Love a la mode a comedy / written by a Person of honour.

Scoena Tertia.

Ticket, Rant, Astutia.

Tick.

HOw dost feel thy self?

Ran.

This wench hath given me a shrew'd hear∣ing; my brains begin to turn like tumblers, and do the Summerset in my scull: I wonder she continues sober.

Tick.

Custom hath rendred it a second nature to her: but by my faith, friend, you shall drink no more, since it doth so disturb you.

Rant.

Pish, 'tis nothing: a little heats me.

Tick.

If 't be no more, you'll do your work the better, a lit∣tle wins the soule of Venery, and makes a man all fancy. But did'st thou marke with what a canonicall countenance and ce∣remony the fellow seem'd to marry you? he lookt so superci∣liously, I scarce knew him for my man.

Rant.

Faith he would have deceiv'd any: but to see The wench, she stands upon it now, as If she were some Votary: she won't go to bed Forsooth at undecent houres, and brides it As much as my Lady Mayoress at a Coronation.

Tick.

But the jest will be, boy, after thou hast Enjoy'd her, and I my promise (for we must Not discover before) what a pickle she'll Be in! —

Rant.

Ha, ha, he! the pretty faces she'll make!

Ticket.

VVhen she findes her selfe deluded, by being our whore, in stead of your wife, by my faith a great descent.

Rant.

Certainly she'll gaule her tongue with scolding, And batter down the wall of her mouth, I meane her teeth, with the thunderbolt Of her exclaimes.

Tick.

Nay, we must expect lightening too; for she's A Serpent, and can spit fire.

Rant.

Howere, I'll stand her boldly; I believe the Breach is made to my hand. But now we Talke of broken commodities, art not thou To meet the Doctors wife to night?

Tick.

I am; but I'll see thee incircled within Astutia's armes first, and then I'm for her.

Rant.

Faith Ticket I must have a reversion there; 'tis Justice, Wench for Wench: besides, thou art to Have a taste of my red Deare; and Venison is A meat to pleasure friends with.

Tick.

Marry here, I take pains for you, and my Selfe too; in th' other venter, for my selfe Onely: and could'st thou have the conscience To reap the harvest of all my labours,

And never take pains to sowe?

Rant.

Deare Ticket, I onely desire the gleanings, and those are allowed to idle persons: then consider who entred you in∣to that acquaintance: good turnes would be remembred.

Tick.

And shall: if this wench can't allay your heat, th'o∣ther's at your service.

Rant.

VVhy now thou speak'st nobly, like a worthy engros∣ser of Mutton: but mum, here comes my mock-bride; oh she paces admirably well!

Tick.

She'll trot and jolt anon: a through-pac'd wench, I warrant thee.

Enter Astutia.

Rant.

Sweet, are you come to hasten me to bed?

Astu.

The nights are long, Sir, and you may no doubt Finde time enough, before Aurora doth Unvaile her face, to make you weary of Those sports your expectation flatters you Withall: Marriage is a holy thing, And all it's Rites, Sir, are to be perform'd With ceremonious and due respect.

Rant.

But Deare, the Ceremony now is o're: Since that the Priest hath ti'd our hands, and love Our hearts; what can remaine, but that we taste Those lawfull sweets, which Hymen doth allow His votaries?

Tick.

Madam, indeed 'tis late; for night begins To spread her sable Canopy o'er the Earth.

Astu.

Sir, I am all obedience: if it be Your pleasure thus early to go to rest, I am your servant now, and must obey: All that before I said, I pray excuse: A fond desire to retaine a while My Virgin-state, reprieve my Maiden-head, Made me contend; no disobedience To your will, which ever shall be mine In all that's good, or but indifferent; So strictly knit to yours, that none therein, Though envy lent them eyes, shall ere discerne A difference.

Rant.

What pity 'tis she is a whore! Were she honest, and thus obedient, She would grow up a President for wives, And be a woman born to make men happy. But she is light, and therefore shun'd the light: For whil'st day peept, her deeds of darkness Durst not shew their face, nor shew her lust. Why do I terme it so? to me 'tis not: For she enjoyes a husband in her thoughts, Whil'st I do knowingly embrace a VVhore; Yet is her promise to my friend no wayes Excusable; see, she drives the bargain: A man were well holp up with such a wife: They toy: 'twas well the Marriage was in jest. I like my armes, and would not change my crest. Deare, let's not waste such precious time: to bed, There let us loose our selves in one another, And raise our pleasures up to such a height, The gods themselves may envy at our bliss. Come, is the Posset made?

Tick.

To what purpose? here are no aged Matrons to mum∣ble the curd between their gumms, and read a baudy lecture to your bride, till laughter makes them foame at mouth again. A Posset? none but an Antiquary would have ask't for such an apocryphall meate, as antient as Rebellion it selfe. Faith a Tub full of graines will be as rich geere to make a Protecto∣rian frollick, and liquor Sattin Gownes with.

Rant.

Thou art such a modish Zealot, and such an Enemy to old fashions and customes, I wonder Thou lovest women so, a thing in fashion In old Adam's dayes.

Tick.

And so were Cloaths; yet still their fashion Changes; so nature varies beauties; sometimes Long visages are à la mode, sometimes round, then Broad, triangle, ovall; any forme that is In present use, and most esteeme, fancie Decrees for fairest.

Rant.

Thy reasons are unanswerable: I submit,

And will steale as silently to bed as a Zealot To his brothers wife when he's asleep.

Tick.

Get you gone then and be naught together; You loose much time. Had I so sweet a Bride, I would prevent the morning, which within Few houres will appeare to chide your dulness.

Rant.

Faith we're to blame: come, deare, let's in To bed, for feare the God of Marriage grow Incens'd. — Ticket, good rest, and pleasing dreames.

Exit.

Tick.

You have the pleasing substance, Sir, make Much on't. So, this happily is dispatch't: Now to my Doctors wife; I hope she'll prove, Though not a lawfull, a sweet prize of love.

Exit.