Love and a Bottle. A COMEDY, As it is Acted at the THEATRE-ROYAL in Drury-Lane BY His MAJESTY's Servants.  Vade sed incultus, qualem decet exulis esse. Ovid. Trist. El. 1. 
Written by Mr. George Farquhar.  
LONDON, Printed for Richard Standfast, next door to the Three-Tun Tavern, near Temple-Bar; and Francis Coggen, in the Inner-Temple-lane. 1699.  
☞ There is lately published, the Adventures of Covent-Garden, in imitation of Scarrons City Romance: Printed for Richard Standfast. 1699.   

To the Right Honourable, PEREGRINE, Lord marquess of Carmarthen, etc.  
My Lord,  
BEing equally a stranger to your Lordship, and the whole Nobility of this Kingdom, something of a natural impulse and aspiring motion in my inclinations, has prompted me, though I hazard a presumption, to declare my Respect. And be the Success how it will, I am vain of nothing in this piece, but the choice of my Patron; I shall be so far thought a judicious Author, whose principal business is to design his Works an offering to the greatest Honour and Merit.  
I cannot here, my Lord, stand accused of any sort of Adulation, but to myself, because Compliments due to Merit return upon the giver, and the only flattery is to myself, whilst I attempt your Lordship's praise. I dare make no essay on your Lordship's youthful Bravery and Courage, because such is always guarded with Modesty, but shall venture to present you some lines on this Subject, which the world will undoubtedly apply to your Lordship.  

Courage, the highest gift, that scorns to bend  
To mean devices for a sordid end.  
Courage— an independent spark from Heaven's bright Throne,  
By which the Soul stands raised, triumphant, high, alone.  
Great in itself, not praises of the crowd,  
Above all vice, it stoops not to be proud.  
Courage, the mighty attribute of powers above,  
By which those great in War, are great in Love.  
The spring of all brave Acts is seated here,  
As falsehoods draw their sordid birth from fear.   
The best and noblest part of mankind pay homage to Royalty, what veneration then is due to those Virtues and Endowments which even engaged the respect of Royalty itself, in the person of one of the greatest Emperors in the World, who chose your Lordship not only as a Companion, but a Conductor.  
He wanted the Fire of such a Britton to animate his cold Russians, and would therefore choose you his Leader in War, as in Travel: he knew the Fury of the Turk could be only stopped by an English Nobleman, as the Power of France was by an English King. A sense of this greatness which might deter others, animates me to Address your Lordship; resolved that my first Muse should take an high and daring flight, I aspired to your Lordship's Protection for this trifle, which I must own myself now proud of, affording me this opportunity of Humbly declaring myself,  
My Lord,  
Your Lordship's most devoted Servant,  
G. Farquhar.   

PROLOGUE:  By J. H. spoken by Mr. powel, a Servant attending with a Bottle of Wine. 

AS stubborn Atheists, who disdained to pray,  
Repent, though late, upon their dying day,  
So in their pangs, most Author's racked with fears,  
Implore your mercy in our suppliant prayers.  
But our new Author has no Cause maintained,  
Let him not lose what he has never gained.  
Love and a Bottle are his peaceful arms?  
Ladies, and Gallants, have not these some Charms.  
For Love, all mankind to the Fair must sue,  
And Sirs, the Bottle, he presents to you.  
Health to the Play, (drinks.) e'en let it fairly pass,  
Sure none sit here that will refuse their glass.  
Othere's a damning Soldier— let me think—  
He looks as he were sworn— to What!— to drink. (drinks.  
Come on then; foot to foot be boldly set,  
And our young Author's new Commission wet.  
He and his Bottle here attend their doom,  
From you the Poets Helicon must come;  
If he has any foes, to make amends,  
He gives his service (drinks) sure you now are friends.  
No Critic here will he provoke to fight,  
The day be theirs, he only begs his Night;  
Pray pledge him now, secured from all abuse,  
Then name the health you love, let none refuse,  
But each man's Mistress be the Poet's Muse.    

EPILOGUE:  Written and Spoke by Jo. Haynes in Mourning. 

I Come not here, our Poet's Fate to see,  
He and his Play may both be damned for me.  
No; Royal Theatre, I come to Mourn for thee.  
And must these Structures then untimely fall  
Whilst the other House stands and gets the Devil and all?  
Must still kind Fortune through all Wether's steer 'em?  
And Beauties bloom their spite of Edax, Rerum.  
Vivitur Ingenio, that damned Motto there [Looking up at it.  
Seduced me first to be a Wicked Player.  
Hard Times indeed, Oh Tempora! Oh Mores!  
I knew that Stage must down where not one whore is.   

But can you have the hearts tho'?— (pray now speak)  
After all our Services to let us break,  
You cannot do't unless the Devil's in ye,  
What Arts, what Merit ha'n't we used to win ye?  
First to divert ye with some new French strowlers;  
We brought ye Bona Sere's, Barba Colar's. [Mocking the late singers.   

When their Male Throats no longer drew your Money.  
We got ye an Eunuches Pipe, Signior Rampony.  
That Beardless Songster we could ne'er make much on;  
The Females found a damned Blot in his Scutcheon.  
An Italian now we've got of mighty Fame,  
Don Segismondo Fideli.— There's Musick-in-his Name,  
His voice is like the Music of the Spheres  
It should be Heavenly for the Price it bears. [20 l. a time.  
He's a handsome fellow too, look brisks and trim.  
If he don't take ye, Then the Devil take him.  
Besides lest our white faces always mayn't delight ye;  
We've Picked up Gypsies now to please or fright ye.   

Lastly to make our House more Courtlier shine;  
As Travel does the Men of Mode refine,  
So our Stage Hero's did their Tour design.  
To mend their Manners and course English Feeding,  
They went to Ireland to improve their Breeding:  
Yet for all this, we still are at a loss,  
Oh Collier! Collier! Thou'st frighted away Miss C— s  
She to return our Foreigner's Complizance  
At Cupid's call, has made a Trip to France.  
Love's Fire Arm's here are since not worth a sous.  
We've lost the only Touchhole of our House.   

Losing that Jewel gave us a Fatal blow:  
Well, if thin Audience must Jo. Haynes undo,  
Well, if 'tis decreed, Nor can thy Fate, O Stage  
Resist the Vows of this obdurate Age,   

I'll then grow wiser, leave off Playing the Fool,  
And Hire this Playhouse for a Boarding-School.  
D'ye think the Maids won't be in a sweet Condition  
When they are Under Jo. Haynes' Grave Tuition  
They'll have no occasion then I'm sure to Play  
They'll have such Comings in another way.    

dramatis Personae.  

Roebuck. An Irish Gentleman, of a wild roving temper; newly come to London. Mr. Williams.  
Lovewell. His Friend sober and modest, in Love with Lucinda. Mr. Mills.  
Mockmode. A young Squire, come newly from the University, and setting up for a Beau, Mr. Bullock.  
Lyric. A Poet. Mr. Johnson.  
Phamphlet. A Bookseller. Mr Haynes.  
Rigadoon. A Dancing-Master. Mr Haynes.  
Nimblewrist. A Fencing-Master. Mr. Ashton.  
Club. Servant to Mockmode. Mr. Pinkethman.  
Brush. Servant to Lovewell. Mr. Fairbank.   

WOMEN.  
Lucinda. A Lady of considerable Fortune. Mrs. Rogers.  
Leanthe Sister to Lovewell, in love with Roebuck, and disguised as Lucinda's Page. Mrs. Maria Alison.  
Trudge Whore to Roebuck. Mrs. Mills.  
bulfinch. Landlady to Mockmode. Lyric, and Trudge. Mrs. powel.  
Pindress. Attendant and Confident to Lucinda. Mrs. Moor.   
Bailiffs, Beggar, Porter, Masques, and Attendants.  
SCENE LONDON.   
Love and a Bottle.  

ACT I. SCENE Lincolns-Inn-Fields.  Enter Roebuck in Riding habit Solus, repeating the following Line. 
THUS far our Arms have with Success been Crowned.— Heroically spoken, faith, of a fellow that has not one farthing in his Pocket. If I have one Penny to buy a Halter withal in my present necessity, may I be hanged; though I'm reduced to a fair way of obtaining one methodically very soon, if Robbery or Theft will purchase the Gallows. But hold— Can't I rob honourably, by turning Soldier?  Enter a Cripple begging. Crip. 
One farthing to the poor old Soldier, for the Lord's sake.  Roeb. 
Ha!— a glimpse of Damnation just as a Man is entering into sin, is no great policy of the Devil.— But how long did you bear Arms, friend;  Crip. 
Five years, an't please you Sir.  Roeb. 
And how long has that honourable Crutch born you?  Crip. 
Fifteen, Sir.  Roeb. 
Very pretty! Five year a Soldier, and Fifteen a Beggar!— This is Hell right! an age of Damnation for a momentary offence. Thy condition fellow, is preferable to mine; the merciful Bullet, more kind than thy ungrateful Country, has given thee a Debenter in thy broken Leg, from which thou canst draw a more plentiful maintenance than I from all my Limbs in perfection. Prithee friend, why wouldst thou beg of me? Dost think I'm rich?  Crip. 
No, Sir, and therefore I believe you charitable. Your warm fellows are so far above the sense of our Misery, that they can't pity us; and I have always found it, by sad experience, as needless to beg of a rich Man as a Clergyman. Our greatest Benefactors, the brave Officers are all disbanded, and must now turn Beggars like myself; and so, Times are very hard, Sir.  Roeb. 
What, are the Soldiers more charitable than the Clergy.  Crip. 
Ay, Sir, A Captain will say Dam'me, and give me sixpence; and a Parson shall whine out God bless me, and give me not a farthing: Now I think the Officers Blessing much the best.  Roeb. 
Are the Beau's never compassionate?  Crip. 
The great full Wigs they wear, stop their Ears so close, that they can't hear us; and if they should, they never have any farthings about'em.  Roeb. 
Then I am a Beau, friend; therefore pray leave me. Begging from a generous Soul that has not to bestow, is more tormenting than Robbery to a Miser in his abundance. Prithee friend, be thou charitable for once; I beg only the favour which rich friends bestow, a little Advice. I am as poor as thou art, and am designing to turn Soldier.  Crip. 
No, no, Sir. See what an honourable Post I am forced to stand to, My Rags are scarecrows sufficient to frighten any one from the Field; rather turn bird of prey at home.  [Showing his Crutch. Roeb. 
Gramercy, old Devil. I find Hell has its Pimps of the poorer sort, as well as of the wealthy. I fancy, friend, thou hast got a Cloven-foot instead of a broken Leg. 'Tis a hard Case, that a Man must never expect to go nearer Heaven than some steps of a Ladder. But 'tis unavoidable: I have my wants to lead, and the Devil to drive; and if I can't meet my friend Lovewell, (which I think impossible, being so great a stranger in Town) Fortune thou hast done thy worst; I proclaim open War against thee.  
I'll stab thy next rich Darling that I see;  
And killing him, be thus revenged on thee.  [Goes to the back part of the Stage, as into the Walks, making some turns cross the Stage in disorder, while the next speak. Exit Beggar. Enter Lucinda and Pindress. Lucin. 
Oh these Summer mornings are so delicately fine, Pindress, it does me good to be abroad.  Pin. 
Ay, Madam, these Summer mornings are as pleasant to young folks, as the Winter nights to married people, or as your morning of Beauty to Mr. Lovewell.  Lucin. 
I'm violently afraid the Evening of my Beauty will fall to his share very soon; for I'm inclinable to marry him. I shall soon lie under an Eclipse, Pindress.  Pin. 
Then it must be full Moon with your Ladyship. But why would you choose to marry in Summer, Madam?  Luo. 
I know no cause, but that people are aptest to run mad in hot weather, unless you take a Woman's reason.  Pin. 
What's that, Madam?  Luc. 
Why, I am weary of lying alone.  Pin. 
Oh dear Madam! lying alone is very dangerous; 'tis apt to breed strange Dreams.  Luc. 
I had the oddest Dream last night of my Courtier that is to be, 'Squire Mockmode. He appeared crowded about with a Dancing-Master, Pushing-Master, Musick-Master, and all the throng of Beau-makers; and methought he mimicked Foppery so awkwardly, that his imitation was downright burlesquing it. I burst out a laughing so heartily, that I wakened myself.  Pin. 
But Dreams go by contraries, Madam. Have not you seen him yet.  Luc. 
No; but my Uncle's Letter gives account that he's newly come to Town from the University, where his Education could reach no farther than to guzzle fat Ale, smoke Tobaco, and chop Logic.— Faugh— it makes me Sick.  Pin. 
But he's very rich, Madam; his Concerns join to yours in the Country.  Luc. 
Ay, but his Concerns shall never join to mine in the City: For since I have the disposal of my own Fortune, Lovewells the Man for my Money.  Pin. 
Ay, and for my Money; for I've have had above twenty Pieces from him since his Courtship began. He's the prettiest sober Gentleman; I have so strong an opinion of his modesty, that I'm afraid, Madam, your first Child will be a Fool.  Luc. 
Oh God forbid! I hope a Lawyer understands business better than to beget any thing non compos.— The Walks fill a pace; the Enemy approaches, we must set out our false Colours.  [put on their Masks. Pin. 
We Masks are the purest Privateers! Madam, how would you like to Cruise about a little?  Luc. 
Well enough, had we no Enemies but our Fops and Cits: But I dread these blustering Men of War, the Officers, who after a Broadside of Dam'me's and Sinkme's, are for boarding all Masks they meet, as lawful Prize.  Pin. 
In truth Madam, and the most of 'em are lawful Prize, for they generally have French Ware under Hatches.  Luc. 
Oh hideous! O' my Conscience Girl thou'at quite spoilt, An Actres upon the Stage would blush at such expressions.  Pin. 
Ay Madam, and your Ladyship would seem to blush in the Box, when the redness of your face proceeded from nothing but the constraint of holding your Laughter. Did you chide me for not putting a stronger Lace in your Stays, when you had broke one as strong as a Hempen Cord, with containing a violent Tihee at a smutty Jest in the last Play.  Luc. 
Go, go, thou'rt a naughty Girl; thy impertinent Chat has diverted us from our business. I'm afraid Lovewell has missed us for want of the Sign:— But whom have we here? an odd figure! some Gentleman in disguise, I believe.  Pin. 
Had he a finer Suit on, I should believe him in disguise; for I fancy his friends have only known him by that this Twelvemonth.  Luc. 
His Mien and Air show him a Gentleman, and his clothes demonstrate him a Wit. He may afford us some sport. I have a Female inclination to talk to him.  Pin. 
Hold, Madam, he looks as like one of those dangerous Men of War you just now mentioned as can be; you had best send out your Pinnace before to discover the Enemy.  Luc. 
No, I'll hale him myself.  [Moves towards him. 
What, Sir, dreaming?  [Slaps him o'th' Shoulder with her Fan. Roeb. 
Yes, Madam.  [Sultenly Luc. 
Of what?  Roeb. 
Of the Devil, and now my Dream's out.  Luc. 
What! do you Dream standing?  Roeb. 
Yes faith, Lady, very often when my sleep's haunted by such pretty Goblins as you. You are a sort of Dream I would fain be reading: I'm a very good interpreter Indeed, Madam.  Luc. 
Are you then one of the Wise Men of the East?  Roeb. 
No, Madam; but one of the Fools of the West.  Luc. 
Pray what do you mean by that?  Roeb. 
An Irishman, Madam, at your Service.  Luc. 
Oh horrible! an Irishman! a mere Wolf-Dog, I protest.  Roeb. 
Ben't surprised Child; the Wolf-Dog is as well natured an Animal as any of your Country Bulldogs, and a much more fawning Creature, let me tell ye.  [Lays hold on her Luc. 
Pray good Caesar, keep off your Paws; no scarping acquaintance, for Heaven's sake. Tell us some news of your Country; I have heard the strangest Stories,— that the people wear Horns and hooves.  Roeb. 
Yes, faith, a great many wear Horns: but we had that among other laudable fashions, from London. I think it came over with your mode of wearing high Topknots; for ever since, the Men and Wives bear their heads exalted alike. They were both fashions that took wonderfully.  Luc. 
Then you have Ladies among you?  Roeb. 
Yes, yes, we have Ladies, and Whores; Colleges, and Playhouses; Churches, and Taverns; fine Houses, and Bawdy-houses; in short, every thing that you can boast of, but Fops, Poets, Toads and Adders.,  Luc. 
But have you no Beau's at all?  Roeb. 
Yes, they come over, like the Woodcoks, once a year.  Luc. 
And have your Ladies no Springs to catch 'em in?  Roeb. 
No, Madam; our own Country affords us much better Wildfowl. But they are generally stripped of their feathers by the PIayhouse and Taverns; in both which they pretend to be Critics; and our ignorant Nation imagines a full Wig as infallible a token of a Wit as the Laurel.  Luc. 
Oh Lard! and here 'tis the certain sign of a Blockhead. But why no Poets in Ireland, Sir!  Roeb. 
Faith, Madam, I know not, unless St. Patrick sent them a packing with other venomous Creatures out of Ireland. Nothing that carries a Sting in its Tongue can live there. But since I have described my Country, let me know a little of England, by a sight of your Face.  Luc. 
Come you to particulars first. Pray, Sir, unmasque, by telling who you are; and then I'll unmasque, and show who I am.  Roeb. 
You must dismiss your attendant then, Madam; for the distinguishing particular of me is a Secret.  Pin. 
Sir, I can keep a Secret as well as my Mistress; and the greater the secrets are, I love 'em the better.  Luc. 
Can't they be whispered, Sir?  Roeb. 
Oh yes, Madam, I can give you a hint, by which you may understand 'em—  [Pretends to whisper, and kisses her. Luc. 
Sir, you're Impudent—  Roeb. 
Nay, Madam, since you're so good at minding folks, have with you.  [Catches her fast, carrying her off. Luc. Pin. 
Help! help! help!  Enter Lovewell. Love. 
Villain, unhand the Lady, and defend thyself.  [Draws. Roeb. 
What! Knight-Errants in this Country! Now has the Devil very opportunely sent me a Throat to cut; Pray Heaven his Pockets be well lined.—  [Quits 'em, they go off. 
Have at thee— St. George for England.—  [They fight, after some passes, Reob. starts back and pauses. 
My Friend Lovewell?  Love. 
My dear Roebuck!  [Fling down their Swords and embrace. 
Shall I believe my eyes?  Roeb. 
You may believe your ears; 'Tis I be gad.  Love. 
Why thy being in London is such a mystery, that I must have the evidence of more senses than one to confirm me of its truth.— But pray unfold the Riddle.  Roeb. 
Why Faith 'tis a Riddle. You wonder at it before the Explanation, then wonder more at yourself for not guessing it.— What is the Universal cause of the continued Evils of mankind?  Love. 
The Universal cause of our continued evil is the Devil sure.  Roeb. 
No, 'tis the Flesh, Ned.— That very Woman that drove us all out of Paradise, has sent me a packing out of Ireland.  Love. 
How so?  Roeb. 
Only tasting the forbidden Fruit: that was all.  Love. 
Is simple Fornication become so great a Crime there, as to be punishable by no less than Banishment?  Roeb. 
I gad, mine was double Fornication, Ned— The Jade was so pregnant to bear Twins; the fruit grew in Clusters; and my unconscionable Father, because I was a Rogue in Debauching her, would make me a fool by Wedding her: But I would not marry a Whore, and he would not own a disobedient Son, and so—  Love. 
But was she a Gentlewoman?  Roeb. 
Pshaw! No, she had no Fortune. She wore indeed a Silk Manteau and High-Head; but these are grown as little signs of Gentility now a-days, as that is of Chastity.  Love. 
But what necessity forced you to leave the Kingdom?  Roeb. 
I'll tell you.— To shun th' insulting Authority of an incensed Father, the dull and often-repeated advice of impertinent Relations, the continual clamours of a furious Woman, and the shrill bawling of an ill natured Bastard.— From all which, Good Lord deliver me.  Love. 
And so you left them to Grand Dada!— Ha, ha, ha.  Roeb. 
Heaven was pleased to lessen my affliction, by taking away the she Brat; but the tother is, I hope, well, because a brave Boy, whom I christened Edward, after thee, Lovewell; I made bold to make my man stand for you, and your Sister sent her Maid to give her name to my Daughter.  Love. 
Now you talk of my Sister, pray how does she?  Roeb. 
Dear Lovewell, a very Miracle of Beauty and Goodness.—— But I don't like her.  Love. 
Why?  Roeb. 
She's Virtuous;— and I think Beauty and Virtue are as ill joined as Lewdness and Ugliness.  Love. 
But I hope your Arguments could not make her a Proselyte to this Profession.  Roeb. 
Faith I endeavoured it; but that Plaguy Honour— Damn it for a whim— Were it as honourable for Women to be Whores, as men to be Whoremasters, we should have Lewdness as great a Mark of Quality among the Ladies, as 'tis now among the Lords.  Love. 
What! do you hold no innate Principle of Virtue in Women?  Roeb. 
I hold an innate principle of Love in them: Their Passions are as great as ours, their Reason weaker. We admire them and consequently they must us. And I tell thee once more, That had Women no safe guard but your innate Principle of Virtue, honest George Roebuck would have lain with your Sister, Ned, and should enjoy a Countess before night.  Lov. 
But methinks, George, 'twas not fair to tempt my Sister.  Roeb. 
Methinks 'twas not fair of thy Sister, Ned, to tempt me. As she was thy Sister, I had no design upon her: but as she's a pretty Woman, I could scarcely forbear her, were she my own.  Love. 
But, upon serious reflection, Could not you have lived better at home, by turning thy Whore into a Wife, than hear by turning other men's Wives into Whores? There are Merchants Ladies in London, and you must trade with them, for aught I see.  Roeb. 
Ay, but is the Trade open? Is the Manufacture encouraged, old Boy?  Lov. 
Oh, wonderfully!— a great many poor people live by't. Tho the Husbands are for engrossing the Trade, the Wives are altogether for encouraging Interlopers. But I hope you have brought some small Stock to set up with.  Roeb. 
The greatness of my wants, which would force me to discover 'em, makes me blush to own 'em. [Aside.] Why faith, Ned, I had a great Journey from Ireland hither, and would burden myself with no more than just necessary Charges.  Lov. 
Oh, than you have brought Bills?  Roeb. 
No, faith. Exchange of Money from Dublin hither is so unreasonable high, that—  Lov. 
What?  Roeb. 
That— Zounds I have not one farthing.— Now you understand me?  Lov. 
No faith, I never understand one that comes in formâ pauperis; I han't studied the Law so long for nothing.— But what prospect can you propose of a supply?  Roeb. 
I'll tell you. When you appeared, I was just thanking my Stars for sending me a Throat to eut, and consequently a Purse: But my knowledge of you prevented me of that way, and therefore I think you're obliged in return to assist me by some better means. You were once an honest Fellow; but so long study in the Inns may alter a Man strangely, as you say.  Lov. 
No, dear Roebuck, I'm still a friend to thy Virtues, and esteem thy Follies as Foils only to set them off. I did but rally you; and to convince you, here are some Pieces, share of what I have about me; Take them as earnest of my farther supply, you know my Estate sufficient to maintain us both, if you will either restrain your Extravagancies, or I retrench my Necessaries.  Roeb. 
Thy profession of kindness is so great, that I could almost suspect it of design.— But come, Friend, I am heartily tired with the fatigue of my Journey, besides a violent Fit of Sickness, which detained me a Month at Coventry, to the exhausting my Health and Money. Let me only recruit by a relish of the Town in Love and a Bottle, and then—  As they are going off, Roebuck starts back surprised. 
Oh heavens'! and Earth!  Lov. 
What's the matter, Man?  Roeb. 
Why! Death and the Devil; or, what's worse, a Woman and a Child.—— Oons! done't you see Mrs. Trudge with my Bastard in her Arms crossing the field towards us?— Oh the indefatigable Whore to sollow me all the way to London!  Lov. 
Mrs. Trudge! my old acquaintance!  Roeb. 
Ay, ay, the very same; your old acquaintance; and for aught I know, you might have clubbed about getting the Brats.  Love. 
'Tis but reasonable then I should pay share at the Reckoning. I'll help to provide for her; in the mean time, you had best retire.— Brush, conduct this Gentlemen to my Lodgings, and run from thence to Widow Bullfinch's, and provide a Lodging with her for a Friend of mine.— Fly, and come back presently.— [Ex. Roeb. and Brush.— So; my Friend comes to Town like the Great Turk to the Field, attended by his Concubines and Children; and I'm afraid these are but parts of his Retinue.— But hold— I shan't be able to sustain the shock of this Woman's Fury. I'll withdraw till she has discharged her first Volley, then surprise her.  Eater Trudge, with a Child crying. 
Hush, hush, hush.— And indeed it was a young Traveller.— And what would it say? It says that Daddy is a false Man, a cruel Man, and an ungrateful Man.— In troth so he is, my dear Child.— What shall I do with it, poor Creature?— Hush, hush, hush.— Was ever poor Woman in such a lamentable condition? immediately after the pains of one Travel to undergo the fatigues of another?— But I'm sure he can never do well; for though l can't find him, my curses, and the misery of this Babe, will certainly reach him.  Love. 
Methinks I should know that voice.—  [moving forward. 
What! Mrs. Trudge! and in London! whose brave Boy hast thou got there?  Trud. 
Oh Lord! Mr. Lovewell! I'm very glad to see you,— and yet am ashamed to see you. But indeed he promised to marry me, [Crying.] and you know, Mr. Lovewell, that he's such a handsome Man, and has so many ways of insinuating, that the frailty of Woman's Nature could not resist him.  Love. 
What's all this?— A handsome Man? Ways of insinuating? Frailty of Nature?— I don't understand these ambiguous terms.  Trud. 
Ah, Mr. Lovewell! I'm sure you have seen Mr. Roebuck, and I'm sure 'twould be the first thing he would tell you. I refer it to you, Mr. Lovewell, if he is not an ungrateful man, to deal so barbarously with any Woman that had used him so civility. I was kiuder to him than I would have been to my own born Brother.  Lov. 
Oh than I find kissing goes by favour, Mrs. Trudge.  Trud. 
Faith you're all alike, you men are alike.— Poor Child! he's as like his own Dadda, as if he were spit out of his mouth. See, Mr. Lovewell, if he has not Mr. Roebuck's Nose to a hair; and you know he has a very good Nose; and the little Pigsnye has Mammas Mouth. Oh the little Lips:!— and 'tis the best natured little dear—— [Smuggles and kisses it.] And would it ask its Godfather Blessing?— Indeed, Mr. Lovewell, I believe the Child knows you.  Love. 
Ha, ha, ha! Well, I will give it my Blessing.  [Gives it Gold. (As he gives her the Gold, enter Lucinda and Pindress, who seeing them stand, abscond. 
Come, Madam, I'll first settle you in a Lodging and then find the false Man, as you call him.—  (Exit Love. Lucinda and Pindress come forward. Luc. 
The false man is found already.— Was there ever such a lucky discovery?— My care for his preservation brought me back, and now behold how my kindness is returned!— Their Fighting was a downright trick to frighten me from the place, thereby to afford him opportunity of entertaining his Whore and Brat.  Pin. 
Your conjecture, Madam, bears a colour; for looking back, I could perceive 'em talking very familiarly; so that they could not be strangers as their pretended Quarrel would intimate.  Luc. 
'Tis all true as he is false.— What! slighted! despised! my honourable Love trucked for a Whore! Oh Villain! Epitome of thy Sex!— But I'll be revenged. I'll marry the first man that asks me the Question; nay, though he be a disbanded Soldier, or a poor Poet, or a senseless Fop; Nay tho' Impotent I'll Marry him.  Pin. 
Oh Madam! that s to be revenged on yourself.  Luc. 
I care not, Fool! I deserve punishment for my Credulity, as much as he for his Falsehood And you deserve it too, Minx; your persuasions drew me to this Assignation: I never loved the false man.  Pin. 
That's false, I'm sure.  Aside. Luc. 
But you thought to get another piece of Gold. We shall have him giving you Money on the same score he was so liberal to his Whore just now.  Walks about in Passion. Enter Lovewell. Love. 
So much for Friendship— now for my Love.— I han't transgressed much.— Oh, there she is.— Oh my Angel!  runs to her. Luc. 
Oh thou Devil!—  [Starts back. Lov. 
Not unless you damn me, Madam.  Luc. 
You're damned already; you're a Man.  Exit pushing Pindress. Lov. 
You're a Woman, I'll be sworn.— hay day! what giddy Female Planet rules now! By the Lord, these Women are like their Maidenheads, no sooner found than lost.— Here, Brush, run after Pindress, and know the occasion of this.—  [Brush runs.] 
— Stay, come back— Zounds, I'm a fool.  Brush. 
That's the first wise word you have spoke these two months.  Love. 
Trouble me with your untimely Jests, Sirrah, and I'll.——  Brush. 
Your Pardon, Sir; I'm in downright earnest.— 'Tis less Slavery to be Apprentice to a famous Clap-Surgeon, than to a Lover. He falls out with me, because he can't fall in with his Mistress. I can bear it no longer.  Love. 
Sirrah, what are you mumbling?  Brush. 
A short Prayer before I depart, Sir.—— I have been these three years your Servant, but now, Sir, I'm your humble Servant.  Bows as going. Love. 
Hold, you shan't leave me.  Brush. 
Sir, you can't be my Master.  Love. 
Why so?  Brush. 
Because you're not your own Master; yet one would think you might, for you have lost your Mistress. Oons, Sir, let her go, and a fair riddance. Who throws away a Tester and a Mistress, loses sixpence. That little Pimping Cupid is a blind Gunner. Had he shot as many Darts as I have carried Billets deux, he would have laid her kicking with her heels up e'er now. In short, Sir, my Patience is worn to the stumps with attending; my Shoes and Stockings are upon their last Legs with trudging between you. I have sweat out all my moisture of my hand with palming your clammy Letters upon her. I have—  Love. 
Hold, Sir, your trouble is now at an end, for I design to marry her.  Brush. 
And have you courted her these three years for nothing but a Wife?  Love. 
Do you think, Rascal, I would have taken so much pains to make her a Miss?  Brush. 
No, Sir; the tenth part on't would ha' done.— But if you are resolved to marry, God b'w'ye.  Love. 
What's the matter now, Sirrah!  Brush. 
Why, the matter will be, that I must then Pimp for her.—— Hark ye, Sir, what have you been doing all this while, but teaching her the way to Cuckold ye?—— Take care, Sir; look before you leap. You have a ticklish point to manage.— Can you tell, Sir, what's her quarrel to you now?  Lov. 
I can't imagine. I don't remember that ever I offended her.  Brush. 
That's it Sir. She resolves to put your easiness to the Test now, that she may with more security rely upon to hereafter.— Always suspect those Women of Designs that are for searching into the humours of their Courtiers; for they certainly intent to try them when they're married.  Lov. 
How cam'st thou such an Engineer in Love?  Brush. 
I have sprung some Mines in my time, Sir; and since I have truged, so long about your amorous Messages, I have more Intrigue in the sole of my feet, than some Blockheades in their whole Body.  Lov. 
Sirrah, have you ever discovered any behaviour in this Lady, to occasion this suspicious discourse?  Brush. 
Sir, has this Lady ever discovered any behaviour of yours to occasion this suspicious quarrel? I believe the Lady has as much of the innate Principle of Virtue (as the Gentleman said) as any Woman: But that Baggage her Attendant is about ravishing her Lady's Page every hour. 'Tis an old saying, Like Master, like Man; why not as well, like Mistress, like Maid?  Lov. 
Since thou art for trying humours, have with you Madam Lucinda. Besides, so fair an opportunity offers, that Fate seemed to design it.— Have you left the Gentleman at my Lodgings?  Brush. 
Yes, Sir, and sent a Porter to his Inn to bring his things thither.  Lov. 
That's right— Love like other Diseases, must sometimes have a desperate Cure. The Shool of Venus imposes the strist Diseipline; And awful Cupid is a chastning God; He whips severely.  Brush. 
No, not if we kiss the Rod.  Exeunt. 
The End of the First ACT.   

ACT II. SCENE Lovewells Lodgings.  Enter Lovewell, Roebuck dressed, and Brush. Lov. 
O' my Conscience the fawning Creature loves you.  Roeb. 
Ay, the constant effects of debauching a Woman are, that she infallibly loves the Man for doing the business, and he certainly hates her.— But what Company is she like to have at this same Widows, Brush?  Brush. 
Oh the best of Company, Sir; a Poet lives there, Sir.  Roeb. 
They're the worst Company, for they're ill natured.  Brush. 
Ay, Sir, but it does no body any harm; for these fellows that get Bread by their Wits, are always forced to eat their words. They must be good natured, 'spight of their Teeth, Sir. 'Tis said he pays his Lodging by cracking some smutty Jests with his Landlady overnight; for she's very well pleased with his natural parts.  [While Roeb. and Brush talk, Lovewell seems to project something by himself. Roeb. 
What other Lodgers are there?  Brush. 
One newly entered, a young Squire, just come from the University.  Roeb. 
A. mere Perigatetick I warrant him.— A very pretty Family. A Heathen Philosopher, an English Poet, and an Irish Whore. Had the Landlady but a Highland Piper to join with 'em, she might set up for a Collection of Monsters.— Any body within.  [Slaps Lovewell on the Shoulder. Lov. 
Yes, you are, my Friend. All my thoughts were employed about you. In short, I have one request to make, That you would renounce your loose wild Courses, and lead a sober life, as I do.  Roeb. 
That I will, if you'll grant me a Boon.  Lov. 
You shall have it, be't what it will.  Roeb. 
That you would relinquish your precise sober behaviour, and live like a Gentleman as I do.  Lov. 
That I can't grant.  Roeb. 
Then we're off; Tho should your Women prove no better than your Wine, my Debaucheries will fall of themselyss, for want of Temptation.  Lov. 
Our Women are worse than our Wine; our Claret has but little of the French in't, but our Wenches have the Devil and all: They are both adulterated, To prevent the inconveniencies of which, I ll provide you an honourable Mistress.  Roeb. 
An honourable Mistress! what's that?  Roeb. 
A virtuous Lady, whom you must Love and Court; the surest method of reclaiming you.— As thus.— Those superfluous Pieces you throw away in Wine may be laid out.—  Roeb. 
To the Poor?  Lov. 
No, no. In Sweet Powder, Cravats, Garters, Snuff-boxes, Ribbons, Coach-hire, and Chair-hire. Those idle hours which you misspend with lewd sophisticated Wenches, must be dedicated—  Roeb. 
To the Church?  Lov. 
No, To the innocent and charming Conversation of your virtuous Mistress; by which means, the two most exorbitant Debaucheries, Drinking and Whoring will be retrenched.  Roeb. 
A very fine Retrenchment truly? I must first despise the honest jolly Conversation at the Tavern, for the foppish, affected, dull, insipid Entertainment at the Chocolate-house; must quit my freedom with ingenious Company, to harness myself to Foppery among the fluttering Crowd of Cupid's Livery-boys.— The second Article is, That I must resign the Company of lewd Women for that of my Innocent Mistress; That is, I must change my easy natural sin of Wenching, to that constrained Debauchery of Lying and Swearing.— The many Lies and Oaths that I made to thy Sister, will go nearer to damn me, than if I had enjoyed her a hundred times over.  Lov. 
Oh Roebuck! your Reason will maintain the contrary, when you're in Love.  Roeb. 
That is, when I have lost my Reason, Come, come; a Wench a Wench! a soft, white, easy, consenting Creature!— Prithee Ned leave Musteness, and show me the Varieties of the Town.  Lov. 
A Wench is the least Variety— Look out— See what a numerous Train trip along the street there—  [pointing outwards, Roeb. 
Oh Venus! all these fine stately Creatures!  
Fair you well, Ned.—  [Runs out; Lovew. catches him, and pusts him back. 
Prithee let me go: 'Tis a deed of Charity; I'm quite starved. I'll just take a snap, and be with you in the twinkling.— As you're my friend. I must go.  Lov. 
Then we must break for altogether?—  [Quits him.] 
— He that will leave his friend for a Whore, I reckon a Commoner in Friendship as in Love.  Roeb. 
If you saw how ill that serious face becomes a Fellow of your years, you would never wear it again. Youth is taking in any Masqurade but Gravity.  Lov. 
Tho Lewdness suits much worse with your Circumstances, Sir.  Roeb. 
Ay these Circumstances. Damn these Circumstances.— There he has Hamstringed me. This Poverty! how it makes a Man sneak!— Well prithee let's know this Devilish Virtuous Lady. By the Circumstances of my Body I shall soon be off or on with her.  Lov. 
Know then, for thy utter Condemnation, that she's a Lady of Eighteen, Beatiful, Witty, and nicely Virtuous.  Roeb. 
A Lady of Eighteen! Good.— Beautiful! Better.— Witty!— Best of all—— Now with these three Qualifications, if she be nicely Virtuous, then I'll henceforth adore every thing that wears a Petycoat.— Witty and Virtuous! ha, ha, ha. Why, 'tis as inconsistent in Ladies as Gentlemen; And were I to debauch one for a Wager, her Wit should be my Bawd.— Come, come; the forbidden Fruit was plucked from the Tree of Knowledge, Boy.  Lov. 
Right.— But there was a cunninger Devil than you, to tempt.— I'll assure you George, your Rhetoric would fail you here; she would worst you at your own Weapons.  Roeb. 
Ay, or any Man in England, if she be Eighteen as you say:  Lov. 
Have a care, friend, this satire will get you torn in pieces by the Females; you'll fall into Orpheus' fate.  Roeb. 
Orpheus was a blockhead, and deserved his fate.  Lov. 
Why?  Roeb. 
Because he went to Hell for a Wife.  Lov. 
This happens right.— Aside.— But you shall go to Heaven for a Mistress, you shall Court this Divine Creature.— I don't desire you to fall in Love with her; I don't intent you should marry her nither: but you must be convinced of the Chastity of the Sex; Tho, if you should conquer her, the Spoil, you Rogue, will be glorious, and infinitely worth the pains in attaining.  Roeb. 
Ay, but Ned, my Circumstances, my Circumstances.—  Lov. 
Come, you shan't want Money.  Roeb. 
Then I dare attempt it. Money is the Sinews of Love, as of War. Gad friend, thou'lt the bravest Pimp I ever heard of.— Well, give me directions to sail by, the name of my Port, laden my Pockets, and then for the Cape of Good Hope.  Lov. 
You need no directions as to the manner of Courtship.  Roeb. 
No; I have seen some few Principles, on which my Courtship's founded, which seldom fail. To let a Lady rely upon my modesty, but to depend myself altogether upon my Impudence; To use a Mistress like a Deity in public, but like a Woman in private: To be as cautious then of asking an Impertinent question, as afterwards of telling a story; remembering, that the Tongue is the only Member that can hurt a Lady's Honour, though touched in the tenderest part.  Lov. 
Oh, but to a Friend, George; you'll tell a Friend your success?  Roeb. 
No, not to her very self; it must be as private as Devotion.— No blabbing, unless a squalawling Brat peeps out to tell Tales.— But where lies my Course?  Lov. 
Brush shall show you the house; the Lady's name is Lucinda; her Father and Mother dead; she's Heiress to Twelve hundred a year: But above all, observe this: She has a Page which you must get on your side; 'Tis a very pretty Boy; I presented him to the Lady about a fortnight ago; he's your Countryman too; he brought me a Letter from my Sister, which I have about me.— Here you may read it.  Roeb. 
Ay, 'tis her hand; I know it well; and I almost bush to see it.  Aside. [Reads] 
Dear Brother,  
A Lady of my acquaintance lately dying, begged me, as her last request, to provide for this Boy, who was her Page. I hope I have obeyed my Friend's last Command, and obliged a Brother, by sending him to you. Pray dispose of him as much as you can for his advantage. All friends are will, and I am  
Your affectionate Sister, Leanthe.  While he reads, Lovewell talks to Brush, and gives him some directions seemingly. 
All friends are well? Is that all? not a word of poor Roebuck.— I wonder she mentioned nothing of my misfortunes to her Brother. But she has forgot me already. True Woman still.— Well, I may excuse her, for I'm making all the haste I can to forget her.  Lov. 
Be sure you have an eye upon him, and come to me presently at Widow Bulfinch's— (To Brush.)— Well, George, you won't communicate your success?  Aside. Roeb. 
You may guests what you please.— I'm as merry after a Mistress as after a Bottle.— All Air; brimful of Joy, like a Bumper of Claret, smiling and sparkling.  Lov. 
Then you'll certainly run over.  Roeb. 
No, no; nor shall I drink to any body.—  Exeunt severally. SCENE changes to a Dining Room in Widow Bulfinches house, A Flutea, Musick-book on the Table; a Case of Toys hanging up.— Enter Rigadoon the Dancing-Master, leading in Mockmode by both hands, as teaching him the Minuet; he sings, and Mockmode dances awkwardly; Club follows. Rig. 
Tal— dal— deral— One— Two.— Tal— dal— deral— Coupé—— Tal— dal— deral— Very well— Tal— dal— deral— Wrong.— Tal— dal— deral Toes out— Tal— dal— deral— Observe Time:— Very well indeed, Sir; you shall dance as well as any Man in England: you have an excellent disposition in your Limbs, Sir:— Observe me, Sir.  Here the Master dances a new Minuet; and at every Cut Club makes an awkward imitation, by leaping up. 
And so forth, Sir.  Mock. 
I'm afraid we shall disturb my Landlady.  Rig. 
Landlady! you must have a care of that; she'll never pardon you.— Landlady!— Every Woman, from a Countess to a Kitchen-Wench, is Madam; and every Man, from a Lord to a Lackey, Sir.  Mock. 
Must I then lose my Title of 'Squire, ' Siquire Mockmode?  Rig. 
By all means, Sir; 'Squire and Fool are the same thing here.  Mock. 
That's very Comical, faith!— But is there an Act of Parliament for that, Mr. Rigadoon?— Well, since I can't be a 'Squire, I'll do as well: I have a great Estate, and want only to be a great Beau, to qualify me either for a Knight or a Lord. By the Universe, I have a great mind to bind myself Apprentice to a Beau.— Could I but dance well, push well, play upon the Flute, and swear the most modish Oaths, I would set up for Quality with e'er a young Nobleman of 'em all.— Pray what are the most fashionable Oaths in Town? Zounds, I take it, is a very becoming one.  Rig. 
Zounds is only used by the disbanded Officers and Bullies: but Zauns is the Beaux pronuncation.  Mock. 
Zauns—  Club. 
Zauns—  Rig. 
Yes, Sir, we swear as we Dance; smooth, and with a Cadence.— Zauns!— 'Tis harmonious, and pleases the Ladies, because 'tis soft.— Zauns, Madam.— is the only Compliment our great Beaux pass on a Lady.  Mock. 
But suppose a Lady speaks to me? what must I say?  Rig. 
Nothing, Sir.— you must take Snush, Grin, and make her an humble Cringe— Thus:  [He bows Foppishly, and takes Snush; Mockmode imitates him awkwardly; and taking Snush, sneezes. Rig. 
O Lard, Sir, you must never sneeze; 'tis as unbecoming after Orangere, as Grace after Meat.  Mock. 
I thought People took it to clear the Brain.  Rig. 
The Beaux have no Brains at all, Sir; their Skull is a perfect Snush-box; and I heard a Physician swear, who opened one of 'em, that the three divisions of his head were filled with Orangere, Bourgamot, and Plain-Spanish.  Mock. 
Zauns I must sneeze— [Sneezes]— Bless me.  Rig. 
Of fie, Mr. Mockmode! what a rustical expression that is.— Bless me!— you should upon all such occasions cry, Dem me. You would be as nauseous to the Ladies, as one of the old Patriarches, if you used that obsolete expression.  Club. 
I find that going to the Devil is very modish in this Town— Pray, Master, Dancing-Master, what Religion may these Beaux be of?  Rig. 
A sort of Indians in their Religion, They worship the first thing they see in the Morning.  Mock. 
What's that Sir?  Rig. 
Their own shadows in the Glass; and some of 'em such hellish Faces, that may frighten 'em into Devotion.  Mock. 
Then they are Indians right, for they worship the Devil.  Rig. 
Then you shall be as great a Beau as any of 'em. But you must be sure to mind your Dancing.  Mock. 
Is not Music very convenient too?— I can play the Bells, and Maiden Fair already. Alamire, Bifabemi, Cesolfa, Delasol, Ela, Effaut, Gesolreut. I have 'em all by heart already. But I have been plaguily puzzled about the Etymology of these Notes; and certainly a Man cannot arrive at any perfection, unless he understands the derivation of the Terms.  Rig. 
O Lard, Sir! That's easy. Effaut and Gesolreut were two famous German Musicians, and the rest were Italians.  Mock. 
But why are they only Seven?  Rig. 
From a prodigious great Bass-Vial with seven Strings, that played a Jig called the Music of the Spheres: The seven Planets were nothing but Fiddle-strings.  Mock. 
Then your Stars have made you a Dancing-master?  Rig. 
O Lard, Sir! Pythagoras was a Dancing-master; he shows the Creation to be a Country-Dance, where after some antic Changes, all the parts fell into their places, and there they stand ready, till the next squeak of a Philosopher's Fiddle sets 'em a Dancing again.  Club. 
Sir, here comes the pushing Master.  Rig. 
Then I'll be gone. But you must have a care of Pushing, 'twill spoil the niceness of your steps. Learn a flourish or two; and that's all a Beau can have occasion for.  Enter Nimblewrist. Mock. 
Oh, Mr. Nimblewrist, I crave you ten thousand pardons, by the Universe.  Nimb. 
That was a home thrust. Good Sir. I hope you're for a breathing this Morning. [Takes down a Foil.]— I'll assure you, Mr. Mockmode, you will make an excellent Sword's Man; you're as well shaped for Fencing as any Man in Europe. The Duke of Burgundy is just of your Make; he pushes the finest of any Man in France.— Sa, sa— like Lightning.  Mock. 
I'm much in Love with Fencing: But I think Backsword is the best play.  Nimb. 
Oh Lard Sir!— Have you ever been in France, Sir?  Mock. 
No, Sir; but I understand the Geography of it.— France is bounded on the North with the Rhine.  Nimb. 
No, Sir, a Frenchman is bounded on the North with Quart, on the South with Tierce, and so forth. 'Tis a Noble Art, Sir; and every one that wears a. Sword is obliged by his Tenure to learn. The Rules of Honour are engraved on my-Hilt, and my Blade must maintain 'em: My Sword's my Herald, and the bloody Hand my Coat of Arms.  Mock. 
And how long have you professed this Noble Art, Sir?  Nimb. 
Truly, Sir, I served an Apprenticeship to this Trade, Sir.  Mock. 
What are ye a Corporation then?  Nimb. 
Yes, Sir; the Surgeons have taken us into theirs, because we make so much work for 'em.— But, as I was telling you, Sir, I professed this Science till the Wars broke out: But then, when every body got Commissions, I put in for one, served the Campaigns in Flanders; and when the Peace broke out, was disbanded; so among a great many other poor Rogues, am forced to betake to my old Trade. Now the public Quarrel's ended, I live by private Ones. I live still by dying, as the song goes, Sir. While we have English Courages, French-Honour, and Spanish Blades among us, I shall live, Sir.  Mock. 
Surely your sword and skill did the King great service a broad.  Nimb. 
Yes, Sir, I killed above fifteen of our own Officers by Private Duels in the Camp, Sir; killed 'em fairly; killed 'em thus, Sir.— Sa, sa, sa, sa. Parry, parry, parry,—  [He pushes Mockmode on the ribs; he strikes Nimblewrist over the head, and breaks the Foil. Club. 
What's the name of that Thrust, pray, Sir?  Nimb. 
Oh Lard, Sir, he did not touch me; not in the least, Sir. The Foil was cracked, a palpable crack.  [Blood runs down his Face. Club. 
A very palpable crack truly. Your Skull is only cracked, palpably cracked, that's all.  Mock. 
Well, Sir, if you please to teach me my Honours— My Dancing-Master has forbid me any more, lest I should discompose my steps.  Nim. 
Your Dancing-Master is a Blockhead, Sir.  Enter Rigadoon. Rig. 
I forgot my Gloves, and so—  Mock. 
Oh Sir, he calls you Blockhead, by the Universe.  Rig. 
Zauns, Sir—  [Foppishly. Nimb. 
Zounds, Sir.  [Bluffishly. Rig. 
I have more Wit in the sole of my foot then you have in your whole body.  Nim. 
Ay, Sir, you Caperers daunce-all your Brains into your heels, which makes you carry such empty Noddles. Your Rationals reversed, carrying your understandings in your Legs. Your Wit is the perfect Antipodes to other men's.  Rig. 
And what are you good Monsieur, sa, sa? Stand upon your Guard Mr Mockmode, he's the greatest falsify in his Art; he'll fill your head so full of French Principles of Honour, that you won't have one of Honesty left. His Breastplate there he calls the But of Honour, at which all the Fools in the Kingdom shoot, and not one can hit the Mark.  Nimb. 
You talk of Robin Hood, who never shot in his Bow, Sir.— You Dancers are the Battledoors of the Nation, that toss the light Foppish Shuttlecocks to and again, to get yourselves in heat.— Have a care, Mr. Mockmode, this Fellow will make a mere Grasshopper of you.— Sir, you're the grand Pimp to Foppery and Lewdness; and the Devil and a Dancing-Master, Dance a Corante over the whole Kingdom.  Rig. 
A Pimp, Sir! what then, Sir? I engage Couples into the Bed of Love, but you match 'em in the Bed of Honour. We only juggle People out of their Chastity, but you cheat 'em out of their Lives. We shall have you, Mr. Mockmode, grinning in the Bed of Honour, as if you. laughed at the Fool who must be hanged for you.— Which is best, Mr. Nimblewrist, an easy Minuet, or a Tyhurn Jig?  Nimb. 
Don't provoke my sword, Sir, lest that Art you so revile should revengé itself; for every one of you that live by Dancing should die by Pushing, Sir.  Rig. 
And every Man that lives by Pushing, should die Dancing, I take it.  Nimb. 
Zounds, Sir! what d'ye mean?  Rig. 
Nothing, Sir;— Tal— dal— deral.—  Dances. 
This takes the Ladies, Mr. Mockmode; this runs away with all the great Fortunes in Town. Tho' you be a Fool, a Fop, a Coward, Dance well, and you Captivate the Ladies. The moving a man's Limbs pliantly, does the business. If you want a Fortune, come to me— Tal— dal— deral—  Dances. Nimb. 
No, no, to me, Sir.—— sa, sa,— does your business soonest with a Woman. A clean and manly extension of all your parts—— Ha— Carrying a true point, is the matter.— Sa, sa, sa, sa.— Defend yourself.  bushes at Rigadoon, who Dances, and Sings, retiring off the Stage. Enter bulfinch. Bull. 
Oh goodness! what a Room's here! Could not these fellows wipe their feet before they came up. And here's such a tripping and such a stamping, that they have broke down all the Ceiling. You Dancing and Fencing-Masters have been the downful of many Houses. Get out of my Doors; my house was never in such a pickle.— You Country Gentlemen, newly come to London, like your own Spaniels out of a Pond, must be shaking the Water off, and bespatter every body about you.—  [Mockmode having taken snush, offering to sneeze, sneezes in her face. Mock. 
Zauns, Madam— sneezes.— Bless me!— Dem me, I mean.  Bull. 
He's tainted. These cursed Flies have blown upon him already.  Mock. 
Sa, sa— Defend Flankonade, Madam.  Bull. 
Ah, Mr. Mockmode, my Pushing and Dancing days are done, But I had a Son, Mr. Mockmode, that would match you— Ah my poor Robin!— he died of an Apoplexy; he was as pretty a young man as ever stepped in a Black-Leather Shoe: he was as like you, Mr. Mockmode; as one Egg is like another; he died like an Angel— But I am sure he might have recovered but for the Physicians— oh these Doctor's! these Doctors!  Mock. 
Bless the Doctors, I say; for I believe they killed my honest old Father.  Bull. 
Ay, that's true. If my Robin had left me an Estate, I should have said so too.—  Cries. Mock. 
Zauns, Madam, you must not be melancholy, Madam.  Bull. 
Well, Sir, I hope you'll give us the Beverage of your fine clothes. I'll assure you, Sir, they fit you very well, and I like your fancy mightily.  Mock. 
Ay, ay, Madam. But what's most modish for Beverage? for I suppose the fashion of that altars always with the clothes.  Bull. 
The Tailors are the best Judges of that— But Champagne, I suppose.  Mock. 
Is Champagne a Tailor? Now methinks that were a fitter name for a Wig-maker.— I think they call my Wig a campaign.  Bull. 
You're clear out, Sir, clear out. Champagne is a fine liquour, which all you great Beaux drink to make 'em witty.  Mock. 
Witty! Oh by the Universe I must be witty. I'll drink nothing else; I never was witty in all my life. I love Jokes dearly.— Here, Club, bring us a Bottle of what d'ye call it? the witty liquour.  (Exit Club. Bull. 
But I thought all you that were bred at the University should be Wits naturally.  Mock. 
The quite contrary, Madam, there's no such thing there. We dare not have Wit there, for fear of being counted Rakes. Your solid Philosophy is all read there, which is clear another thing. But now I will be a Wit by the Universe. I must get acquainted with the great Poets. Landlady, you must introduce me.  Bull. 
Oh dear me, Sir! would you ruin me? I introduce you! no Widow dare be seen with a Poet, for fear she should be thought to keep him.  Mock. 
Keep him! what's that? They keep nothing but Sheep in the Country; I hope they don't fleece the Wits.  Bull. 
Alas, Sir, they have no Fleeces; there's a great cry, but little Wool. However, if you would be acquainted with the Poets, I can prevail with a Gentleman of my acquaintance to introduce you; 'Tis one Lovewell, a fine Gentleman, that comes here sometimes.  Mock. 
Lovewell! By the Universe my Rival; I heard of him in the Country. This puts me in mind of my Mistress.— Zauns I'm certainly become a Beau already; for I was so in love with myself, I quite forgot her.— I have a Note in my Pocket-book to find her out by.—  [Pulls out a large Pocket-book, turning over the leaves, reads to himself. 
sixpence for Washing.— Two pence to the Maid.— sixpence for Snush— One Shilling for Buttered Ale-By the Universe I have lost the Directions.— Hark ye, Madam; Does this same Lovewell come often here, say you?  Bull. 
Yes, Sir, very often.— There's a Lady of his acquaintance, a Lodger in the house just now.  Mock. 
A Lady of his acquaintance a Lodger in the house just now? of his acquaintance, do you say?  Bull. 
Yes, and a pretty Lady too.  Mock. 
And he comes often here, you say? By the Universe! should I happen to lodge in the same house with my Mistress? I gad it must be the same. Can you tell the Woman's Name?— Stay— Is her Name Lucinda?  Bull. 
Perhaps it may, Sir; but I believe she's a Widow, for she has a young Son, & I'm sure 'tis legitimately begotten, for 'tis the bravest Child you shall see in a Summers-day; 'Tis not like one of our puling Brats o'th' Town here, born with the Diseases of half a dozen Fathers about it.  Mock. 
By the Universe I don't remember whether my Mistress is Maid or Widow: But a Widow, so much the Better; for all your London widows are devilish rich they say. She came in a Coach, did she not, Madam?  Bull. 
Yes, Sir, yes.  Mock. 
Then 'tis infalliblly she.— Does she not always go out in her Coach?  Bull. 
She has not stirred abroad since she came, Sir.  Mock. 
Oh, I was told she was very reserved, though 'tis very much of a Widow. I have often heard my Mother say, that sitting at home and silence were very becoming in a Maid; and she has often chid my Sister Dorothy for gadding out to the Meadows, and tumbling among the Cocks with the Haymakers. I gad I'm the most lucky Son of a Whore; I was wrapped in the Tail of my Mother's Smock, Landlady.  Enter Servant. Bull. 
Oh but this Lady, Sir.—  Ser. 
Madam here's a Gentleman below wants to speak with you instantly  Bull. 
With me, Child? Sir, I'll wait on you in a minute.  Exit with Servant. Enter Club with Wine and Glasses. Mock. 
Is that the Witty liquour? Come, fill the Glasses. Now that I have found my Mistress, I must next find my Wits.  Club. 
So you had need, Master; for those that find a Mistress, are generally out of their Wits.—  Gives him a Glass. Mock. 
Come, fill for yourself.  They jingle and drink. 
But where's the Wit now Club? have you found it?  Club. 
I gad Master I think 'tis a very good Jest.  Mock. 
What?  Club. 
What! why, Drinking. You'll find, Master, that this same Gentleman in the Straw Doublet, this same Will i'th' Wisp, is a Wit at the bottom.— Fills.— Here, here, Master; how it puns and quibbles in the Glass!  Mock. 
By the Universe now I have it; The Wit lies in the Jingling: All Wit consists most in Jingling. Hear how the Glasses rhyme to one another.  Club. 
What, Master, are these Wits so apt to clash?  [Jingle the Glasses Break 'em. Mock. 
Oh by the Universe, by the Universe this is Wit..  
My Landlady is in the right.— I have often heard their was Wit in breaking Glasses. It would be a very good Joke to break the Flask now?  Club. 
I find then that this same Wit is very brittle Ware.— But I think, Sir, 'twere no Joke to spill the Wine.  Mock. 
Why there's the Jest, Sirrah; all Wit consists in losing; there was never any thing got by't. I fancy this same wine is all sold at Will's Coffee-house. Do you know the way thither Sirrah? I long to see Mr. Comick and Mr. Tagrhine, with the rest of 'em. I wonder how they look! Certainly these Poets must have something extraordinary in their faces. Of all the Rarities of the Town, I long to see nothing more than the Poets and Bedlam.— Come in, Club; I must go practice my Honours.— Tal— dal— deral.—  [Exit dancing, and Club to peing Enter Lovewel and bulfinch. Bull. 
Oh Mr. Lovewell! you come just in the nick; I was ready to spoil all, by telling him that she was a Stranger, and just now come.  Lov. 
Well, dear Madam, be cautious for the future; 'tis the most fortunate chance that ever befell me. 'Twere convenient we had the other lodgers of our side.  Bull. 
There's no body but Mr. Lyric; and you had as safely tell a secret over a Groaning Cheese, as to him.  Lov. 
How so?  Bull. 
Why you must know that he has been Lying-in these four months of a Play; and he has got all the Muses about him; a parcel of the most tattling Gossips.  Lov. 
Come, come; no more words; but to our business. I will certainly reward you. But have you any good hopes of its succeeding?  Bull. 
Very well of the 'Squire's side. But I'm afraid your Widow will never play her part, she's so awkward, and so sullen.  Lov. 
Go you and instruct her, while I manage Affairs abroad.  Bull. 
She's always raving of one Roebuck. Prithee who is this same Roebuck?— Ah, Mr. Lovewell, I'm afraid this Widow of yours is something else at the bottom; I'm afraid there has been a Dog in the Well.  [Exit. Enter Brush. Lov. 
So, Sirrah! where have you left the Gentleman?  Brush. 
In a friénd's house, Sir.  Lov. 
What friend?  Brush. 
Why, a Tavern.  Lov. 
What took him there?  Brush. 
A Coach, Sir.  Lov. 
How d'ye mean?  Brush. 
A Coach and Six, Sir, no less, I'll assure you, Sir.  Lov. 
A Coach and Six!  Brush. 
Yes, Sir, six Whores and a Carted Bawd. He picked 'em all up in the street, and is gone with this splendid Retinue into the Sun by Covent-Garden. I asked him what he meant? he told me, That he only wanted to Whet, when the very sight of 'em turned my Stomach.  Lov. 
The fellow will have his swing, though he hang for't. However, run to him, and bid him take the name of Mockmode; call himself Mockmode upon all occasions; and tell him that he shall find me here about Four in the afternoon,— Ask no questions, but fly.— So.— His usurping that name gives him a Title to Court Lucinda, by which I shall discover her Inclinations to Exit Brush this Mockmode, whose coming to Town has certainly occasioned her quarrel with me; while I set the Hound himself upon a wrong scent, and ten to one provide for Mistristess Trudge by the bargain. 'Tis said, one can't be a Friend and a Lover.  
But opposite to that, this Plot shall prove;  
I'll serve my Friend by what assists my Love.  Exit. 
The End of the Second ACT.   

ACT III.  

SCENE, Lucinda's House.  Enter Leanthe Sola, dressed like a Page. 
MEthinks this Livery suits ill my Birth: but slave to Love, I must not disobey; his service is the hardest Vassalage, forcing the Powers Divine to lay their Godships down, to be more Gods, more happy here below.— Thus I, poor Wanderer, have left my Country, disguised myself so much, I hardly know whether this Habit or my Love be blindest; to follow one, perhaps, that loves me not, though every breath of his soft words was Passion, and every accent Love. Oh Roebuck!  Weeps. Enter Roebuck. Roeb. 
This is the Page, Love's Linkboy, that must light me the way.— How now, pretty Boy? has your Lady beaten you? ha?— This Lady must be a Venus, for she has got a Cupid in her Family. 'Tis a wondrous pretty Boy,— Leanthe starts, and stares at him.) but a very Comical Boy.— What the Devil does he stare at?  Lean. 
Oh heaven's! is the Object real, or are my eyes false? Is that Roebuck, or am I Leantbe? I am afraid he's not the same; and too sure I'm not myself.—  Weeps. Roeb. 
What offence could such pretty Innocence commit, to deserve a punishment to make you cry?  Lean. 
Oh Sir! a wondrous offence.  Roeb. 
What was it, my Child?  Lean. 
I pricked my Finger with a Pin, till I made it bleed.  Roeb. 
Such little Boys as you, should have a care of sharp things.  Lean. 
Indeed, Sir, we ought; for it pricked me so deep that the sore went to my very heart.  Roeb. 
Poor Boy!— here's a plaster for your sore Finger—  [Gives him Gold. Lean. 
Sir, you had best keep it for a sore Finger.  [returns it. Roeb. 
O' my Conscience the Boy's witty, but not very wise in returning Gold.— Come, come, you shall take it.  [Forces it upon him, and kisses him. Lean. 
That's the fitter cure for my sore Finger.—— The same dear Lips still. Oh that the Tongue within them were as true!  aside. Roeb. 
By Heavens this Boy has the softest pair of Lips I ever tasted. I ne'er found before that Ladies kissed their Pages; but now if this Rogue were not too young, I should suspect he were beforehand with me. I gad, I must kiss him again.— Come, you shall take the Money.  Kisses. Lean. 
Oh how he bribe's me into Bribery;— But what must I do whit this Money, Sir?  Roeb. 
You must get a little mistress, and treat her with it.  Lean. 
Sir, I have one Mistress already; and they say no man can serve two Masters, much less two Mistresses. How many Mistresses have you, pray?  Roeb. 
Umh!— I gad the Boy has posed me.— How many, Child?— Why, let me see.— There was Mrs. Mary, Mrs. Margaret, Mrs. Lucy, Mrs. Susan, Mrs. Judy, and so forth; to the number of five and twenty, or thereabouts.  Lean. 
Oh ye Powers! and did you love 'em all?  Roeb. 
Yes, desperately.— I would have drank and fought for any one of 'em. I have sworn and lied to every one of 'em, and have lain with 'em all That's for your Encouragement, Boy. Learn betimes, Youth; young Plants should be watered. Your Smock face was made for a Chamber Utensil.  Lean. 
And did not one escape ye?  Roeb. 
Yes, one did,— the Devil take her.  Lean. 
What, don't you love her then?  Roeb. 
No, faith; but I bear her an amorous grudge still; something between Love and spite.— I could kill her with kindness.  Lean. 
I don't believe it, Sir; you could not be so hard-hearted sure: Her honourable Passion, I think, should please you best.  Roeb. 
O Child! Boys of your age are continually reading Romances, filling your Heads with that old bombast of Love and Honour: But when you come to my years, you'll understand better things.  Lean. 
And must I be a false treacherous Villain, when I come to your years, Sir? Is Falshood and Perjury essential to the perfect state of manhood?  Roeb. 
Pshaw, Children and old men always talk thus foolishly.— you understand nothing, Boy.  Lean. 
Yes, Sir, I have been in Love and much more than you, I perceive.  Roeb. 
It appears then, that there's no service in the World so educating to a Boy, as a Ladies.— By Jove, this Spark may be older than I imagine. Hark ye, Sir; do you never pull of your Lady's Shoes and Stockings? Do you never reach her the— Pincushion? Do you never sit on her bedside, and sing to her? ha!— Come, tell me, that's my good Boy.—  Makes much of him. Lean. 
Yes, I do sing her asleep sometimes.  Roeb. 
But do you never waken her again?  Lean. 
No, but I constantly wake myself; my rest's always disturbed by Visions of the Devil.  Roeb. 
Who would imagine now that this young shaver could dream of a Woman so soon?— But what Songs does your Lady delight in most?  Lean. 
Passionate ones, Sir; I'll sing you one of 'em, if you'll stay.  Roeb. 
With all my heart, my little Cherubin. The Rogue is fond of showing his parts.— Come, begin.  

A SONG:  Set by Mr. Richardson. 
How blessed are Lovers in disguise!  
Like Gods, they see,  
As I do thee,  
Unseen by human Eyes.  
Exposed to view.  
I'm hid from you;  
I'm altered, yet the same:  
The dark conceals me,  
Love reveals me;  
Love, which lights me by its Flame.   

2.  
Were you not false, you me would know;  
For tho' your Eyes  
Could not devise,  
Your heart had told you so.  
Your heart would beat  
With eager heat,  
And me by Sympathy would find:  
True Love might see  
One changed like me,  
False Love is only blind.   Roeb. 
Oh my little Angel in voice and shape—  Kisses her. 
I could wish myself a Female for thy sake.  Lean. 
You're much better as you are for my sake.—  Aside. Roeb. 
Or if thou wert a Woman, I would—  Lean. 
What would you? Marry me? would you marry me?  Roeb. 
Marry you, Child? No, no; I love you too well for that,. you should not have my hand, but all my Body at once.— But to our business. Is your Lady at home.  Lean. 
My Lady! What business have you with my Lady, pray Sir?  Roeb. 
Don't ask Questions. You know Mr. Lovewell?  Lean. 
Yes, very well. He's my great Friend, and one I would serve above all the World— but his Sister.  Roeb. 
His Sister!— Ha! that gives me a twinge for my Sin.— Pray, Mr. Page, was Leanthe well when you left her?  Lean. 
No, Sir; but wondrous melancholy, by the departure of a dear Friend of hers to another World.  Roeb. 
Oh that was the person mentioned in her Letter, whose departure occasioned your departure for England.  Lean. 
That was the occasion of my coming, too sure, Sir.— Oh, 'twas a dear Friend to me! the loss makes me weep.  Roeb. 
Poor tender-hearted Creature!— But I still find there was not a word of me.— Pray, good Boy, let your Mistress know here's one to wait: on her.  Lean. 
Your business is from Mr. Lovewell, I suppose, Sir?  Roeb. 
Yes, yes.  Lean. 
Then I'll go.  Exit. Roeb. 
I've thrown my cast, and am fairly in fort. But an't I an impudent Dog? Had I as much Gold in my Breeches, as Brass in my Face, I durst attempt a whole Nunnery. This Lady is a reputed Virtue, of Good Fortune and Quality; I am a Rakehelly Rascal not worth a Groat; and without any further Ceremony, am going to Debauch her.— But hold.— She does not know that I'm this Rakehelly Rascal, and I know that she's a Woman, one of eighteen too; Beautiful, Witty.— O' my Conscience upon second thoughts, I am not so very Impudent neither.— Now as to my management, I'll first try the whining Addresses, and see if she'll bleed in the soft Vein.  Enter Lucinda. Luc. 
Have you any business with me, Sir?  Roeb. 
Thus looked the forbidden Fruit, luscious and tempting. 'Tis ripe, and will soon fall, if one will shake the Tree.  Aside. Luc. 
Have you any business with me, Sir?—  Comes nearer. Roeb. 
Yes, Madam, the business of mankind; To adore you.— My Love, like my Blood, circulates through my Veins, and at every pulse of my heart animates me with a fresh Passion.— Wonder not, Madam, at the power of your Eyes, whose painted Darts have struck on a young and tender heart which they easily pierced, and which unaccustomed to such wounds finds the smart more painful.  Lean. peeps 
Oh Traitor! Just such words he spoke to me.  Luc. 
hay day. I was never so attacked in all my Life. In love with me, Sir! Did you ever see me before?  Roeb. 
Never, by Jove.—  Aside. 
— Oh, ten thousand times, Madam. Your lovely Idea is always in my view, either asleep or awake, eating or drinking, walking, sitting or standing; alone, or in Company, my fancy wholly feeds upon your dear Image, and every thought is you.— Now have I told about fifteen lies in a Breath.  Aside. Luc. 
I suppose, Sir, you are some conceited young Scribbler, who has got the benefits of a first Play in your Pocket, and are now going a Fortune hunting.  Roeb. 
But why a Scribbler, Madam? Are my clothes so course, as if they were spun by those lazy Spinsters the Muses? Does the parting of my Foretop show so thin, as if it resembled the two withered tops of Parnassus? Do you see any thing peculiarly Whimsical or ill-natured in my Face? Is my Countenance strained, as if my head were distorted by a Stranguary of Thought? Is there any thing proudly, slovenly, or affectedly careless in my Dress? Do my hands look like Paper moths? I think, Madam, I have nothing Poetical about me.  Luc. 
Yes, Sir, you have Wit enough to talk like a Fool; and are Fool enough to talk like a Wit..  Roeb. 
You called me Peot, Madam, and I know no better way of Revenge, than to convince you that I am one by my Impudence.—  Offers to kiss her hand. Luc. 
Then make me a Copy of Verses upon that, Sir.  [Hits him on the ear, and Exit. Leanthe Entering. 
How d'ye like the Subject, Sir?  Roeb. 
'Tis a very copious one.  Spitting. 
— It has made my Jowl rhyme in my Head. This it is to be thought a Poet; every Minx must be casting his Profession in his Teeth.— What: Gone;  Lean. 
Ay, she knows that making Verses requires Solitude and Retirement.  Roeb. 
She certainly was afraid I intended to beg leave to dedicate something.— If ever I make Love like a Poetical fool again, may I never receive any favour but a Subject for a Copy of Verses.  Re-enter Lucinda. Luc. 
I won't dismiss him thus; for fear he Lampoon me.— Well, Sir, have you done them?  Roeb. 
Yes, Madam, will you please to read.  Catches her and kisses her three or four times. Lean. 
Oh Heaven I can never bear it.  
I must devise some means to part 'em.  Exit. Luc. 
Sir, your Verses are too rough and constrained. However, because I gave the occasion, I'll pardons what's past.  Roeb. 
By the Lord she was angry only because I did not make the first offer to her Lips.  Aside 
— Then, Madam, the Peace is concluded?  Luc. 
Yes, and therefore both parties should draw out of the Field.  Going. Roeb. 
Not till we make Reprizals; I make Peace with Sword in hand, Madam, and till you return my heart, which you have taken, or your own in exchange, I will not put up. And so, Madam, I proclaim open War again.—  Catches her Enter Leanthe. Lean. 
Oh, Madam! yonder's poor little Crab, your Lap-Dog, has got his head between two of the Window-bals, and is like to be strangled.  The Dog howls behind the Scenes. Luc. 
Oh Lard, my poor Crabby! I must run to the rescue of my poor Dog; I'll wait on you instantly.— Come, come, Page.— Poor Grabby!—  Exit with Leanthe. Roeb. 
Oh the Devil chock Crabby!— Well, I find there's much more Rhetoric in the Lips than in the Tongue.—— Haddit Buss been the first word of my Courtship, I might have gained the Outworks by this. Impudence in Love, is like Courage in War; though Both blind Chances, because Women and Fortune rule them.  Re-enter Leanthe. Lean. 
Sir, my Lady begs your pardon; there's something extraordinary happened, which prevents her waiting on you, as she promised.  Roeb. 
What has Monsieur Crabby rubbed some of the hairs off his Neck? Has he disordered his pretty ears? she won't come again then?  Lean. 
No, Sir; you must excuse her.  Roeb. 
Then I'll go be Drunk.— Harkye, Sirrah; I have half a dozen delicious Creatures waiting for me at the Sun; you shall along with, me and have your Chocie. I'll enter you into the School of Venus' Child. 'Tis time you had lost your Maidenhead, you're too old for Play-things.  Lean. 
Oh Heavens! I had rather he should stay then go there.  Aside 
But why will you keep such Company, Sir?  Roeb. 
Nay, if you're for Advice, farewell: Men of ripe understanding should always despise What Babes only practise, and Dotards advise.  Exit singing. Lean. 
Wild as Winds, and unconfined as Air.— Yet I may reclaim him. His follies are weakly founded, upon the Principles of Honour, where the very Foundation helps to undermine the Structure. How charming would Virtue look in him, whose behaviour can add a Grace to the unseemliness of Vice!  Enter Lucinda. Luc. 
What is the Gentleman gone?  Lean. 
Yes, Madam. He was instantly taken ill with a violent pain in his Stomach, and was forced to hurry away in a Chair to his Lodging.  Luc. 
Oh poor Gentleman! He's one of those conceited fools that think no Female can resist their Temptations. Blockheads, that imagine all Wit to consist in blaspheming Heaven and Women.— I'll feed his Vanity, but starve his Love.  
And may all Coxcombs meet no better Hate,  
Who doubt our Sex Virtue, or dare prompt our hate.  Exit.  

SCENE Lyrick's Chamber in Widow bulfinch 's house; Papers scattered about the Table, himself sitting writing in a Nightgown and Cap.  Lyr. 
Two as good Lines as ever were written.—  Rising. 
I gad I shall maul these topping fellows.— Says Mr. Lee,  

Let there be not one Glimpse, one Starry spark,  
But God's meet Gods, and justle in the Dark.  
Says little Lyric,  
Let all the Lights be burnt out to a Snuff,  
And Gods meet Gods, and play at Blind-man's buff.  
Very well!  
Let Gods meet Gods, and so— fall out and cuff.   
That's much mended. They're as noble Lines as ever were penn'p. Oh, here comes my damned Muse; I'm always in the Humour of writing Elegy after a little of her Inspiration.  Enter bulfinch. Bull. 
Mr. Lyric, what do you mean by all this? Here you have lodged two years in my house, promised me Eighteen-pences a week for your Lodging, and I have ne'er received eighteen farthings, not the value of that, Mr Lyric Snapes with her fingers you always put me off with telling me of your Play, your Play.— Sir, you shall play no more with me, I'm in earnest.  Lyr. 
This living on Love is the dearest Lodging— a Man's eternally dunned, though perhaps he have less of one ready Coin than t'other.— There's more trouble in a Play than you imagine, Madam.  Bull. 
There's more trouble with a Lodger than you think, Mr. Lyric.  Lyr. 
First there's the decorum of Time.  Bull. 
Which you never observe, for you keep the worst hours of any Lodger in Town.  Lyr. 
Then there's the exactness of Characters.—  Bull. 
And you have the most scandalous one I ever heard.  Lyr. 
Then there's laying the Drama.—  Bull. 
Then you foul my Napkins and Towels. 〈◊〉  Lyr. 
Then there are preparations of Incidents, working the Passions, Beauty of Expression, Closeness of Plot, Justness of Place, Turn of Language, Opening the Catastrophe.—  Bull. 
Then you wear out my Sheets, burn my Fire and Candle, dirty my House, eat my Meat, destroy my Drink, wear out my Furniture— I have lent you Money out of my Pocket.  Lyr. 
Was ever poor Rogue so ridden? If ever the Muses had a Horse, I am he.— Faith Madam, poor Pegasus is Jaded.  Bull. 
Come, come, Sir, he shan't slip his Neck out of the Collar for all that. Money I will have, and Money I must have; let your Play and you both be damned.  Lyr. 
Well, Madam, my Bookseller is to bring me some twenty Guinea's for a few Sheets of mine presently, which I hope will free me from your Sheets.  Bull. 
My Sheets, Mr. Lyric! Pray what d'ye mean? I'll assure you, Sir, my Sheets are finer than any of your Muses spinning.— Marry come up.  Lyr. 
Faith you have spun me so fine, that you have almost cracked my Thread of Life, as may appear by my Spindle-shanks.  Bull. 
Why sure— Where was your Thalia, and your Melpomene, when the Tailor would have stripped you of your Silk Waistcoat, and have clapped you on a Stone-doublet? Would all your Golden Verse have paid the Sergeants Fees?  Lyr. 
Truly, you freed me from Gaol, to confine me in a Dudgeon; you did not ransom me, but bought me as a slave; So, Madam, I'll purchase my freedom as soon as possible. Flesh and Blood can't bear it.  Bull. 
Take your course, Sir.— There were a couple of Gentlemen just now to inquire for you; and if they come again, they shan't be put off with the old story of your being abroad, I'll promise you that, Sir,  Exit. Lyr. 
Zounds! if this Bookseller does not bring me Money—  Enter Pamphlet. 
Oh, Mr. Pamphlet, your Servant. Have you perused my Poems?  Pam. 
Yes, Sir, and there are some things very well, extraordinary well, Mr. Lyric: but I don't think'em for my purpose.— Poetry's a mere Drug, Sir.  Lyr. 
Is that because I take Physic when I write? Damn this costive fellow, now he does not apprehend the Joke.  Pam. 
No, Sir; but your name does not recommend'em. One must write himself into a Consumption before he gain Reputation.  Lyr. 
That's the way to lie a-bed when his Name's up. Now I lie a-bed before I can gain Reputation.  Pam. 
Why so ad●…r?  Lyr. 
Because I have scarcely any clothes to put on.— If ever man did Penance in a White Sheet—  Pam. 
You stand only sometimes in a White Sheet for your offences with your Landlady. Faith, I have often wondered how your Muse could take such flights, yoked to such a Cartload as she is.  Lyr. 
Oh, they are like the Irish Horses, they draw best by the Tail— Have you ever seen any of my Burlesque, Mr. Pamphlet? I have a Project of turning three or four of our most topping fellows into Doggrel. As for Example;—  Reads. 

Conquest with Laurels has our Arms adorned,  
And Rome in tears of Blood our anger mourned.  
Now, Butchers with Rosemary have our Beef adorned.  
Which has in Gravy Tears our Hunger mourned.  
How d'ye like it, Mr. Pamphlet, ha?— Well—  
Like Gods, we passed the rugged Alpine Hills;  
Melted our way, and drove our hissing Wheels;  
Thro' cloudy Deluges, Eternal Rills.  
Now observe, Mr. Pamphlet; pray observe.  
Like Razors keen, our Knives cut passage clean  
Through Rills of Fat, and Deluges of Lean.   Pam. 
Very well, upon my Soul.  Lyr. 
Hurled dreadful Fire and Vinegar infused.  Pam. 
Ay, Sir, Vinegar! how patly that comes in for the Beef, Mr. Lyric! 'Tis all wondrous fine indeed.  Lyr. 
This is the most ingenious fellow of his Trade that I have seen; he understands a good thing.— Aside.— But as to our business.— What are you willing to give for these Poems? Prithee say something. There are about three thousand lines.— Here, take'em for a couple of Guinea's.  Pam. 
No, Sir, Paper is so excessive dear that I dare not venture upon'em.  Lyr. 
Well, because you're a Friend, I'll bestow'em upon you.— Here, take'em all.— There's the hopes of a Dedication still.  Aside. Pam. 
I give you a thousand thanks, Sir; but I dare not venture the hazard; they'll ne'er quit cost indeed, Sir.  Lyr. 
This fellow is one of the greatest Blockheads that ever was Member of a Corporation.— How shall I be revenged?  Enter Boy. Boy. 
Sir, there are two Men below desire to have the Honour of kissing your hand.  Lyr. 
They must be Knaves or Fools, By their fulsome Compliment. Hark ye— Whispers the Boy.— Bid'em walk up.  Pam. 
Since you have got Company, Sir, I'll take my leave.  Lyr. 
No, no, Mr. Pamphlet, by no means! we must drink before we part. Boy, a Pint of Sack and a Toast. These are two Gentlemen out of the Country, who will be for all the new things lately published; they'll be good Customers.— Come, sit down.— You have not seen my Play yet?— Here, take the Pen, and if you see any thing amiss, correct it; I'll go bring'em up.—— Stay, lend me your Hat and Wig, or I shall take cold going down Stairs.  [He takes Pamphlet's Hat and Wig, and puts his Cap on Pamphlet's Head. Pam. (Solas) 
This is a right Poetical Cap; 'tis Bays the outside, and the Lining Fustian.— [Reading.]— This is all stuff, worse than his Poems.  Enter two Bailiffs behind him, and clap him on the shoulder. 1 Bail. 
Sir, you're the King's Prisoner.  Pam. 
That's a good Fancy enough, Mr. Lyric. But pray don't interrupt me, I'm in the best Scene.— I gad the Drama is very well laid.  2 Bail. 
Come, Sir.  Pam. 
Well, well, Sir, I'll pledge ye. Prithee now good Mr. Lyric don't disturb me.—  
And furious Lightnings brandished in her Eyes.  
That's true Spirit of Poetry.  1 Bail. 
Zounds, Sir, d'ye banter us?  [Takes him under each arm, and hauls him up. Pam. 
Gentlemen— I beg you pardon. How d'ye like the City Gentlemen? If you have any occasion for Books to carry into the Country, I can furnish you as well as any man about Paul's. Where's Mr. Lyric.  1 Bail. 
These Wits are damnable Cunning. I always have double Fees for Arresting one of you Wits. All your Evasions won't do; we understand trap, Sir; you must not think to catch old Birds with Chaff, Sir.  Pam. 
Zounds, Gentlemen, I'm not the Person; I'm a Freeman of the City; I have good Effects, Gentlemen, good Effects. D'ye think to make a Fool of me I'm a Bookseller, no Poet.  2 Bail. 
Ay, Sir, we know what you are by your Fool's Cap there.  1 Bail. 
Yes, one of you Wits would have passed upon us for a Corn-cutter yesterday; and was so like one, we had almost believed him.  [Hauls him. Pam. 
Why Gentlemen, Gentlemen, Officers, have a little Patience, and Mr. Lyric will come up Stairs.  1 Bail. 
No, no; Mr. Lyric shall go down Stairs. He would have us wait till some Friends come into rescue him. Ah these Wits are Devilish Cunning.—  Exit hauling Pamphlet. Enter Lyric, Mockmode, and Club; Lyric dressed. Lyr. 
Ha, ha, ha. Very Poetical Faith; a good Plot for a Play, Mr. Mockmode; a Bookseller bound in Calves-Leather.— Ha, ha, ha.— How they walked along like the three Volumes of the English Rogue squeezed together on a shelf.  Mock. 
What was it, what was it, Mr. Lyric?  Lyr. 
Why, I am a State's man, Sir.— I can't but laugh, to think how they'll sponge the sheet before the Errata be blotted out; and then how he'll hamper the Dogs for false Imprisonment.  Mock. 
But pray what was the matter, Mr. Lyric!  Lyr. 
Nothing, Sir, but a Shurking Bookseller that owed me about Forty Guinea's for a few lines. He would have put me off, so I sent for a couple of Bulldogs, and Arrested him.  Mock. 
Oh Lord, Mr. Lyric, Honesty's quite out of doors; 'tis a rare thing to find a man that's a true Friend, a true Friend is a rare thing indeed!— Mr. Lyric, will you be my Friend? I only want that Accomplishment. I have got a Mistress, a Dancing and Fencing-Master; and now I want only a Friend, to be a fine Gentleman.  Lyr. 
Have you never had a Friend, Sir?  Mock. 
Yes, a very honest fellow; our Friendship commenced in the College-Cellar, and we loved one another like two Brothers, till we unluckily fell out afterwards at a Game at Tables.  Lyr. 
I find then that neither of ye lost by the fet.  Aside. 
But my short acquaintance can't recommend me to such a Trust.  Mock. 
Pshaw! Acquaintance?— You must be a man of Honour, as you're a Poet, Sir.  Lyr. 
But what use would you make of a Friend, Sir?  Mock. 
Only to tell my Secreets too, and be my Second.— Now, Sir, a Wit must be best to keep a Secret, because what you say to one's prejudice will be thought malice. Then you must have a Devilish deal of Courage by your Heroic Writing.—  
But know, that I alone am King of Me.  
heavens'! sure the Author of that Line must be a plaguy stout fellow; it makes me Valiant as Hector when I read it.  Lyr. 
Sir, we stick to what we write as little as Divines to what they preach.— Besides, Sir, there are other qualifications requisite in a Friend, he must lend you Money. Now, Sir, I can't be that Friend, for I want forty Guinea's.  Mock. 
Sir, I can lend you fifty upon good security.— 'Twas the last word my Father spoke on his Deathbed, that I should never lend Money without security.  Lyr. 
Fie, Sir! Security from a Friend, and a Man of Honour by his Profession too!  Mock. 
By the Universe, that's true, you are my Friend. Then I'll tell you a Secret—  They whisper. Club. 
Now will this plaguy Wit turn my Nose out of Joint— I was my Master's Friend before, tho' I never found the knack of borrowing Money; tho' I have received some marks of his Friendship, some sound drubs about the Head and Shoulders, or so. I have been bound for him too, in the Stocks, for his breaking Windows very often.  Lyr. 
Mr. Mockmode, you may be imposed upon. I would see this Lady you court. I know Mr. Lovewell has a Mistress named Lucinda; but that she lodges in this house, I much doubt.  Mock. 
Imposed upon. That's very Comical.— Ha, ha, ha! you shall see, Sir; come.— Pray Sir, you're my Friend.  Lyr. 
Nay, pray; Indeed, Sir, I beg your  [They Compliment for the door.] 
Pardon; you're a 'Squire, Sir.  Mock. 
Zauns, Sir, you lie, I'm not a Fool; I'll take an affront from no man.— Draw, Sir.  Draws. Club. 
Draw, Sir.— I gad I'll put his Nose out of joint now.  Lyr. 
Unequal numbers, Gentlemen.  Club. 
I'm only my Master's Friend, his Second, or so, Sir.  Lyr. 
What's the matter, noble Squire?  Mock. 
You lie again, Sir. Zauns, draw.—  strikes him with his sword. Lyr. 
Ha!— a blow!— Essex, a blow— yet I will be calm.  Club. 
Zounds, draw, Sir.  [Strikes him. Lyr. 
Oh patience Heaven!— Thou art my Friend still.  Mock. 
You lie, Sir.  Lyr. 
Then thou art a Traitor, Tyant, Monster.  Mock. 
Zauns, Sir, you're a Son of a Whore, and a Rascal.  Club. 
A Scribbler.  Lyr. 
Ah, ah,— That stings home.— Scribbler!  Mock. 
Ay, Scribbler, Ballad-maker.  Lyr. 
Nay then— I and the Gods will fight it with ye all.  Draws. Enter Roebuck drunk, and singing. 

France ne'er will comply  
Till her Claret run dry;  
Then let's pull away, to defeat her:  
He hinders the Peace,  
Who refuses this Glass,  
And deserves to be hanged for a Traitor.  
Now, my Mirmydons fall on; I have taken off the odds.  
Dub a dub, dub a dub, to the Battle.   Sings. 
Zounds Gentlemen, why don't ye fight?— Blood fight. Oblige me so far to fight a little; I long to see a little sport.  Lyr. 
Sir, I scorn to show sport to any man.  puts up. Mock. 
And so do I, by the Universe.  Club. 
And I, by the Universe:  Lyr. 
I shall take another time.  Exit. Roeb. 
Here Rascal, take your Chopping-knife,— gives Club his Sword. and bring me a Joint of that Coward's flesh for your Master's Supper.— Fly, Dog.—  Takes him by the Nose. Club. 
Auh!— This fellow's likeliest to put my Nose out of joint.  Roeb. 
Now, Sir, tell me, how you durst be a Coward?  Mock. 
Coward, Sir? I'm a Man of a great Estate, Sir; I have five thousand Acres of as good fighting ground as any in England, good Terrafirma, Sir, Coward, Sir! Have a care what you say, Sir.— My Father was a Parliament Man, Sir, and I was bred at the College, Sir.  Roeb. 
Oh than I know your Genealogy; your Father was a Senior-Fellow, and your Mother was an Air-pump. You were suckled by Platonic Ideas, and you have some of your Mother's Milk in your Nose yet.  Mock. 
Form the Proposition by Mode and Figure, Sir.  Roeb. 
I told you so.— Blow your Nose Child, and have a care of dirting your Philosophical slabbering-bib.  Mock. 
What d'ye mean, Sir?  Roeb. 
Your starched Band, set by Mode and Figure, Sir.  Mock. 
Band Sir?— This fellow's blind, Drunk. I wear a Cravat, Sir?  Roeb. 
Then set a good face upon the matter. Throw off Childishness and Folly with your hanging-sleeves. Now you have left the University, learn, learn.  Mock. 
This fellow's an Atheist, by the Universe; I'll take notice of him, and inform against him for being Drunk.— Pray, Sir, what's your Name?  Roeb. 
My name? by the Lord I have forgot.— Stay, I shall think on't by and by.  Mock. 
Zauns, forget your own Name! your memory must be very short, Sir.  Roeb, 
Ay, so it seems, for I was but, Christened this morning, and I have forgot it already.  Mock. 
Was your Worship then Turk or Jew before?— I knew he was some damned bloody Dog.—  Aside. Roeb. 
Sir, I have been Turk, or Jew rather, since; for I have got a plaguy heathenish Name.— Pox on't.— Oh! now I have it.— More— Mock— more— Mockmode.  Mock. 
Mockmode! Mockmode, Sir, Pray how do you spell it?  Roeb, 
Go you to your A, B, C. you came last from the University.  Mock. 
Sir, I'm called Mockmode.— What Family are you of, Sir?  Roeb. 
What Family are you of, Sir?  Mock. 
Of Mockmode-Hall in Shropshire.  Roeb. 
Then I'm of the same, I believe.— I fancy, Sir, that you and I are near Relations.  Mock. 
Relations. Sir! There are but two Families; my Fathers, who is now dead, and his Brothers, Colonel Peaceable Mockmode.  Roeb. 
Ay, ay, the very same Colonel Peaceable.—— Is not he Colonel of Militia?  Mock. 
Yes, Sir.  Roeb. 
And was not he High-Sheriff of the County last year?  Mock. 
The very same, Sir.  Roeb. 
The very same; I'm of that Family.— And your Father died about— let me see—  Mock. 
About half a year ago.  Roeb. 
Exactly. By the same token you got drunk at a Hunting-match that very day seven-night he was buried.  Mock. 
This fellow's a Witch.— But it looks very strange that you should be Christened this morning. I'm sure your Godfathers had a plaguy deal to answer for.  Roeb. 
Oh, Sir, I'm of age to answer for myself.  Mock. 
One would not think so, you're so forgetful. 'Tis two and twenty years since I was Christened, and I can remember my name still.  Roeb. 
Come, we'll take a Glass of Wine, and that will clear our understanding. We'll remember our friends.  Mock. 
You must excuse me, Sir.— This is some Sharper.  Aside. Roeb. 
Nay, prithee Cousin, good Cousin Mockmode, one Glass. I know you are an honest fellow. We must remember our Relations in the Country indeed, Sir.  Mock. 
Oh, Sir, you're so short of memory, you can never call 'em to mind. You have forgot yourself, Sir. Mockmode is a Heathenish Name, Sir, and all that, Sir. And so I beg your pardon, Sir.—  Exit Roeb. 
Now were I Lawyer enough, by that little enquiry into that fellow's Concerns, I could bring in a false Deed to cheat him of his Estate.  Enter Brush. 
Where the Devil is thy Master? You said I should find him here.  Brush. 
'Tis impossible for you, or me, or any body, to find him.  Roeb. 
Why?  Brush. 
Because he has lost himself. The Devil has made a Juggler's Ball of him I believe. He's here now; then Presto, pass in an instant. He has got some damned business to day in hand.  Roeb. 
Ay, so it seems.— I must be Squire Mockmode, and court an honourable Mistress in the Devil's name! Well, let my sober thinking Friend plot on, and lay Traps to catch Futurity; I'm for holding fast the present.— I have got about twenty Guinea's in my Pocket; and whilst they last, the Devil take George if he thinks of Futurity. I'll go hand in hand with Fortune.  
She is an honest, giddy, reeling Punk;  
My Head, her Wheel, turn round, and so we both are drunk.  Exit reeling.  
The End of the Third ACT.   

ACT IU.  

SCENE Lucinda's House.  Enter Leanthe, and Pindress following with Paper of Sweetmeats in her hand. Pind. 
HEre, here,- Page; your Lady has sent you some Sweetmeats; but indeed you shan't have 'em till you hire me.  Lean. 
She sent sour Sauce, when she made you the Bearer.  Aside. Pind. 
Prithee now what makes you constantly so melancholy? Come you must be merry, and shall be merry, I'll get you some Play-things.  Lean. 
I believe you want Play-things more than I.— But I would be private Pindress.  Pindress. 
Well, my Child, I'll be private with you; Boys and Girls should still be private together; and we may be as retired as we please; for my Mistress is reading in her Closet, and all the Servants are below.— But what Concerns have you? I'm sure such a little Boy can have no great business in private.  Lean. 
I will try thee for once  Aside 
— Yes, Mrs. Pindress, I have great inclination.—  Pin. 
To what? To do what, Sir?— Don't name it:— 'Tis all in vain.— you shan't do it, you need not ask it.  Lean. 
Only to kiss you.—  Kisses her. Pen. 
Oh fie, Sir! Indeed I'll none of your kisses. Take it back again  Kisses him. 
Is it not the taste of the Sweetmeats very pretty about my Lips?  Lean. 
Oh hang your liquorish Chaps; you'd fain be licking your Lips, I find that.  Pin. 
Indeed, Mr. Page, I won't pay you the Kisses you won from me last night at Cross-purposes;— and you shan't think to keep my Pawn neither.— Pray give me my Hungary-bottle.— As I hope to be saved I will have my Hungary-bottle—  Rummaging him. 
— I'm stronger than you.— I'll carry you in, and throw you upon the bed, and take it from you.—  Takes him up in her Arms, Lean. 
Help! help! I shall be ravished! Help! help!  Enter Lucinda. Luc. 
What's the matter?— Oh bless me!  Pin. 
Oh dear Madam, this unlucky Boy had almost spoiled me. Did not your Ladyship hear me cry I should be ravished? I was so weak, I could not resist the little strong Rogue; he whipped me up in his arms, like a Baby, and had not your Ladyship come in—  Luc. 
What, Sirrah, would you debauch my Maid? you little Cock-Sparrow, must you be Billing too? I have a great mind to make her whip you Sirrah.  Pind. 
Oh dear, Madam, let me do't. I'll take him into the Room and I will so chastise him.—  Luc. 
But do you think you'll be able, Pindress? I'll send one of the Men to help you.  Pind. 
No, no, Madam; I could manage him with one hand.— See here, Madam.  Takes him in her arms, and is running away. Luc. 
Hold, hold.— Is this you that the little strong Rogue had almost Ravished? He snatched you up in his arms like a Baby.— Ah Pindress, Pindress! I see you're very weak indeed.— Are not you ashamed, Girl, to debauch my little Boy?  Pin. 
Your Ladyship gave me orders to make him merry, and divert his melancholy, and I know no better way than to tease him a little. I'm afraid the Boy is troubled with the Rickets, and a little shaking, Madam, would do him some good.  Lean. 
I'm tired with impertinence, and have other business to mind.  Aside Exit. Pin. 
I hope your Ladyship entertains no ill opinion of my Virtue.  Luc. 
Truly I don't know what to think on't: but I've so good an opionion of your sense, as to believe you would not play the fool with a Child.  Pind. 
W'ere all subject to playing the fool, if you continue your Resolution in marrying of the first man that asks you the Question.  Luc. 
No, my mind's changed; I'll never marry any Man.  Pind. 
I dare swear that resolution breaks sooner, than the former. Aside. Ah Madam, Madam! if you never believe Man again, you must never be Women again; for tho' we are as cunning as Serpents, we are naturally as flexible too. Speak ingeniously, Madam; If Mr. Lovewell should with an amorous whine and suppliant cringe tell you a formal story, contrary to what we suspect, would you not believe him?  Luc. 
What, believe his vain assertations, before the demonstration of my senses? No, no; my Love's not so blind. Did I not see his Miss and his Child? did I not behold him giving her Money? did I not hear him declare he would settle her in a Lodging?  Pind. 
But, Madam, upon serious reflection, where's the great harm in all this? Most Ladies would be over joyed at such a discovery of their Lover's ability. The Child seemed a lusty chopping Boy; and let me tell you, Madam, it must be a lusty chopping Boy that got it.  Luc. 
Urge no farther in his defence; he's a Villain, and of all Villains that I hate most, an hypocritical one. The Ladies give him the Epithet of modest, and the Gentlemen that of sober Lovewell. Now methinks such a piece of Debauchery sits so awkwardly on a person of his Character, that it adds an unseemliness to the natural vileness of the Vice; and he that dares be a Hypocrite in Religion, will certainly be one in Love.— Stay, is not that he?  Pointing outwards. Pind. 
Yes, Madam; I believe he's going to the Park.  Luc. 
Call a couple of Chairs quickly; we'll thither masked. This day's adventures argue some intended Plot upon me, which I may countermine by only setting a Face upon the matter.  Puts her Masque on. 

For as Hypocrisy in men can move,  
Here's the best Hypocrite in Female Love.  
On even scores designing Heaven took care;  
Since Men false Hearts, that we false Faces wear.   Exit.  

SCENE the Park.  Enter Lovewell and Lyric meeting; Lyric reading. 
I'll rack thy Reputation, blast thy Fame,  
And in strong grinding satire Gibbet up thy Name.  Lov. 
What, in a Rapture, Mr. Lyric?  Lyr. 
A little Poetical fury, that's all.— I'll 'Squire him; I'll draw his Character for the Buffoon of a Farce; he shall be as famous in Ballad as Robin Hood, or Little John; my Muses shall haunt him like Demons; they shall make him more ridiculous than Don Quixote.  Lov. 
Because he encountered your Windmill-Pate.—— Ha, ha, ha.— Come, come, Mr. Lyric, you must be pacified.  Lyr. 
Pacified, Sir! Zounds, Sir, he's a Fool, has not a grain of sense. Were he an ingenious Fellow, or a Man of Parts, I could bear a kicking from him: But an abuse from a Blockhead! I can never suffer it.  

Pert Blockhead, who has purchased by the School  
Just sense enough to make a noted Fool.  
That stings, Mr. Lovewell.   Lov. 
Pray, Sir, let me see it.  Lyr. 
This is imperfect, Sir: But if you please to give your Judgement of this Piece.— [Gives him a Paper. 'Tis a Piece of Burlesque on some of our late Writings.  Lov. 
Ay, you Poets mount first on the Shoulders of your Predecessors, to see farther in making Discoveries; and having once got the upperhand, you spurn them underfoot. I think you should bear a Veneration to their very Ashes.  Lyr. 
Ay, if most of their Writings had been burnt. I declare, Mr. Lovewell, their Fame has only made them the more remarkably faulty: Their great Beauties only illustrate their greating Errors.  Lov. 
Well, you saw the new Tragedy last night; how did it please ye?  Lyr. 
Very well; it made me laugh heartily.  Lov. 
What, laugh at a Tragedy!  Lyr. 
I laugh to see the Ladies cry. To see so many weep at the Death of the fabulous Hero, who would but laugh if the Poet that made 'em were hanged? On my Conscience, these Tragedies make the Ladies vent all their Love and Honour at their Eyes, when the same white Handkerchief that blows their Noses, must be a Winding-Sheet to the deceased Hero.  Lov. 
Then there's something in the Handkerchief to embalm him, Mr. Lyric, Ha, ha, ha.— But what relish have you of Comedy?  Lyr. 
No satisfactory one— My curiosity is forestalled by a foreknowledge of what shall happen. For as the Hero in Tragedy is either a whining cringing Fool that's always a stabbing himself, or a ranting hectoring Bully that's for killing every-body else: so the Hero in Comedy is always the Poet's Character.  Lov. 
What's that?  Lyr. 
A Compound 'of practical Rake, and speculative Gentleman, who always bears of the great Fortune in the Play, and sham's the Beau and 'Squire with a Whore or Chambermaid; and as the Catastrophe of all Tragedies is Death, so the end of Comedies is Marriage.  Lov. 
And some think that the most Tragical conclusion of the two.  Lyr. 
And therefore my eyes are diverted by a better Comedy in the Audience than that upon the Stage.— I have often wondered why Men should be found of seeing Fools ill represented, when at the same time and place they may behold the mighty Originals acting their Parts to the Life in the Boxes.—  Lov. 
Oh be favourable to the Ladies, Mr. Lyric, 'tis your Interest. Beauty is the Deity of Poetry; and if you rebel, you'll certainly run the Fate of your first Parent, the Devil.  Luc. 
You're out, Sir. Beauty is a merciful Deity, and allows us sometimes to be a little Atheistical; and 'tis so indulgent to Wit, that it is pleased with it, tho' in the worst habit, that of satire. Besides, there can appear no greater Argument of our Esteem, than Raillery, because 'tis still founded upon Jealousy; occasioned by their preferring senseless Fops and Wealthy Fools to Men of Wit and Merit, the great Upholders of the Empire.  Lov. 
Now I think these Favourites of the Ladies are more Witty than you.  Lyr. 
How so, pray, Sir?  Lov. 
Because they play the Fool, conscious that it will please; and you're a Wit, when sensible that Coxcombs only are encouraged. I wonder, Mr. Lyric, that a man of your sense should turn Poet; you'll hardly ever find a Man that is capable of the Employment will undertake it.  Lyr. 
The reason of that is, every one that knows not a tittle of the matter pretends to be a judge of it.— By the Lard, Mr. Lovewell, I put the Critics next to Plague, Pestilence and Famine in my Litany.— Had you seen 'em last night in the Pit, with such demure supercilious Faces— their contemplative Wigs thrust judiciously backwards; their hands rubbing their Temples to chaff ill nature; and with a hissing venomous Tongue pronouncing. Pish! Stuff! Intolerable! Damn him!— Lord have mercy upon us.  Lov. 
Ay, and you shall have others as foolish as they are ill-natured; fond of being thought Wits, who shall laugh outrageously at every smutty Jest; cry, Very well, by Gad; that's fine, by Heavens; and if a Distich of Rhyme happens, they clap so damnably loud, that they drown the Jest.  Lyr. 
That's the Jest. The Wit lies in their hands; and if you would tell a Poet his Fortune, you must gather it from the Palmistry of the Audience; for as nothing's ill said, but what's ill taken; so nothing's well said, but what's well taken. And between you and I, Mr. Lovewell, Poetry without these laughing Fools, were a Bell without a Clapper; an empty sounding business, good for nothing; and all we Professors might go hang ourselves in the Bell-ropes.  Lov. 
Ha, ha, ha.— But I thought Poetry was instructive.  Lyr. 
Oh Gad forgive me, that's true; To Ladies it is morally beneficial; For you must know they are too nice to read Sermons; such Instructions are too gross for their refined apprehensions: but any Precepts that may be instilled by easy Numbers, such as of Rochester, and others, make great Converts. Then they hate to hear a fellow in Church preach methodical Nonsense, with a Firstly, Secondly, and Thirdly: but they take up with some of our modern Plays in their Closet, where the Morality must be Devilish Instructive.— But I must be gone; here comes the 'Squire. What in the name of wonder has he got with him?  Lov. 
That which shall afford you a more plentiful Revenge than your Lampoon, if you join with me in the Plot. To the better effecting of which, you must be seemingly reconciled to him.—  
Let's step aside, and observe 'em while I give you a hint of the matter.  [Exeunt between the Scenes, and seem to confer and harken. Enter Mockmode, leading Trudge dressed like a Widow. Mock. 
This is very fine Wether, blessed Wether indeed, Madam; 'twill do abundance of good to the Grass and Corn.  Trud. 
Ay, Sir, the Days are grown a great length; and I think the Wether much better here than in Ireland.  Mock. 
Why, Madam, were you ever there?  Trud, 
Oh no, not I indeed, Sir; but I have heard my first Husband (Rest his Soul) say so; he was an Irish Gentlemen.  Mock. 
I find, Madam, you have loved your first Husband mightily, for you affect his tone in discourse.— Pray, Madam, what did that Mourning cost a Yard?  Trud. 
Oh Lard, what shall I say now? 'tis none of mine.  Aside. 
It cost, Sir; let me see— it cost about— but it was my Steward bought it for me, I never buy such small things.  Mock. 
By the Universe she must be plaguy Rich; I will be brisk.  Aside. 
Pray, Madam— ay— I pray Madam, will you give us a Song?  Trud. 
A Song! Indeed than I had a good voice before, Mr. Roebuck spoiled it.  Mock. 
Mr. Roebuck? was that your first Husband's Name, Madam?  [Lov. behind.] 
She'll spoil all.  Trud. 
No, Sir; Roebuck was a Doctor, that let me blood under the Tongue for the Quinsey, and made me hoarse ever since.  Mock: 
By the Universe she's a Widow, and I will be a little brisk. Madam, will you grant me a small favour, and I will bend upon my knees to receive it.—  Kneels. Trud. 
What is't, pray?  Mock. 
Only to take off your Garter.  Lovewell Enters. 
Zounds, her thick Leg will discover all.— By your leave, Sir, have you any pretensions to this Lady?  [bushes Mockmode down. Mock. 
I don't know whether this be an affront or not.— Aside.)— Pretensions, Sir? I have so great a Veneration for the Lady, that I honour any man that has pretensions to her.— Dem me, Sir, may I crave the honour of your Acquaintance?  Lov. 
No, Sir.  Mock. 
No, Sir! I gad that must be Wit, for it can't be good Manners.— Sir, I respect all men of sense, and would therefore beg to know your Name.  Lov. 
No matter, Sir; I know your Name's Mockmode.  Mock. 
By the Universe, that's very Comical! that a fellow should pretend to tell me my own Name!— Another Question, if you please, Sir.  Lov. 
What is it, Sir?  Mock. 
Pray Sir, what's my Christened Name?  Lov. 
Sir, you don't know.  Mock. 
Zauns, Sir, would you persuade me out of my Christened Name? I'll lay you a Guinea that I do know, by the Universe.—  Pulls a handful of Money out. 
Here's Silver, Sir, here's Silver, Sir; I can command as much Money as another, Sir; I am at Age, Sir, and I won't be bantered. Sir.  Lov. 
Sir, you must know, that I baptise you Rival; for your Love to this Lady, is the only sign of Christianity you can boast of.— And now Sir, my name's Lovewell.  Mock. 
Then I say, Sir, that your Love to that Lady is the only sign of a Turk you can brag of.— I wish Club were come.  Aside. Lov. 
Sir, I shall certainly Circumcise you, if you make any farther pretensions to Madam Lucinda here.  Mock. 
Circumcise me! Circumcise a Puddings end, Sir.— Zauns, Sir, I'll be judged by the Lady who merits Circumcission most, you or I, Sir. These London-Blades are all stark mad;—  Lucinda enters, and observes Love. courting Trudge in dumb signs. 
I met one about two hours ago, that had forgot his Name, and this fellow would persuade me now that I had forgot mine. Mr. Lyric is the only man that speaks plain to me. I must be Friends with him, because I find I may have occasion for such a Friend; I'll find him out straight.  Exit. Lov. 
Madam, will you walk.—  [Exit with Trudge. Lucinda and Pindress come forward. Luc. 
Now my doubts are removed.  Pin. 
Mine are-more puzzling. There must be something in this, more than we imagine. You had best talk to him.  Luc. 
Yes, if my Tongne bore Poison in it, and that I could spit Death in his face.  Pin. 
If he is lost, your hard usage this morning has occasioned it.  Luc. 
I'm glad on't; I've gained by the loss, I despise him more now than e'er I loved him. That Passion which can stoop so low as that Blouse, is an Object too mean for any thing but my scorn to level at.  Pin. 
This were a critical minute for your new Lover the 'Squire I fancy; Mr. Lovewells disgrace would bring him into favour prefently.  Lov. 
It certainly shall, if he be not as great a Fool as tother's false.  Pin. 
You may be mistaken in your opinion of him, as much as you have been in Mr. Lovewell.  Luc. 
No, Pindress, I shall find what I read in the last Miscellanies very true.  
But two distinctions their whole Sex does part;  
All Fools by Nature, or all Rogues by Art.  
SCENE continues.  Enter several Masques crossing the Stage, and Roebuck following: Roeb. 
'Sdeath! what a Coney-burrough's here! The Trade goes swimingly on. This is the great Empory of Lewdness, as the Change is of Knavery.— The Merchants cheat the World there, and their Wives gull them here.— I begin to think Whoring Scandalous, 'tis grown so Mechanical.— My modesty will do me no good, I fear.—— Madam, are you a Whore?  1 Mas. 
Yes, Sir.  [Catches a Masque. Roeb. 
Short and pity.— If ever Woman spoke truth, I believe thou hast.  [Second Masque pulls him by the Elbow. 
Have you any business with me, Madam?  2 Mas. 
Pray, Sir be civil; you're mistaken, Sir.— I have had an Eye upon this fellow all this afternoon. Aside. you're mistaken, Sir.  Roeb. 
Very likely, Madam; for I imagined you modest.  2 Mas. 
So I am, for I'm married.  Roeb. 
And married to your sorrow, I warrant you!  2 Mas. 
Yes, upon my Honour, Sir.  Roeb. 
I knew it. I have met above a dozen this Evening, all married to their Sorrow.— Then I suppose you're a Citizen's Wife; and by the broadness of your bottom, I should geuss you sat very much behind a Counter.  2 Mas. 
My Husband's no Mercer, he's a Judge.  Roeb. 
Zounds! A Judge! I shall be arraigned at the Bar for keeping on my Hat so long.— 'Tis very hard, Madam, he should not do you Justice: Has not he an Estate in Tail, Madam?  2 Mas. 
I seldom examine his Papers; They are a parcel of old dry shrveled Parchments; and this Court-hand is so devilish crabbed, I can't endure it.  Roeb. 
Umph!— Then I suppose, Madam, you want a young Lawyer to put your Case to. But faith, Madam, I'm a Judge too.  2 Mas. 
Oh heavens' forbid! such a young Man?  Roeb. 
That's, I'll do nothing without a Bribe.— Pray, Madam, how does that Watch strike?  2 Mas. 
It never strikes, it only points to the business, as you must do, without telling Tales. Dare you meet me two hours hence?  Roeb. 
Ay, Madam, but I shall never hit the time exactly without a Watch.  2 Mas. 
Well, take it.— At Ten exactly, at the Fountain in the Middle Temple. Cook upon Littleton be the word.  Exit. Roeb. 
So— If the Law be all such Volumes as thou, Mercy on the poor Students. From Cook upon Littleton in Sheets deliver me.  Enter Lovewell. Lov. 
What! engaged Myrmidon! I find you'll never quit the Battle till you have cracked a Pike in the Service.  Roeb. 
Oh dear friend! thou'rt critically come to my Relief; for faith I'm almost tired.  Lov. 
What a miserable Creature is a Whore! whom every Fool dares pretend to love, and every Wise Man hates.  Roeb. 
What, morallizing again! Oh I'll tell thee News, Man; I'm entered in the Inns, by the Lard.  Lov. 
Pshaw!  Roeb. 
Nay, if you won't believe me, see my Note of admission.  [shows the Watch. Lov. 
A Gold Watch, boy?  Roeb. 
Ay, a Gold Watch, boy,  Lov. 
Whence had you money to buy it?  Roeb. 
I took it upon tick, and I design to pay honestly.  Lov. 
I done't like this running o'th' Score.— But what News from Lucinda, boy? Is she kind? ha?  Enter a Masque crossing the Stage. Roeb. 
Ha! there's a stately Cruiser; I must give her one chase.— I'll tell you when I return.  Exit running. Lov. 
I find he has been at a loss there, which occasions his eagerness for the Game here. I begin to repent me of my suspicion; I believe her Virtue so sacred that 'tis a piece of Atheism to distrust its Existence. But jealousy in Love, like the Devil in Religion, is still raising doubts which without a firm Faith in what we adore, will certainly damn us.  Enter a Porter. Por. 
Is your name Mr. Roebuck, Sir?  Lov. 
What would you have with Mr. Roebuck, Sir?  Por. 
I have a small Note for him, Sir.  Lov. 
Let me see't.  Por. 
Ay, Sir, if your name be Mr. Roebuck, Sir.  Lov. 
My Name is Roebuck, Blockhead.  Por. 
God bless you, master.  [Gives him a Letter, and Exit. Lov. 
This is some tawdry Billet, with a scrawling Adieu at the end on't. These strolling Jades know a young wholesome fellow newly come to Town, as well as a Parson's Wife does a fat Goose. 'Tis certainly some secret, and therefore shall be known.  Opens the Letter. 
SIR, Tuesday three a Clock.  
MY behaviour towards you this morning was somewhat strange; but I shall tell you the cause of it, if you meet me at Ten this night in our Garden; the Backdoor shall be open.  
Yours Lucinda.  
Oh Heavens! certainly it can't be! L, U, C, I, N, D, A; that spells Woman. 'Twas never written so plain before. Roebuck, thou'rt as true an Oracle, as she's a false one. Oh thou damned Sibyl! I have courted thee these three years, and could never obtain above a Kiss of the hand, and this fellow in an hour or two has obtained the back door open. Mr. Roebuck, since I have discovered some of your Secrets, I'll make bold to open some more of 'em.— But how shall I shake him off?— Oh, I have it; I'll seek him instantly.  Exit. Enter Roebuck meeting the Porter. Roeb. 
Here, you Sir, have you a Note for one Roebuck?  Por. 
I had, Sir; but I gave it to him just now.  Roeb. 
You lie, Sirrah, I am the Man.  Por. 
I an't positive I gave it to the right person; but I'm very sure I did; for he answered the Description the Page gave to a T, Sir.  Roeb. 
'Twas well I met that Page, Dog, or now should I cut thy Throat, Rascal.  Por. 
Bless your Worship, Noble Sir.  Exit. Roeb. 
At Ten, in the Garden! the backdoor open!— Oh the delicious place and hour! soft panting breasts! trembling Joints! melting Sighs! and eager Embraces!— Oh Ecstasy!— But how to shake off Lovewell?— This is his nicely Virtuous! Ha, ha, ha.— This is his innate Principle of Virtue? Ha, ha, ha.  Enter Lovewell. Lov. 
How now why so merry?  Roeb. 
Merry! why, 'twould make a Dog split, Man; Ha, ha, ha.— The Watch Sir, the Watch; Ha, ha, ha.  Lov. 
What of the Watch? you laugh by the hour; you'll be run down by and by sure.  Roeb. 
Ay, but I shall be wound up again. This Watch I had for a Fee, Lawyer:— Should I ever be tried before this Judge, how I should laugh, to see how gravely his Goose-Caps sits upon a pair of Horns. Ha, ha, ha.  Lov. 
Thou'rt Horn-mad. Prithee leave impertinence. I received a Note just now.  Roeb. 
A Note! 'Sdeath, what Note! what d'ye mean? who brought it?  Lov. 
A Gentleman; 'tis a Challenge.  Roeb. 
Oh, thanks to the Stars; I'm glad on't.  Aside. Lov. 
And you may be signally serviceable to me in this affair. I can give you no greater testimony of my Affection, than by making so free with you.  Roeb. 
What needs all this formality? I'll be thy second, without all this impertinence.  Lov. 
There's more than that, Friend. In the first place, I don't understand a Sword; and again, I'm to be called to the Bar this Term, and such a business might prejudice me extteamly. So, Sir, you must meet and fight for me.  Roeb. 
Faith, Lovewell, I shan't stick to cut a Throat for my Friend at any time, so I may do it fairly, or so.— The hour and place?  Lov. 
This very Evening, in moorfield's.  Roeb. 
Umph! How will you employ yourself the while?  Lov. 
I'll follow you at a distance, lest you have any foul play.  Roeb. 
Which if you do. No, faith Ned, since I'm to answer an appointment for you, you must make good an assignation for me. I'm to meet one of your Ladies at the Fountain in the Temple to night. You may be called to the Bar there, if you will. This Watch will tell you the hour, and shall be your Passport. Let me have yours.—  [Changes Watches: Lov. 
Oh, was that the Jest? Ha, ha, ha.— Well, I will answer an Assignation for you sure enough. Ha, ha, ha.— How read lie does the Fool run to have his Throat cut?  Aside. Roeb. 
How eagerly now does my moral Friend run to the Devil, having hopes of Profit in the Wind! I have shabbed him off purely.— But prithee, Ned, where had you this fine Jewel?  Viewing one tied to the Watch. Lov. 
Pshaw! a Trifle, a Trifle; from a Mistress.— Take care on't tho'. But hark ye, Goerge; don't push too home; have a care of whipping through the Guts.  Roeb. 
Gad I'm afraid one or both of us may fall. But d'ye hear, Ned, remember you sent me on this Errand, and are therefore answerable for all mifchief; if I do whip my Adversary through the Lungs, or so remember your set me upon't.  Lov. 
Well, honest George, you won't believe how much you oblige me in this Courtesy.  Roeb. 
You know always I oblige myself by serving my Friend.— I never thought this Spark was a Coward before.  Aside. Lov. 
I never imagined this Fellow was so easy before.— Aside. Well, good success to us both; and when we meet, we'll relate all Transactions that pass.  Roeb. 
That you're a Fool.  Lov. 
That you're an Ass.  [Exeunt severally, lauhging. Re-Enter Lovewell crossing the Stage hastily, Mockmode and Lyric following him. Lyr. 
Mr. Lovewell, a word w'ye.  Lov. 
Let it be short, pray Sir, for my business is urgent, and 'tis almost dark.  Lyr. 
I'm reconciled to the Squire, and want only the Presentment of a Copy of Verses, to ingratiate myself wholly throughly. Let me have that piece I lent just now.  Lov. 
Ay, ay, with all my heart:— Here,— Farewell.  [Pulls the Poem hastily, and justles out a Letter with it, which Mockmod takes up, Lyr. 
Now, Sir, here's a Poem, (which according to the way of us Poets) I say was written at fifteen; but between you and I it was made at five and twenty.  Mock. 
Five and twenty!— When is a Poet at Age, pray Sir?  Lyr. 
At the third night of his first Play; for he's never a Man till then.  Mock. 
But when at years of discretion?  Lyr. 
When they leave Writing, and that's seldom or never.  Mock. 
But who are your Guardians?  Lyr. 
The Critics, who with their good will, would never let us come to Age. But what have you got there?  Mock. 
By the Universe, I don't know; 'tis a Woman's hand; some Billet-deux, I suppose; it justled out of Lovewells Pocket. We'll to the next Light, and read it.  Exeunt:  

SCENE a dark Arbour in Lucinda's Garden  Enter Roebuck Solus. Roeb. 
Oh how I reverence a backdoor half open, half shut! 'Tis the narrow Gate to the Lover's Paradise; Cupid stood Sentry at the entrance; Love was the Word, and he let me pass— Now is my friend pleading for Life; he has a puzzling Case to manage Ten to one he's Nonsuited; I have gulled him fairly.  Enter Lovewell. Lov. 
I've got in, thanks to my Stars, or rather the Clouds, whose influence is my best Friend at present. Now is Rocbuck gazing, or rather groping about for a Fellow with a long sword; and I know his fighting humour will be as mad to be balked by an Enemy, as by a Mistress.  Roeb. 
Hark, hark! I hear a Voice; it must be she.— Lucinda!  Lov. 
True to the touch, I find. Is it you, my Dear  Roeb. 
Yes, my Dear.  Lov. 
Let me embrace thee, my heart.  Roeb. 
Come to my Arms.—  [Run into each others Arms. Finding the mistake, start back. Lov. 
'Slife! a Man!  Roeb. 
'Sdeath! a Devil!— And wert thou a Legion, here's a Wand should conjure thee down—  Draws. Lov. 
We should find whose Charms is strongest.  Draws. [They push by one another; Roebuck passes out at the opposite door: and as Lovewell is passing out on the other side of the Stage. Enter Leanthe. Lean. 
Mr. Roebuck? Sir? Mr. Roebuck?  [With a Nightgown over his clothes. Lov. 
That's a Woman's Voice, I'll swear.— Madam?—  Lean. 
Sir.  Lov. 
Come, my dear Lucinda; I've stayed a little too long; but making an Apology now were only lengthening the offence. Let's into the Arbour, and make up for the moments misspent.  Lean. 
Hold, Sir. Do you love this Lucinda you're so fond of haviing into the Arbour?  Lov. 
Yes, by all that's powerful.  Lean. 
False, false Roebuck!— Aside.— I am lost.  Lov. 
Madam, do you love this Roebuck, that you opened the Garden door to so late?  Lean. 
I'm afraid I do too well.  Lov. 
And did you never own an affection to another?  Lean. 
No, witness all those Powers you just now mentioned.  Lov. 
Revenge yourselves, ye Heavens. Behold in me your Accuser and your Judge. Behold Lovewell, injured Lovewell.— This darkness, which opportunely hides your blushes, makes your shame more Monstrous.  Lean. 
Ha! Lovewell! I'm vexed 'tis he, but glad to be mistaken.— Now Female Policy assist me.  Lov. 
Yes, Madam, your silence prolaims you Guilty— Farewell Woman.  Lean. 
Ha, ha, ha.  Lov. 
What am I made your scorn?  Lean. 
Ha, ha, ha.— This happens better than I expected.— Ha, ha, ha.— Mr. Lovewell!  Lov. 
No Counter-plotting, Madam, the Mine's sprung already and all your deceit discovered.  Lean. 
Indeed you're a fine fellow at discovering deceits, I must confess, that could not find whether I was a Man or a Woman all this time.  Lov. 
What, the Page!  Lean. 
No Counter-plotting, good Sir, the Mine's sprung already.— Ah, Sir, I fancy Mr. Roebuck is better at discovering a Man from a Woman in the dark, than you.  Lov. 
This discovery is the greatest Riddle!— Prithee, Child, what makes thee disguised? But above all, what meant that Letter to Roebuck?  Lean. 
Then I find you intercepted it.— Why, Sir, my Lady had a mind to put a trick upon the impudent Fellow, made him an Assignation, and sent me in her stead, to banter him, But when I tell her how you fell into the snare, and how jealous you were.— Ha, ha, ha.  Lov. 
Oh my little dear Rogue! was that the matter?— [Hugs her.] O'my Conscience thou'rt so soft, I believe thou art a Woman still.— But who was that Man I encountted just now?  Lean. 
A Man! 'Twas certainly Roebuck.— Aside. Some of the Footmen, I suppose.— Come, Sir, I must Conduct you out immediately, lest some more of 'em-meet you. [Conducts him to the door, and returns.  
He certainly was here, and I have missed him.  
Fortune delights with Innocence to play,  
And Love's to hoodwink those already blind.  
Wary deceit can many byways tread,  
To shun the blocks in Virtues open Road,  
Whilst heedless Innocence still falls on Ruin  
Yet, whilst by Love inspired, I will pursue;  
What Men by Courage, we by Love can do.  
Not even his falsehood shall my Claim remove;  
From mutual Fires none can true passion prove;  
For like to like, is Gratitude, not Love.   
The End of the Third ACT.   

ACT IU.  

SCENE, An Antichamber in Lucinda's house; The Flat Scene half open, discovers a Bedchamber; Lucinda in her Nightgown, and reading by a Table.  Enter Roebuck groping his way. R●●b. 
ON what new haply Climate am I thrown?  
This house is Love's Labyrinth; I have stumbled into it by chance.— Ha! an Illusion! Let me look again.— Eyes, if you play me false, (Looking about) I'll pluck ye out.— 'Tis she; 'tis Lucinda! alone, undressed, in a Bedchamber, between Eleven and Twelve a Clock.— A blessed opportunity!— Now if her innate Principle of Virtue defend her, then is my innate Principle of Manhood not worth twopence.— Hold, she comes forward.— [Lucinda approaches, reading.  Luc. 
Unjust Prerogative of faithless Man,  
Abusing Power which partial Heaven has granted!  
In former Ages, Love and Honour stood  
As Props and Beauties to the Female Cause;  
But now lie prostitute to scorn and sport.  
Man, made our Monarch, is a Tyrant grown,  
And Womankind must bear a second Fall.  Roeb. Aside. 
Ay, and a third too, or I'm mistaken.— I must divert this plaguy Romantic humour.  Luc. 
While Virtue guided Peace, and Honour War,  
Their Fruits and Spoils were offerings made to Love.  Roeb. 
And 'tis so still; for (Raising his Voice.)  
Beau with earliest Cherries Miss does grace,  
And Soldier offers spoils of Flanders Lace.  Luc. 
Ha!— Protect me heavens'! what art thou?  Roeb. 
A Man, Madam.  Luc. 
What accursed Spirit has driven you hitherto?  Roeb. 
The Spirit of Flesh and Blood, Madam.  Luc. 
Sir, what Encouragement have you ever received to prompt you to this Impudence?  Roeb. 
Umph! I must not own the reception of a Note from her. Aside. Faith, Madam, I know not whether to attribute it to Chance, Fortune; my good Stars, my Fate, or my Destiny: But here I am, Madam, and here I will be.  [Taking her by the hand. Luc. Pulling her hand away. 
If a Gentleman, my Commands may cause you withdraw; If a Russian, my Footmen shall dispose of you.  Roeb. 
Madam, I'm a Gentleman; I know how to oblige a Lady, and how to save her Reputation. My Love and Honour go linked together; they are my Principles: and if you'll be my Second, we'll engage immediately.  Luc. 
Stand off, Sir; the name of Love and Honour are burlesqued by thy Professing 'em. Thy Love is Impudence, and thy Honour a Cheat. Thy Mien and Habit show thee a Gentleman? but thy behaviour is Brutal. Thou art a Centaur; only one part Man, and the other Beast.  Roeb. 
Philosophy in Petticoats! No wonder Women wear the Breeches; aside. and, Madam, you are a Demi-Goddess; only one part Woman, t'other Angel; and thus divided, claim my Love and Adoration.  Luc. 
Honourable Love is the Parent of mankind; but thine is the Corruptor and Debaser of it. The Passion of you Libertines is like your Drunkeness; heat of Lust, as t'other is of Wine, and off with the next Sleep.  Roeb. 
No, Madam; an Hair of the same— is my Receipt— Come, come, Madam, all things are laid to rest that will disturb our Pleasure, whole Nature favours us; the kind indulgent Stars that directed me hither, wink at what we are about. 'Twere Jilting of Fortune to be now idle, and she, like a true Woman, once balked, never affords a second opportunity.— I'll put out the Candle, the Torch of Love shall light us to Bed.  Luc. 
To Bed, Sir! Thou hast Impudence enough to draw thy Rationality in Question. Whence proceeds it? From a vain thought of thy own Graces, or an opinion of my Virtue?— If from the latter, know that I am a Woman, whose modesty dare not doubt my Virtue; yet have so much Pride to support it, that the dying Groans of thy whole Sex at my feet should not extort an immodest thought from me.  Roeb. 
Your thoughts may be as modest as you please, Madam.— You shall be as Virtuous to morrow morning as e'er a Nun in Europe, the opinion of the World shall proclaim you such, and that's the surest Charter the most rigid Virtue in England is held by. The Night has no Eyes no to see, nor have I a Tongue to tell: One kiss shall seal up my Lips for ever.  Luc. 
That uncharitable Censure of Women, argues the meaness of thy Convertation.  Roeb. 
Her superior Virtue awes me into coldness. 'Slife! it can't be Twelve sure.—— Night's a Lyar.  Draws out his Watch. Luc. 
Sir, if you won't be gone, I must fetch those shall Conduct you hence.—! my Eyes are dazzled sure, [Passing by him towards the door, she perceives the Jewel tied to the Watch. Pray, Sir let me see that Jewel.  Roeb. 
By Heavens she has a mind to't!— Oh, 'tis at your service with all my Soul.  Luc. 
Wrong not my Virtue by so poor a thought.— But answer directly, as you are a Gentleman, to what I now shall ask: whence had you that Jewel?  Roeb. 
I exchanged Watches with a Gentleman, and had this Jewel into the bargain. He valued it not, 'twas a Trifle from a Mistress.  Luc. 
A Trifle said he?— Oh Indignation! slighted thus!— I'll put a Jewel out of his power, that he would pawn his Soul to retrieve.— If you be a Gentleman, Sir, whom Gratitude can work up to Love, or a Virtuous Wife reclaim, I'll make you a large return for that Trifle.  Roeb. 
Heyday! a Wife said she!  Luc. 
What's your Name, Sir? and of what Country?  Roeb. 
My Name's Roebuck, Madam.  Luc. 
Roebuck.  Roeb. 
'Sdeath! I forgot my Instructions.— Mockmode, Madam.— Roebuck Mockmode, my Name, and Surname.  Luc. 
Mockmode my 'Squire! it can't be! But if it should, I've made the better Exchange.— Of what Family are you, Sir?  Roeb. 
Of Mockmode-Hall in Shropshire, Madam. My Father's lately dead; I came lately from the University; I have fifteen hundred Acers of as good fighting Ground as any in England.— 'Twas lucky I met that Blockhead to day.  Aside. Luc. 
The very same.— And had you any directions to covat a Lady in London.  Roeb. 
Umph!— How should I have found the way hither else, Madam. What the Devil will this come to?  Aside. Luc. 
My Fool that I dreamed of, I find a pretty Gentleman.— Dreams go by contraries.— Well, Sir, I am the Lady; and if your Designs are Honourable, I'm yours, take a turn in the Garden, till I send for my Chaplain, you must take me immediately, for if I cool, I'm lost for ever.  Roeb. 
I think I am become a very sober Shropshire Gentleman in good earnest; I don't start at the name of a Parson.— Oh Fortune! Fortune! what art thou doing? If thou and my Friend will throw me into the arms of a fine Lady, and great Fortune, how the Devil can I help it! Oh but, Zounds, there's Marriage! Ay, but there's Money.— Oh but there are Children; sqawling Children. Ay but then there are Rickets and Smallpox, which perhaps may carry them all away.— Oh but there's Horns! Horns! Ay, but then I shall go to Heaven, for 'tis but reasonable, since all Marriages are made in Heaven, that all Cuckolds should go thither.— But then there's Leanthe! That sticks. I love her, witness, Heaven, I love her to that degree.— Pshaw, I shall whine presently. I love her as well as any Woman; and what can she expect more? I can't drag a Lover's Chain a hundred Miles by Land and a hundred Leagues by Water.— Fortune has decreed it otherwise.— So lead on, blind Guide, I follow thee; and when the blind lead the blind, no wonder they both fall into— Matrimony.  Going out, meets Leanthe. 
Oh my dear auspicious little Mercury! let me kiss thee.— Go tell thy Charming Mistress I obey her Commands.  Exit. Enter Leanthe. Lean. 
Her Commands! Oh Heavens! I must follow him.  going. Luc. 
Page, Page.  Lean. 
Oh my cursed Fortune! balked again!— Madam.  Luc. 
Call my Chaplain; I'm to be married presently.  Lean. 
Married so suddenly! To whom, pray Madam?  Luc. 
To the Gentleman you met going hence just now.  Lean. 
Oh Heavens! your Ladyship is not in earnest, Madam?  Luc. 
What, is Matrimony to be made a Jest of? done't be impertinent, Boy; call him instantly.  Lean. 
What shall I do?— Oh, Madam, suspend it till the morning, for Heaven's sake. Mr. Lovewell is in the House; I met him not half an hour ago; and he will certainly kill the Gentleman, and perhaps harm your Ladyship.  Luc: 
Lovewell in my house! How came he hither?  Lean. 
I know not, Madam, I saw him and talked to him; he had his Sword drawn, and he threatened every body. Pray delay it to night, Madam.  Luc. 
No, I'm resolved; and I'll prevent his discovering us; I'll put on a suit of your clothes, and order Pindress to carry her Night Gown to the Gentleman in the Garden, and bid him meet me in the lower Arbour, in the West Corner, and send the Chaplain thither instantly.  Exit. Lean. 
Hold, Fortune, hold; thou hast entirely won;  
For I am lost. Thus long I have been racked  
On thy tormenting Wheel, and now my Heartstrings break.  
Discovering who I am, exposes me to shame.  
Then what on Earth can help me?  Enter Pindress. Pind. 
Oh Lord, Page, what's the matter? Here's old doings, or rather new doings. Prithee let you and I throw in our twopence a piece into this Marriage-Lottery.  Lean. 
You'll draw nothing but Blanks, I'll assure you, from me.— But stay, let me consider o'th' business.  Pin. 
No consideration; the business must be done hand over head.  Lean. 
Well, I have one Card to play still; and with you, Pindress.  Takes her hand. Pin. 
You expect tho' that I should turn up Trumps?  Lean. 
No, not if I shuffle right.  Aside. 
— Well, Pindross, 'tis a Match. Be gone to the lower Arbour at the West Corner of the Garden, and I'll come to thee immediately with the Chaplain. You must not whisper, for we must pass upon the Chaplain for my Lady and the Gentleman.— Haste.  Pin. 
Shan't I put on my New Gown first?  Lean. 
No, no; you shall have a Green Gown for your Wedding in the Arbour.  Pin. 
A Green Gown?— Well, all Flesh is Grass.  Lean. 
Make haste, my sponse, fly.  Pin. 
And will you come? will you be sure to come?— O my litlte Green Gooseberry, my Teeth waters at ye.—  Exit. Lean. 
Now Chance.— No, thou'rt blind.  
Then Love, be thou my Guide, and set me right;  
Tho' blind, like Chance, you have best Eyes by Night.  Exit.  

SCENE Bullfinches' House.  Enter Lovewell, Brush, and Servant. Lov. 
Mr. Lyric abroad, sayst thou? and Mockmode with him?  Seru. 
All abroad, my Mistress and all.  Lov. 
I don't understand this.— Brush, run to Lucinda's Lodgings, and observe what's a doing there: I spied some hasty Lights glancing through the Rooms; I'll follow you presently.  (Exit Brush. 
— Can't you inform me which way they went:  Seru. 
Perhaps Mr. Mockmodes' man can inform ye.  Lov. 
Pray call him.  Seru. 
Mr. Club, Mr, Club.  Lov. 
What is the follow deaf?  Seru. 
No, Sir; but he's asleep, and in bed.— Mr. Club, Mr. Club.  Club. 
Augh—  yawning 
I'm asleep, I'm asleep; done't wake me.— Augh.  Seru. 
Here's a Gentleman wants ye.  Enter Club, with his Coat unbuttened, his Garter's untied, scratching and yawning, as newly weakened from Bed. Club. 
Pox o' your London-breeding; what makes you waken a Man out of his sleep that way.  Lov. 
Where's your Master, pray Sir?  Club. 
Augh.— 'Tis a sad thing to be broken of one's rest this way.  Lov. 
Can you inform me where your Master's gone?  Club. 
My Master?— Augh—  stretching and yawning. Lov. 
Yes, Sir, your Master,  Club. 
My Master?— Augh— What a Clock is it, Sir? I believe 'tis past Midnight, for I have gotten my first sleep— Augh.—  Lov. 
Thou'rt asleep still, Blockhead. Answer me, or— where's your Master?  Club. 
Augh— I had the pleasantest Dream when you called me— Augh— I thought my Master's great black Stone-horse, had broke loose among the Mares— Augh— and so, Sir, you called me— Augh— and so I wakened.  Love. 
Sirrah, strikes him— Now your dream's out, I hope.  Club. 
Zauns, Sir! what d'ye mean, Sir? My Master's as good a Man as you, Sir; Dem me, Sir?  Lov. 
Tell me presently, where your Master is, Sirrah, or I'll dust the secret out of your Jacket.  Club. 
Oh, Sir, your Name's Lovewell, Sir!  Love. 
What then, Sir?  Club. 
Why then my Master is— where you are not, Sir.— My Master's in a fine ladies' Arms, and you are— liere, I take it.  Shrugging. Lov. 
Has he got a Whore a Bed with him?  Club. 
He may be Father to the Son of a Whore by this time, if your Mistress Lucindae be one, Mr. Lyric did his business, and my Master will do her business I warrant him, if o'th' right Shropshire breed which I'm sure he is, for my Mother nursed him on my Milk.  Lov. 
Two Calves suckled on the same Cow— Ha, ha, ha. Gramercy Poet, has he brought the Play to a Catastrophe so soon? A rare Executioner, to clap him in the Female Pillory already! Ha, ha, ha.  Club. 
Ay, Sir; and a Pillory that you would give your Ears for, I warrant you think my Master's over head and ears in the Irish Quagmire you would have drowned him in. But, Sir, we have found the bottom on't.  Lov. 
He may pass over the Quagmire, Sirrah, for there were Stepping stones laid in his way.  Club. 
He has got over dryshod, I'll assure you.— Pray, Sir, did not you receive a Note from Lucinda, the true Lucinda, to meet her at Ten in her Garden to Night.— Why don't you laugh now? Ha, ha, ha.  Lov. 
'Sdeath, Rascal, What Intelligence could you have of that?  Club. 
Hold, Sir, I have more Intelligence. You threw Mr. Lyric his Poem in a hurry in the Park, and justled that sweet Letter out of your Pocket, Sir. This Letter fell into my Master's hands, Sir, and discovered your Shame, Sir, your Trick, Sir. Now Sir, I think you're as deep in the Mud as he is in the Mire.  Lov. 
Cursed misfortune!— And where are they gone, Sir? Quickly, the Truth, the whole Truth, Dog, or I'll spit you like a Sparrow.  Club. 
I design to tell you, Sir. Mr. Lyric, Sir, being my Master's intimate Friend, or so, upon a Bribe of a hundred Pounds, or so, has sided with him, taken him to Lucinda's Garden in your stead, and there's a Parson, and all, and so forth.— Now, Sir, I hope the Poet has brought the Play to a very good Cata— Cata— what d'ye call him, Sir?  Lov. 
'Twas he I encountered in the Garden.— 'Sdeath! Tricked by the Poet! I'll cut off one of his Limbs, I'll make a Synelepha of him; I'll—  Club. 
He, he, he!— Two Calves sucked on the same Cow!— He, he!—  Lov. 
Nay then I begin with you.  Drubs him. Club. 
Zauns! Murder! Dem me! Zauns! Murder! Zauns!  [Runs off, and Lovewell after him.  

SCENE changes to the Antichamber in Lucinda 's house; a Hat, and Sword on the Table. Enter Brush.  Brush. 
I have been peeping and crouching about like a Cat a Mousing. Ha! I smell a Rat— A Sword and Hat!— There are certainly a pair of Breeches appertaining to these, and may be lapped up in my Lady's Lavender, who knows!—  listens. Enter Lovewell in a hurry. Lov. 
What, Sir? What are you doing? I'm ruined tricked.—  Brush. 
I believe so too, Sir.— See here.—  ) Shows the Hat and Sword. Lov. 
By all my hopes, Roebuck's Hat and Sword. This is mischief upon mischief. Run you to the Garden, Sirrah; and if you find any body, secure 'em; I'll search the House.— I'm ruined!— Fly.— Roebuck?— what hoa?— Roebuck?— hoa?  Enter Roebuck unbuttoned; runs to Lovewell, and embraces him. Roeb. 
Dear, dear Lovewell, wish me Joy, wish me Joy, my Friend.  Lov. 
Of what, Sir?  Roeb. 
Of the dearest, tenderest, whitest, softest Bride, that ever blessed Man's Arms. I'm all Air, all a Cupid, all Wings, and must fly again to her embraces. Detain me not, my Friend.  Lov. 
Hold, Sir, I hope you mock me; tho' that itself's unkind.  Roeb. 
Mock you!— By heavens' no; she's more than sense can bear, or Tongue express.— Oh Lucinda! should Heaven—  Lov. 
Hold, Sir; no more.  Roeb. 
I'm on the Rack of Pleasure, and must confess all.  
When her soft, melting white, and yielding Waste,  
Within my pressing Arms was folded fast,  
Our lips were melted down by heat of Love,  
And lay incorporate in liquid kisses,  
Whilst in soft broken, sighs, we catched each other's Souls.  Lov. 
Come, come, Roebuck, no more of this Extravagance.— By Heaven I swear you shan't marry her.  Roeb. 
By Heaven I swear so too, for I'm married already.  Lov. 
Then thou'rt a Villain.  Roeb. 
A Villain, Man!— Pshaw! that's Nonsense. A poor fellow can no sooner get married, than you imagine he may be called a Villain presently.— You may call me a Fool, a Blockhead, or an Ass, by the Authority of Custom: But why a Villain, for God's sake?  Lov. 
Did not you engage to meet and fight a Gentleman for me in moorfield's?  Roeb. 
Did not you promise to engage a Lady for me at the Fountain, Sir?  Lov. 
This Lucinda is my Mistress, Sir.  Roeb. 
This Lucinda, Sir; is my Wife.  Lov. 
Then this decides the matter.— Draw.  Throws Roebuck, his Sword, and draws his own. Roeb. 
Prithee be quiet, Man, I've other business to mind on my Wedding-night. I must in to my Bride.  Going. Lov. 
Hold, Sir; move a step, and by Heavens I'll stab thee.  Roeb. 
Put up, put up; Pshaw, I an't prepared to die; I an't, Devil take me.  Lov. 
Do you dally with me, Sir?  Roeb. 
Why you won't be so unconseionable as to kill a Man so suddenly; I han't made my Will yet. Perhaps I may leave you a Legacy.  Lov. 
Pardon me Heaven's, if pressed by stinging taunts, my Passion urge my Arm to act what's foul,  Offees to push at him. Roeb. 
Hold.  Taking up his Sword. 
'Tis safest making Peace, they say, with Sword in hand.— Pll tell thee what, Nod; I would not lose this Night's Pleasure for the honour of fighting and vanquishing the Seven Champions of Christendom. Permit me then but this Night to return to the Arms of my dear Bride, and faith and troth I'll take a fair Thrust with you to morrow morning.  Lov. 
What, beg a poor Reprieve for Life!— Than thou'rt a Coward.  Roeb. 
You imagined the contrary, when you employed me to fight for ye in moorfield's.  Lov. 
Will nothing move thy Gall?— Thou'rt Case ungrateful.  Roeb. 
Ungrateful! I love thee, Ned; by Heavens, my Friend, I love thee. therefore name not that word again, for such a repetition would over-pay all thy favours.  Lov. 
A cheap, a very cheap way of making acknowledgement, and therefore thou hast catched, which makes thee more ungrateful  Roeb. 
My Friendship even yet does balance Passion; but throw in the least grain more of an affront, and by Heaven you turn the Scale.  Lov. 
(Pausing.) No, I've thought better; my Reason clears: She is not worth my Sword; a Bully only should draw in her defence, for she's false, a Prostitute.  Puts up his Sword. Roeb. 
A Prostitute! By Heaven thou liest.  Draws. 
— Thou hast blasphemed. Her Virtue answers the uncorrupted state of Woman, so much above Immodesty, that it mocks Temptation. She has convinced me of the bright Honour of her Sex, and I stand Champion now for the fair Female Cause.  Lov. 
Then I have lost what naught on Earth can pay. Curse on all doubts, all Jealousies, that destroy our present happiness, by mistrusting the future. Thus misbelievers making their Heaven uncertain, find a certain Hell.— And is she Virtuous?— sound the bold charge aloud, which does proclaim me Guilty.  Roeb. 
By Heavens as Virtuous as thy Sister.  Lov. 
My Sister;— Ha!— I fear, Sir, your Marriage with Lucinda has wronged my Sister; for her you courted, and I heard she loved you.  Roeb. 
I courted her, 'tis true, and loved her also; nay, my Love to her, rivalled my Friendship towards; and had my Fate allowed me time for thought, her dear remembrance might have stopped the Marriage. But since 'tis passed, I must own to you, to her, and all the World, that I cast off all former Passion, and shall henceforth confine my Love to the dear Circle of her Charming Arms from which I just now parted.  Enter Leanthe in Woman's loose Apparel. Lean. 
I take you at your word. These are the Arms that held you.  Roeb. 
Oh Gods and Happiness! Leanthe!  Lov. 
My Sister! Heavens! it cannot be.  Roeb. 
By Heavens it can, it shall, it must be so— For none on Earth could give such Joys but she— Who would have thought my Joys could bear increase? Lovewell, my Friend! this is thy Sister! 'tis Leanthe! my Mistress, my Bride, my Wife.  Lean. 
I am your Sister, Sir, as such I beg you to pardon the effects of violent passion, which has driven me into some imprudent Actions; But none such as may blot the honour of my Virtue, or Family. To hold you no longer in suspense, 'twas I brought the Letter from Leanthe; 'twas I managed the Intrigue with Lucinda; I sent the Note to Mr. Roebuck this afternoon; and I—  Reob. 
That was the Bride of happy me.  Lov. 
Thou art my Sister, and my Guardian-Angel; for thou hast blessed thyself, and blessed thy Brother. Lucinda still is safe, and may be mine.  Roeb. 
May!— She shall be thine, my Friend.  Lov. 
Where is Lucinda?  Enter Mockmode. Mock. 
Not far off; tho' far enough from you, by the Universe.  Lean. 
You must give me leave not to believe you, Sir.  Mock. 
Oh Madam, I crave you ten thousand pardons by the Universe, Madam.— Zauns, Madam, Dem me, Madam.  Offers to salute her awkwardly. Lov. 
By your leave, Sir—  Thrusts him back, Roeb: 
Ah, Cousin Mockmode!— How do all our Friends in Shropshire?—  Mock. 
Now, Gentlemen, I thank you all for your Trick, your Sham. You imagine I have got your Whore, Cousin, your Crack '. But Gentlemen, by the assistance of a Poet, your Sheely is Metamorphosed into the real Lucinda; which your Eyes shall testify. Bring in the Jury there.— Guilty or not Guilty?  Enter Lyric and Trudge. Trud. 
Oh my dear Reobuck! And Faith is it you, dear Joy? and where have you been these seven long years?  Trudge seeing Lovewell, throws off her Masque, flies to him, takes him a bout the Neck and kisses him. Mock. 
Zauns!—  Roeb. 
Hold off, stale Iniquity.— Madam, you'll pardon this?— (To Leanthe.  Trud. 
Indeed I won't live with that stranger. You promised to marry me, so you did.— Ah Sir, Neddy's a brave Boy, God bless him; he's a whole arm full; Lord knows I had a heavy load of him.  Lov. 
Guilty, or Not Guilty, Mr. Mockmode?  Mock. 
'Tis past that; I am condemned, I'm hanged in the Marriage Noose— Hark ye, Madam, was this the Doctor that let you blood under the Tongue for the Quinsey.  Trud. 
Yes, that it was, Sir.  Mock. 
Then he may do so again; for the Devil take me if ever I breathe a Vein for ye:— Mr. Lyric, is this your Poetical Friendship?  Lyr. 
I had only a mind to convince you of your 'Squireship.  Lov. 
Now, Sister; my fears are over.— But where's Lucinda? how is she disposed of?  Lean. 
The fear she lay under of being discovered by you, gave me an opportunity of imposing Pindress upon her instead of this Gentleman, whom she expected to wear one of Pindress' Night-Gowns as a Disuise. To make the Cheat more current, she disguised herself in my clothes, which has made her pass on her Maid for me; and I by that opportunity putting on a Suit of hers, passed upon this Gentleman for Lucinda, my next business is to find her out, and beg her pardon, endeavour her reconcilement to you, which the discovery of the mistakes between both will easily effect.  Exit. Roeb. 
Well, Sir, (To Lyric.) how was Plot your carried on?  Lyr. 
Why this 'Squire (will you give me leave to call you so now?) this 'Squire had a mind to personate Lovewell, to catch Lucinda— So I made Trudge to personate Lucinda, and snap him in this very Garden.— Now Sir, you'll give me leave to write your Epithalamium?  Mock. 
My Epithalamium I my Epitaph, Screech Owl, for I'm Buried alive. But I hope you'll return my hundred pound I gave you for marrying me.  Lyr. 
No, But for Five hundred more I'll unmarry you. These are hard times, and men of industry must make Money.  Mock. 
Here's the Money, by the Universe, Sir, a Bill of Five hundred pound Sterling upon Mr. Ditto the Mercer in Cheapside. Bring me a Reprieve, and 'tis yours.  Lyr. 
Lay it in that Gentleman's hands.  Gives Roeb. the Bill. 
The Executioner, shall cut the Rope.  Goes to the door, and brings in Bull-finch dressed like a Parson. 
Here's Revelation for you!—  Pulls open the Gown. Mock. 
Oh thou damned Whore of Babylon!  Lov. 
What, Pope Joan the second! were you the Priest?  Bull. 
Of the Poet's Ordination.  Lyr. 
Ay, ay, before the time of Christianity the Poets were Priests.  Mock. 
No wonder then that all the World were Heathens.  Lyr. 
How d'ye like the Plot? would it not do well for a Play?— My Money, Sir.— (To Roebuck.  Lyr. 
No, Sir, it belongs to this Gentlewoman.— (Gives it to Trudge. you have divorced her, and must give her separate maintenance.— There's another turn of Plot you were not aware of, Mr. Lyric.  Enter Lucinda, Leanthe, and Pindress. Luc. 
You have told me Wonders.  Lean. 
Here are these can testify the truth. This Gentleman is the real Mr. Mockmode, and much such another person as your dream represented.  Roeb. 
I hope, Madam, you'll pardon my dissembling, since only the hopes of so great a purchase could cause it.  Luc. 
Let my wishing you much Joy and Happiness in your Bride testify my reconciliation; And at the request of your Sister, Mr. Lovewell, I pardon your past Jealousies. You threatened me, Mr. Lovewell, with an Irish, Entertainment at my Wedding. I wish it present now, to assist at your Sister's Nuptials.  Lean. 
Army last going hence, I sent for 'em, and they're ready.  Lov. 
Call 'em in then.  An Irish Entertainment of three Men and three Women, dressed after the Fingallion fashion. Luc. 
I must reward your Sister, Mr. Lovewell, for the many Services done me as my Page. I therefore settle my Fortune and myself on you, on this Condition, That you make over your Estate in Ireland to your Sister, and that Gentleman.  Lov. 
'Tis done; only with this Proviso, Brother, That you forsake your Extravagancies.  Roeb. 
Brother, you know I always slighted Gold;  
But most when offered as a sordid Bribe.  
I scorn to be bribed even to Virtue;  
But for bright Virtue's sake, I here embrace it.  (Embracing Leanthe. 
I have espoused all Goodness with Leanthe,  
And am divorced from all my former Follies.  
Woman's our Fate. Wild and Unlawful Plames  
Debauch us first, and softer Love reclaims.  
Thus Paradise was lost by Woman's Fall;  
But Virtuous Woman thus restores it all.  Exeunt omnes  
FINIS.   

ADVERTISEMENT.  
The Innocent Mistress a Comedy, Written by Mrs. Marry Pix.  
The Modern Conveyancer, or Conveyancing Improved, being a choice Collection of Precedents on most Occasions drawn after the manner of Conveyancing now in use. By the greatest hand of the present Age, of which some are still living.  
Consisting of Settlement of Estates upon Marriages, Bargains and Sales, Ecclesiastical Instruments, Mortgages, Leasses, etc. With an Introduction concerning Conveyancing in general. The Second Edition with Additions. Both Printed for Fran. Coggan in the Inner-Temple-Lane.