, I'm at length convinc'd, Olivias Virtue shou'd be rather

Cherished than Seduced, tho' I see whose ever Title we have to it, we can be no more sure of Love, than Money; 'tis not ours till we have it in Possession.

Exeunt omnes.