Act 4 — Scene III. A Tent.
Reading edition
Scene III. A Tent.
Enter Chrisante and Surelove.
Chris. I’m not so much afflicted for my Confinement, as I am that I cannot hear of Friendly.
Sure. Art not persecuted with Daring?
Chris. Not at all; though he tells me daily of his Passion, I rally him, and give him neither Hope nor Despair,—he’s here.
Enter Daring, Fear. Rant. and Jenny.
Dar. Madam, the Complaisance I show in bringing you my Rival, will let you see how glad I am to oblige you every way.
Ran. I hope the Danger I have exposed my self to for the Honour of kissing your Hand, Madam, will render me something acceptable—here are my Credentials— Gives her a Letter.
Chrisante reads.
Dear Creature, I have taken this Habit to free you from an impertinent Lover, and to secure the damn’d Rogue Daring to my self: receive me as sent by Colonel Surelove from England to marry you—favour me—no more—
Yours, Ranter.
—Hah, Ranter? Aside. —Sir, you have too good a Character from my Cousin Colonel Surelove, not to receive my Welcome. Gives Surelove the Letter.
Ran. Stand by, General—
Pushes away Daring, looks big, and takes Chrisante by the Hand, and kisses it.
Dar. ’Sdeath, Sir, there’s room enough—at first sight so kind! Oh Youth, Youth and Impudence, what Temptations are you to Villanous Woman?
Chris. I confess, Sir, we Women do not love these rough fighting Fellows, they’re always scaring us with one Broil or other.
Dar. Much good may it do you with your tame Coxcomb.
Ran. Well, Sir, then you yield the Prize?
Dar. Ay, Gad, were she an Angel, that can prefer such a callow Fop as thou before a Man—take her and domineer. They all laugh.
—’Sdeath, am I grown ridiculous?
Fear. Why hast thou not found the Jest? by Heaven, ’tis Ranter, ’tis she that loves you; carry on the humour. Aside.
Faith, Sir, if I were you, I wou’d devote my self to Madam Ranter.
Chris. Ay, she’s the fittest Wife for you, she’ll fit your Humour.
Dar. Ranter—Gad, I’d sooner marry a she-Bear, unless for a Penance for some horrid Sin; we should be eternally challenging one another to the Field, and ten to one she beats me there; or if I should escape there, she wou’d kill me with drinking.
Ran. Here’s a Rogue—does your Country abound with such Ladies?
Dar. The Lord forbid, half a dozen wou’d ruin the Land, debauch all the Men, and scandalize all the Women.
Fear. No matter, she’s rich.
Dar. Ay, that will make her insolent.
Fear. Nay, she’s generous too.
Dar. Yes, when she’s drunk, and then she’ll lavish all.
Ran. A pox on him, how he vexes me.
Dar. Then such a Tongue—she’ll rail and smoke till she choke again; then six Gallons of Punch hardly recovers her, and never but then is she good-natur’d.
Ran. I must lay him on—
Dar. There’s not a Blockhead in the Country that has not—
Ran. What—
Dar. Been drunk with her.
Ran. I thought you had meant something else, Sir. In huff.
Dar. Nay—as for that—I suppose there is no great difficulty.
Ran. ’Sdeath, Sir, you lye—and you are a Son of a Whore. Draws and fences with him, and he runs back round the Stage.
Dar. Hold—hold, Virago—dear Widow, hold, and give me thy hand.
Ran. Widow!
Dar. ’Sdeath, I knew thee by instinct, Widow, though I seemed not to do so, in Revenge for the Trick you put on me in telling me a Lady dy’d for me.
Ran. Why, such an one there is, perhaps she may dwindle forty or fifty years—or so—but will never be her own Woman again, that’s certain.
Sure. This we are all ready to testify, we know her.
Chris. Upon my Life, ’tis true.
Dar. Widow, I have a shreud Suspicion, that you your self may be this dying Lady.
Ran. Why so, Coxcomb?
Dar. Because you took such Pains to put your self into my hands.
Ran. Gad, if your Heart were but half so true as your Guess, we should conclude a Peace before Bacon and the Council will—besides, this thing whines for Friendly, and there’s no hopes. To Chrisante.
Dar. Give me thy Hand, Widow, I am thine—and so entirely, I will never—be drunk out of thy Company:—Dunce is in my Tent,—prithee let’s in and bind the Bargain.
Ran. Nay, faith, let’s see the Wars at an end first.
Dar. Nay, prithee take me in the humour, while thy Breeches are on—for I never lik’d thee half so well in Petticoats.
Ran. Lead on, General, you give me good incouragement to wear them.
Exeunt.