Isab. ’Tis much I owe to Fortune, my dear Lucretia, for being so kind to make us Neighbours, where with Ease we may continually exchange our Souls and Thoughts without the attendance of a Coach, and those other little Formalities that make a Business of a Visit; it looks so like a Journey, I hate it.

Lucr. Attendance is that Curse to Greatness that confines the Soul, and spoils good Humour; we are free whilst thus alone, and can laugh at the abominable Fopperies of this Town.

Isab. And lament the numberless Impertinences wherewith they continually plague all young Women of Quality.

Lucr. Yet these are the precious things our grave Parents still chuse out to make us happy with, and all for a filthy Jointure, the undeniable argument for our Slavery to Fools.

Isab. Custom is unkind to our Sex, not to allow us free Choice; but we above all Creatures must be forced to endure the formal Recommendations of a Parent, and the more insupportable Addresses of an odious Fop; whilst the Obedient Daughter stands—thus—with her Hands pinn’d before her, a set Look, few Words, and a Mein that cries—Come marry me: out upon’t.

Lucr. I perceive then, whatever your Father designs, you are resolv’d to love your own way.

Isab. Thou mayst lay thy Maidenhead upon’t, and be sure of the Misfortune to win.

Lucr. My Brother Lodwick’s like to be a happy Man then.

Isab. Faith, my dear Lodwick or no body in my heart, and I hope thou art as well resolv’d for my Cousin Leander.

Lucr. Here’s my Hand upon’t, I am; yet there’s something sticks upon my stomach, which you must know.

Isab. Spare the Relation, for I have observ’d of late your Mother to have order’d her Eyes with some softness, her Mouth endeavouring to sweeten it self into Smiles and Dimples, as if she meant to recal Fifteen again, and gave it all to Leander, for at him she throws her Darts.

Lucr. Is’t possible thou should’st have perceived it already?

Isab. Long since.

Lucr. And now I begin to love him, ’twould vex me to see my Mother marry him—well, I shall never call him Father.

Isab. He’ll take care to give himself a better Title.

Lucr. This Devonshire Knight too, who is recommended to my Mother as a fit Husband for me, I shall be so tormented with—My Brother swears he’s the pertest, most unsufferable Fool he ever saw; when he was at my Uncle’s last Summer, he made all his Diversion.

Isab. Prithee let him make ours now, for of all Fops your Country Fop is the most tolerable Animal; those of the Town are the most unmanagable Beasts in Nature.

Lucr. And are the most noisy, keeping Fops.

Isab. Keeping begins to be as ridiculous as Matrimony, and is a greater Imposition upon the Liberty of Man; the Insolence and Expence of their Mistresses has almost tir’d out all but the Old and Doting part of Mankind: The rest begin to know their value, and set a price upon a good Shape, a tolerable Face and Mein:—and some there are who have made excellent Bargains for themselves that way, and will flatter ye and jilt ye an Antiquated Lady as artfully as the most experienc’d Miss of ’em all.

Lucr. Lord, Lord! what will this World come to?—but this Mother of mine—Isabella. Sighs.

Isab. Is discreet and virtuous enough, a little too affected, as being the most learned of her Sex.

Lucr. Methinks to be read in the Arts, as they call ’em, is the peculiar Province of the other Sex.

Isab. Indeed the Men would have us think so, and boast their Learning and Languages; but if they can find any of our Sex fuller of Words, and to so little purpose as some of their Gownmen, I’ll be content to change my Petticoats for Pantaloons, and go to a Grammar-school.

Lucr. Oh, they’re the greatest Babelards in Nature.

Isab. They call us easy and fond, and charge us with all weakness; but look into their Actions of Love, State or War, their roughest business, and you shall find ’em sway’d by some who have the luck to find their Foibles; witness my Father, a Man reasonable enough, till drawn away by doting Love and Religion: what a Monster my young Mother makes of him! flatter’d him first into Matrimony, and now into what sort of Fool or Beast she pleases to make him.

Lucr. I wonder she does not turn him to Christianity; methinks a Conventicle should ill agree with her Humour.

Isab. Oh, she finds it the only way to secure her from his Suspicion, which if she do not e’er long give him cause for, I am mistaken in her Humour.—

Enter L. Knowell and Leander.

But see your Mother and my Cousin Leander, who seems, poor man, under some great Consternation, for he looks as gravely as a Lay-Elder conducting his Spouse from a Sermon.

L. Kno. Oh, fy upon’t. See, Mr. Fancy, where your Cousin and my Lucretia are idling: Dii boni, what an insupportable loss of time’s this?

Lean. Which might be better imploy’d, if I might instruct ’em, Madam.

L. Kno. Ay, Mr. Fancy, in Consultation with the Antients.—Oh the delight of Books! when I was of their age, I always imploy’d my looser Hours in reading—if serious, ’twas Tacitus, Seneca, Plutarch’s Morals, or some such useful Author; if in an Humour gay, I was for Poetry, Virgil, Homer or Tasso. Oh that Love between Renaldo and Armida, Mr. Fancy! Ah the Caresses that fair Corcereis gave, and received from the young Warrior, ah how soft, delicate and tender! Upon my Honour I cannot read them in the Excellence of their Original Language, without I know not what Emotions.

Lean. Methinks ’tis very well in our Mother Tongue, Madam.

L. Kno. O, Faugh, Mr. Fancy, what have you said, Mother Tongue! Can any thing that’s great or moving be express’d in filthy English?—I’ll give you an Energetical proof, Mr. Fancy; observe but divine Homer in the Grecian Language—Ton d’ apamibominous prosiphe podas ochus Achilleus! Ah how it sounds! which English’t dwindles into the most grating stuff:—Then the swift-foot Achilles made reply: oh, faugh.

Lucr. So now my Mother’s in her right Sphere.

L. Kno. Come, Mr. Fancy, we’ll pursue our first design of retiring into my Cabinet, and reading a leaf or two in Martial; I am a little dull, and wou’d fain laugh.

Lean. Methinks, Madam, Discourse were much better with these young Ladies. Dear Lucretia, find some way to release me. Aside.

L. Kno. Oh, how I hate the impertinence of Women, who for the generality have no other knowledge than that of dressing; I am uneasy with the unthinking Creatures.

Lucr. Indeed ’tis much better to be entertaining a young Lover alone; but I’ll prevent her, if possible. Aside.

L. Kno. No, I am for the substantial pleasure of an Author. Philosophemur! is my Motto,—I’m strangely fond of you, Mr. Fancy, for being a Scholar.

Lean. Who, Madam, I a Scholar? the greatest Dunce in Nature—Malicious Creatures, will you leave me to her mercy? To them aside.

Lucr. Prithee assist him in his misery, for I am Mudd, and can do nothing towards it. Aside.

Isab. Who, my Cousin Leander a Scholar, Madam?

Lucr. Sure he’s too much a Gentleman to be a Scholar.

Isab. I vow, Madam, he spells worse than a Country Farrier when he prescribes a Drench.

Lean. Then, Madam, I write the leudest hand.

Isab. Worse than a Politician or a States-man.

Lucr. He cannot read it himself when he has done.

Lean. Not a word on’t, Madam.

L. Kno. This agreement to abuse him, I understand— Aside.

—Well, then, Mr. Fancy, let’s to my Cabinet—your hand.

Lean. Now shall I be teas’d unmercifully,—I’ll wait on you, Madam. Exit Lady.

—Find some means to redeem me, or I shall be mad. Exit Lean.

Enter Lodwick.

Lod. Hah, my dear Isabella here, and without a Spy! what a blessed opportunity must I be forc’d to lose, for there is just now arriv’d my Sister’s Lover, whom I am oblig’d to receive: but if you have a mind to laugh a little—

Isab. Laugh! why, are you turn’d Buffoon, Tumbler, or Presbyterian Preacher?

Lod. No, but there’s a Creature below more ridiculous than either of these.

Lucr. For love’s sake, what sort of Beast is that?

Lod. Sir Credulous Easy, your new Lover just come to town Bag and Baggage, and I was going to acquaint my Mother with it.

Isab. You’ll find her well employ’d with my Cousin Leander.

Lucr. A happy opportunity to free him: but what shall I do now, Brother?

Lod. Oh, let me alone to ruin him with my Mother: get you gone, I think I hear him coming, and this Apartment is appointed for him.

Lucr. Prithee haste then, and free Leander, we’ll into the Garden. Exeunt Luc. and Isab.

A Chair and a Table. Enter Sir Credulous in a riding habit. Curry his Groom carrying a Portmantle.

Lod. Yes—’tis the Right Worshipful, I’ll to my Mother with the News. Ex. Lod.

Sir Cred. Come undo my Portmantle, and equip me, that I may look like some body before I see the Ladies—Curry, thou shalt e’en remove now, Curry, from Groom to Footman; for I’ll ne’er keep Horse more, no, nor Mare neither, since my poor Gillian’s departed this Life.

Cur. ’Ds diggers, Sir, you have griev’d enough for your Mare in all Conscience; think of your Mistress now, Sir, and think of her no more.

Sir Cred. Not think of her! I shall think of her whilst I live, poor Fool, that I shall, though I had forty Mistresses.

Cur. Nay, to say truth, Sir, ’twas a good-natur’d civil beast, and so she remain’d to her last gasp, for she cou’d never have left this World in a better time, as the saying is, so near her Journey’s End.

Sir Cred. A civil Beast! Why, was it civilly done of her, thinkest thou, to die at Branford, when had she liv’d till to morrow, she had been converted into Money and have been in my Pocket? for now I am to marry and live in Town, I’ll sell off all my Pads; poor Fool, I think she e’en died for grief I wou’d have sold her.

Cur. ’Twas unlucky to refuse Parson Cuffet’s Wife’s Money for her, Sir.

Sir Cred. Ay, and to refuse her another kindness too, that shall be nameless which she offer’d me, and which wou’d have given me good luck in Horse-flesh too; Zoz, I was a modest fool, that’s truth on’t.

Cur. Well, well, Sir, her time was come you must think, and we are all Mortal as the saying is.

Sir Cred. Well, ’twas the lovingst Tit:—but Grass and Hay, she’s gone—where be her Shoes, Curry?

Cur. Here, Sir, her Skin went for good Ale at Branford. Gives him the Shoes.

Sir Cred. Ah, how often has she carry’d me upon these Shoes to Mother Jumbles; thou remember’st her handsome Daughter, and what pure Ale she brew’d; between one and t’other my Rent came short home there; but let that pass too, and hang sorrow, as thou sayst, I have something else to think on. Takes his things out, lays them upon the Table.

And, Curry, as soon as I am drest, go you away to St. Clement’s Church-yard, to Jackson the Cobler there.

Cur. What, your Dog-tutor, Sir?

Sir Cred. Yes, and see how my Whelp proves, I put to him last Parliament.

Cur. Yes, Sir.

Enter Leander, and starts back seeing Sir Cred.

Sir Cred. And ask him what Gamesters come to the Ponds now adays, and what good Dogs.

Cur. Yes, Sir.

Lean. This is the Beast Lodwick spoke of; how could I laugh were he design’d for any but Lucretia! Aside.

Sir Cred. And dost hear, ask him if he have not sold his own Dog Diver with the white Ear; if I can purchase him, and my own Dog prove right, I’ll be Duke of Ducking-Pond, ads zoz. Sir Cred. dresses himself.

Well, I think I shall be fine anon, he.

Cur. But zo, zo, Sir, as the saying is, this Suit’s a little out of fashion, ’twas made that very year I came to your Worship, which is five Winters, and as many Summers.

Sir Cred. What then Mun, I never wear it, but when I go to be drunk, and give my Voice for a Knight o’th’ Shire, and here at London in Term time, and that but eight times in Eight Visits to Eight several Ladies to whom I was recommended.

Cur. I wonder that amongst eight you got not one, Sir.

Sir Cred. Eight! Zoz, I had Eight score, Mun; but the Devil was in ’em, they were all so forward, that before I cou’d seal and deliver, whip, quoth Jethro, they were either all married to some body else, or run quite away; so that I am resolv’d if this same Lucretia proves not right, I’ll e’en forswear this Town and all their false Wares, amongst which, zoz, I believe they vent as many false Wives as any Metropolitan in Christendom, I’ll say that for’t, and a Fiddle for’t, i’faith:—come give me my Watch out,—so, my Diamond Rings too: so, I think I shall appear pretty well all together, Curry, hah?

Lean. Like some thing monstrously ridiculous, I’ll be sworn. Aside.

Cur. Here’s your Purse of broad Gold, Sir, that your Grandmother gave you to go a wooing withal, I mean to shew, Sir.

Sir Cred. Ay, for she charg’d me never to part with it;—so, now for the Ladies. Shakes his Ribbons.

Enter Lodwick.

Lod. Leander, what mak’st thou here, like a Holy-day Fool gazing at a Monster?

Lean. Yes; And one I hope I have no great reason to fear.

Lod. I am of thy opinion; away, my Mother’s coming; take this opportunity with my Sister, she’s i’th’ Garden, and let me alone with this Fool, for an Entertainment that shall shew him all at once: away— Exit Lean. Lod. goes in to Sir Cred.

Sir Cred. Lodwick, my dear Friend! and little Spark of Ingenuity—Zoz, Man, I’m but just come to Town. Embrace.

Lod. ’Tis a joyful hearing, Sir.

Sir Cred. Not so joyful neither, Sir, when you shall know poor Gillian’s dead, my little grey Mare; thou knew’st her, mun: Zoz, ’thas made me as melancholy as the Drone of a Lancashire Bag-pipe. But let that pass; and now we talk of my Mare, Zoz, I long to see this Sister of thine.

Lod. She’ll be with you presently, Sir Credulous.

Sir Cred. But hark ye, Zoz, I have been so often fob’d off in these matters, that between you and I, Lodwick, if I thought I shou’d not have her, Zoz, I’d ne’er lose precious time about her.

Lod. Right, Sir; and to say truth, these Women have so much Contradiction in ’em, that ’tis ten to one but a Man fails in the Art of pleasing.

Sir Cred. Why, there’s it:—therefore prithee, dear Lodwick, tell me a few of thy Sister’s Humors, and if I fail,—then hang me, Ladies, at your Door, as the Song says.

Lod. Why, faith, she has many odd Humors hard enough to hit.

Sir Cred. Zoz, let ’em be as hard as Hercules his Labors in the Vale of Basse, I’ll not be frighted from attempting her.

Lod. Why, she’s one of those fantastick Creatures that must be courted her own way.

Sir Cred. Why, let’s hear her way.

Lod. She must be surpriz’d with strange Extravagancies wholly out of the Road and Method of common Courtship.

Sir Cred. Shaw, is that all? Zoz, I’m the best in Christendom at your out-of-the-way bus’nesses.—Now do I find the Reason of all my ill Success; for I us’d one and the same method to all I courted, whatever their Humors were; hark ye, prithee give me a hint or two, and let me alone to manage Matters.

Lod. I have just now thought of a way that cannot but take—

Sir Cred. Zoz, out with it, Man.

Lod. Why, what if you should represent a dumb Ambassador from the Blind God of Love.

Sir Cred. How, a dumb Ambassador? Zoz, Man, how shall I deliver my Embassy then, and tell her how much I love her?—besides, I had a pure Speech or two ready by heart, and that will be quite lost. Aside.

Lod. Fy, fy! how dull you are! why, you shall do it by Signs, and I’ll be your Interpreter.

Sir Cred. Why, faith, this will be pure; I understand you now, Zoz, I am old excellent at Signs;—I vow this will be rare.

Lod. It will not fail to do your business, if well manag’d—but stay, here’s my Sister, on your life not a syllable.

Enter Lean. Lucr. and Isab.

Sir Cred. I’ll be rackt first, Mum budget,—prithee present me, I long to be at it, sure. He falls back, making Faces and Grimaces.

Lod. Sister, I here present you with a worthy Knight, struck dumb with Admiration of your Beauty; but that’s all one, he is employ’d Envoy Extraordinary from the blind God of Love: and since, like his young Master, he must be defective in one of his Senses, he chose rather to be dumb than blind.

Lucr. I hope the small Deity is in good Health, Sir?

Isab. And his Mistress Psyche, Sir? He smiles and bows, and makes Signs.

Lod. He says that Psyche has been sick of late, but somewhat recovered, and has sent you for a Token a pair of Jet Bracelets, and a Cambrick Handkerchief of her own spinning, with a Sentence wrought in’t, Heart in hand, at thy command. Looking every word upon Sir Credulous as he makes signs.

Sir Cred. Zoz, Lodwick, what do you mean? I’m the Son of an Egyptian if I understand thee. Pulls him, he signs to him to hold his peace.

Lod. Come, Sir, the Tokens, produce, produce— He falls back making damnable signs.

How! Faith, I’m sorry for that with all my heart,—he says, being somewhat put to’t on his Journey, he was forced to pawn the Bracelets for half a Crown, and the Handkerchief he gave his Landlady on the Road for a Kindness received,—this ’tis when People will be fooling—

Sir Cred. Why, the Devil’s in this Lodwick, for mistaking my Signs thus: hang me if ever I thought of Bracelets or a Handkerchief, or ever received a Civility from any Woman Breathing,—is he bewitcht trow? Aside.

Lean. Lodwick, you are mistaken in the Knight’s meaning all this while. Look on him, Sir,—do not you guess from that Look, and wrying of his Mouth, that you mistook the Bracelets for Diamond Rings, which he humbly begs, Madam, you would grace with your fair Hand?

Lod. Ah, now I perceive it plain.

Sir Cred. A Pox of his Compliment. Why, this is worse than t’other.—What shall I do in this case?—should I speak and undeceive them, they would swear ’twere to save my Jems: and to part with ’em—Zoz, how simply should I look!—but hang’t, when I have married her, they are my own again. Gives the Rings, and falls back into Grimaces. Leander whispers to Lodwick.

Lod. Enough—Then, Sister, she has sent you a Purse of her own knitting full of Broad Gold.

Sir. Cred. Broad Gold! why, what a Pox does the Man conjure?

Lod. Which, Sister, faith, you must accept of, you see by that Grimace how much ’twill grieve him else.

Sir Cred. A pretty civil way this to rob a Man.—Why, Lodwick,—why, what a Pox, will they have no mercy?—Zoz, I’ll see how far they’ll drive the Jest. Gives the Gold and bows, and scrapes and screws.

Lod. Say you so, Sir? well I’ll see what may be done.—Sister, behold him, and take pity on him; he has but one more humble request to make you, ’tis to receive a Gold Watch which he designs you from himself.

Sir Cred. Why, how long has this Fellow been a Conjurer? for he does deal with the Devil, that’s certain,—Lodwick— Pulls him.

Lod. Ay do, speak and spoil all, do.

Sir Cred. Speak and spoil all, quoth he! and the Duce take me if I am not provok’d to’t; why, how the Devil should he light slap-dash, as they say, upon every thing thus? Well, Zoz, I’m resolv’d to give it her, and shame her if she have any Conscience in her. Gives his Watch with pitiful Grimaces.

Lod. Now, Sister, you must know there’s a Mystery in this Watch, ’tis a kind of Hieroglyphick that will instruct you how a Married Woman of your Quality ought to live.

Sir Cred. How, my Watch Mysteries and Hieroglyphicks! the Devil take me, if I knew of any such Virtues it had. They are all looking on the Watch.

Lod. Beginning at Eight, from which down to Twelve you ought to imploy in dressing, till Two at Dinner, till Five in Visits, till Seven at the Play, till Nine i’th’ Park, Ten at Supper with your Lover, if your Husband be not at home, or keep his distance, which he’s too well bred not to do; then from Ten to Twelve are the happy Hours the Bergere, those of intire Enjoyment.—

Sir Cred. Say you so? hang me if I shall not go near to think I may chance to be a Cuckold by the shift.

Isab. Well, Sir, what must she do from Twelve till Eight again?

Lod. Oh! those are the dull Conjugal Hours for sleeping with her own Husband, and dreaming of Joys her absent Lover alone can give her.

Sir Cred. Nay, an she be for Sleeping, Zoz, I am as good at that as she can be for her Heart; or Snoring either.

Lod. But I have done; Sir Credulous has a dumb Oration to make you by way of farther Explanation.

Sir Cred. A dumb Oration! now do I know no more how to speak a dumb Speech than a Dog.

Luc. Oh, I love that sort of Eloquence extremely.

Lod. I told you this would take her.

Sir Cred. Nay, I know your silent Speeches are incomparable, and I have such a Speech in my Head.

Lod. Your Postures, your Postures, begin, Sir. He puts himself into a ready Posture as if he would speak, but only makes Faces.

Enter Page.

Pag. Sir, my Lady desires to speak with you. To Lean.

Lean. I’ll wait on her,—a Devil on’t.—

Pag. I have command to bring you, Sir, instantly.

Lean. This is ill luck, Madam, I cannot see the Farce out; I’ll wait on you as soon as my good Fortune will permit me. Exit with Page.

Luc. He’s going to my Mother, dear Isabella, let’s go and hinder their Discourse: Farewel, Sir Ambassador, pray remember us to Psyche, not forgetting the little blind Archer, ha, ha, ha.— Ex. Lucr. and Isab. laughing.

Sir Cred. So, I have undone all, they are both gone, flown I protest; why, what a Devil ail’d em? Now have I been dumb all this while to no purpose, you too never told her my meaning right; as I hope to breathe, had any but yourself done this, I should have sworn by Helicon and all the rest of the Devils, you had had a design to have abus’d me, and cheated me of all my Moveables too.

Lod. What a hopeful Project was here defeated by my mistake! but courage, Sir Credulous, I’ll put you in a way shall fetch all about again.

Sir Cred. Say you so? ah, dear Lodwick, let me hear it.

Lod. Why, you shall this Night give your Mistress a Serenade.

Sir Cred. How! a Serenade!

Lod. Yes, but it must be perform’d after an Extravagant manner, none of your dull amorous Night-walking Noises so familiar in this Town; Lucretia loves nothing but what’s great and extravagant, and passes the reach of vulgar practice.

Sir Cred. What think you of a silent Serenade? Zoz, say but the word and it shall be done, Man, let me alone for Frolicks, i’faith.

Lod. A silent one! no, that’s to wear a good humour to the Stumps; I wou’d have this want for no Noise; the extremes of these two Addresses will set off one another.

Sir Cred. Say you so? what think you then of the Bagpipe, Tongs, and Gridiron, Cat-calls, and loud-sounding Cymbals?

Lod. Naught, naught, and of known use; you might as well treat her with Viols and Flute-doux, which were enough to disoblige her for ever.

Sir Cred. Why, what think you then of the King of Bantam’s own Musick.

Lod. How! the King of Bantam’s Musick?

Sir Cred. Ay, Sir, the King of Bantam’s: a Friend of mine had a Present sent him from thence, a most unheard of curiosity I’ll assure you.

Lod. That, that by all means, Sir.

Sir Cred. Well, I’ll go borrow ’em presently.

Lod. You must provide your self of a Song.

Sir Cred. A Song! hang’t, ’tis but rummaging the Play-Books, stealing thence is lawful Prize—Well, Sir, your Servant. Exit.

Enter Leander.

Lod. I hope ’twill be ridiculous enough, and then the Devil’s in’t if it do not do his Business with my Mother, for she hates all impertinent Noises but what she makes herself. She’s now going to make a Visit to your Uncle, purposely to give me an opportunity to Isabella.

Lean. And I’m ingag’d to wait on her thither, she designs to carry the Fiddles too; he’s mad enough already, but such a Visit will fit him for Bedlam.

Lod. No matter, for you have all a leud Hand with him; between his continual imaginary Sickness, and perpetual Physic, a Man might take more Pleasure in an Hospital. What the Devil did he marry a young Wife for? and they say a handsome Creature too.

Lean. To keep up his Title of Cuckold I think, for she has Beauty enough for Temptation, and no doubt makes the right use on’t: wou’d I cou’d know it, that I might prevent her cheating my Uncle longer to my undoing.

Lod. She’ll be cunning enough for that, if she have Wit: but now thou talk’st of Intrigues, when didst see Wittmore? that Rogue has some lucky Haunt which we must find out.—But my Mother expects your attendance; I’ll go seek my Sister, and make all the Interest there I can for you, whilst you pay me in the same Coin to Isabella. Adieu.

Lean. Trust my Friendship.—

Ex. severally.