THE PRINCESS OF CLEVE, As it was Acted AT THE Queen's Theatre IN DORSET-GARDEN. By Nat. Lee, Gent.  
Tuque, dum procedis, lo Triumph,  
Non semel dicemus: lo Triumph,  
Civitas omnis, dabimusque divis  
— Thura benignis.  Horat. 
LONDON, Printed in the Year, 1689.   

TO THE Right Honourable Charles Earl of Dorset and Middlesex, Lord Chamberlain of His Majesty's Household, and one of His Majesty's most Honourable Privy-Council, etc.  
May it please your Lordship,  
THis Play, when it was Acted, in the Character of the Princess of jainville, had a resemblance of Marguerite in the Massacre of Paris, Sister to Charles the Ninth, and Wife to Henry the Fourth King of Navarre: That fatal Marriage which cost the Blood of so many Thousand Men, and the Lives of the best Commanders. What was borrowed in the Action is left out in the Print, and quite obliterated in the minds of Men. But the Duke of Guise, who was Notorious for a bolder Fault, has wrested two whole Scenes from the Original, which after the Vacation he will be forced to pay. I was, I confess, through Indignation, forced to limb my own Child, which Time, the true Cure for all Maladies, and Injustice has set together again. The Play cost me much pains, the Story is true, and I hope the Object will display Treachery in its own Colours. But this Farce, Comedy, Tragedy or mere Play, was a Revenge for the Refusal of the other; for when they expected the most polished Hero in Nemours, I gave 'em a Ruffian reeking from Whetstone's- Park. The fourth and fifth Acts of the Chances, where Don john is pulling down; Marriage Alamode, where they are bare to the Waste; the Libertine, and Epsom-Wells, are but Copies of his Villainy. He lays about him like the Gladiator in the Park; they may walk by, and take no notice. I beg your Lordship to excuse this account, for indeed 'tis all to introduce the Massacre of Paris to your Favour, and approve it to be played in its first Figure.  
Your Lordship's Humble and Obedient Servant, NAT. LEE.   

This Song should be inserted in Act V. Scene III.  

WEep all ye Nymphs, your Floods unbind,  
For Strephon's now no more;  
Your Tresses spread before the Wind,  
And leave the hated Shore:  
See, see, upon the craggy Rocks,  
Each Goddess stripped appears;  
They beat their Breasts, and rend their Locks,  
And swell the Sea with Tears.   

II.  
The God of Love that fatal hour,  
When this poor Youth was born,  
Had sworn by Styx to show his Power,  
He'd kill a Man e'er Morn':  
For Strephon's Breast he armed his Dart,  
And watched him as he came;  
He cried, and shot him through the Heart,  
Thy Blood shall quench my Flame.   

III.  
On Stella's Lap he laid his Head,  
And looking in her Eyes,  
He cried, Remember when I'm dead,  
That I deserve the Prize:  
Then down his Tears like Rivers ran,  
He sighed, You Love, 'tis true;  
You love perhaps a better Man,  
But Ah! he loves not you.   

CHORUS.  
WHY should all things bow to Love,  
Men below, and Gods above?  
Why should all things bow to Love?  
Death and Fate more awful move,  
Death below, and Fate above,  
Death below, and Fate above.  
Mortals, Mortals, try your skill,  
Seeking Good, or shunning Ill,  
Fate will be the burden still,  
Will be the burden still,  
Fate will be the burden still,  
Fate will be the burden still.    

THE PROLOGUE.  
TRust was the Glory of the foremost Age,  
When Truth and Love with Friendship did engage;  
When Man to Man could walk with Arms entwined,  
And vent their Griefs in spaces of the Wind;  
Express their minds, and speak their thoughts as clear,  
As Eastern Mornings opening to the year.  
But since that Law and Treachery came in,  
And open Honesty was made a Sin,  
Men wait for Men as Dogs for Fox's prey,  
And Women wait the closing of the day.  
There's scarce a man that ventures to be good,  
For Truth by Knaves was never understood;  
For there's the Curse, when Vice o'er Virtue rules,  
That all the World are Knaves or downright Fools.  
So they may make advantage of th' Alloy,  
They'll take the Dross and through the Gold away.  
Women turn Usurers with their own affright,  
And Vows the Hag that rides 'em all the night.  
The little Mob, the City Wastcoateer,  
Will pinch the Back to make the Buttock bore,  
And drain the last poor Guinea from her Dear.  
Thus Times are turned upon a private end,  
There's scarce a Man that's generous to his Friend.  
But there's a Monarch on a Throne sublime,  
That makes Truth Law, and gives the Poet's Rhyme;  
Be his the business of our little Fates,  
Our mean Contentions, and their high Debates.  
By Sea and Land our most Imperial Lord,  
With all the Praises Blessed that Hearts afford,  
With Laurels Crowned, unconquered by the Sword:  
William the Sovereign of our whole Affairs,  
Our Guide in Peace, and Council in the Wars.   


The Names of the Actors.  PRince of Cleve 
Mr. Williams.  Duke Nemours 
Mr. Betterton.  Bellamore 
Mr.  jaques 
Mr.  St. Andre 
Mr. Lee.  Vidam of Chartres 
Mr. Gillo.  Poltrot 
Mr. noke's.   

Women.  Princess of Cleve 
Mrs. Barry.  Tournon 
Mrs. Lee.  Marguerite 
Lady Slingsby.  Elinor 
Mrs. Betterton.  Celia 
Mrs.  Irene 
Mrs.  La March 
Mrs.   
Scene Parish.   
THE Princess of Cleve.  


ACT I. SCENE I.  Nemours, Bellamore. Fiddles Playing. Nem. 
HOld there you Monsieur Devol; prithee leave off playing fine in Consort, and stick to Time and Tune— So now the Song, call in the Eunuch; come my pretty Stallion, Hem and begin.  

SONG.  

ALL other Blessings are but Toys  
To his that in his sleep enjoys,  
Who in his Fancy can possess  
The object of his Happiness;  
The Pleasure's purer for he spares  
The Pains, Expenses, and the Cares.   

II.  
Thus when Adonis got the stone,  
To Love the Boy still made his moan;  
Venus the Queen of Fancy came,  
And as he slept she cooled his flame;  
The Fancy charmed him as he lay,  
And Fancy brought the Stone away.    Nem. 
Sirrah, stick to clean Pleasures, deep Sleep, moderate Wine, sincere Whores, and thou art happy; Now by this damask Cheek I love thee; keep but this gracious Form of thine in health, and I'll put thee in the way of living like a man— What I have trusted thee with— My Love to the Princess of Cleve, Treasure it as thy Life, nor let the Vidam of Chartres know it; for however I seem to cherish him, because he has the knack of telling a Story maliciously, and is a great pretender to Nature, I cast him off here— 'Tis too much for him: Besides he is her Uncle, and has a sort of affected Honour, that would make him grin to see me leap her— hay jaques— When Madam Tournon comes, bring her in; and hark you Sir, whoever comes to speak with me, while she is with me—  jaq. 
What if the Dauphin comes?  Nem. 
What if his Father comes, Dog— Slave— Fool! What if Paris were a fire, the Precedent and Council of sixteen at the door! I'm sick, I'm not within— I'm a hundred mile off— My bosom Dear— So young, and yet I trust thee too— But away, to the Princess of Cleve, thou art acquainted with her Women, watch her Motions, my sweet-faced Pimp, and bring me word of her rising.  Bell. 
She is a prize, my Lord, and oh what a night of pleasure has Cleve had with her— the first too!  Nem. 
Any thing but what makes such a pleasure, would I give for such another— But be gone, and no more of this provoking discourse, lest Ravishing should follow thee at the heels, and spoil my sober design. Exeunt severally.  Enter Tournon, La March. jaq. 
Madam, my Lord was just now asking for you.  Tour. 
Go tell him I'm coming— Is he dressed?  jaq. 
Yes— But your Ladyship knows thats all one to him—  Tour. 
Honest jaques, 'tis pity such. Honesty should not be encouraged—  jaq. 
This comes of Pimping, which she calls Honesty. Exit. jaq.  Tour. 
Thus thou mayst see the method of the Queen— We are the lucky Sieves, where fond men trust their Hearts, and so she sifts 'em through us—  Lafoy M. 
What of Nemours, whom you thus early visit?  Tour. 
The Queen designs to rob him of a Mistress, Marguerite the Princess of janvill, whom he keeps from the knowledge of the Court; and if the Queen be a Judge, is contracted to her—  
The Dauphin loves her too, whereon the Queen,  
Who works the Court quite round by Womankind,  
And thinks this way to mould his supple Soul,  
Resolves, if possible, to gain her for him.  La M. 
But how is't possible to work the Princess from the Duke Nemours, who loves him as the Queen affects Ambition.  Tour. 
Why thus she knows Nemours his Soul is bent  
Upon variety, therefore to gain her ends  
She has made me Sacrifice my Honour, nay  
I'm become his Bawd, and ply him every day  
With some new face, to wean his heart  
From Marguerite's Form, nor must you longer be  
Without your part.  La M. 
Employ me, for you know the Queen commands me.  Tour. 
There was a Letter dropped in the Tennis-Court  
Out of Nemours his Pocket, as I'm told,  
And read last night in the presence— 'Tis your Task  
Slily to insinuate with Marguerite.  
This Note which came from some abandoned Mistress,  
Is certainly the Dukes—  Lafoy M. 
Then jealousy's the ground on which you build.  Tour. 
Right, we must make 'em jealous of each other; Jealousy breeds disdain in haughty minds, and so from the extremes of violent Love, proceeds to fiercest hate. But see the gay, the brisk, the topping Gallant St. Andre Enter St. A. here, Cousin to Poltrot, who arrived from England with a pretty Wife last week, and Lodges in the Palace of this his related Fool— St. Andre has a Wife too of my acquaintance— Both for the Duke my Dear; but haste I'm called— Exit La March.  jaq. 
Madam—  Tour. 
I go. Exit Tournon.  St. A. 
Monsieur jaques, your most obliged faithful humble Servant. What, his Grace continues the old Trade I see, by the Flux of Bawds and Whores that choke up his Avenues, and I must confess, excepting myself, there's no man so built for Whoring as his Grace, black sanguine Brawny— a Roman Nose— long Foot and a stiff— calf of a Leg.  jaq. 
Your Lordship has all these in Perfection.  St. A. 
Sir your most faithful obliged humble Servant. Boy—  B. 
My Lord—  St. A. 
How many Bottles last night?  B. 
Five my Lord.  St. A. 
Boy.  B. 
My Lord.  St. A. 
How many Whores?  B. 
Six my Lord.  St. A. 
Boy—  B. 
My Lord.  St. A. 
What Quarrels, how many did I kill?  B. 
Not one my Lord— But the night before you Hamstrung a Beadle, and run a Link-man in the Back—  St. A. 
What, and no Blood nor Blows last night?  B. 
O yes my Lord, now I remember me, you drew upon a Gentleman that knocked you down with a Bottle.  St. A. 
Not so loud you Urchin, lest I twist you neck round— Monsieur jaques is his Grace stirring?  jaq. 
My Lord, he's at Council—  St. A. 
Odd I beg his Pardon, pray give my duty to him, and tell him, if he pleased to hear a languishing Air or two, I am at the Princess of Cleve's with a Serenade— Go Rascal, go to Monsieur Poltrot— tell him he'll be too late— Black airy shape— but then Madam Cleve is Virtuous, chaste, Cold— Gad I'll write to her, and then she's mine directly, for 'tis but reason of course, that he that has been Yoked to so many duchess's, should at last back a Princess: Sir, your most obliged faithful and very humble Servant Sir. Exeunt.   

SCENE II.  Nemours, Tournon. Tour. 
UNdone, undone! will your sinful Grace never give over, will you never leave Ruining of Bodies and Damning of Souls— could you imagine that I came for this? What have you done?  Nem. 
No harm, pretty Rogue, no harm, nay, prithee leave blubbering.  Tour. 
'Tis blubbering now, plain blubbering, but before you had your will 'twas another tone; why Madam do you waste those precious Tears, each falling drop shines like an Orient Pearl, and sets a gaiety on a Face of Sorrow.  Nem. 
Thou art certainly the pleasantest of Womankind, and I the happiest of Men; dear delightful Rogue, let's have another Main like a winning Gamester, I long to make it t'other hundred Pound.  Tour. 
Inconsiderate horrid Peer, will you Damn your Soul deeper and deeper, can you be thus insensible of your Crime?  Nem. 
Why there's it, I was as a man may be, very dry, and thou kind Soul, gav'st me a good draught of Drink; now 'tis strange to me, if a man must be Damned for quenching his thirst.  Tour. 
Ha, Ha— Well, I'll swear you are such another man— who would have thought you could delude a Woman thus, and a Woman of Honour too, that resolved so much against it; Ah my Lord! your Grace has a cunning Tongue.  Nem. 
No cunning Tournon, my way is downright, leaving Body, State and Spirit, all for a pretty Woman, and when gray Hairs, Gout and Impotence come, no more but this, drink away pain, and be gathered to my Fathers.  Tour. 
Oh thou dissembler, give me your hand, this soft, this faithless violating hand, Heaven knows what this hand has to answer for.  Nem. 
And for this hand, with these long, white, round, pretty Bobbins, 'thas the kindest gripe, and I so love it, now Gad's Blessing on't, that's all I say— But come tell me, what no new Game, for thou knowest I die directly without variety.  Tour. 
Certainly never Woman loved like me, who am not satisfied with sacrificing my own Honour, unless I rob my delights by undoing others—  Nem. 
Come, come, out with it, I see thou art big with some new Intrigue, and it labours for a vent.  Tour. 
What think you of St. Andre's Lady?  Nem. 
That I'm in Bed with her, because thou dar'st befriend me.  Tour. 
Nay, there's more— Monsieur Poltrot lodges in his House, with a young English Wife of the true breed, and the prettier of the two.  Nem. 
Excellent Creature, but command me something extravagant, as thy kindness, State, Life and Honour.  Tour. 
Yet all this will be lost when you are married to Marguerite.  Nem. 
Never, by Heaven I'm thine, with all the heat and vigorous Inspiration of an unfleshed Lover— and so will be while young Limbs and Lechery hold together, and that's a Bond methinks should last till Doomsday.  Tour. 
But do you believe if Marguerite should know—  Nem. 
The question's too grave— when and where shall I see the Gems thou hast in store?  Tour. 
By Noon or thereabouts; take a turn in Lunemburg Garden, and one, if not both, shall meet you.  Nem. 
And thou'lt appear in Person?  Tour. 
With Colours flying, a Handkerchief held out; and yet methinks it goes against my Conscience.  Nem. 
Away, that serious look has made thee old:  
Conscience and Consideration in a young Woman too?  
It makes a Bawd of thee before thy time.  
Nay, now thou puttest me in Poetic Rapture,  
And I must quote Ronsard to punish thee:  
Call all your Wives to Council, and prepare  
To Tempt, Dissemble, Flatter, Lie and Swear;  
To make her mine, use all your utmost skill,  
Virtue! An ill-bred crossness in the will;  
Honour a Notion, Piety a Cheat,  
Prove but successful Bawds and you are great.  
Come, thou wilt meet me.  Tour. 
'Tis resolved I will, till which time, thou dear Man—  Nem. 
Thou pretty Woman.  Tour. 
Thou very dear Man.  Nem. 
Thou very pretty Woman one Kiss.  Tour. 
hay Ho—  Nem. 
Now all the Gods go with thee—  Tour. 
A word my Lord, you are acquainted with these Fops; set 'em in the modish way of abusing their Wives, they are turning already, and that will certainly bring 'em about.  Nem. 
Bellamore shall do't with less suspicion: farewell— Exit Tour. hay jaques— Enter Jaques with the Vidam.  jaq. 
Ha! my grave Lord of Chartres, welcome as Health, as Wine, and taking Whores— and tell me now the business of the Court.  Vid. 
Hold it Nemours for ever at defiance,  
Fogs of ill humour, damps of Melancholy,  
Old Maids of fifty choked with eternal Vapours,  
Stuff it with fulsome Honour— dozing Virtue,  
And everlasting dullness husk it round,  
Since he that was the Life, the Soul of Pleasure,  
Count Rosidore, is dead.  Nem. 
Then we may say  
Wit was and satire is a Carcase now.  
I thought his last Debauch would be his Death—  
But is it certain?  Vid. 
Yes I saw him dust.  
I saw the mighty thing a nothing made,  
Huddled with Worms, and swept to that cold Den,  
Where Kings lie crumbled just like other Men.  Nem. 
Nay then let's Rave and Elegize together,  
Where Rosidore is now but common clay,  
Whom every wiser Emmet bears away,  
And lays him up against a Winter's day.  
He was the Spirit of Wit— and had such an art in guilding his Failures, that it was hard not to love his Faults: He never spoke a Witty thing twice, though to different Persons; his Imperfections were catching, and his Genius was so Luxuriant, that he was forced to tame it with a Hesitation in his Speech to keep it in view— But oh how awkward, how insipid, how poor and wretchedly dull is the imitation of those that have all the affectation of his Verse and none of his Wit. Enter Jaques.  jaq. 
My Lord, Monsieur Poltrot desires to kiss your Grace's hand.  Nem. 
Let's have him to drive away our Melancholy—  Vid. 
I wonder what pleasure you can take in such dull Dogs, Asses, Fools.  Nem. 
But this is a particular Fool Man, Fate's own Fool, and perhaps it will never hit the like again, he's ever the same thing, yet always pleasing,; in short, he's a finished Fool, and has a fine Wife; add to this his late leaving the Court of France, and going to England to learn breeding. Enter Poltrot.  Pol. 
My Lord Duke, your Grace's most obedient humble Servant, My Lord of Chartres and Monsieur jaques, yours Monsieur; St. Andre desires your Grace's presence at a Serenade of mine and his together— And I must tell your Grace by the way, he is a great Master, and the fondest thing of my Labours—  Nem. 
And the greatest Oaf in the World.  Pol. 
How my Lord—  Vid. 
The whole Court wonders you will keep him company.  Nem. 
Such a passive Rascal, he had his Shins broke last night in the Presence, and were it not feared you would second him, he would be kicked out of all Society.  Pol. 
I Second him my Lord, I'll see him Damned ever I'll be Second to any Fool in Christendom— For to tell your Grace the truth, I keep him company and lie at his House, because I intent to lie with his Wife; a trick I learned since I went into England, where o' my Conscience Cuckoldom is the Destiny of above half the Nation.  Nem. 
Indeed!  Pol. 
O there's not such another Drinking, Scouring, Roaring, whoring Nation in the World— And for little London, to my knowledge, if a Bill were taken of the weekly Cuckolds, it would amount to more than the Number of Christen and Burials put together.  Vid. 
What, and were you acquainted with the Wits?  Pol. 
O Lord Sir, I lived in the City a whole year together, my Lord Mayor and I, and the Common-Council were sworn Brothers— I could sing you twenty Catches and Drolls that I made for their Feast-days, but at present I'll only hint you one or two—  Nem. 
Pray do us the Favour Sir.  Pol. 
Why look you Sir, this is one of my chief ones, and I'll assure your Grace, 'twas much Sung at Court too. 
O to Bed to me— to Bed to me— etc.   Nem. 
Excellent, incomparable.  Pol. 
Why is it not my Lord? This is no Kickshaw, there's substance in the Air, and weight in the words; nay, I'll give your Grace a taste of another, the Tune is, let me see— Ay, Ay— 
Give me the Lass that is true Country bred—  But I'll present your Grace with some words of my own, that I made on my Wife before I married her, as she sat singing one day in a low Parlour and playing on the Virginals.  Nem. 
For Heaven's sake oblige us dear pleasant Creature—  Pol. 
I'll swear I'm so ticklish you'll put me out my Lord, for I am as wanton as any little Bartholomew Boar-pig—  Vi●. 
Dear soft delicate Rogue sing.  Pol. 
Nay, I protest my Lord, I vow and swear, but you'll make me run to a Whore— Lord Sir, what do you mean?  Nem. 
Come then begin— Poltrot Sings.  

PHillis is soft, Phillis is plump,  
And Beauty made up this delicate lump:  
Like a Rose bud she looks, like a Lily she smells,  
And her Voice is a Note above sweet Philomel's.   
Now a little Smutty my Lord is the fashion—  

II.  
Her Breasts are two Hillocks where Hearts lie and pant,  
In the Herbage so soft, for a thing that they want;  
But Mum Sir for that, though a notable jest,  
For if I should name it you'd call me a Beast.   Enter St. Andre without his Hat and Wig. St. A. 
My Lord, the Serenade is just begun, and if you don't come just in the nick— I beg your Grace's Pardon for interrupting you— But if you have a mind to hear the sweetest Airs in the World—  Nem. 
With all my heart Sir—  Pol. 
Nay, since your Grace has put my hand in, I'll sing you my Lord, before you go, the softest thing— composed in the Nonage of my Muse; yet such a one as our best Authors borrow from. Nay, I'll be judged by your Grace, if they do not steal their Dying from my Killing—  St. A. 
Nay prithee Poltrot thou art so impertinent.  Pol. 
No more impertinent than yourself Sir, nor do I doubt Sir, but my Character shall be drawn by the Poets for a Man of Wit and Sense Sir, as well as yourself Sir—  Vid. 
Ay I'll be sworn shall it—  Pol. 
For I know how to Repartee with the best, to Rally my Wife, to kick her too if I please Sir, to make Similes as fast as Hops Sir, though I lay a dying slap dash Sir, quickly off and quickly on Sir, and as round as a Hoop Sir—  St. A. 
I grant you Dear Bully all this, but let's have your Song another time, because mine are begun.  Pol. 
Nay, look you Dear Rogue, mine is but a Prologue to your Play, and by your leave his Grace has a mind to hear it, and he shall hear it Sir—  Nem. 
Ay and will hear it Sir, though the Great Turk were at St. Dennis' Gate; come along my Orpheus, and then Sir we'll follow you to the Prince of Cleve's—  
Ballad— When Phoebus had fetched, etc. Exeunt Singing.   

SCENE III.  The Prince of Cleve' s Palace. Music. 


SONG.  
IN a Room for Delight, the Landscape of Love,  
Like a shady old Lawn  
With the Curtains half drawn,  
My Love and I lay, in the cool of the day,  
Till our joys did remove.   

II.  
So fierce was our Fight, and so smart ev'ry stroke,  
That Love the little Scout  
Was put to the Rout;  
His Bow was unbent, ev'ry Arrow was spent,  
And his Quiver all broke.    Enter Vidam, Nemours. Nem. 
I have lost my Letter, and by your Description  
It must be that which the Queen read at Court.  
But are you sure the Princess of Cleve has seen it?  Vid. 
Why are you so concerned, does your wild Love  
Turn that way too— She is too Grave.  Nem. 
Too Grave, as if I could not laugh with this, and try  
with that, and veer with every gust of Passion— But has she seen it?  Vid. 
She has the Letter, the Queen Dauphin sent it her.  Nem. 
Then you must own it on occasion, and whatever else I shall put upon your Person—  Vid. 
Why?  Nem. 
Lest it should reach the Ears of Marguerite,  
For, Oh my Vidam! 'tis such a ranting Devil,  
If she believes this Letter mine, when next  
We meet, beware my Locks and Eyes— No more,  
But this remember that, you own it. Exit.  Enter St. Andre and Poltrot. St. A. 
His Bow was unbent, etc. Singing with Poltrot.  
Come, my Lord, we'll have all over again.  Enter the Prince of Cleve. Vid. 
See, we have raised the Prince of Cleve:  
My Lord, good Morrow—  P. C. 
Good morrow my good Lord— Save you my dear Nemours!  Pol. 
Give you Joy my Lord: What a little blue under the Eyes, Ha, Ha—  St. A. 
Give you Joy my Lord: Ha, my Lord, Ha. Holds up 3 Fing.  Pol. 
Ha, my Lord, Ha— Holding up five Fingers.  P. C. 
You are merry Gentlemen— I am not in the vein,  
Therefore, Dear Chartres, take these Fingers hence.  St. A. 
My Lord, you look a little heavy, shall we Dance, Sing,  
Fence, take the Air, Ride—  Vid. 
Come away Sir, the Prince is indisposed.  St. A. 
Gad I remember now I talk of riding, at the Tournament of Meet, as I was riding the great Horse—  Vid. 
Leave off your Lying, and come along.  St. A. 
With three bushes of Pike, and six hits of Sword, I wounded the Duke of Ferrara, Duke of Milan, Duke of Parma, Prince of Cleve—  P. C. 
My Lord, I was not there—  St. A. 
My Lord— I beg your Lordship's pardon, I meant the Vidam of Chartres.  Vid. 
You Lie, I was then at Rome.  St. A. 
My Lord—  Pol. 
Ha, Ha— Lord, Lord, how this World is given to Lying! Ha— Come, come, you're damnably out, come away.  St. A. 
My Lord, I beg your pardon, I see you are indisposed, besides the Queen obliged me this Morning to let 'em choose Colours for my Complexion—  Vid. 
Hark you, will you go or shall I— Pulling him off by the Nose.  St. A. 
My Friend, my Lord you see, is a little Familiar, but I am ever your Highness's most humble faithful obedient Servant.  Exeunt. Manet P. Cleve. 
Full of himself, the happy Man is gone;  
Why was not I too cast in such a Mould?  
To think like him, or not to think at all.  Enter the Princess of Cleve. 
Had he a Bride like me, Earth would not bear him:  
But Oh I wish that it might cover me!  
Since Chartres cannot love me: Oh I found it!  
Last night I found it in her cold Embraces;  
Her Lips too cold— Cold as the Dew of Death:  
And still whenever I pressed her in my arms,  
I found my Bosom all afloat with Tears.  Princess C. 
He weeps, O Heaven! my Lord— the Prince of Cleve.  P. C. 
My Life, my Dearest part!  Princess C. 
Why Sighs my Lord?  
What have I done Sir, thus to discompose you?  P. C. 
Nothing.  Princess C. 
Ah Sir, there is a Grief within,  
And you would hide it from me.  P. C. 
Nothing my Charters, nothing here but Love.  Princess C. 
Alas, my Lord, you hide that Secret from me,  
Which I must know or think you never loved me.  P. C. 
Ah Princess! that you loved but half so well!  Princess C. 
I have it then, you think me Criminal,  
And tax my Honour—  P. C. 
Oh forbid it Heaven—  
But since you press me Madam, let me ask you,  
Why when the Princess led you to the Altar,  
Why caked the Tears upon your Bloodless Face?  
Why sighed you when your hand was clasped with mine?  
As if your Heart, your Heart refused to join.  Princess C. 
Ah Sir—  P. C. 
Behold, you're dashed with the remembrance;  
Why when my Hopes were fierce, and Joys grew strong,  
Why were you carried like a corpse along?  
When like a Victim by my side you lay,  
Why did you Gasp, why did you Swoon away?  
O speak—  
You have a Soul so open and so clear,  
That if there be a Fault it must appear.  Princess C. 
Alas you are not skilled in Beauties cares,  
For Oh! when once the god his Wrath declares;  
And Stygian Oaths have winged the bloody Dart,  
To make its passage thro' the Virgin's Heart:  
She hides her Wound, and hasting to the Grove,  
Scarce whispering to the Winds her conscious Love.  
The touch of him she loves she'll not endure,  
But Weeps and Bleeds, and strives against the Cure:  
So judge of me when any Grief appears,  
Believe my Sighs are kind, and trust my Tears.  P. C. 
Vanish my Doubts, and Jealousies be gone—  
On thy loved Bosom let me break my Joy,  
O only Sweets that Fill, but never Cloy:  
And was it, was it only Virgin's fear?  
But speak for ever and I'll ever hear.  
Repeat, and let the Echoes deal it round,  
While listening Angels bend to catch the Sound;  
Nay, Sigh and Weep, drain all thy precious Store,  
Be kind, as now, and I'll complain no more. Exit.  Princess C. 
Was ever Man so worthy to be loved,  
So good, so gentle, soft a Disposition,  
As if no Gaul had mixed with his Creation:  
So tender and so fearful to displease,  
No barbarous Heart but thine would stop his entrance;  
But thou Inhuman banished him from his own.  
And while the Lordly Master lies without, Enter Iren.  
Thou Trait'ress, Riotests with a Thief within.  Iren. 
Ah Madam, what new Grief!  Princess C. 
Alas Iren,  
Thou Treasurer of my thoughts—  
What shall I do? how shall I chase Nemours,  
That Robber, Ravisher of my Repose?  Iren. 
For the great care you wish, may I inquire  
Whether you think the Duke insensible,  
Indifferent to the rest of Womankind?  Princess C. 
I must confess I did not think him so  
Tho now I do— But would give half my Blood  
To think him otherwise—  Iren. 
Without the Expense,  
There take your wish,— a Letter which he dropped  
In the Tennis-court, given the Queen Dauphin  
By her Page, and sent to you to read for your Diversion.  Princess C. 
Alas! Iren—  
Why trembles thus my Hand, why beats my Heart?  
But let us Read—  Reads— 
Your affection has been divided betwixt me and another, you are False— a Traitor to the truest Love— never see me more—  Princess C. 
Ah 'tis too plain, I thought as much before; but Oh! we are too apt to excuse the faults of those we love, and fond of our own undoing.  
Support me Oh to bear this dreadful pang,  
This stab to all my gathered Resolution.  Iren. 
Read it again, and call Revenge to aid you.  Princess C. 
Perhaps he makes his boast too of the Conquest,  
For Oh! my Heart he knows too well, my Passion—  
But as thou hast inspired me, I'll revenge  
The Affront, and cast him from my Poisoned Breast,  
To make him room that merits all my thoughts.  Enter the Prince of Cleve with Nemours. P. C. 
Madam there is a Letter fallen by accident into your hands— my Friend comes in behalf of the Vidam of Chartres to retrieve it, when I am dismissed from the King my Lord, I'll wait you here again.  Nem. 
My Lord—  P. C. 
Not a step further. Exit P. C.  Nem. 
Madam, I come most humbly to inquire, whether the Dauphin Queen sent you a Letter which the Vidam lost?  Princess C. 
Sir, you had better  
Find the Queen Dauphin out, tell her the truth,  
For she's informed the Letter is your own.  Nem. 
Ah Madam! I have nothing to confess  
In this Affair— or if I had, believe me,  
Believe these Sighs that will not be kept in,  
I should not tell it to the Dauphin Queen.  
But to the purpose; Know my Lord of Chartres  
Received the Note you saw, from Madam Tournon,  
A former Mistress— But the Secrets this—  
The Sister of our Henry long has loved him.  Princess C. 
I thought the King intended her for Savoy.  Nem. 
True Madam, but the Vidam is beloved;  
In short, he dropped the Letter, and desired,  
For fear of her he loves, that I would own it;  
I promised too to trace the Business for him,  
And if 'twere possible, regain the Letter.  Princess C. 
The Vidam then has shown but small Discretion,  
Being engaged so high—  
Why did he not burn the Letter?  Nem. 
But Madam, shall I dare presume to say,  
'Tis hard to be in Love and to be wise?  
Oh did you know like him— like him! Like me,  
What 'tis to languish in those restless Fires.  Princess C. 
Iren, Iren, restore the Duke his Letter. Enter Iren.  Nem. 
Madam, You've bound me ever to your Service,  
But I'll retire and study to repay,  
If aught but death can quit the Obligation. Exit.  Princess C. 
O 'tis too much, I'm lost, I'm lost again—  
The Duke has cleared himself, to the confusion  
Of all my settled Rage, and vowed Revenge;  
And now he shows more lovely than before:  
He comes again to wake my sleeping Passion,  
To rouse me into Torture; O the Racks  
Of hopeless Love! it shoots, it glows, it burns,  
And thou alas! shalt shortly close my Eyes.  Iren. 
Alas! you're pale already.  Princess C. 
Oh Iren—  
Methinks I see Fate set two Bowls before me,  
Poison and Health, a Husband and Nemours;  
But see with what a whirl my Passions move,  
I loathe the Cordial of my Husband's Love;  
But when Nemours my Fancy does recall,  
The Bane's so sweet that I could drink it all.   
Finis Actus Primi.   

ACT II.  

SCENE I.  Tournon, La March. Tour. 
IT works, my Dear, it works beyond belief,  
The Letter which he lost has sprung a Mine  
That shatters all the Court, each Jealous Duchess  
Concludes her Man concerned, and straight employs  
A Confident to find the Mystery out.  
But that which takes the Queen, and makes me die  
With Pleasure, is, that Marguerite thinks  
Spite of the Imprecations of Nemours,  
The Letter sent to him—  La M. 
I see 'em move this way.  Tour. 
Hast to St. Andre's Palace, watch their Wives, till I appear— I have promised Nemours an Afternoon Assignation with 'em in Luxemburg Garden, but I will antedate the business as he is waiting, and set Marguerite upon him just as he meets 'em, which will heighten the design; be gone while I attend the business here—  Exit La March. Enter Nemours, Marguerite. Nem. 
You have heard me more than once  
Affirm, the Vidam (if you'll give him leave)  
Will own it to your Face.  Marg. 
Hear, hear him Heaven;  
By all Extremes thou art False, therefore be gone,  
For if I look upon thee in this Rage,  
I shall do mischief; speak not, but away—  Nemours beckons the Vidam, they steal off. Enter Tournon. Tour. 
Madam, the Duke has taken you at your word, and is gone with the Vidam; I made bold to overhear part of your Discourse, because I have more of his Infidelity to tell you— Betwixt one and two in Luxemburg Garden he has appointed some Ladies—  Marg. 
Furies and Hell!—  Tour. 
Have Patience for an hour, I'll bring you to the place, where, if you please, you may flesh your Fingers in the Blood of those young Women, whom he meets to enjoy.  Marg. 
No, no, I have a better Cast, if I can conquer this rising Spleen—  
How long will it be e'er your call me?  Tour. 
An hour or thereabouts—  Marg. 
And by that time I'll put on a Disguise; fail not—  Tour. 
But what do you intend?  Marg. 
I know not yet myself; Revenge—  Tour. 
You had a Lover once, Francis the Dauphin—  Marg. 
Be that then the last Card— I know not what;  
The Dauphin shall— I'll do't, and openly affront him—  
And as the little Worshippers adore me,  
Spy the Duke out, and leaning on the Prince,  
Inquire who's that: It shall be so, I will—  
Revenge, Revenge, and show thyself true Woman.  
Down then, proud Heart, down Woman, down, I'll try,  
I'll do't, I've sworn, to curb my Will or die. Exeunt.   

SCENE II.  St. Andre, Poltrot, Bellamore. Bell. 
WELL, Gentlemen, good Morrow, and remember my Counsel.  Pol. 
What, to bear ourselves like Men of Wit and Sense,  
Snub our Wives, Rally 'em, and be as Witty as the Devil?  St. A. 
With all my heart, 'tis not my time of Assignation yet with my duchess's, and this is very Fashionable.  Bell. 
I've put you in the way— And so good Morrow. Exit.  Pol. 
They come, they come, Enter Elinor and Celia.  
Walk by 'em, take no notice, and Repeat Verses.  
Phillis did in so strange a Posture lie  
Panting and Breathless, languishing her Eye,  
She seemed to live, and yet she seemed to Die.  St. A. 
I grow sick of the Wife— Prithee Poltrot let's go.  Pol. 
Whither thou wilt, so we get rid of 'em— Z'life I am as weary of mine, as a Modish Lady of her old clothes—  Cel. 
What does the Maggot bite, you must be jogging from this place of little Ease? yet I am resolved to know some reason, why a Wife may not be as good Company as a Wench.  Pol. 
Prithee Spouse— do not provoke me, for I'm in the Witty Vein, and shall Repartee thee to the Devil.  El. 
Pray, St. Andre, leave trising your Curls, your affected Nods, Grimaces, taking of Snuff, and answer me— Why are we not as pleasing as formerly?  St. A. 
Why, Nell— Gad 'tis special— This Amarum is very pungent— Why, Nell, I can give no more reason for my change of humour, than for the turning of a Weathercock; only this, I love Whoring; because I love Whoring.  Pol. 
Nay, since you provoke us, know I can give a reason; we run after Whores, because you bar us from 'em— As some take pleasure to go a Deer-steeling that have fine Parks of their own— Gad, and there I was with her— This itch of the Blood, Spouse, is nothing but a Spice of the first great Jilt ●our Grandmother Eve; we long for the Fruit, because it is forbidden.  St. A. 
Nay, that's not all, for Misses are really more pleasant than a Wife can be, Probatum est. A Wife dares not assume the Liberty of pleasing like a Miss, for fear of being thought one. A Wife may pretend to dutiful affection, and bustle below, but must be still at night. 'Tis Miss alone may be allowed Flame and Rapture, and all that—  Cel. 
Yet how do you know, but a Wife may have Flame and Rapture, and all that—  Pol. 
'Tis impossible, 'tis the Nature of a Wife to be as cold as a Stone— There's Slap Dash for you—  Cel. 
Yet out of a Stone a Man of Sense would strike Fire: There's Slap Dash for you—  El. 
Will you be Constant to us, if we make it appear by your own Confession, that we can please as well as the subtl'st She that ever charmed you?  St. A. 
Till which Miracle come to pass, since 'twas your own Proposition, I St. Andre and thou Elinor come not between a pair of Sheets—  El. 
How should they know then?  Pol. 
Nor I Antony with thee Celia.  El. 
But we hope you are not in earnest, you cannot be so Inhuman.  Cel. 
'Tis a Curse beyond all Curses, to have a Man that can and will not; 'tis worse than teaching a Fool, or leading the Blind.  El. 
To Marry and live thus, is to be like Fish in Frosty Wether, have Water, but pine for want of Air.  Cel. 
Yet, who knows but Heaven may send some Kind Good Man, that in mere pity may break the Ice, and give us a Breathing?  El. 
Can you be so hard-hearted?  Pol. 
Come Bully, let's away, for fear we should melt; look ye Spouses of ours, if our Wenches prove ill-humoured, we'll come back to you.  St. A. 
Agreed, rather than grow Rusty let our Wives File us— But I thank Heaven 'tis not come to that yet— There's no such want, I'll have you to know Nell, there's no Woman can resist me if she would, no Duchess 'scape me, if I make it my business to compass her.  Pol. 
Any Man of Wit and Sense like us, Charms all Women, as one Key unlocks all Doors at Court— Nay, I'll say a bold word for myself, Turn me to the sharpest Shrew that ever Bit or Scratched, if I do not make her feed out of my hand like a tame Pigeon, may I be condemned to lie with my Wife.  Eli. 
Flesh and Blood can endure no longer, you are the vainest lying Fellows that ever lived, you compass a Duchess— There's not a Footman but would shame you.  St. A. 
Z'Death and Fury, if they should try—  Cel. 
You pitiful, sneaking, rascally Cuckold, countenanced Scoundrels, that dare Bespatter Ladies of Honour thus— For Heaven sake what are you, how do you live, and where do you spend your time? in Tennis-Courts, Taverns, Eating-houses, Bawdy-houses, where you quarrel in Drink for your Trulls, who while you Manfully Fight their Cause, they run away with your Hats and Belts—  Eli. 
Then you come home, and swear you'll be revenged on this Lord, or that Duke, that assaulted you single, with all his Foot men.  Cel. 
And, says my Gentleman, if I had not been the most Skilful Person alive, my Body had been by this time like an Old-fashioned Suit, Pinked all over, and full of Ilet-holes.  Eli. 
But did he not disarm my Lord at last?  Cel. 
By all means, and made him beg his Life.  Eli. 
When indeed he compounded with the Constable for his own Liberty.  Cel. 
You Persons of Quality— What Person of Honour would keep company with such Debauches? Z'life Madam, an Orange-wench is above their Ambition.  Eli. 
An Orange-wench! If they can but run in her debt, and the poor Creature come dunning 'em to their Lodgings, they'll Swear they lay with her, when they dare not be known that they are within.  Cel. 
Sometimes lie Lolling upon a long Scarf in the Playhouse, talking loud and affectedly, and Swear at night they had the prettiest thing just come out of the Country.  Eli. 
And wish themselves Damned if she did not smell of the Grass.  Cel. 
When in truth 'twas some disguised Bawd, that met 'em there according to Assignation.  Pol. 
Hark you Potiphar's Wife of mine, by Pharaoh's lean Kine thou shalt starve for this.  St. A. 
And for thee Nell— Mark me, thou shalt Dream and be tormented with Imagination, like one that having drunk hard is thirsty in the Night, dreams of Vessels brimful, and drinks and drinks, yet never is satisfied.  Pol. 
For my part, I'll serve my Damned Wife as Tantalus was punished the Fruit shall bob at her Lips, which she shall never enjoy.  Exeunt St. A. Pol. Eli. 
Very well, the World's come to a fine pass; if this be Marrying, would I were a Maid again. Men take Wives now as they snatch up a Gazette, look it over and then fling it by.  Cel. 
They forget us in a day or two, or if they read us over again, 'tis only to rub up Remembrance, and commonly they fall asleep so.  Eli. 
What's to be done Child? for rather than live thus—  Cel. 
Rather than live thus let's do any thing.  Eli. 
Any thing Rogue, why Cuckolds are things.  Cel. 
Perhaps they think we have no such thing as Flesh and Blood about us, but we'll make 'em know, a young Woman in the flour of her Age, is not like painted Fruit in a Glass, only to be looked on— Perhaps you are a more Contemplative Person, and will go farther about.  Eli. 
What, Dear Rogue, dost think I will leave thee? by this Kiss not I.  Cel. 
Thus then we'll slip on long Scarfs, and black Gowns, put on Masks, and ramble about.  Eli. 
Rare Rogue, let me Kiss thee again— Certainly Intrigueing is the pleasantest part of Life; to meet a Gallant abroad in a Summer's Evening, and Laugh away an hour or two in a Garden Bower, where no body sees nor no body knows, methinks 'tis so pretty and harmless, Lord, how it works in my Fancy—  Cel. 
We must tell Madam Tournon by all means—  Eli. 
I believe her Secret, and know her very good Natured; but for all that, methinks she has the Cant of a refined Florence Bawd—  Enter Tournon. Cel. 
The better for our purpose, she comes as wished.  Tour. 
Dear Precious Rosebuds your Servant, now for all the World you look as you were Newblown; and how do ye my pretty Primroses? 'tis a whole day since I saw ye.  Cel. 
Oh Madam! we have a Suit to your Ladyship.  Tour. 
I grant it whate'er it be; speak my Hyacinth.  Eli. 
Our Husbands are worse than ever.  Cel. 
They use us as if we had neither Beauty nor Portion.  Tour. 
What's this I hear? O Ingrate and Ignoble! Revenge yourselves Sweetings— 'Tis time to pule and put Finger in Eye, when you are past Propagation. But my Ladybirds you are in your Prime, let me touch your delicate Hands— Well, and do not these humid Palms claim a Man— Nay, and your Breasts, Lord! Lord! how swollen and hard they are, how they heave and pant now, by Cynthia, as if they were ready to burst? look to't, have a care of a Cancer, draw 'em down, draw 'em down, for let me tell you Jewels, it may be dangerous for you to go thus long without Cultivation—  Eli. 
What would you have us do Madam?  Tour. 
Do Violet? why do as all the World does beside, lose no Time, catch him by the Forelock, get a Man to your mind— I'll acquaint you with one that's as true as the day, that will Fight like a Lion, and Love like a Sparrow— He has Eyes as black as Slows, you can hardly look on 'em, and a Skin so white— and soft as Satin with the Grain: And for thee Tulip—  Cel. 
For me Madam!  Tour. 
For thee Hony-Suckle, such a Man, well, I shall never forget him, such a straight bowl of a Body, such a Trunk, such a shape, such a quick strength, he will over any thing he can lay his hand on, and Vaults to Admiration.  Eli. 
But Madam, will you provide us Lodgings on occasion—  Tour. 
The Richest in the Town, the costliest Hangings, great Glasses, China Dishes, Silver Tables, Silver Stands, and Silver Urinals— And then these Gallants are the closest Lovers, so good at keeping a Secret— Well, give me your Man that says nothing, but minds the business in hand— For a Secret Lover's like a Gun charged with White Powder, does Execution but makes no noise.  Cel. 
Well, and let me tell you that's the Point, Madam—  Tour. 
Ay, and 'tis a Precious Point, a Feeling Point, and a Pleasing Point; you shall know him, you must know him, I shall die if you don't know him— He has the fling of a Gentleman.  Eli. 
Pray Madam, how's that?  Tour. 
Why thus Apricock— Into your Arms, then stops your Mouth with a double-tongued English Kiss, that you can't be angry with him for your Blood.  Cel. 
I know 'tis my filthy Country way— But I'll assure you if he should serve me so, my Blood would rise at him.  Tour. 
But then you'd repent and fall before him, for he has the most particular obliging way, and she whom he particularly loves, is so obliged with his Particular— Well, for my part, my Twins of Beauty, I set an infinite Value on their Charesses, Distresses and Addresses; nay, I could refuse a Quilt Imperial, to be obliged by them, though on the bare Board's, or the cold Stones.  Eli. 
But, Madam, are they in being—  Tour. 
They are my Blossoms— Then they Kiss beyond Imagination, just for all the World as when you cut a pure Juicy China Orange, the Goodness runs over— Lord! now it comes in my Cogitation, I'm just now going to take a View of'em in Luxemburg Garden, where, if you please to walk, they shall Sun themselves in your Smiles— Come my Carnations, nay, I protest I will not go before ye.  Cel. 
But, Madam, we're at home.  Tour. 
O Lord, Beauties! I know not the way.  Eli. 
Indeed Madam you must— or we shall use Violence—  Tour. 
Well Ladies, since 'tis your command, I dare not but obey.  Exeunt.  

SCENE III.  Nemours, Bellamore. Nem. 
THou Dear Soft Rogue, my Spouse, my Hephestion, my Ganymed, nay, if I die to night my Dukedom's thine— But art thou sure the Princess of Cleve withdraws here after Dinner—  Bell. 
One of her Women whom I have Debauched, tells me 'tis her Custom; you may slip into the Closet and overhear all, and yet methinks 'tis hard, because the Prince of Cleve loves you as his Life.  Nem. 
I saved his Life, Sweetheart, when he was assaulted by a mistake in the dark, and shall he grudge me a little Fooling with his Wife, for so serious an Obligation?  Enter the Vidam— 
A Pox upon him, here comes the Vidam with his sour Morals—  Vid. 
'Tis certain I like her— She's very pretty, and Tournon shall help me to her—  Nem. 
In Love, by my Lechery— Ay, and she shall help thee to her— But who, but who is't my Man of Principles—  Vid. 
To tell your Grace, I am sure were to be a Man of none for myself— You that are the Whore's Engrosser— Let me see— There's Tournon your Ubiquitary Whore, your Bawd, your Bawd Barber or Bawd Surgeon, for you're ever under her hands, and she Plasters you every day with new Wenches— Then there's your Domestic Termagant— Elinor and Celia, with something new in Chase— Why you outdo Cesar himself in your way, and dictate to more Whores at once than he did to Knaves— Believe me Sir, in a little time you'll be nicked the Town Bull.  Nem. 
Why there's the difference betwixt my Sense and yours; would I were, and your Darklin Mistress the first should come in my way, jove and Europa, I'd leap her in thy Face— Why, how now Vidam, what Devil has turned thee Grave, the Devil of Love, or the Devil of Envy?  Vid. 
Friendship, mere Friendship and care of your Soul; I thought it but just, to tell you the whole Town takes notice of your way.  Nem. 
Why then the whole Town does me wrong, because I take no notice of theirs; thus t'other night I was in company with two or three well-bred Fops, that found fault with my Obscenity, and protested 'twas such a way— Why 'tis the way of ye all, only you sneak with it under your Cloaks like Tailors and Barbers; and I, as a Gentleman should do, walk with it in my hand. For prithee observe, does not your Priest the same thing? did not I see Father Patrick declaiming against Flesh in Lent, strip up to the Elbow; and telling the Congregation he had eat nothing but Fish these twenty years, yet protest to the Ladies, that Fat Arm of his, which was a chopping one, was the least Member about him?  Bell. 
Faith, and it may be so too.  Nem. 
Does not your Politician, your little great Man of business, that sets the World together by the Ears, after all his Plotting, Drudging and Sweating at Lying, retire to some little Punk and untap at Night?  Vid. 
I submit to the weight of your Reasons, and confess the whole World does you Injustice, wherefore I judge it fit that they Bring your Grace their Wives and Daughters to make you amends.  Nem. 
Why now thou talk'st like an honest Fellow, for never let business Flatter thee Frank into Nonsense: Women are the sole Pleasure of the World; nay, I had rather part with my whole Estate, Health and Sense, than lose an Inch of my Love— I was t'other day at a pretty Entertainment, where two or three Grave Politic Rogues were wondering, why Women should be brought into Plays; I as gravely replied, the World was not made without 'em; he full Pop upon me— But Sir, it had been better if it had—  Vid. 
And then no doubt a gloomy Smile arose—  Nem. 
These are your Rogues, Frank, that would be thought Critics, that are never pleased but with something new, as they call it, just, proper, and never as men speak; you're out of the way, men that hate us Rogues with a way—  Bell. 
But after all this they'll run you down, and say your Grace is no Scholar—  Nem. 
Why, Faith, nor would be, if Learning must wrench a Man's Head quite round; I understand my Mother-tongue well enough, and some others just as I do Women, not to be married to 'em, but to serve my turn; what's good in 'em never 'scape me, but as for Points and Tags, for which those solemn Fops are to be valued, I slight 'em, nor would remember 'em if I could; for he that once listens to Jingling, ten to one if ever he gets it out of his head while he lives— But prithee be gone, and leave me to my Musing; find Tournon out, my Vidam, and bid her remember the Handkerchief— Away, thou art concerned in the business, therefore away. Exeunt Vid. Bell.  Enter the Princess of Cleve, Irene. Nem. 
She comes, ye Gods, with what a pompous State;  
The Stars and all heavens' Glories on her wait.  
That's out of the way too— But now for my Closet. Exit.  Princess C. 
No, no, I charge thee pity me no longer,  
But on the Earth let us consult our Woes:  
For Earth I shall be shortly; sit and hear me,  
While on thy Faithful Bosom thus I lean  
My aching Head, and breathe my cruel Sorrows.  Iren. 
Speak Madam, speak, they'll strangle if contained—  Princess C. 
As late I lay upon a flowery Bank,  
My Head a little heaved beyond the Verge,  
To look my Troubles in the Rockless Stream,  
I slept, and dreamed I saw  
The bosom of the Flood unfold;  
I saw the Naked Nymphs ten Fathom down,  
With all the Crystal Thrones in their Green Courts below,  
Where in their busy Arms Nemours appeared:  
His Head reclined, and swollen as he were drowned,  
While each kind Goddess dewed his Senseless Face  
With Nectar's drops to bring back Life in vain:  
When on a sudden the whole Synod rose  
And laid him to my Lips— Oh my Irene!  
Forgive me Honour, Duty— Love forgive me,  
I found a Pleasure I ne'er felt before,  
Dissolving Pains, and Swimming shuddering Joys,  
To which my Bridal Night with Cleve was dull—  Enter the Prince of Cleve. Iren. 
Behold him, Madam.  P. C. 
Ha! my Chartres— How—  
Why on the Earth?  Princess C. 
Because, my Lord, it suits  
The humble posture of my sad Condition.  P. C. 
These Starts again; but why thy sad Condition?  
O rise and tell me why this Melancholy!  
Why fall those Tears? Why heaves this Bosom thus?  
Nay, I must then constrain thee with my Arms. Rise.  
Is't possible? does then thy load of Grief  
Oppress thee so, thou canst not speak for Sighing—  
Ah Chartres, Chartres! then thou didst but soothe me,  
There is some cause, too frightful to be told,  
And thou hast learned the art too to dissemble.  Princess C. 
O Heavens! dissemble when I strip my Soul,  
Show it all bear, and trembling to your view;  
Can you suspect me Sir, for a Dissembler?  P. C. 
By all my Hopes, Doubts, Jealousies and Fears,  
I know not what to think, I think thou showest  
Thy inmost thought, and now I think thou dost not.  
I think there is a Bosom secret still,  
And have a dawn of it through all thy Folds  
That hide it from my view: O trust me Cleve!  
Trust me whate'er it be; I love thee more  
Than thou lov'st help for that which thus inthrauls thee.  
Trust thy Dear Husband, O let lose the pain  
That makes thee droop, though it should be my death!  
By thy dear self I'll welcome it to ease thee.  Princess C. 
Thou best of all thy Kind, why should you rack me,  
Who dare not, cannot speak— No more but this,  
Take me from Paris from the Court.  P. C. 
Ha, Chartres, how!  
What from the Court of Paris, why?  Princess C. 
Because— my Mother's Deathbed Counsel so advised me,  
Because the Court has Charms, because I love  
A Grotto best, because 'tis best for you  
And me, and all the World.  P. C. 
Because, O Heaven!  
Because there is some cursed Charm at Court,  
Which you love better than me and all the World.  
The Reason's plain, for which you would remove.  
To lose the Memory of some lawless Love.  Princess C. 
Why then am I detained, if that's your fear?  P. C. 
It is, it ought, and shall, and Oh! you must  
Confess this horrid Falsehood to my Face.  Princess C. 
Never, my Lord, never confess a Lie,  
By heavens' I love your Life above my own.  P. C. 
Not that, not that, speak home and fly not wide,  
Swear by thyself, thou dearly purchased Pleasure,  
Swear by those Chaster Sweets thy Mother left thee;  
Swear that thy Soul, which cannot hide a Treason,  
Prefers me even to all the World; Hold Precious,  
Swear that thou lov'st him more— And only lov'st him,  
And in such Sense as not to love another.  Princess C. 
Ah, Sir! why will you sink me to your Feet,  
Where I must lie and groan my Life away?  P. C. 
Speak Chartres, Speak, nor let the name of Husband  
Sound Terror to thy Soul; for by my hopes  
Of Paradise, however thou usest me,  
I am thy Creature, still to make and mould me  
Thy cringing crawling Slave, and will adore  
The hand that kills me—  Princess C. 
O you are too good!  
And I must never hope for Pardon— Yet  
I could excuse it; but my Lord I will not.  
Know then— I cannot speak.  P. C. 
Nor I by Heaven.  Prince's C. 
I Love.  P. C. 
Go on.  Princess C. 
I love you as my Soul.  P. C. 
Ha— But the rest.  Princess C. 
Alas, alas, I dare not—  P. C. 
Why then farewell for ever—  Princess C. 
Stay and take it—  
Take the extremest Pang of tortured Virtue,  
Take all, I love, I love thee Cleve as Life;  
But Oh! I love, I love another more—  P. C. 
Oh Chartres! Oh—  Princess C. 
Why did you rack me then?  
You were resolved, and now you have it all.  P. C. 
All Chartres! All! Why, can there then be more?  
But rise, and know I by this Kiss forgive thee.  
Thou hast made me wretched by the clearest proof  
Of perfect Honour that e'er flowed from Woman.  
But crown the misery which you have begun,  
And let me know who 'tis you would avoid,  
Who is the happy man that had the power  
To burn that Heart which I could never warm.  Princess C. 
Forgive me Sir, in this Prudence commands  
Eternal silence—  P. C. 
Ha! if silent now,  
Why didst thou speak at all? If here thou stoppest  
I shall conclude that which I thought thy virtue,  
A start of passion which thou couldst not hide,  
And now Vexation gnaws thy guilty Soul  
With a too late Repentance for confessing  
His name—  Princess C. 
You shall not know it— Yes my Lord,  
Now a too late Repentance tears my Soul,  
And tells me I have done amiss to trust you;  
Yet by my hopes of ease at last by Death,  
I swear my Love has never yet appeared.  
To any Man but you—  P. C. 
Weep not my Charters, for however my Tongue  
Upbraid thy Fame, my Heart still worships thee,  
And by the Blood that chills me round— I swear  
From this sad Moment, I'll ne'er urge thee more;  
All that I beg of thee, is not to hate me.  Princess C. 
The study of my Life shall be to love you.  P. C. 
Never, Oh never! I were mad to hope it,  
Yet thou shalt give me leave to fold thy hand,  
To press it with my Lips, to sigh upon it,  
And wash it with my Tears—  Princess C. 
I cannot bear this kindness without dying.  P. C. 
Nay, we will walk and talk sometimes together,  
Like Age we'll call to mind the Pleasures past;  
Pleasures like theirs, which never shall return,  
For Oh! my Chartres, since thy Heart's estranged,  
The pleasure of thy Beauty is no more,  
Yet I each night will see thee softly laid,  
Kneel by thy side, and when thy Vows are paid,  
Take one last kiss, e'er I to Death retire,  
Wish that the heavens' had given us equal fire;  
Then sigh, it cannot be, and so expire. Exeunt.  Enter Nemours. 
She Loves, she Loves, and I'm the happy Man,  
She has avowed it, past all precedent,  
Before her Husband's Face—  
Ha! but from Love like hers such daring virtue,  
That like a bleeding Quarry lately chased,  
Plunges among the Waves, or turns at Bay,  
What is there to expect— But— let it come  
The worst can happen, yet 'tis glorious still.  
To bring to such Extremes so chaste a mind,  
And charm to love the wisest of her Kind.  Enter Vidam. 
Ah Vidam! I could tell thee such a Story of such a Friend of mine, the oddest, prettiest, out of the way of business, but thou art so flippant there's no trusting thee.  Vid. 
Tournon says the Flag's held out—  Nem. 
Tournon be Damned— Know then, but be secret, there is a Friend of mine beloved— But by a Soul so Virtuous,  Vid. 
That was too much—  Nem. 
That quite from the method of all Womankind, she told it to her Husband.  Vid. 
That's strange indeed: And how did her Husband like it?  Nem. 
Why, after a tedious passionate Discourse, approved her carriage, and swore he loved her more than ever; so they cried and kissed, and went away most lovingly together.  Vid. 
Why then she Cuckolds him to rights, nor can he take the Law of her; and I'll be judge by any Bawd in Christendom— And so my Lord farewell, I have business of my own, and Tournon waits you—  Nem. 
But hark you, Frank, I have occasion for you, and must press thee, I hope, to no unwellcome Office— only a Second—  Vid. 
With all my heart, my Lord, the time and place.  Nem. 
Just now in Luxemburg Garden, betwixt one and two, a Challenge from a couple, the smartest, briskest, prettiest Tilting Ladies—  Vid. 
Your Servant Sir, and as you thrive, let me hear from your Grace, and so Fate speed your Blow. Exit.  Enter Tournon with Marguerite. Nem. 
And so Fate speed your Blow, and you go to that, and I shall tell you Sir, 'twas not handsomely done, to leave me thus to the Mercy of two unreasonable Women at once.  Tour. 
You have him now in view, and so I leave you. Exit. Tour.  Marg. 
Stand Sir.  Nem. 
To a Lady, while I have breath.  Marg. 
Would you not fall to a Lady too, if she should ask the Favour?  Nem. 
Ay, Gad, any pretty Woman may bring me upon my Knees at her pleasure.  Marg. 
O Devil—  Nem. 
Prithee my dear soft warm Rogue, let thee and I be kind—  Marg. 
And Kiss, you were going to say.  Nem. 
Z'Life, how pat she hits me, why thou and I were made for one another— Let's try how our Lips fit.  Marg. 
Is that your fitting?  Nem. 
'Fore Heaven she's wondrous quick; Nay, my Dear, and you go to that, I can fit you every way—  Marg. 
You are a notorious talker.  Nem. 
And a better doer; prithee try.  Marg. 
As if that were to do now.  Nem. 
Nay then I'm sure of thee, for never was a Woman mine once, but was mine always.  Marg. 
Know then you are a heavy sluggish Fellow; but I see there is no more Faith in Man than Woman, Cork and Feathers.  Nem. 
Make a Shittlecork that's Woman, let me, if you please, be Battledoor, and by Gad for a day and a night I'll keep up with any Fellow in Christendom.  Marg. 
Come away then and I'll keep count I warrant you— Monster— Villain—  Nem. 
Now is the Devil and I as great as ever— I come my Dear— But than what becomes of my other Dears— For whom I was Primed and Charged—  Marg. 
Why doubt you come my Dear?  Nem. 
There with that sweet word she cocked me—  Marg. 
Lord! how you tremble—  Nem. 
There the Pan flashed—  Marg. 
I'll set my Teeth in you.  Nem. 
Now I go off— O Man! O Woman! O Flesh! O Devil!   
Finis Actus Secundi.   

ACT III.  

SCENE I.  The Vidam, Tournon. Tour. 
A Woman in Love with another, and confess it to her Husband— What would I give to know her— Without all question Nemours is the Person beloved.  Vid. 
That's plain by his eagerness in the Discovery, he forced me to hear him whether I would or no; yet what I so admire in his Temper, is, that for all the former Heat, I no sooner mentioned you, but he flew from it, and run upon another Scent, as if the first had never been.  Tour. 
Where did you find him?  Vid. 
At the Princess of Cleve's, and my Heart tells me that's the Lady that acquainted her Husband how she was determined to make him a Cuckold— If he pleased to give his consent—  Tour. 
My Judgement, which is most Sagacious in these Matters, is most positive in your opinion, for by his whitely cast, the Prince of Cleve must be the Man forked in the Book of Fate—  Vid. 
And yet 'tis odd, that Nemours of all Men, should have such luck at this Lottery.  Tour. 
O to choose, my Lord! because she's nice and precise; your demure Ladies that are so Squob in company, are Devils in a corner; they are a sort of melancholy Birds, that ne'er peep abroad by day, but they to whit, to whou it at night; nay, to my particular knowledge, all grave Women love wild Men, and if they can but appear civil at first, they certainly snap 'em; for mark their Language, the Man is a handsome Man, if he had but Grace; the Man has Wit, Parts and excellent Gifts, if he would but make a right use of 'em; why all these If's are but civil Pimps to a most Bawdy conclusion— But see, I descry him with a Mask yonder—  Vid. 
You'll remember St. Andre's Lady for this Discovery.  Tour. 
If she be not yours to night, never acquaint me with a Mystery again—  Vid. 
Not a word to the Duke— My Gravity gets me a thank over him— Therefore if you tell him of any Love Matters of mine, you must never hope for more Secrets—  Tour. 
Trouble not your head, but away. Exit. Vid. So this gets me a Diamond from the Queen, an Ambassadors Merit at least. Confess to her Husband, alas poor Princess— See, they come; but that which startles me, is how a Woman of Marguerite's Sex can contain all this while as she seems to do; but perhaps she designs to pump him— Or has some further end, which I must learn.  Enter Nemours and Marguerite. Marg. 
But did you never promise thus before?  Nem. 
Never— But why these Doubts— Thou hast all the Wit in the World— Thou know'st I love thee without Protestations, why then this delay?  Marg. 
I have not conversed with you an hour, and you are for running over me: No Sir, but if you can have patience till the Ball— Oh I shall burst—  Nem. 
Patience, I must; but if it were not for the clog of thy Modesty, we might have been in the third Heaven by this, and have danced at the Ball beside— Ha! you faint— Take off your Mask—  Marg. 
Unhand me, or— But pray, e'er we part, let me ask you a serious question; what if you should have picked up a Devil Incarnate?  Nem. 
Why, by your loving to go in the dark thus, I make me begin to suspect you— But be a Devil and thou wilt, if we must be Damned together, who can help it—  Marg. 
I shall not hold—  Nem. 
Yet, now I think on't, thou canst be no Devil, thou art so afraid of a Sinner; for you refused me just now, when I proffered to sell myself, and seal the Bargain with the best of my Blood.  Marg. 
But if I should permit you, could you find in your heart to engender with a damned Spirit?  Nem. 
Yes marry could I, for all you ask the question so seriously: For know, thou bewitching Creature, I have longed any time this seven years to be the Father of a Succubus—  Marg. 
Fiend, and no Man—  Nem. 
Besides, Madam, don't you think a feat Devil of yours and my begetting, would be a prettier sight in a House, than a Monkey or a Squirrel? Gad I'd hang Bells about his neck, and make my Valet spruce up his Brush Tail every Morning as duly as he combed my head.  Marg. 
But is it possible (for I know you have a Mistress, a Convenience as you call her,) that you could leave her for me, who may be Ugly, Diseased, or a Devil indeed for aught you know?  Nem. 
Why, since you tax me with truth, I must answer like a Man of Honour; I could leave her for thee or any else of your Tribe, so they were all like you—  Marg. 
But in the name of Reason, what is there in us Runners at All, that a Wife, or a Mistress of that nature, may not possess with more advantage?  Nem. 
Why, the freedom Wit and Roguery, and all sort of acting, as well as Conversation. In a Domestic she, there's no gaiety, no Chat, no Discourse, but of the Cares of this World and its Inconveniencies; what we do we do, but so dully; by Gad, my Thing asked me once, when my Breeches were down, what the Stuff cost a Yard— Ha! what now, upon the Gog again? nay, then have with you at all Adventures, at least to put you in mind of the Ball— Exeunt.  Enter Tournon. Tour. 
Ha! yonder she lost him— see, what can she intend by keeping herself so close— But see La March has seized her, and now the Mystery will open of itself.  Re-enter Marguerite with La March. La M. 
But have you found him false?  Tour. 
Curses, Damnation,  
The Racks of womens' Wits, when her Soul  
Is bawked of Vengeance, wait on his desires.  La M. 
Why did you leave him so upon the sudden?  Marg. 
Because I found my Passion move too strongly,  
My foolish Heart would not obey my Will;  
I found my Eyes grow full, my Sighs had choked me,  
And I was dying in his Arms—  La M. 
But now  
You have got Breath, what is your purpose Madam?  Nem. 
To meet him as I promised, to enjoy him  
With the last Pang of a revengeful Pleasure;  
And let him know—  
Then make him Damn himself with thousand Oaths,  
That he'll ne'er see forsaken Marguerite more,  
The cursed fond, foolish, doting Marguerite;  
For thus with an extorted Gallantry,  
I'll force him to revile me to my face;  
Then throw the Mask away, and vent my Rage;  
Tell him he is a Fiend, Devil, Devil, Devil,  
Or what is worse, a Man—  
And leave him to the Horror of his Soul. Exit.  Tour. 
I've heard her Rave, and must applaud thy Conduct  
To the next task, then when she has satisfied  
This odd Fegary of Revenge and Pleasure,  
Take her in the height of her disdain  
And ply her with the Dauphin; then tell Nemours  
Of her resolve to cast him further off,  
Millions to one we carry the design.  
But hast and scout, while I attend the Duke,  
That harps upon the loss of his new Mistress.  Enter Nemours. Nem. 
Death and the Devil— We went talking along so pleasantly, when of a sudden whispering, she would not fail me at the Ball, she sprung from me at yond dark corner and vanished. Well if she be a Devil, Hell by her should be a merry place, or perhaps she has not been there yet, but fell this Morning and took Earth in her way; my Comfort is, I shall make a new discovery if she keeps her word, and she has too much wit to break it before she tries me.  Tour. 
And where are you to make this new discovery?  Nem. 
At the Ball in Masquerade— Thus would I have Time roll still all in these lovely Extremes, the Corruption of Reason being the Generation of Wit; and the Spirit of Wit lying in the Extravagance of Pleasure: Nay, the two nearest ways to enter the Closet of the Gods, and lie even with the Fates themselves, are Fury and Sleep— Therefore the Fury of Wine and Fury of Women possess me waking and sleeping; let me Dream of nothing but dimpled Cheeks, and laughing Lips, and flowing Bowls, Venus be my Star, and Whoring my House, and Death I defy thee. Thus sung Rosidore in the Urn— But where and when, with my Fops Wives, be quick, thou know'st my appointment with this unknown, and the Minute's precious.  Tour. 
Why, I have contrived you the sweetest Wight in the World, if you dare.  Nem. 
Dare, and in a Woman's Cause! why, I have no drop of Blood about me, but must out in their service, and what matter is't which way?  Tour. 
Know Poltrot's Lady has informed me, how St. Andre walks in his sleep, and that her Husband last night attempted to Cuckold him, that she watched and overheard the whole matter, but Poltrot could not find the door before St. Andre returned; she doubts not but he will try again to night— Now if you can neck the time when Poltrot rises, and steal to her, ten to one but she'll be glad to be revenged—  Nem. 
Or she would not have told thee the business— There wants but speaking with her, taking her by the hand, and 'tis a bargain—  Enter Celia, Elianora Masked. Poltrot, St. Andre following. Tour. 
Step, step aside, they are upon the hunt for you, and their Husbands have 'em in the wind; stand by a while to observe, and I'll turn you loose upon 'em—  St. A. 
Ha, Tournon! by my Honour a Prize, let's board 'em.  Pol. 
Be not too desperate my little Frigate, for I am, that I am, a Furious Man of Honour.  Cel. 
Now Heaven defend us, what will you give us a Broadside?  El. 
Lord! how I dread the Guns of the lower Tire.  St. A. 
Such notable Marks-men too, we never miss hitting between Wind and Water.  Cel. 
I'll warrant they carry Chain-shot; Pray Heaven they do not split us Sister!  Pol. 
Yield then, yield quickly, or no Mercy, we have been so shattered to day already by two she Pirates, that we are grown desperate.  El. 
But what alas have we done, that you should turn your Revenge upon us poor harmless Innocents, that never wronged you, never saw you before?  Cel. 
If you should deal unkindly with us, 'twould break our Hearts, for we are the gentlest things.  St. A. 
And we will use you so gently, so kindly, like little Birds, you shall never repent the loss of your Liberty.  El. 
I'll warrant Sister they'll put us in a Cage, or tie us by the Legs.  Pol. 
No, upon the word of a Man of Honour, your Legs shall be at liberty.  Cel. 
What will you Opinion our Wings then, and let us hop up and down the House?  St. A. 
Not in the House where we live, pretty Soul, for there's two ravenous Sow-Cats will Eat you.  El. 
Your Wives you mean.  Pol. 
Something like, two Melancholy things that sit purring in the Chimney-corner, and to exercise their spite, kill Crickets.  Cel. 
Oh! for Godsake keep us from your Wives.  St. A. 
I'll warrant thee little Rosamond, safe from my jealous Elinor—  Pol. 
And if any Wife in Europe dares but touch a hair of thee, I say not much, but that Wife were better be a Widow.  El. 
But are your Wives handsome and well qualitied? for whatever you say to us, when you have had your will you'll home at night, and for my part I cry All or none.  Pol. 
And All thou shalt have dear Rogue, never fear my Wive's Beauty or good Nature, they are things to her like Saints and Angels, which she believes never were nor never will be— She's a Basin of Water against Lechery, and looks so sharp whenever I see her, like Vinegar she makes me sweat.  St. A. 
And mine's so fulsome, that a Goat with the help of Cantharideses would not touch her.  Cel. 
But then for their Qualities—  St. A. 
Such Scolds, like Thunder they turn all the Drink in the Cellar.  Pol. 
Such Niggard's, they eat Kitchenstuff and Candles ends— Once indeed raving mad my Wife seemed Prodigal, for a Rat having eat his way through an old Cheese, she baited a Trap for him with a piece of pareing— But having caught him, by the Lord she eat him up without mercy tail and all.  El. 
Are they not even with us Sister?  St. A. 
'Tis hoped tho, the Hangman will take 'em off of our hands, for they are shroadly suspected for Witches, mine 'noints herself every Night, sets a Broom-staff in the Chimney, and opens the Window, for what purpose but to fly?  Pol. 
Gad, and my Wife has Tets in the wrong place, she's warted all over like a pumpled Orange.  Cel. 
Yet sure, Gentlemen, you told these Hags another story once, and made as deep Protestations to them as you do to us?  St. A. 
Never by this hand, the Salt Souls fell in Lust with us, and hauled us to Matrimony like Bears to the Stake.  Pol. 
Where they set a long black thing upon us, that cried Have and Hold.  El. 
Put the question they had been Handsome, brought you great Portions, were Pleasant and Airy and willing to humour you.  Enter Nemours with the Vidam. Nem. 
Nay then I can hold no longer: Z'death, there's it Madam, Willing! That Willingness spoils all my Dear, my Honey, my Jewel, it Palls the Appetite like Sack at Meals— Give me the smart disdainful she, that like brisk Champaign or sprightly Burgundy, makes me smack my Lips after she's down, and long for t'other Glass.  St. A. 
Nay if your Grace come in there's no dallying, I'll make sure of one.  Pol. 
Nay, and for my part I am resolved to secure another; come Madam no striving, for I am like a Lion, when I lay hold, if the Body come not willingly, I pull a whole Limb away—  Nem. 
Yes Madam, he speaks truth, ●●ake it on my word who am a rational Creature, he is a great furious wild Beast.  Cel. 
Pray Heaven he be not a horned Beast, is the Monster married?  Vid. 
Yes Ladies, they are both married.  El. 
Married! For Heaven sake, Gentlemen, save us from the Cattle.  Pol. 
Why, what is the Breeze in your Tails? Z'death Ladies we'll not eat you.  Cel. 
Say you so? But we'll not trust you, I am sure you both look hungrily.  Vid. 
It may be their Wives use 'em unkindly.  El. 
And the poor good-natured things take it to heart.  Cel. 
I swear 'tis pity, they have both promising looks.  Nem. 
Proceed, sweet Souls, we'll defend you to death, spare 'em not.  El. 
Or it may be we mistake all this while, and their pitiful looks are caused by loving too much.  Vid. 
Right Madam, a little too Uxorious; Ha, Ha!  St. A. 
Now have not I one word to say, but stand to endure all Jerks like a Schoolboy with my Shirt up.  Pol. 
I'll have one fling at 'em tho' I die for't; why Ladies you'll overshoot yourselves at this rate— Must we only be the Butts to bear all your Raillery? methinks you might spend one Arrow at random, and take off that Daw that Chatters so near you— Gad, and I think I paid 'em there—  Cel. 
Butts and Daw! Let me never Laugh again, if they be not Witty too— Why, you pleasant Rogues, Z'life I could Kiss 'em if they did not stink of Matrimony.  St. A. 
Mum, Mum, Mum. Did not I tell you 'twas a madness to speak to 'em?  El. 
They envy my Friend too here, this pleasant Companion.  Cel. 
This dear agreeable Person.  Nem. 
Ay, Damn Madam, the Rogues envy us—  El. 
What a gentle Aspect?  Cel. 
How proper and Airy?  El. 
See, here's Blood in this Face.  Vid. 
Pure Blood, Madam, at your Service.  Cel. 
Will you walk dear Sir? give me your hand—  El. 
And me yours—  Nem. 
Come you dear ravishing Rogues— Your Servant Mr. Butts—  Vid. 
Gentle Mr. Butts—  El. 
Adieu sweet Mr. Butts.  Cel. 
Witty Mr. Butts, Ha, Ha, Ha! Exeunt Nem. Vid. Cel. El.  St. A. 
Well, I'll to a Duchess.  Pol. 
Lord! thou art always so high-flown— Hast thou never a cast Countess for me—  St. A. 
Come along to the Ball and thou shalt see, the Duke of Nemours is the Gallant to night— and Treats at his Palace, because 'tis the King's Birthday— Let me see, what new Fancy for the Masquerade? Oh! I have it— Because the Town is much taken with Fortune-telling, I'll act the Dumb Man, the Highlander that made such a noise, and thou shalt be my Interpreter— Come along, and as we go I'll instruct thee in the Signs.  Pol. 
Dear Rogue, let's practise a little before we stir— As what sign for Lechery, because we may Nick our Wives.  St. A. 
Why thus, that's a glanting squeezed Eye— or thus— for a moist Hand, or thus, for a Whore in a corner, or thus for downright Cuckolding.  Pol. 
Well, I swear this will be rare sport, and so my damned Spouse, I am resolved to tickle her with a squeezed Eye and a moist Hand; and a Whore in a corner till she confess herself guilty of downright Cuckoldom; then in revenge for her last Impudence, Sue for a Divorce:  
And holding to her Face the flying Label,  
Call her in open Court the Whore of Babel.  Exeunt.  

SCENE II.  The Prince and Princess of Cleve. P. C. 
MAdam, the King commands me to attend  
His Daughter into Spain, and further adds,  
Because no Princess Rivals you in Fame,  
You will oblige the Court in going with me.  Princess C. 
My Lord, I am prepared, and leave the Court  
With such a Joy as would admit no bounds—  P. C. 
As would admit no bounds! and why? because  
It takes you from the Charms which you would shun:  
This is a Virtue of such height indeed,  
As none but you can boast nor I deplore.  
But Madam, Rumour says the King intends  
To join another with me.  Princess C. 
Who my Lord?  P. C. 
'Twas thought at first the Chevalier de Guise.  Princess C. 
He is your Friend, nor could the King choose better.  P. C. 
I say at first 'twas thought the Duke of Guise—  
But I was since instructed by the Queen,  
That Honour's fixed upon the Duke Nemours.  Princess C. 
Nemours my Lord?  P. C. 
Most certain.  Princess C. 
For what reason?  P. C. 
Because I moved the Dauphin Queen to gain him.  Princess C. 
'Twas rashly done, against your Interest moved.  P. C. 
Perhaps 'tis not too late yet to supplant him.  Princess C. 
Do't then, be quick, Nemours will share your Honours,  
Eclipse your Glory—  P. C. 
Ha— I must confess  
The Soldiers love him, and he bears the Palm  
Already from the Marshals of the Field.  Princess C. 
And in the Court he's called the Rising Star:  
You see each night at every Entertainment  
Where he moves, what Troops of Beauties follow;  
How the Queens praise him, and all Eyes admire him—  P. C. 
Ha! Chartres—  Princess C. 
Ah! my Lord— what have I done?  P. C. 
Nothing, my Charters, but admire Nemours!  
O Heaven and Earth! and if I had but Patience  
To hear you out, how had you lost yourself  
On that Eternal Object of your Love?  
No Madam, no, 'tis false, 'tis no Nemours:  
'Twas my invention to find out the truth,  
Your trouble has convinced me 'tis Nemours:  
Which cursed Discovery in another Woman,  
I should have made by her too eager Joy.  
Why speak you Not? you're shocked with your own Virtue,  
The resolution of your Justice awes you,  
Which cannot, dares not give itself the Lye.  Princess C. 
My Lord, my Love, my Life; Alas my Cleve!  
O pity me! I know not what to answer,  
I'm mortally ashamed, I'm on the Rack;  
But spare this humble Passion— Take me with you,  
Where I may never see a Man again.  P. C. 
O Rise my Charters! Rise if possible;  
I'll force thee to be mine in spite of Fate:  
My constant Martyrdom and deathless Kindness,  
My more than Mortal Patience in these Sufferings,  
Shall poise his noblest Qualities, O Heaven!  
No fear, my Charters, though these Sorrows fall,  
That I suspect thy Glory; thou hast strength  
To curb this Passion in, that else may end us.  
All that I ask thee, is to bend thy Heart.  Princess C. 
I'll break it.  P. C. 
Turn it from Nemours, Nemours—  
But Oh! that name presents thy danger greater,  
Look to thy Honour then, and look to mine;  
I ask it as thy Lover and thy Husband;  
I beg it as a Man whose Life depends  
Upon thy Breath, that offers thee a Heart  
All bleeding with the Wounds of Mortal Love,  
All hacked and gashed, and stabbed and mangled o'er,  
And yet a Heart so true, in spite of pain,  
As ne'er yet loved, nor ever shall again. Exit P.C.  Enter Irene. Iren. 
Ha! Madam, speak, how is it with your Heart?  Princess C. 
As with a timorous Slave, condemned to Torments,  
That still cries out, he cannot, will not bear it,  
And yet bears on.  Iren. 
Ah, Madam! I would speak,  
If you could bear the dreadful News I bring.  Princess C. 
Alas! thou canst not add to grief like mine.  Iren. 
May I demand then, if you have not told  
The Secret to your Husband?  Princess C. 
Ha! Iren—  
Why dost thou ask?  Iren. 
Because but now— Tournon, a Lady of the Queens,  
Told me 'tis blazed at Court— Nemours confessed  
He is beloved by one of such nice Virtue,  
That fearing— lest the Passion might betray her,  
She owned, confessed, and told it to her Husband.  Princess C. 
Death and Despair— But does Nemours avow it?  Iren. 
He owned it to the Vidam, who again  
Told it to Madam Tournon— she to others;  
'Tis true, Nemours told not the Lady's name,  
Nor would confess himself to be the Party,  
But yet the Court in general does believe it.  Princess C. 
I am undone— my Fame is lost for ever,  
And death, Irene, must be my remedy;  
'Tis true, indeed, I laid my Bosom open,  
I showed my Heart to that ungrateful Cleve,  
Who since in dangerous search of him I love,  
To the eternal ruin of my Honour,  
Has trusted a third Person— But away  
I hear his tread, and am resolved to tax him.  Enter Princess C. 
Ah! Sir, what have you done? if you must kill me,  
Are there not Daggets Pois'n— But the Jealous  
Are Cruel still, and thoughtful in Revenge;  
And single Death's too little; must your will  
Of knowing Names, my duty durst not tell you,  
Oblige you to betray me to another;  
So to divulge the Secret of my Soul,  
That the whole Court must know it?  P. C. 
Ha! know what?  
Know my Dishonour, have you told it then?  Princess C. 
No, 'tis yourself, 'tis you revealed it Sir,  
To gain a Confident for more Discovery,  
A Lady of the Queen's just now declared it,  
To your eternal Shame you have divulged it,  
She had it from the Vidam, Sir, of Chartres,  
And he from the Duke Nemours—  P. C. 
Nemours—  
How, Madam, said you— What Nemours— Nemours!  
Does Nemours know you love him? Hell and Furies!  
And that I know it too, and not revenge it!  Princess C. 
That's yet to seek, he will not own himself  
To be concerned, he offers not at names,  
But yet 'tis found, 'tis known, believed by all,  
He cannot hold it, 'twill be shortly posted,  
That Cleve your Wife's that cursed dishonoured She  
You told him of—  P. C. 
Is't possible I told him?  
Peace, Peace, and if it lies in Humane Power  
To reason calmly, tell me murderess, tell me,  
Compose that Face of flushed Hypocrisy,  
And answer to a truth— Was it my Interest  
To speak of this? was I not rather tied  
To wish it buried in the Grave in Hell!  
Whence it might never rise to blot my Honour—  
But you have seen him, by my hopes of Heaven,  
You have met and interchanged your secret Souls;  
On that Complotted; since I bore so tamely  
Your first Confession, I should bear the latter.  Princess C. 
Believe it if you please—  P. C. 
I must believe it—  
This last Proceeding has unmasked your Soul,  
He sees you every hour, and knows you love him:  
Nay, for your greater freedom, you have joined  
To make this loathed detested Cleve your Stale.  
Ha— I believed you might overcome this passion,  
So well you knew to Charm me with the show  
Of seeming Virtue, till I lost my Reason.  Princes. C. 
'Tis likely Sir, it was but seeming Virtue,  
And you did ill to judge so kindly of me—  
I was mistaken too in that Confession,  
Because I thought that you would do me Justice.  P. C. 
You were mistaken when you thought I would,  
Sure you forgot that I was desperate,  
Sentenced and doomed by Fate, or rather damned  
To love you to my Grave— And could I bear  
A Rival, what and when I was your Husband,  
And when you owned your passion to my face,  
Confessed you loved me much— But loved him more:  
Ha— Is not this enough to make me mad?  Princess C. 
You have the power to set all right again,  
Why do you not end me?  P. C. 
No, I'll end myself,  
My Thoughts are grown too violent for my Reason.  
By this last usage, Oh! Thou hast undone me;  
I know not what— This ought not to be thine—  
I have offended and would Sue for pardon;  
But yet I blush, the Treason is too gross;  
After that most unnatural Confession,  
I wonder now that I have lived so long:  
Confess and then divulge, make me your Bawd—  
It Scents too far, the God of Love flies wide,  
He gets the Wind, and stops the Nose at this;  
No more— Farewell— False Chartres, False Nemours,  
False World, False All, since Chartres is not true!  
But you your Wish with loved Nemours shall have,  
And shortly see your Husband in the Grave. Exit.  Princess C. 
Sola.  
False World, False Cleve, False Chartres, False Nemours,  
Farewell to all, a long and last Farewell:  
From all Converse, to Deserts let me fly,  
And in some gloomy Cave forgotten lie.  
My Bower at Noon the shade of some old Trees  
With whistl'ing Winds t'endulge my pomp of ease,  
And lulling Murmurs rolled from neighbouring Seas.  
Where I may sometimes hasten to the Shore,  
And to the Rocks and Waves my Loss deplore:  
Where when I feel my hour of Fate draws on,  
Lest the false World should claim a parting groan;  
My Mother's Ghost may rise to fix my mind,  
And leave no thought of tenderness behind.   
Finis Actus Tertii.   

ACT IU.  

SCENE I.  Music, Songs, Maskers, etc. Nemours with Music, Lady Poltrot. Nem. 
HE has confessed to me he intends to Cuckold St. Andre when he walks in his sleep— Therefore if Love should inspire me to neck the opportunity, I hope you will not bar the door which your Husband opens—  L. Pol. 
Ingrateful Monster—  Nem. 
Ingrateful, that's certain, and it lies in your power to make him a Monster.  L. P. 
I dare not.  Nem. 
What?  L. P. 
Trust you.  Nem. 
Nay then I am sure thou wilt, let me but in to show the power you have over me.  L. P. 
As how my Lord?  Nem. 
Why, when I have thee in my Arms, by Heaven I'll quit my Joys at thy desire—  L. P. 
That will indeed be a perfect trial of your love; come then through the Garden back-stairs, and when you see the Candle put out, thrust open the door.  Nem. 
By Heaven I'll eat thy hand— Thou dear sweet Seducer, how it fires my Fancy to steal into a Garden, to rustle through the Trees, to stumble up a narrow pair of back stairs, to whisper through the hole of the door, to kiss it open, and fall into thy Arms with a flood of Joy—  L. P. 
Farewell, the company comes, I must leave you a while, to engage with my Husband, you'll fall asleep before the hour—  Nem. 
If I do, the very transport of Imagination shall carry me in my sleep to thy Bed, and I'll wake in the Act. Exit L. Pol. So there's one in the Fernbrake, and if she stir till Morning I have lost my aim; but now, why what have we here? a Huguenot Whore by this light— Have I? For the forward brisk, she that promised me the Ball Assignation, that said, there was nothing like slipping out of the crowd into a corner, breathing short an Ejaculation, and returning as if we came from Church— Let me see, I'll put on my Mask, fling my Cloak over my shoulder, and view 'em as they pass, not thou nor thou—  Enter Tournon in the Habit of a Huguenot. Tour. 
Ah thou unclean Person, have I hunted thee there like a Hart from the Mountains to the Valleys, and thou wouldst not be found; verily thou hast been amongst the Daughters of the Philistines— Nay, if you are Innocent, stand before me, and reply to the words of my mouth—  Nem. 
I shall truly—  Tour. 
Say then— Hast thou not defiled thyself with any Dalilah, since last you felt upon my Neck and loved much?  Nem. 
Nay verily—  Tour. 
Have you not overheated your Body with adulterate Wines? have you not been at a Play, nor touched Fruit after the lewd Orange Women?  Nem. 
I am unpolluted.  Tour. 
And yet methinks there is not the same colour in your cheeks; nor does the Spirit dance in your Eye as formerly, why do you not approach me? Unmasking.  Nem. 
Tournon turned Heretic! why thou dear Rascal, this is such a new Frolic, that though I am engaged as deep as Damnation to another, thou shalt not 'scape me. Marg. claps him on the shoulder.  Mar. 
I love a Man that keeps the Commandment of his word.  Nem. 
And I a Woman that breaks hers with her Husband, yet loves her Neighbour as herself— I would fain be in private with you.  Cel. 
And I with you, because I am resolved never to see you more.  Nem. 
Never to see me more? the reason.  Cel. 
Because I hate you.  Nem. 
And yet I believe you love me too, because you are precise to the Minute.  Cel. 
True, yet I hate you justly, heartily and maliciously—  Nem. 
By Gad, and I'll love the as heartily, justly and maliciously, as thou canst love me for thy blood; come away Riddle, and I'll unfold thee. Exeunt.  Poltrot, St. Andre disguised with Elianora, L. Poltrot coming up to 'em— Elia. 
But is it true indeed, that your Friend can tell all the actions of our Life past, present, and to come, yet cannot speak one word?  Pol. 
O he's infallible! why what did you never hear of your second-sight men, your Dumb High-landers that tell Fortunes? why you would think the Devil in Hell were in him, he speaks exactly.  Elia. 
I thought you had said he was Dumb?  Pol. 
Right, but I am his Interpreter, and when the fit comes on him, he blows through me like a Trunk, and straight I become his speaking Trumpet.  L. P. 
Pray, Sir, may not I have my Fortune told me too?  Pol. 
Ay— and there were a thousand of you, he will run you 'em over like the Chriss crossrow, and never miss a tittle; he shall tell ye his name that cried God bless you when you sneezed last, tell you when you winked last, when and where you scratched last, and where you sat o' Saturday—  Elia. 
Pray let him tell us then, for we are Sisters, our Tempers and Conditions, whither married or unmarried, with all the Impertinences thereunto belonging—  Pol. 
I'll speak to him— Son of the Sun, and Emperor of the Stars—  St. A. 
Ha, Ha—  Pol. 
Look ye, look ye, he's pleased to tell you, but you must go near him, for he must look in your hand, touch your Face, Breasts, and wherever else he pleases.  St. A. 
— Makes Horns with both his hands, puts his Finger in his Mouth and Laughs.  Pol. 
In nomine domine Bomine. I protest I am confounded; well Ladies, I could not have thought it had been in you, but 'tis certainly true, and I must out with it; first he says, you are both married, you are both Libidinous beyond example, and your Husbands are the greatest Cornutors in Christendom—  Elia. L. P. 
Indeed.  Pol. 
Ay indeed, indeed and indeed— He says you are a couple of Messalina's, and the Stews cannot satisfy you; he says your thoughts are swelled with a Carnosity; nay, you have the Green Sickness of the Soul, which runs upon nothing but weighing Stallions, churning Boars, and bellowing Bulls—  L. P. 
O! I confess, I confess— But for Heaven sake, dear Sir— Let it not take Air, for than we are both undone.  Elia. 
O! Undone, undone Sir, if our Husbands should know it, for they are a couple of the Jealousest, troublesome, impertinent Cuckolds alive.  Pol. 
Alack! Alack— O jezabel! but I will have my Eunuchs fling her from the Window, and the Dogs shall eat her.  L. P. 
But, pray Sir, ask him how many times—  Pol. 
What, how many times you have Cuckolded 'em?  Elia. 
Spare our Modesty, you make the Blood so flush in our Faces.  Pol. 
But by jove I'll let it out, I'll hold her by the Muzzle, and stick her like a Pig—  L. P. 
Will you speak to him Sir?  Pol. 
See, he understands you without it, he says your Iniquities are innumerable, your Fornications like the hairs of your head, and your Adulteries like the Sands on the Sea shore; that you are all Fish downward; that Lot's Wife is fresh to you, and that when you were little Girls of Seven, you were so wanton, your Mother's tied your hands behind you—  Elia. 
All this we confess to be true, but we confess too, if Fate had found out any sort of Tools, but those leaden Rogues our Husbands.  L. P. 
Whose Wits are as dull as their Appetites—  El. 
Mine such a Utensil, as is not fit to wedge a Block.  L. P. 
Nor mine the Beetle to drive him—  St. A. 
Nay then 'tis time to uncase and be revenged.  L. P. 
Hark you Strumpet—  El. 
Ha, Ha, Ha, are you not fitted finely,  L.P. 
— You must turn Fortune-tellers, must you?  Eli. 
And think we could not know you?  L. P. 
Well Gentlemen, shall homely Beck go down with you at last?  Pol. 
But didst thou know me then indeed?  L. P. 
As if that sweet Voice of yours could be disguised in any shape.  Pol. 
Nay, I confess I have a whirl in my Voice, a warble that is particular—  El. 
And what say you Sir, shall musty Wife come into Grace again?  St. A. 
She shall, and, here's my hand on't, all Friends Nell, and when I leave thee again, may I be Cuckold in earnest.  Pol. 
Certain as I live, all this proceeded from his Lady, my dreaming Cuckold Wife could never think on't; well, I am resolved this very night, when he Rambles in his sleep, to watch him, slip to his Wife and say nothing. hay! Come, come, where are these Dancers, a little Diversion and then for Bed.  Dance. Tour. 
to Elia. I have locked the Vidam in your Closet, who will be sure to watch your Husbands rising, therefore be not surprised—  Exit Tournon. St. A. 
Come, well let's away to bed.  El. 
And what then?  St. A. 
Nay, Gad that I can't tell, for what with Dancing, Singing, Fencing, and my last Duchess, I am very Drowsy.  Pol. 
And so am I, perhaps our Wives have given us Opium, lest we should disturb 'em in the night.  Eli. 
Don't these Men deserve to be fitted?  Cel. 
They do, and Fortune grant they may— Hear us, O! hear us good Heaven, for we pray heartily.  Bxeunt as Nemours and Marguerite enter; Nem. 
Was ever Man so blessed with such possession,  
Thou Ebbing, Flowing, Ravishing, Racking Joy;  
A Skin so white and soft, the yielding Mould  
Let's not the Fingers stay upon the dint,  
But from the beauteous Dimples slips 'em down  
To pleasures that must be without a name.  
Yet Hands, and Arms, and Breasts we may remember,  
And that which I so love, no smelling Art,  
But sweet by nature, as just peeping Violets,  
Or opening Buds.  Marg. 
Than you do love me?  Nem. 
O! I could die methinks this very hour,  
But for the luscious hopes of thousand more,  
And all like these, yet when I must go out,  
Let it be thus, with beauty laughing by me,  
Songs, Lutes and Canopeis, while I Sacrifice  
To thee the last dear ebbing drop of Love.  
But show me now that face.  Marg. 
No, you dissemble, you say the same thing to every one you meet; I thought once indeed to have fixed my Heart upon you, but I'm off again, and am resolved you shall never see me.  Nem. 
You dally, come, by all the kindness past.  Marg. 
Swear then.  Nem. 
What?  Marg. 
Never to touch your dear Domestic she,  
That lives in Shades to all the World but me.  
Do you guess I know you now?  Nem. 
I do, and swear, but are these equal Terms, that you shall never touch a Man but me?  Marg. 
I will— But how can you convince me? Oaths with you Libertines of Honour are to little purpose.  Nem. 
But this must satisfy thee, there is more pleasure in thee after Enjoyment, than in her and all Womankind before it; thou hast Inspiration, Ecstasy, and Transport, all these bewitching Joys that make men mad—  Marg. 
Unmasking And thou Villainy, Treachery, Perjury, all those Monstrous, Diabolical Arts, that seduce Young Virgins from their Innocent homes, to set 'em on the Highway to Hell and Damnation.  Nem. 
Ha! Ha! my Marguerite, is't possible?  Marg. 
Call me not yours, nor think of me again,  
I am convinced you're Traitors all alike,  
And from this hour renounce you—  
Not but Ill be revenged,  
Yes, I will try the Joys of Life like you,  
But not with Men of Quality, you Devils of Honour;  
No, I will satisfy  
My Pride, Disdain, Rage and Revenge more safely,  
By all the Powers of Heaven and Earth I will;  
I'll change my loving lying Tinsel Lord,  
For an obedient wholesome drudging Fool.  Nem. 
Why this will make the matter easy to both,  
Take you your Ramble Madam, and I'll take mine.  
But is't possible for one of your nice taste  
To Bed a Fool?  Marg. 
To choose, to choose my Lord  
A Fool, now by my Will and pride of Heart,  
There's Freedom, Fancy and Creation in't,  
He truckles to the Frown, and cries forgive me;  
Besides the moulding of him without blushing;  
And what would Woman more, now view the other  
Your Man of Sense, that vaunts despotic Power,  
The reels precisely home at break of day,  
Thunders the House, brains half the Family,  
Cries, where's my Whore, what will she Stew till Doomsday?  
When she appears, and kindly goes to help him,  
Roars out a Shop, a walking-shop of Scents,  
Flavours of Physic, and the clammy Bath,  
The stench of Orange-flow'rs, the Devil Pulvilio;  
These, these, he cries, are the Blessed Husband's Joys!  Nem. 
I swear most natural and unaffected— Ha! Ha—  Marg. 
But if he chance to use her civilly,  
Take heed, there's covert malice in his Smiles,  
Millions to one the Villain has been Whoreing,  
And comes to try Experiments on her,  
Besides a thousand under Plots and Crosses,  
Prescribing silence still wherever he comes,  
No chat, he cries, of Colours Points or Fashions.  Nem. 
Preach on Divine, Ha, Ha—  Marg. 
Let me not hear you ask my sickly Lady,  
Whither she found Obstructions at the Waters.  Nem. 
Fie, that's Obscene—  Marg. 
Thus Damns the Affectation of our Prattle,  
And Swears he'll Gag the Clack, or what is worse.  Nem. 
Nay, hold—  Marg. 
Send for the new found Lock—  Nem. 
What Mad—  Marg. 
Do Villain, Traitor—  
Contrive this Mischief, if thou canst, for me,  
Send thou the Padlock, but I'll find the Key. Exit.  Nem. 
Whirr goes the Partridge on the purring Wing—  
Yet when I see my time I must recall her,  
For she has admirable things in her, such as if I gain not, the Princess  
of Cleve may fix me to her, without nauseating the Vice of Constancy—  
Ha! Bellamore.  Enter Bellamore. 
What News, my Dear, Ha— Hast thou found her? Speak.  Bell. 
I have.  Nem. 
Where, how, when and by what means?  Bell. 
After I had enquired after the Prince's Health,  
I asked a Woman of his Lady, who told me,  
She was retired into the great Bower in the Garden.  Nem. 
The very place where first I saw and loved her,  
When after I had saved the Prince's Life,  
He brought me late one evening to the view,  
There Love and Friendship first began;  
My Love remains and Friendship, as  
Much as Man can have for his Cuckold.  
Nay, I know not that Man upon Earth I love so well, or could take so much from, as this hopeful Prince of Cleve— Didst thou see her in the Garden—  Bell. 
My Lord, I did, where she appeared like her that gave Actaeon Horns, with all her Nymphs about her, busy in tyeing Knots which she took from Baskets of Ribbons that they brought her; and methought she tied and untied 'em so prettily, as if she had been at Cross Questions, or knew not what she did, her Face, her Neck, and Arms quite bare—  Nem. 
No more, if I live I'll see her to night, for the Heroic Vein comes upon me— Death and the Devil, what shall become of the back-stair Lady then— Hark thee Bellamore, take this Key, dost thou hear Rogue? go to St. Andre's House, through the Garden up the back-stairs, push open the door and be blessed. Hell! can't I be in two places at once? Hark thee, give her this, and this, and this, and when thou bitest her with a parting blow, sigh out Nemours.  Bell. 
I'll do't—  Enter the Prince of Cleve. Nem. 
Go to Tournon for the rest, she'll instruct thee in the Management: Away. Exit Bell.  
Ha! he comes up but slowly, yet he sees me,  
Perhaps he's Jealous, why then I'm jealous too;  
Hypocrisy and Softness, with all the Arts of Woman,  
Tipto my Tongue.  P. C. 
I come, my Lord, to ask you if you love me.  Nem. 
Love thee, my Cleve, by Heaven, e'er yet I saw thee,  
Thus were my Prayers still offered to the Fates,  
If I must choose a Friend, grant me ye Powers  
The Man I love may seize my Heart at once;  
Guide him the perfect temper of yourselves,  
With every manly Grace and shining Virtue;  
Add yet the bloom of Beauty to his Youth,  
That I may make a Mistress of him too.  P. C. 
O Heaven!  Nem. 
That at first view our Souls may kindle,  
And like two Tapers kindly mix their Beams;  
I knelt and prayed, and wept for such a Blessing,  
And they returned me more than I could ask,  
All that was Good or Great or Just in thee.  P. C. 
You say you love me, I must make the proof,  
For you have brought it to a doubt—  Nem. 
In what?  P. C. 
In this, you have not given me all your Heart,  
You Muse of late, even on my Bridal day,  
I saw you sit with a too thoughtful brow,  
You sighed and hung your Head upon your Hand:  
Nay in the midst of Laughter—  
You started, blushed and cried 'twas wondrous well,  
And yet you knew not what— Speak like a Friend,  
What is the cause my Lord?  Nem. 
Shall I deal plainly with you? I'm not well.  P. C. 
I do believe it, how happened the Distemper?  Nem. 
It is too deep to search,  
Nor can I tell you.  P. C. 
Then you're no Friend.  
Should Cleve thus answer to Nemours, I cannot:  
Say rather that you will not trust a Man  
You do not love.  Nem. 
By Heaven I do.  P. C. 
By Heaven you do? Yet 'tis too deep to search  
For such a shallow Friend.  Nem. 
Of all Mankind  
You ought not—  P. C. 
Nay, the rest.  Nem. 
It is not fit,  
Be satisfied, I'll bear it to my Grave  
Whate'er it be.  P. C. 
You are in Love my Lord,  
And if you do not Swear— But where's the need?  
You start, you change, you are another Man,  
You blush, you're all constraint, you turn away.  Nem. 
Why take it then; 'tis true, I am in Love,  
In Torture, Racks, in all the Hells of Love,  
Of hopeless, restless and eternal Love.  P. C. 
Her name my Lord.  Nem. 
Her name my Lord to you?  P. C. 
To me Confusion, Plagues and Death upon me,  
Why not to me? And wherefore did you say,  
Of all Mankind I ought not— There you stopped,  
But would have said— To pry into this business—  
Yet speak to ease the Troubles of my Soul,  
By all our Friendship, by the Life thou gav'st me,  
I do conjure thee, thunder in my Ears,  
'Tis Chartres that thou lov'st, Chartres my Wife.  Nem. 
Your Wife, my Lord?  P. C. 
My Wife, my Lord, and I must have you own it.  Nem. 
I will not tell you Sir, who 'tis I love,  
Yet think me not so base, were it your Wife,  
That all the subtlest Wit of Earth or Hell  
Should make me vent a Secret of that nature  
To any Man on Earth, much less to you.  P. C. 
Yet you could basely tell it to the Vidam,  
And he to all the Court— But I waste time,  
By all the boiling Venom of my Passion,  
I'll make you own it e'er we part— Dispatch,  
Say thou hast Whored my Wife, Damnation on me,  
Pronounce me Cuckold.  Nem. 
But then I give myself the Lie,  
Who told you just before, I would not speak,  
Tho I had done it— Which I swear I have not—  
Beside, I fear you are going Mad.  P. C. 
Draw then and make it up,  
For if thou dost not own what I demand,  
What you both know and have complotted on me,  
Tho neither will confess, I swear again,  
That one of us must fall.  Nem. 
Then take my Life.  P. C. 
I will, by Heaven, if thou refuse me Justice;  
Draw then, for if thou dost not I will kill thee,  
And tell my Wife thou basely didst confess  
Thy Guilt at last, in hopes to save thy Life.  Nem 
That is a blast indeed, that Honour shrinks at,  
Therefore I draw, but Oh! be witness Heaven,  
With such a trembling Hand and bleeding Heart,  
As if I were to fight against my Father.  
Therefore I beg thee by the name of Friend,  
Which once with half this Suit would have dissolved thee;  
I beg thee, gentle Cleve, to hold thy hand.  P. C. 
I'm Deaf as Death, that calls for one or both.  Cleve is disarmed, Nemours gives him his Sword again. Nem. 
Then give it me, I arm thy hand again,  
Against my Heart, against this Heart that loves thee;  
Thrust then, for by the Blood that bears my Life,  
Thou shalt not know the name of her I love;  
Not but I swear upon the point of Death,  
Your Wife's as clear from me, as Heaven first made her.  P. C. 
No more my Lord, you've given me twice my Life.  Nem. 
Are you not hurt?  P. C. 
Alas, 'tis not so well,  
I have no Wound but that which Honour makes,  
And yet there's something cold upon my Heart,  
I hope 'tis Death, and I shall shortly pay you,  
With Chartres love, for you deserve her better.  Nem. 
No Sir, you shall not, you shall live my Lord,  
And long enjoy your beauteous virtuous Bride;  
You shall, Dear Prince, why are you then so cold?  P. C. 
I cannot speak—  
But thus, and thus, there's something rises here.  Nem. 
I'll wait you home, nay, shake these drops away,  
And hang upon my arm—  P. C. 
I will do any thing,  
So you will promise never to upbraid me.  Nem. 
I swear I will not.  P. C. 
But will you love me too  
As formerly?  Nem. 
I swear far more than ever.  P. C. 
Thou know'st my Nature soft, yet Oh such Love!  
Such Love as mine, and injured as I thought,  
Would spleen the Gaulless Turtle, would it not?  Nem. 
It would by Heaven— You make a Woman of me. Weeping.  P. C. 
Why, any thing thou sayst to humour me,  
Yet it is kind, and I must love these Tears,  
I hope my Heart will break, and then we're even;  
Yet if this cruel Love thy Cleve should kill,  
Remember after Death thou lov'st me still. Exeunt.   

SCENE II.  Enter Tournon with the Vidam. Tour. 
SO let that corner be your Post, and as soon as ever you see St. Andre come stalking in his Dream, slip to his Lady, and when you have agreed upon the Writings, I'll be ready to bring you o●● with a Witness—  Vid. 
Thou Dear obliging—  Tour. 
No more o' that; away, mark but how easily those that are gifted with Discretion bring things about; in the name of Goodness let Men and Women have their Risks, but still be careful of the Main— Here's a hot-headed Lord goes mad for a prating Girl, Treats her, Presents her, Flames for her, Dies for her, till the Fool complies for pure Love, and when the business fails, is forced to live at last by the love of his Footmen; but she that makes a firm Bargain, is commonly thought a great Soul, for my Lord having considered on't, thinks her a Person of depth, and so resolves to have it out of her— But why do I talk so myself, when there's something to do, certainly I should have made a rare Speaker in a Parliament of Women, or a notable Head to a Female Jury, when his Lordship gravely puts the question, whither it be Satis or Non Satis or Nunquam Satis, and we bring it in Ignoramus— Ha! but who comes here? I must attend for Bellamore.  Enter Poltrot, Celia overhearing. Pol. 
My Wife and I went to Bed together, and I'll warrant full she was of Expectation, so white and clean, and much inclined to laugh, and lay at her full length, as who would say come eat me.  Cel. 
Said she so sweet Sir?  Pol. 
Not a bit by the Lord, not I, not I—  Cel. 
Alas! nice Gentleman.  Pol. 
A Farmer would say this was barbarously done, because he loves Beef— But I have Plover in reserve— Ha! St. Andre, hark, I hear him bustle, O Lord! how my heart goes pit a pat! nay, I dreamed last night I was Gelt— Enter St. Andre in his sleep. The Vidam goes in— 'Tis he, 'tis he, by the twilight I see him— Ay, now the politic head goes, it shall be branched by and by— What was that stop for, there's neither Gate nor Style in your way; now by that sudden stretch, he seems as if he would take a jump, or practice on the High rope; O your humble Servant Sir, I'll but do a little business for you, and be with you again. Nay, look you Sir, I have as many Bobs as Democritus when he cried Poor lack— There's more Pride in a Puritans Band, short Hair, and Cap pinched, than under a King's Crown. Poor Jack, Citizens, Citizens, look to your Wives, the Courtiers come, look to 'em, they'll do 'em, look to 'em, they'll do 'em, Poor Jack—  St. A. 
Ha! Ha! You'll tickle me to death— Nay, prithee Pen— Your Mistress will hear us— Thou art the wantonest Rogue—  Enter Tournon with Bellamore. Tour. 
Madam.  Cel. 
Here's.  Tour. 
Here's a Thief I took in your Chamber—  Bell. 
Ah Madam! retire for a moment, and I'll make you the whole Confession.  Cel. 
Confess and you know what follows, however I am resolved to hear what you can say for yourself. Exeunt.  St. A. 
Nay Pish, nay Fie sweet heart—  
But I'll kiss you if I can;  
I did not take you for to be  
Such a kind of a Man Re-enter Poltrot.  
But I'll go call my Mother as loud as I can cry,  
Why Mother, Mother, Mother, out upon you, Fie.  Pol. 
O Lord! O Lord! I had like to have trod upon a Serpent that would have bit me to death. I went to take up the clothes as gently as I could for my Life, when a great huge hoarse Voice flew in my face, with Dam you Son of a Whore, I'll cut your Throat; you may guests I withdrew, for o' my Conscience the Fright had almost made me unclean; but I'll to my own Spouse, and if the Lord be pleased to bring me off safe this bout, I'll never, never go a Cuckold-making again while my eyes are open. Exit.  St. A. 
Hark, my Wife's coming up Stairs— Help up with my Breeches; so, so, smooth the Bed— What damned Luck's this— So, fall a rubbing the Room again— Hark you Wife, Celia has been upon the hunt for you all this day, she's below in the Garden, go, go, we'll kiss when you come back— Now Sirrah, now you Rogue, she's gone, come, come, lose not your opportunity, I'll keep on my Breeches for fear— Ay? No, no, not upon the Bed, Pish, against the back of this Chair— Won't it— How can you tell— Try— I'll buy thee a new Gown, and a Fan, and a laced Petticoat, and pay thee double Wages; O! thou dear pretty soft sweet wriggling Rogue, what wouldst thou dodge me, Gad but I'll have thee, Gad but I'll catch thee; Ay, and have at thee again and again. Exit. Re-enter Poltrot.  Pol. 
Was ever Man of Honour thus unfortunately met with? I went into my Chamber and trod as softly as a half-starved Mouse, for fear of waking my Cat, when coming close to my Bedside, methought it rocked to and fro like a great Cradle, and the clothes heaved as if some Beast lay blowing there— But the Beast was by the Bedside it seems— Yes, I am, and who can help it, as very a Cornuto as e'er was grafted— I heard my beloved Wife too— The Plagues of Egypt on her— Speak so lovingly and angrily together— Nay, Prithee my Dear— Nay, now you are tiresome— I shall be ashamed to look you in the face again! Why, how will she look upon me then? O Lord— O Lord— What shall I do? shall I stand thus like a Cuckoldly Son of a Whore, with my Horns in my Pocket and not be revenged— — Eeter St. Andre— But here comes as very a Cuckold as myself, I am resolved to wake him, and we'll fall upon 'em together— Allo, St. Andre, St. Andre.  St. A. 
Ti— ti 'tis in— in— in— possible I-I-I should be the Man, Fo-Fo-For I cannot speak a plain word.  Pol. 
You're a Cuckold, a Cuckold, a Cuckold.  St. A. 
Why lo-lo-look you, I said it co-co could not be me, for Sir, I all the World knows I am no Cu-Cu-Cu-ckold.  Pol. 
Wake, wake, I say, or I'll shake the bones out of your Body, your Horns are a growing, your Bed is a going, your Heifer's a Ploughing.  St. A. 
Why, let her Plo-Plo-Plow on, if the Se-Se-Seed be well Sown, we shall have a good Cro-Crop—  Pol. 
Worse and worse, why then I will roar out directly and raise the Neighbours— Help! Ho, Help! Murder! Murder! Fire! Fire! Fire! Cuckoldom! Cuckoldom! Thiefs! Murder! Rapes! Cuckoldom!  Enter the Vidam and Bellamore. The Vidam comes up to Poltrot, shoots off a Pistol, St. Andre and Poltrot fall down together— Tournon enters with the Ladies— Tournon leads off the Vidam and Bellamore. Cel. 
Thiefs! Thiefs! Ho! jaques! Pedro— Thoma—  Elia. 
Thiefs! Thiefs— Wake! wake! my Lord.  St. A. 
Waking Why, what a Devil's the matter? where am I?  Elia. 
O! you'll never leave this ill habit of walking in your sleep— 'Tis a mercy we had not all been Murdered— You went down in your Shirt Sir, opened the door, and let in Rogues that had like to have cut all our Throats— But for the future I am resolved to tie you to me with the Bed cord, rather than endure this—  St. A. 
Where's Poltrot?  Cel. 
Murdered Sir, here! here! here! one of the Villains discharged a Pistol just in his Belly—  St. A. 
Shot in the Guts! Lord bless us! here Thom. a light! light! light! shot in the Guts say you—  Pol. 
Oh! Oh!— Lower, lower, lower— Feel, feel, search me, lower, lower—  St. A. 
Cold hereabouts— Let's bear him to his Bed, and send for a Surgeon—  Pol. 
Softly! softly! softly— Come not near me Crocodil; Oh! Oh—  St. A. 
Unhappy Chance, no where but just in the Guts?  Pol. 
Yes, yes, yes, in the Head too, in the Head Man, in the Head: Nay, and let me tell you, you had best search your own, but bear me off or I shall Swoon, I feel something trickle, trickle in my Breeches; Oh! Oh! Oh! Exeunt.   

SCENE III.  Enter Nemours, Pedro listening. Nem. 
Alas! Poor Prince, I protest the Violence of his Passion has cast him in a Fever, he dies of it— And how then? shall I Marry the Princess of Cleve, or stick to Marguerite as we are? for 'tis most certain she has rare things in her, which I found by my last Experiment, and I love her more than ever, almost to Jealousy; besides Tournon tells me, the Dauphin begins to buzz about her again, and who knows but in this heat of hers, as she says, she will hang herself out to sale, but he may neck the time and buy her— I like not that— No, I'll throw boldly, clear the Table if I can, if not, 'tis but at last forswearing Play, shake off my new acquaintance, and be easy with my reserve— Hark, I am just upon the Bower Music—  Pedro. 
I have hitherto obeyed my Master's order, but I'm resolved to dog him till he's lodged—  Ne. 
Now do I know the Precise will call me damned Rogue for wronging my Friend, especially such a soft sweet natured Friend as this gentle Prince— Verily I say they lie in their Throats, were the gravest of 'em in my condition, and thought it should never be known, they would rouse up the Spirit, cast the dapper Cloak, leave off their humming and haing, and fall too like a Man of Honour. Exit.  Pedro. 
I'll face him till he enters the Bower, and then call my lord Ex.   

Scene the Bower, Lights, Song.  The Princess of Cleve, Irene. 

SONG.  
LOvely Selina, Innocent and Free  
From all the dangerous Arts of Love,  
Thus in a Melancholy Grove  
Enjoyed the sweetness of her Privacy,  
Till th'envious Gods designing to undo her,  
Dispatched the Swain, not unlike them, to woe her:  
It was not long e'er the design did take,  
A gentle Youth born to persuade,  
Deceived the too too easy Maid;  
Her Scrip and Garlands soon she did forsake,  
And rashly told the Secrets of her Heart,  
Which the fond Man would ever more impart.  
False Florimell, joy of my Heart, said she,  
'Tis hard to Love and Love in vain,  
To Love and not be Loved again,  
And why should Love and Prudence disagree?  
Pity ye Powers that sit at ease above:  
If e'er you knew what 'tis to be in Love.   Princess C. 
Alas! Irene, I do believe Nemours  
The Man thou represents him; yet, Oh! Heaven,  
And Oh my Heart! in spite of my resolves,  
Spite of those matchless Virtues of my Husband,  
I love the Man my reason bids me hate:  
Yet grant me some few hours ye Saints to live,  
That I may try what Innocence so armed  
As mine, with vows can do in such a cause!  
The War's begun, the War of Love and Virtue,  
And I am fixed to conquer or to die.  Iren. 
Your Fate is hard, and since you honoured me  
With the important Secret of your Life,  
I've laboured for the Remedy of Love.  Princess C. 
I must to Death own thee my better Angel,  
Thou know'st the struggle of my wounded Soul,  
Hast seen me strive against this lawless Passion,  
Till I have lain like Slaves upon the Rack,  
My Veins half burst, my weary Eyeballs fixed,  
My Brows all covered with big drops of Sweat,  
Which strangling Grief wrung from my tortured Brain.  Ir. 
Alas I weep to see you thus again.  Princess C. 
Thou hast heard me curse the hour, when first I saw  
The fatal charming Face of loved Nemours,  
Hast heard the Deathbed Counsel of my Mother.  
Yet what can this avail, spite of my Soul  
The Nightly Warnings from her dreadful Shroud?  
I love Nemours, I languish for Nemours,  
And when I think to banish him my Breast,  
My Heart rebels, I feel a gorgeing pain  
That chokes me up, tremblings from Head to Foot;  
A shog of Blood and Spirits, Madman's Fears,  
Convulsions, gnawing Griefs and angry Tears.  Enter Nemours. 
Ha! but behold— My Lord—  Nem. 
O! Pardon me,  
Spare me a minute's space and I am gone.  Princes. C. 
Is this a time Sir?  Nem. 
O! I must speak or die.  Princess C. 
die then, e'er thus presume to violate  
The Honour of your Friend, your own and mine—  Nem. 
Yet hear me, and I swear by all things Sacred,  
Never to see you more.  Princess C. 
Speak then— And keep your word.  P. C. 
Horror and Death!  Nem. 
Did you but know what 'tis to love like me,  
Without a dawn of Bliss to dream all day,  
To pass the night in broken sleeps away,  
Tossed in the restless tides of Hopes and Fears,  
With Eyes for ever running o'er with Tears;  
To leave my Couch, and fly to beds of Flowers,  
T'invoke the Stars, to curse the dragging hours,  
To talk like Madmen to the Groves and Bowers.  
Could you know this, yet blame my tortured Love,  
If thus it throws my Body at your Feet:  
Oh! fly not hence;  
Vouchsafe but just to view me in despair,  
I ask not Love, but Pity from the Fair.  Princess C. 
O Heavens! inspire my Heart.  Nem. 
The Heavenly Powers  
Accept the poorest Sacrifice we bring,  
A Slave to them's as welcome as a King.  
Behold a Slave that Glories in your Chains,  
Ah! with some show of Mercy view my Pains;  
Your piercing Eyes have made their splendid way,  
Where Lightning could not pass—  
Even through my Soul their pointed Lustre goes,  
And Sacred Smart upon my Spirit throws;  
Yet I your Wounds with as much Zeal desire,  
As Sinners that would pass to Bliss through Fire.  
Yes, Madam, I must love you to my Death,  
I'll sigh your name with my last gasp of Breath.  Princess C. 
No more, I have heard you Sir, as you desired,  Enter the Prince of Cleve. 
Reply not, but withdraw, if possible;  
Fix to your word, and let us trust our Fates,  
Be gone I charge you, speak not, but retire: Exit. Nem.  P. C. 
Excellent Woman, and Oh! matchless Friend,  
Love, Friendship, Honour, Poison, Daggers, Death. Falls.  Princess C. 
O Heaven! Irene, help! help the Prince my Lord.  
My Dearest Cleve, wake from this Dream of Death,  
And hear me speak—  P. C. 
Curse on my Disposition,  
That thus permits me bear the Wounds of Honour!  
And Oh! thou foolish, gentle, love-sick Heart,  
Why didst thou let my hand from stabbing both?  Princess C. 
Behold, 'tis yet my Lord within your Power  
To give me Death—  P. C. 
I do entreat thee leave me,  
I'm bound for Death myself, and I would make  
My passage easy, if you would permit me:  
All that I ask thee for the Heart I gave thee;  
And for the Life I love in thy behalf,  
Is, that thou'dst leave me to myself a while,  
And this poor honest Friend—  Princess C. 
I would obey you,  
But cannot stir— I know, I know my Lord,  
You think that I designed to meet Nemours  
This night, but by the Powers above I Swear.  P. C. 
O! do not Swear, for Charters credit me,  
There is a Power that can and will revenge;  
Therefore dear Soul, for I must love thee still,  
If thou wilt speak, confess, repent thy fault,  
And thou, perhaps, may'st find a door of Mercy:  
For me, by all my hopes of Heaven, I swear  
I freely now forgive thee— Oh! my Heart—  
Pedro, thy arm, let me to bed—  Princess C. 
And do you then refuse  
My help?  P. C. 
In Honour Chartres, after such a Fall,  
I ought not to permit that thou shouldst touch me—  Princess C. 
But Sir, I will, your arm? I'll hold you all  
Thus in the closest strictest dearest Clasps;  
Nor shall you die believing my Dishonour,  
I swear I knew not of Nemours his coming,  
Nor had I spoke those words which yet were guiltless,  
Had he not vowed never to see me more:  
By our first Meeting, by our Nuptial Joys,  
By my dead Mother's Ghost, by your own Spirit;  
Which Oh! I fear is taking leave for ever,  
I swear that this is true—  P. C. 
I do believe thee;  
Thou hast such Power, such Charms in those dear Lips,  
As might persuade me that I am not dying.  
Off Pedro, by my most untimely Fate  
I swear— I'm reconciled; and hark thee Cleve,  
If thou dost Marry, Ha! I cannot speak,  
Away to Bed, yet love my Memory—  Princess C. 
To Bed, and must we part then?  P. C. 
O! we must—  
Were I to live I should not see thee more—  
But since I am dying, by this Kiss I beg thee,  
Nay, I command thee part, be gone and leave me.  Princess C. 
I go, and leave this Farewell Prayer behind me.  
For me, if all I've said be not most true,  
True as thou think'st me False, all Curses on me!  
The Whips of Conscience, and the Stings of Pleasure,  
Soars and Distempers, Disappointments plague me;  
May all my Life be one continued Torment,  
And that more Racking than a Woman's Labour;  
In meeting Death may my least Trouble be  
As great as now my parting is with thee. Exeunt severally.   
Finis Actus Quarti.   

ACT V.  

SCENE I.  Poltrot, Bellamore. Bell. 
COme, come, take her into Grace again, 'twas but a slip:  Pol. 
Take her into Grace again?— Why sure you would have her bring me to that pass she did in England, when my Lord Hairbrain used to keep me in awe, stand biting my Lips, twisting my Hat, playing with my Thumbs while they were at it, and I durst not look behind me.  Bell. 
Mere Jealousy; you say yourself you saw nothing.  Pol. 
No Sir, I thank you, I had more care of my Throat; neither is this the first Fault; for once upon a time, a little while after we were Married, at London— a Pox o' that Cuckolding Trojan Race; she was talking to me one day out of her Window more pleasantly than ordinary— And acted with her Head and Body wondrous prettily— Butting at me like a little Goat, while I butted at her again. I being glad to find her in so good humour, what did I Sir, but stole away, and came softly up the back-stairs, thinking to cry Bo— But Oh! Lord— How was I Thunderstruck, to find my Lord Hairbrain there all in a Sweat— Kissing and Smacking, Puffing and Blowing so hard, you would have sworn they had been at Hot-cockles—  Bell. 
A little Familiar perhaps, things of Custom—  Pol. 
Ay Sir, Kiss my Wife and welcome, but for that Zeal in her shogging and Butting— Noli me tangere I cry— I am sure it ran so in my Imagination, I have been Horn-mad ever since— Therefore spare your pains, for I am resolute.  Enter Celia. Bell. 
See where she comes my Lord— But you are resolved you say— However, let me advise you, have a care of making her desperate. Exit.  Pol. 
Desperate— Damn her, Polluter of my Sheets— Damn her.  
Seek, Celia, not to shun me, for wherever you fly,  
I'll follow— hang upon thy knees and die.  
Poltrot, behold— Ah! canst thou see me kneel,  
And yet no Bowels of Compassion feel?  
Why dost thou bluster by me like a Storm,  
And ruffle into Frowns that Godlike Form?  
Why dost thou turn away those Eyes of thine,  
In which Love's Glory and his Conquests shine?  Pol. 
What is this thing called Woman? she is worse  
Than all Ingredients rammed into a Curse.  
Were she a Witch, a Bawd, a Noseless Whore,  
I could forgive her, so she were no more:  
But she's far worse, and will in time Forestall  
The Devil, and be the Damning of us all.  Cel. 
Yet Honour bids you sink with her you call  
So foul, whose Frailties you too sharply named;  
Like Adam you should choose with her to fall,  
And in mere Generosity be Damned.  Pol. 
No, by thyself, and all alone be cursed,  
And by the Winds thy Venom dust be hurled;  
For thou'rt a Serpent equal to the first,  
And hast the will to Damn another World.  Cel. 
But am I not thy Wife? Let that atone—  Pol. 
My Dear Damned Wife, I do confess thou art  
Flesh of my Flesh, and Bone too of my Bone,  
Would mine had all been broke when first thou wert.  Cel. 
Why then I'll cringe no longer, hark you Sir, leave off your Swelling and Frowning, and awkward ambling, and tell me in fine, whether you'll be reconciled or no, for I am resolved to stoop no longer to an ungrateful Person.  Pol. 
To your Husband, to your Head, to your Lord and Master, you will not Goodey Bathsheba, but you could stoop your Swine's Flesh last night you could, to your Rank Bravado, that would have struck his Tusks in my Guts; he had you with a Beck, a Snort, nay, o' my Conscience thou wouldst not give him time to speak, but hunched him on the side like a full Acorned Boar, cried Oh! and mounted—  Cel. 
Are you resolved then, never to take me into Grace again for one Slip?  Pol. 
No, I'm the Son of a Carted Bawd if I do; a Slip do you call it? what, when I heard the Bed crack with the Violence of my Cuckoldom! No, I will ascend the Judge of my own Cause, proceed to Condemnation, and banish thee for ever the Confines of our Benevolence—  Cel. 
What here, before the Vidam here?  Pol. 
Yes, Impudence, before the Vidam and the Duke Nemours; nay, to thy eternal Confusion, I will post thee in the Marketplace; but first I'll find out St. Andre, and tell him the whole matter, that he may know too, what a Ram his blessed Ewe has made him, and then—  Cel. 
And then I'll have your Throat cut.  Pol. 
Ha! Tygress, cut my Throat! why thou She Bear! thou Dam of Lion's Whelps, thou Cormorant of Cormorants, why what will't thou devour me Horns and all?  Cel. 
He that missed your Guts in the dark, shall take better aim at your Gullet by daylight; nay, to thy Terror of Heart be it known, thou Monster of ill nature, if I would have consented last night to have run his Fortune, which is no small one, he would have murdered thee in thy Bed, for I heard him speak these very words, Let him lie, In Mortuis— & in limbo Patrum— Where I must have prayed for that unthankful Soul, or thou wouldst have been Damned to all Eternity, dying suddenly and without Repentance—  Pol. 
O Lord! O Lord! In Mortuis, & in limbo Patrum; what, to be tossed on burning Pitchforks for my Sins, why, what a Bloody-minded Son of Belial is this?  Cel. 
In fine, since you will have the truth, he has long had a design upon both our Bodies, to Ravish mine, and rip open yours.  Pol. 
Why then he's a Cannibal; Lord! Lord! Lord! Lord! why what pleasure can it be to any Man to rip me open? to Ravish thee indeed, there's some Sense in that— But there's none in ripping me open; why this is such a brutish Cruelty—  Cel. 
Rogue, and so I told him— Therefore when he found that nothing could make me consent to your Murder, he Swore, and caught me by the hair, if I stirred, or made the least noise, he would Murder us all, set the House o' Fire, and so leave us to ourselves—  Pol. 
And so thou wert forced to consent; why then by this Kiss, I Swear from my Soul, which might have been Damned as thou sayst, but for thee, I forgive thee— And what was he that Cuckolded St. Andre, such another Mephistopheles as this too?  Cel. 
O! my Dear, there are not such a pair of Fiends upon Earth again— Why, they look upon't as a Favour to our Sex if they Ravish a Woman, for you must know they were formerly Heads of the Banditti—  Pol. 
Well, and I must praise thy Discretion in Sacrificing thy Body, for o' my Conscience, if they had seen this Smock-face of mine, I had gone to pot too before my Execution.  Cel. 
They sent their Pages this Morning to know whether it was our pleasure to have your Throats cut: But we answered 'em all was well, and desired 'em as ever they hoped to see us again, to stir no further in the matter.  Pol. 
Mum, Mum, dear sweet Soul, secure my Life and thou shalt command me for the future with as full a swing as thou canst desire, only like those that use that exercise, let it be too and fro, sometimes at home and sometimes abroad, and we'll be as merry as the day is long.  Cel. 
Be thou but true to me, and like the Indian Wives, I'll not outlive thee—  Pol. 
And I'll Swear now, that was kindly said, as I hope for mercy, but it makes me weep, what burn for me— And shall I not return, I will, I will, I will return when thou dost burn; Enter St. Andre, Elinor.  
Nay, when thy Body in the Fire appears,  
My Ghost shall rise and quench it with his Tears.  St. A. 
All Flesh is Grass, that's certain, we're all Mortal, the Court's in Mourning for the Prince of Cleve, the Vidam of Chartres is extremely grieved— Hark you Poltrot, sure as I am alive he died of Jealousy. Well Nelle, for this last care of thine, I Swear to be constant to thy Sheets, and as thou sayst, I think it will not be amiss to tie me to thee now and then for fear of the worst— Ha! Poltrot—  Pol. 
Ha! Bully, I heard your kind Expressions to your Nelle, and I'll Swear I'll vie thee with who shall love most, for I'll Swear these daily Examples make my hair stand an end— Cut my Throat, and rip me open, he shall Cuckold me all over first, like the Man in the Almanac, nay, he shall Ravish her while I hold the door to my own deflow'ring.   

SCENE II.  Tournon, Nemours. Nem. 
Resolved never to see me more, and give up her Honour to the Dauphin, that puling snivelling Prince, that looks as if he sucked still, or were always in a Milk Diet for the Sins of his Florentine Mother.  Tour. 
Bless me! you are jealous.  Nem. 
I confess it— The last time I had her in Disguise, she made such Discoveries as I shall never forget: Lose her I must not, no, I'll lose a Limb first, therefore go tell her, tell her the Prince of Cleve's Death has wrought my Conversion, I grow weary of my wild Courses, repent of my Sins, am resolved to leave off Whoreing and marry his Wife—  Tour. 
So the Town talks indeed.  Nem. 
The Town is as it always was and will be, a Talk, a Hum, a Buz, and a great Lie— Do as I bid thee, and tell her, just as you left me, I was going to make my Court to the Princess upon her Husband's Tomb, which is true too, I mean a Visit by the way of Consolation, not but I knew it the only opportunity to catch a Woman in the undress of her Soul; nay, I would choose such a time for my life, and 'tis like the rest of those starts, and one of the Secrets of their Nature— Why they melt, nay, in Plagues, Fire, Famine, War, or any great Calamity— Mark it— Let a man stand but right before 'em, and like hunted Hares they run into his lap.  Tour. 
But who's the Instrument to bring you to her?  Nem. 
Her Uncle the Vidam, she lies at his House immured in a dark room, with her Husband's Image in her view, and so resolves, he says, for Death. However I'll sound her in the ebb of her Soul, if my Boat run aground 'tis but calling for Marguerite, and she'll weep a Tide that shall set me afloat again— As thus, I'll lay the Dauphin in her dish, nose her in the Tiptoe of her Pride, Railing, Lying, Laming, Hanging, Drowning, Dying, and she comes about again. Exit.  Tour. 
Go thy ways Petronius, nay, if he were dying too, with his Veins cut, he would call for Wine, Fiddles and Whores, and laugh himself into the other World.  Enter La March. 
Where's Marguerite?  La M. 
She follows like a Wind, with swollen Cheeks, ruffled Hair, and glareing Eyes, the Princess of Cleve has found her Fury, nor will she yet believe it.   

SCENE III.  The Princess of Cleve, Irene in Mourning, Song, as the Princess kneels at the State. Princess C. 
DEad thou dear Lord— Yet from thy Throne of Bliss,  
If any thing on Earth be worth thy view,  
Look down and hear me, hear my Sighs and Vows,  
Till Death has made me cold, and Wax like thee:  
Water shall be my Drink and Herbs my Food,  
The Marble of my Chapel be my Bed;  
The Altars Steps my Pillows, while all night  
Stretched out, I groaning lie, upon the Floor,  
Beat my swollen Breasts, and thy dear loss deplore.  Iren. 
Ah! Madam, what a Life have you proposed?  Princess C. 
Too little all for an Offence like mine;  
Yet Death will shortly purge my dross away,  
For Oh! Irene, where's the Joy I find it here,  
Yes, I shall die without those violent means  
That might have hazarded my Soul— O Heaven—  
O thou that seest my Heart, and know'st my Terrors,  
Wilt thou forgive those Crimes I could not help,  
And would not hide?  Iren. 
Doubt not but your Account  
Shall stand as fair in his Eternal Book,  
As any Saints above—  Princess C. 
Take, take me then  
From this bad World, quench these Rebellious thoughts;  
For Oh! I have a pang, a longing wish  
To see the Luckless Face of loved Nemours,  
To gaze a while, and take one last Farewell,  
Like one that is too loose a Limb— 'Tis gone—  
It was corrupt, a Gangreen to my Honour,  
Yet I methinks would view the bleeding part,  
Shudder a little— Weep— and grudge at parting.  
But by the Soul of my triumphant Saint,  
I swear this longing is without a guilt,  
Nor shall it ever be by my appointment.  Enter Nemours. Iren. 
But if he should attempt this cruel visit,  
How would your Heart receive him?  Princess C. 
With such Temper,  
So clear and calm in height of my Misfortune,  
As thou thyself perhaps wouldst wonder at.  Iren. 
Ha! but he's here—  Princess C. 
Is't possible my Lord?  
Has then my Uncle thus betrayed my Honour?  Nem. 
Start not, nor wonder Madam, but forgive  
The Vidam who has thus entrapped your Virtue,  
To end a lingering Wretch— That dies for Love—  Princess C. 
For Love, my Lord, is this a time for Love,  
In Tears and Blacks, the Livery of Death?  
But what's your hope, if I should stay to hear you?  
Ah! What can you expect from rigorous Virtue,  
From Chastity as cold as Cleve himself?  
You that are made, my Lord, for other Pleasures—  Nem. 
Is this then the reward of all my Passion?  
As if there could be any Happiness  
For this disconsolate despairing Wretch,  
But in your Love alone?  Princess C. 
You're pleased my Lord  
That I should entertain you, and I will,  
Before this dear Remembrancer of Cleve;  
We'll talk of murdered Love— And you shall hear  
From this abandoned part of him that was,  
How much you have been loved.  Nem. 
Ha! Madam—  Princess C. 
Yes,  
Sighing I speak it Sir, you have inspired me  
With something which I never felt before,  
That pleased and pained the quickenings of first Love;  
Nor feared him then, when with his Infant Beams,  
He dawned upon my i'll and senseless Blood.  
But Oh! when he had reached his fierce Meridian,  
How different was his form! that Angel Face,  
With his short Rays, shot to a glaring God.  
I grew inflamed, burnt inward, and the Breath  
Of the grown Tyrant, parched my Heart to Ashes.  
Nor need I blush to make you this Confession,  
Because, my Lord, 'tis done without a Crime.  Nem. 
Because for this most blessed discovery,  
I am resolved to kneel an Age before you.  Princess C. 
Rise, I conjure you, rise, I've told you nothing  
But what you knew, my Lord, too well before:  
Not but I always vowed to keep those Rules  
My Duty should prescribe.  Nem. 
Strike me not dead  
With Duty's name, by Heaven I Swear you're free  
As Air, as Waters, Winds or open wild's,  
There is no Form of Obligation now;  
Nay, let me say, for Duty: O forgive me,  
'Tis utmost Duty now to keep that Love  
You have confessed for me.  Princess C. 
'Tis Duty's Charge,  
The voice of Honour and the cry of Love,  
That I should fly from Paris as a Pest,  
That I should wear these Rags of Life away  
In Sunless Caves, in Dungeons of Despair,  
Where I should never think of Man again.  
But more particularly that of you,  
For Reasons yet unknown.  Nem. 
Unknown they are,  
And would to Heaven they might be ever so,  
Since 'tis impossible they should be just;  
Nay, Madam, let me say the Ghost of Cleve—  Princess C. 
Ah! Sir, how dare you mention that dear name,  
That drains my Eyes, and cries to Heaven for Blood.  
Name it no more without the Consequence,  
For 'tis but too too true, you were the Cause  
Of Cleve's untimely Death, I Swear I think  
No less than if you had stabbed him through the Heart.  Nem. 
O! Cruel Princess, but why should I answer,  
When thus you raise the shadow of a reason  
To ruin me for ever? Is it a fault  
To Love? Then blame not me; No, Madam, no,  
But blame yourself, who told it to your Husband;  
But Oh! you would not argue thus against me  
If ever you had loved—  
You have deceived yourself and flattered me;  
Why am I thrown else from the Glorious Height,  
Snatched in a moment from my blissful State,  
And hurled like Lightning by the hand of Fate?  Prineess C. 
Be satisfied, my Lord, you are not flattered,  
I have such Love for you, that Duties bar,  
Would prove too weak to hinder our Engagement.  
But there is more.  Nem. 
More Fancy, more Chimaera!  
But let it come, I'll stand the stalking Nothing,  
And when the bladdered Air would turn the Balance,  
I'll cast in Love substantial, ponderous Love,  
Eternal Love, and hurl him to the Beam.  
But speak, and if a Hell of Separation  
Must part my Soul and Body, do not Rack me,  
But let the Poison steal into my Veins,  
And Damn me mildly, Madam, as you can.  Princess C. 
Hear then, my bosom thought— 'Tis the last time  
I e'er shall see you, and 'tis a poor reward  
For such a Love, yet, Sir, 'tis all I have,  
And you must ask no more.  Nem. 
Be Witness, Heaven,  
Of my Obedience, I will ask her nothing.  Princess C. 
Know then, my Lord, you're free, and I am so  
Free for the eternal Bond of Marriage—  
My Heart too is inclined by Love like yours,  
Nor can I fear the censuring World should blame us.  
But now, my Lord, What Power on Earth can give  
Security that Bond shall prove Eternal?  Nem. 
Ha! Madam.  Princess C. 
Silence, silence I command you;  
No, no, Nemours. I know the World too well,  
You have a Sense too nice for long Enjoyment,  
Cleve was the Man that only could love long:  
Nor can I think his passion would have lasted,  
But that he found I could have none for him.  
'Tis Obstacle, Ascent, and Lets and Bars,  
That whet the Appetite of Love and Glory;  
These are the fuel for that fiery Passion,  
But when the flashy stubble we remove,  
The God goes out and there's an end of Love.  Nem. 
Ah Madam! I'm not able to contain,  
But must perforce break your commands to answer,  
Once to be yours, is to be for ever yours,  
Yours only, without thought of other Woman.  Princess C. 
Why this sounds well and natural till you're cloyed,  
But Oh! when one satiety has palled you,  
You sicken at each view, and every glance  
Betrays your guilty Soul, and says you loathe her.  
I know it, Sir, you have the well-bred cast  
Of Gallantry and Parts to gain success;  
And do but think when various Forms have charmed you,  
How I should bear the cross returns of Love?  Nem. 
Ah Madam! now I find you're prejudiced  
To blast my hopes.  Prince's C. 
'Tis Reason, all calm Reason;  
Nature affirms no violent thing can last,  
I know't, I see't, every new Face that came  
Would charm you from me— Ha! and could I Love  
To see that Fatal day, and see you scorn me,  
To hear the Ghost of Cleve each hour upbraid me;  
No, 'tis impossible, with all my Passion,  
Not to submit to these Almighty Reasons;  
For this I brave your noblest Qualities,  
I'll keep your Form at distance, kerb my Soul,  
Despair of Smiles and Tears, and Prayers and Oaths,  
And all the Blandishments of Perjured Love:  
I will, I must, I shall, nay, now I can,  
Defy to Death the lovely Traitor Man.  Nem. 
No. Madam, think not you shall carry't thus,  
'Tis not allowable, 'tis past example,  
'Tis most unnatural, unjust and monstrous;  
And were the rest of Women thus resolved,  
You would destroy the purpose of Creation.  
What, when I have the happiness to please,  
When Heaven and Earth combine to make us happy,  
Will you defeat the aim of Destiny,  
By most unparallelled extremes of Virtue,  
Which therefore take away it's very Being?  Princess C. 
Away, I must not answer, but conjure you  
Never to seek occasion more to see me;  
Farewell— 'Tis past.  Nem. 
I cannot let you go;  
I'll follow on my Knees, and hold your Robe,  
Till you have promised me that I shall see you,  
To show you how each day by slow degrees  
I die away: This you shall grant by Heaven,  
Or you shall see my Blood let out before you.  Princess C. 
Alas! Nemours, O Heaven! why must it be,  
That I should charge you with the death of Cleve?  
Alas! why met we not e'er I engaged  
To my dead Lord? And why did Fate divide us?  Nem. 
Fate does not, No—  
'Tis you that cross both Fortune, Heaven and Fate;  
'Tis you obstruct my Bliss, 'tis you impose  
Such Laws as neither Sense nor Virtue warrant.  Princess C. 
'Tis true, my Lord, I offer much to duty,  
Which but subsists in thought, therefore have patience,  
Expect what time, with such a love as mine,  
May work in your behalf; my Husband's death  
So bleeding, fresh I see him in the Pangs;  
Nay, look, methinks I see his Image rise.  
And point an everlasting Separation;  
Yet Oh! it shall not be without a Tear.  Nem. 
O! stay.  Princess C. 
Let go, believe no other Man  
Could thus have wrought me, but yourself, to Love—  Nem. 
Stay then.  Princess C. 
I dare not— Think I love you still—  Nem. 
I do— But stay and speak it o'er again—  Princess C. 
Believe that I shall love you to my death.  Nem. 
I will. But live and love me.  Princess C. 
Off, I charge you.  
Believe this parting wounds me like the Fate  
Of Cleve or worse: Believe, but Oh! farewell—  Nem. 
Believe, but what? That last thought I implore.  Princess C. 
Believe that you shall never see me more. Exit.  Enter the Vidam. Vid. 
Well, and how goes the Game? What, on the Knee, a gathered  
Brow, and a large dew upon it? Nay, than you are a looser.  Nem. 
Didst thou see her pass?  Vid. 
I did— she wrung me by the hand and sighed,  
Then looked back twice,  
And tottered on the threshold at the door.  Nem. 
Believe that you shall never see me more— she Lies, I'll Wager my State, I Bed her eighteen months three weeks hence, at half an hour past two in the Morning.  Vid. 
Why Faith, and that's as exact as e'er an ginger of 'em all.  Nem. 
Give me thy hand, Vidam, I know the Souls of  
Women better than they know themselves;  
I know the Ingredients just that make 'em up,  
All to lose Grains, the subtlest volatile Atoms,  
With the whole Mish-mash of their Composition.  
Hark there without, the voice of Marguerite,  
Now thou shalt see a Battle worth the gazing,  
Mark but how easily my reason flings her,  
And yet at last I'll swing into Friendship  
Because I love her— Enter Bellamore.  Bell. 
The Princess— shall I stop her?  Nem. 
No, let her come,  
With flying Colours, and with beat of Drum—  
Like the Fanatic, I'll but rub me down,  
And then have at her, Vidam, stay you here—  
By Heaven I'm jealous of this changeable Stuff,  
Therefore the hits will be the livelier o' both sides,  
The Dauphin, but no more— she comes, she comes.  Enter Marguerite pushing Bellamore. Marg. 
Be gone, Villain, Devil, Fury, Monster of a Man.  Nem. 
But hear me but six words in private.  Enter Poltrot, Celia. Pol. 
And I swear by this lascivious bit of Beauty, I will cleave to my Celia for Better for Worse, in Serge, Grogrum or Crape, though a Queen should come in my way in Beaten Gold—  Nem. 
What then, Gentlemen, I perceive there have been Wars at home—  Pol. 
Not a Battle, my Lord, only a Charge, a Charge sounded or so.  Nem. 
What was it a Trumpet, or through a Horn Sir?  Pol. 
A Horn Sir, a Horn Sir, no Sir, 'twas not a Horn Sir— Only my Celia was a little disdainful, but we are Friends again Sir, and what then Sir?  Nem. 
Come, come, all Friends, were Tournon here I would forgive her, a little Scorn in a pretty Woman, so it be not too much affected, is a Charm to new Friendship; therefore let each Man take his Fair one by the hand, thus lay it to his Lips, and Swear a whole Life's Constancy—  St. A. 
As I will to my Nelle, though I haule Cats at Sea, or cry Small-coal; and for him that upbraids her, I'll have more Bobs, than Democritus when he cried Poor-Jack. There's more Pride in Diogenes, or under a Puritan's Cap, than in a King's Crown.  Nem. 
For my part, the Death of the Prince of Cleve, upon second thoughts, has so truly wrought a change in me, as nothing else but a Miracle could— For first I see, and loath my Debaucheries— Next, while I am in Health, I am resolved to give satisfaction to all I have wronged; and first to this Lady, whom I will make my Wife before all this Company e'er we part— This, I hope, whenever I die, will convince the World of the Ingenuity of my Repentance, because I had the power to go on.  
He well Repents that will not Sin, yet can,  
But Deathbed Sorrow rarely shows the Man.    

THE EPILOGUE.  
WHat is this Wit which Cowley could not name?  
The rare Inducement to a perfect Fame,  
The Art of Nature curious in a Frame.  
Is it a Whig, a Trimmer, or a Tory,  
Or an Old Fop forgotten in the Story?  
'Tis Honour veiled in Honesty's Disguise,  
Or Cesar like a Fencer in a Prize;  
'Tis Pindar's Ramble, Nature in Misrule,  
A Politician acted by a Fool.  
'Tis all Variety that Arts can give,  
The Danaid's filling of a Leakey Sieve:  
The Valleys Sweets, and the distilling Spring,  
The brimming Bacchus that the Muses bring,  
To drink the Health of England's Glorious King.  
A Statesman thoughtful for a Clown reviled,  
A Pestle and a Mortar for a Child.  
'Tis a true Principle, but hardly shown,  
An Artificial Sigh, a Virgins Groan,  
When the first night her Lover lays her on.  
'Tis like a Lass that Gads to gather May,  
'Tis like the Comedy you have to day,  
A Bulling Gallant in a wanton Play.  
FINIS.