The Works of Aphra Behn, Vol. III - Aphra Behn
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THE WORKS OF APHRA BEHN, VOL. III
EDITED BY MONTAGUE SUMMERS
MCMXV
CONTENTS:
THE TOWN-FOP; OR, SIR TIMOTHY TAWDREY
THE FALSE COUNT
THE LUCKY CHANCE; OR, AN ALDERMAN'S BARGAIN
THE FORC'D MARRIAGE; OR, THE JEALOUS BRIDEGROOM
THE EMPEROR OF THE MOON
NOTES
THE TOWN-FOP; OR, SIR TIMOTHY TAWDREY.
ARGUMENT.
Sir Timothy Tawdrey is by the wishes of his mother and the lady's father
designed for Celinda, who loves Bellmour, nephew to Lord Plotwell. A
coxcomb of the first water, Sir Timothy receives a sharp rebuff when he
opens his suit, and accordingly he challenges Bellmour, but fails to
appear at the place of meeting. Celinda's old nurse, at night, admits
Bellmour to her mistress' chamber, where they are surprized by
Friendlove, her brother, who is, however, favourable to the union, the
more so as he is a friend of Bellmour, and they have but newly returned
from travelling together in Italy. Lord Plotwell warmly welcomes his
nephew home, and proceeds to unfold his design of giving him his niece
Diana in marriage. When he demurs, the old lord threatens to deprive him
of his estate, and he is compelled eventually to acquiesce in the
matrimonial schemes of his guardian. Bellmour sends word to Celinda, who
replies in a heart-broken letter; and at the wedding feast Friendlove,
who himself is deeply enamoured of Diana, appears in disguise to observe
the traitor. He is followed by his sister disguised as a boy, and upon
Friendlove's drawing on Bellmour a scuffle ensues which, however, ends
without harm. In the nuptial chamber Bellmour informs Diana that he
cannot love her and she quits him maddened with rage and disappointment.
Sir Timothy serenades the newly-mated pair and is threatened by
Bellmour, whilst Celinda, who has been watching the house, attacks the
fop and his fiddlers. During the brawl Diana issuing forth meets
Celinda, and taking her for a boy leads her into the house and shortly
makes advances of love. They are interrupted by Friendlove, disguised,
and he receives Diana's commands to seek out and challenge Bellmour. At
the same time he reveals his love as though he told the tale of another,
but he is met with scorn and only bidden to fight the husband who has
repulsed her. Bellmour, meantime, in despair and rage at his misery
plunges into reckless debauchery, and in company with Sir Timothy visits
a bagnio, where they meet Betty Flauntit, the knight's kept mistress,
and other cyprians. Hither they are tracked by Charles, Bellmour's
younger brother, and Trusty, Lord Plotwell's old steward. Sharp words
pass, the brothers fight and Charles is slighted wounded. Their Uncle
hears of this with much indignation, and at the same time receiving a
letter from Diana begging for a divorce, he announces his intention to
further her purpose, and to abandon wholly Charles and Phillis, his
sister, in consequence of their elder brother's conduct. Sir Timothy,
induced by old Trusty, begins a warm courtship of Phillis, and arranges
with a parasite named Sham to deceive her by a mock marriage. Sham,
however, procures a real parson, and Sir Timothy is for the moment
afraid he has got a wife without a dowry or portion. Lord Plotwell
eventually promises to provide for her, and at Diana's request, now she
recognizes her mistake in trying to hold a man who does not love her,
Bellmour is forgiven and allowed to wed Celinda as soon as the divorce
has been pronounced, whilst Diana herself rewards Friendlove with
her hand.
SOURCE.
_The Town-Fop; or, Sir Timothy Tawdrey_ is materially founded upon
George Wilkins' popular play, _The Miseries of Enforced Marriage_ (4to,
1607, 1611, 1629, 1637), reprinted in Dodsley. Sir Timothy himself is
moulded to some extent upon Sir Francis Ilford, but, as Geneste aptly
remarks, he may be considered a new character. In the older drama,
Clare, the original of Celinda, dies tragically of a broken heart. It
cannot be denied that Mrs. Behn has greatly improved Wilkins' scenes.
The well-drawn character of Betty Flauntit is her own, and the
realistically vivacious bagnio episodes of Act iv replace a not very
interesting or lively tavern with a considerable accession to wit and
humour, although perhaps not to strict propriety.
THEATRICAL HISTORY.
_The Town-Fop; or, Sir Timothy Tawdrey_ was produced at the Duke's
Theatre, Dorset Garden, in September, 1676. There is no record of its
performance, and the actors' names are not given. It was a year of
considerable changes in the company, and any attempt to supply these
would be the merest surmise.
THE TOWN-FOP;
or, Sir _Timothy Tawdrey_.
PROLOGUE.
_As Country Squire, who yet had never known
The long-expected Joy of being in Town;
Whose careful Parents scarce permitted Heir
To ride from home, unless to neighbouring Fair;
At last by happy Chance is hither led,
To purchase Clap with loss of Maidenhead;
Turns wondrous gay, bedizen'd to Excess;
Till he is all Burlesque in Mode and Dress:
Learns to talk loud in Pit, grows wily too,
That is to say, makes mighty Noise and Show.
So a young Poet, who had never been
Dabling beyond the Height of Ballading;
Who, in his brisk Essays, durst ne'er excel
The lucky Flight of rhyming Doggerel,
Sets up with this sufficient Stock on Stage,
And has, perchance, the luck to please the Age.
He draws you in, like cozening Citizen;
Cares not how bad the Ware, so Shop be fine.
As tawdry Gown and Petticoat gain more
(Tho on a dull diseas'd ill-favour'd Whore)
Than prettier Frugal, tho on Holy-day, |
When every City-Spark has leave to play_, |
--Damn her, she must be sound, she is so gay; |
_So let the Scenes be fine, you'll ne'er enquire
For Sense, but lofty Flights in nimble Wire.
--What we present to Day is none of these,
But we cou'd wish it were, for we wou'd please,
And that you'll swear we hardly meant to do:
Yet here's no Sense; Pox on't, but here's no Show;
But a plain Story, that will give a Taste
Of what your Grandsires lov'd i'th' Age that's past_.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
MEN.
Lord _Plotwell_.
_Bellmour_, Nephew to the Lord _Plotwell_, contracted to _Celinda_.
_Charles_, Brother to _Bellmour_.
_Friendlove_, Brother to _Celinda_, in love with _Diana_.
Sir _Timothy Tawdrey_, a Fop-Knight, design'd to marry _Celinda_.
_Sham_, | Hangers on to Sir _Timothy_.
_Sharp_, |
_Trusty_, An old Steward to _Bellmour's_ Family.
Page to _Bellmour_.
Page to Lord _Plotwell_.
Sir _Timothy's_ Page.
Guests, Dancers, Fiddlers, and Servants.
WOMEN.
The Lady _Diana_, Niece to the Lord _Plotwell_.
_Celinda_, Sister to _Friendlove_, contracted to _Bellmour_.
_Phillis_, Sister to _Bellmour_.
_Betty Flauntit_, kept by Sir _Timothy_.
_Driver_, A Bawd.
_Jenny_, | Two Whores
_Doll_, |
_Nurse_,
Ladies and Guests.
SCENE, _Covent-Garden_.
ACT I.
SCENE I. _The Street_.
_Enter Sir_ Timothy Tawdrey, Sham, _and_ Sharp.
Sir _Tim_. Hereabouts is the House wherein dwells the Mistress of my
Heart; for she has Money, Boys, mind me, Money in abundance, or she were
not for me--The Wench her self is good-natur'd, and inclin'd to be
civil: but a Pox on't--she has a Brother, a conceited Fellow, whom the
World mistakes for a fine Gentleman; for he has travell'd, talks
Languages, bows with a _bonne mine_, and the rest; but, by Fortune, he
shall entertain you with nothing but Words--
_Sham_. Nothing else!--
Sir _Tim_. No--He's no Country-Squire, Gentlemen, will not game, whore;
nay, in my Conscience, you will hardly get your selves drunk in his
Company--He treats A-la-mode, half Wine, half Water, and the rest--But
to the Business, this Fellow loves his Sister dearly, and will not trust
her in this leud Town, as he calls it, without him; and hither he has
brought her to marry me.
_Sham_. A Pox upon him for his Pains--
Sir _Tim_. So say I--But my Comfort is, I shall be as weary of her, as
the best Husband of 'em all. But there's Conveniency in it; besides, the
Match being as good as made up by the old Folks in the Country, I must
submit--The Wench I never saw yet, but they say she's handsom--But no
matter for that, there's Money, my Boys.
_Sharp_. Well, Sir, we will follow you--but as dolefully as People do
their Friends to the Grave, from whence they're never to return, at
least not the same Substance; the thin airy Vision of a brave good
Fellow, we may see thee hereafter, but that's the most.
Sir _Tim_. Your Pardon, sweet _Sharp_, my whole Design in it is to be
Master of my self, and with part of her Portion to set up my Miss,
_Betty Flauntit_; which, by the way, is the main end of my marrying; the
rest you'll have your shares of--Now I am forc'd to take you up Suits at
treble Prizes, have damn'd Wine and Meat put upon us, 'cause the
Reckoning is to be book'd: But ready Money, ye Rogues! What Charms it
has! makes the Waiters fly, Boys, and the Master with Cap in
Hand--excuse what's amiss, Gentlemen--Your Worship shall command the
best--and the rest--How briskly the Box and Dice dance, and the ready
Money submits to the lucky Gamester, and the gay Wench consults with
every Beauty to make her self agreeable to the Man with ready Money! In
fine, dear Rogues, all things are sacrific'd to its Power; and no Mortal
conceives the Joy of Argent Content. 'Tis this powerful God that makes
me submit to the Devil, Matrimony; and then thou art assur'd of me, my
stout Lads of brisk Debauch.
_Sham_. And is it possible you can be ty'd up to a Wife? Whilst here in
_London_, and free, you have the whole World to range in, and like a
wanton Heifer, eat of every Pasture.
Sir _Tim_. Why, dost think I'll be confin'd to my own dull Enclosure?
No, I had rather feed coarsely upon the boundless Common; perhaps two or
three days I may be in love, and remain constant, but that's the most.
_Sharp_. And in three Weeks, should you wed a _Cynthia_, you'd be a
Monster.
Sir _Tim_. What, thou meanest a Cuckold, I warrant. God help thee! But a
Monster is only so from its Rarity, and a Cuckold is no such strange
thing in our Age.
_Enter_ Bellmour _and_ Friendlove.
But who comes here? _Bellmour!_ Ah, my little dear Rogue! how dost thou?
--_Ned Friendlove_ too! Dear Lad, how dost thou too? Why, welcome to
Town, i'faith, and I'm glad to see you both.
_Friend_. Sir _Timothy Tawdrey!_--
Sir _Tim_. The same, by Fortune, dear _Ned_: And how, and how, Man, how
go Matters?
_Friend_. Between who, Sir?
Sir _Tim_. Why, any Body, Man; but, by Fortune, I'm overjoy'd to meet
thee: But where dost think I was going?
_Friend_. Is't possible one shou'd divine?
Sir _Tim_. Is't possible you shou'd not, and meet me so near your
Sister's Lodgings? Faith, I was coming to pay my Respects and Services,
and the rest--Thou know'st my meaning--The old Business of the
Silver-World, _Ned_; by Fortune, it's a mad Age we live in, _Ned_; and
here be so many--wicked Rogues, about this damn'd leud Town, that,
'faith, I am fain to speak in the vulgar modish Style, in my own
Defence, and railly Matrimony and the rest.
_Friend_. Matrimony!--I hope you are so exactly refin'd a Man of the
Town, that you will not offer once to think of so dull a thing: let that
alone for such cold Complexions as _Bellmour_ here, and I, that have not
attain'd to that most excellent faculty of Keeping yet, as you, Sir
_Timothy_, have done; much to your Glory, I assure you.
Sir _Tim_. Who, I, Sir? You do me much Honour: I must confess I do not
find the softer Sex cruel; I am received as well as another Man of
my Parts.
_Friend_. Of your Money you mean, Sir.
Sir _Tim_. Why, 'faith, _Ned_, thou art i'th' right; I love to buy my
Pleasure: for, by Fortune, there's as much pleasure in Vanity and
Variety, as any Sins I know; What think'st thou, _Ned?_
_Friend_. I am not of your Mind, I love to love upon the square; and
that I may be sure not to be cheated with false Ware, I present 'em
nothing but my Heart.
Sir _Tim_. Yes, and have the Consolation of seeing your frugal huswifery
Miss in the Pit, at a Play, in a long Scarf and Night-gown, for want of
Points, and Garniture.
_Friend_. If she be clean, and pretty, and drest in Love, I can excuse
the rest, and so will she.
Sir _Tim_. I vow to Fortune, _Ned_, thou must come to _London_, and be a
little manag'd: 'slife, Man, shouldst thou talk so aloud in good
Company, thou wouldst be counted a strange Fellow. Pretty--and drest
with Love--a fine Figure, by Fortune: No, _Ned_, the painted Chariot
gives a Lustre to every ordinary Face, and makes a Woman look like
Quality; Ay, so like, by Fortune, that you shall not know one from
t'other, till some scandalous, out-of-favour'd laid-aside Fellow of the
Town, cry--Damn her for a Bitch--how scornfully the Whore regards
me--She has forgot since _Jack_--such a one, and I, club'd for the
keeping of her, when both our Stocks well manag'd wou'd not amount to
above seven Shillings six Pence a week; besides now and then a Treat of
a Breast of Mutton from the next Cook's.--Then the other laughs, and
crys--Ay, rot her--and tells his Story too, and concludes with, Who
manages the Jilt now; Why, faith, some dismal Coxcomb or other, you may
be sure, replies the first. But, _Ned_, these are Rogues, and Rascals,
that value no Man's Reputation, because they despise their own. But
faith, I have laid aside all these Vanities, now I have thought of
Matrimony; but I desire my Reformation may be a Secret, because, as you
know, for a Man of my Address, and the rest--'tis not altogether
so Jantee.
_Friend_. Sir, I assure you, it shall be so great a Secret for me, that
I will never ask you who the happy Woman is, that's chosen for this
great Work of your Conversion.
Sir _Tim_. Ask me--No, you need not, because you know already.
_Friend_. Who, I? I protest, Sir _Timothy_--
Sir _Tim_. No Swearing, dear _Ned_, for 'tis not such a Secret, but I
will trust my Intimates: these are my Friends, _Ned_; pray know
them--This Mr. _Sham_, and this--by Fortune, a very honest Fellow
[_Bows to 'em_] Mr. _Sharp_, and may be trusted with a Bus'ness that
concerns you as well as me.
_Friend_. Me! What do you mean, Sir _Timothy_?
Sir _Tim_. Why, Sir, you know what I mean.
_Friend_. Not I, Sir.
Sir _Tim_. What, not that I am to marry your Sister _Celinda_?
_Friend_. Not at all.
_Bel_. O, this insufferable Sot! [_Aside_.
_Friend_. My Sister, Sir, is very nice.
Sir _Tim_. That's all one, Sir, the old People have adjusted the matter,
and they are the most proper for a Negotiation of that kind, which saves
us the trouble of a tedious Courtship.
_Friend_. That the old People have agreed the matter, is more than
I know.
Sir _Tim_. Why, Lord, Sir, will you persuade me to that? Don't you know
that your Father (according to the Method in such Cases, being certain
of my Estate) came to me thus--Sir _Timothy Tawdrey_,--you are a young
Gentleman, and a Knight, I knew your Father well, and my right
worshipful Neighbour, our Estates lie together; therefore, Sir, I have a
desire to have a near Relation with you--At which, I interrupted him,
and cry'd--Oh Lord, Sir, I vow to Fortune, you do me the greatest
Honour, Sir, and the rest--
_Bel_. I can endure no more; he marry fair _Celinda_!
_Friend_. Prithee let him alone. [_Aside_.
Sir _Tim_. To which he answer'd--I have a good Fortune--have but my Son
_Ned_, and this Girl, call'd _Celinda_, whom I will make a Fortune,
sutable to yours; your honoured Mother, the Lady _Tawdrey_, and I, have
as good as concluded the Match already. To which I (who, though I say
it, am well enough bred for a Knight) answered the Civility thus--I vow
to Fortune, Sir--I did not swear, but cry'd--I protest, Sir, _Celinda_,
deserves--no, no, I lye again, 'twas merits--Ay, _Celinda_--merits a
much better Husband than I.
_Friend_. You speak more Truth than you are aware of. [_Aside_.]
Well, Sir, I'll bring you to my Sister; and if she likes you, as well as
My Father does, she's yours; otherwise, I have so much Tenderness for
her, as to leave her Choice free.
Sir _Tim_. Oh, Sir, you compliment. _Alons, Entrons.
[Exeunt_.
SCENE II. _A Chamber_.
_Enter_ Celinda, _and_ Nurse.
_Cel_. I wonder my Brother stays so long: sure Mr. _Bellmour_ is not
yet arriv'd, yet he sent us word he would be here to day. Lord, how
impatient I grow!
_Nur_. Ay, so methinks; if I had the hopes of enjoying so sweet a
Gentleman as Mr. _Bellmour_, I shou'd be so too--But I am past it--Well,
I have had my Pantings, and Heavings, my Impatience, and Qualms, my
Heats, and my Colds, and my I know not whats--But I thank my Stars, I
have done with all those Fooleries.
_Cel_. Fooleries!--
Is there any thing in Life but Love?
Wou'dst thou praise Heaven for thy Being,
Without that grateful part of it?
For I confess I love.
_Nur_. You need not, your Sighs, and daily (nay, and nightly too)
Disorders, plainly enough betray the Truth.
_Cel_. Thou speak'st as if it were a Sin:
But if it be so, you your self help'd to make me wicked.
For e'er I saw Mr. _Bellmour_, you spoke the kindest things of him,
As would have mov'd the dullest Maid to love;
And e'er I saw him, I was quite undone.
_Nur_. Quite undone! Now God forbid it; what, for loving?
You said but now there was no Life without it.
_Cel_. But since my Brother came from _Italy_,
And brought young _Bellmour_ to our House,
How very little thou hadst said of him!
How much above thy Praise, I found the Youth!
_Nur_. Very pretty! You are grown a notable Proficient in Love--And you
are resolv'd (if he please) to marry him?
_Cel_. Or I must die.
_Nur_. Ay, but you know the Lord _Plotwell_ has the Possession of all
his Estate, and if he marry without his liking, has Power to take away
all his Fortune, and then I think it were not so good marrying him.
_Cel_. Not marrying him! Oh, canst thou think so poorly of me?
Yes, I would marry him, though our scanty Fortune
Cou'd only purchase us
A lonely Cottage, in some silent Place,
All cover'd o'er with Thatch,
Defended from the Outrages of Storms
By leafless Trees, in Winter; and from Heat,
With Shades, which their kind Boughs wou'd bear anew;
Under whose Covert we'd feed our gentle Flock,
That shou'd in gratitude repay us Food,
And mean and humble Clothing.
_Nur_. Very fine!
_Cel_. There we wou'd practise such degrees of Love,
Such lasting, innocent, unheard of Joys,
As all the busy World should wonder at,
And, amidst all their Glories, find none such.
_Nur_. Good lack! how prettily Love teaches his Scholars to prattle.--
But hear ye, fair Mrs. _Celinda_, you have forgot to what end and purpose
you came to Town; not to marry Mr. _Bellmour_, as I take it--but Sir
_Timothy Tawdrey_, that Spark of Men.
_Cel_. Oh, name him not--Let me not in one Moment
Descend from Heaven to Hell--
How came that wretched thing into thy Noddle?
_Nur_. Faith, Mistress, I took pity of thee, I saw you so elevated with
Thoughts of Mr. _Bellmour_, I found it necessary to take you down a
degree lower.
_Cel_. Why did not Heaven make all Men like lo _Bellmour_?
So strangely sweet and charming!
_Nur_. Marry come up, you speak well for your self;
Oh intolerable loving Creature!
But here comes the utmost of your Wishes.
_Cel_. My Brother, and _Bellmour_! with strange Men!
_Enter_ Friendlove, Bellmour, _Sir_ Timothy, Sham, _and_ Sharp.
_Friend_. Sister, I've brought you here a Lover, this is the worthy
Person you have heard of, Sir _Timothy Tawdrey_.
Sir _Tim_. Yes, faith, Madam, I am Sir _Timothy Tawdrey_, at your
Service--Pray are not you Mrs. _Celinda Dresswell_?
_Cel_. The same, but cannot return your Compliment.
Sir _Tim_. Oh Lord, oh Lord, not return a Compliment. Faith, _Ned_, thy
Sister's quite spoil'd, for want of Town-Education; 'tis pity, for she's
devilish pretty.
_Friend_. She's modest, Sir, before Company; therefore these Gentlemen
and I will withdraw into the next Room.
_Cel_. Inhuman Brother! Will you leave me alone with this Sot?
_Friend_. Yes, and if you would be rid of the trouble of him, be not
coy, nor witty; two things he hates.
_Bel_. 'Sdeath! Must she be blown upon by that Fool?
_Friend_. Patience, dear _Frank_, a little while.
[_Exeunt_ Friend. Bell. Sham _and_ Sharp.
[Sir Timothy _walks about the Room, expecting when_
Celinda _should speak_.
_Cel_. Oh, dear Nurse, what shall I do?
_Nur_. I that ever help you at a dead Lift, will not fail you now.
Sir _Tim_. What a Pox, not a Word?
_Cel_. Sure this Fellow believes I'll begin.
Sir _Tim_. Not yet--sure she has spoke her last--
_Nur_. The Gentleman's good-natur'd, and has took pity on you, and will
not trouble you, I think.
Sir _Tim_.--Hey day, here's Wooing indeed--Will she never begin, trow?
--This some would call an excellent Quality in her Sex--But a pox on't,
I do not like it--Well, I see I must break Silence at last--Madam--not
answer me--'shaw, this is mere ill breeding--by Fortune--it can be
nothing else--O' my Conscience, if I should kiss her, she would bid me
stand off--I'll try--
_Nur_. Hold, Sir, you mistake your Mark.
Sir _Tim_. So I should, if I were to look in thy mouldy Chaps, good
Matron--Can your Lady speak?
_Nur_. Try, Sir.
Sir _Tim_. Which way?
_Nur_. Why, speak to her first.
Sir _Tim_. I never knew a Woman want a Cue for that; but all that I
Have met with were still before-hand with me in tittle tattle.
_Nur_. Likely those you have met with may, but this is no such
Creature, Sir.
Sir _Tim_. I must confess, I am unus'd to this kind of Dialogue; and
I am an Ass, if I know what to say to such a Creature.
--But come, will you answer me to one Question?
_Cel_. If I can, Sir.
Sir _Tim_. But first I should ask you if you can speak? For that's a
Question too.
_Cel_. And if I cannot, how will you be answer'd?
Sir _Tim_. Faith, that's right; why, then you must do't by signs.
_Cel_. But grant I can speak, what is't you'll ask me?
Sir _Tim_. Can you love?
_Cel_. Oh, yes, Sir, many things; I love my Meat, I love abundance of
Adorers, I love choice of new Clothes, new Plays; and, like a right
Woman, I love to have my Will.
Sir _Tim_. Spoke like a well-bred Person, by Fortune: I see there's
hopes of thee, Celinda; thou wilt in time learn to make a very
fashionable Wife, having so much Beauty too. I see Attracts, and
Allurements, wanton Eyes, the languishing turn of the Head, and all
That invites to Temptation.
_Cel_. Would that please you in a Wife?
Sir _Tim_. Please me! Why, Madam, what do you take me to be? a Sot?--
a Fool?--or a dull _Italian_ of the Humour of your Brother?--No, no,
I can assure you, she that marries me, shall have Franchise--But, my
pretty Miss, you must learn to talk a little more--
_Cel_. I have not Wit, and Sense enough, for that.
Sir _Tim_. Wit! Oh la, O la, Wit! as if there were any Wit requir'd
in a Woman when she talks; no, no matter for Wit, or Sense: talk but
loud, and a great deal to shew your white Teeth, and smile, and be very
confident, and 'tis enough--Lord, what a Sight 'tis to see a pretty
Woman Stand right up an end in the middle of a Room, playing with her
Fan, for want of something to keep her in Countenance. No, she that is
mine, I will teach to entertain at another rate.
_Nur_. How, Sir? Why, what do you take my young Mistress to be?
Sir _Tim_. A Woman--and a fine one, and so fine as she ought to permit
her self to be seen, and be ador'd.
_Nur_. Out upon you, would you expose your Wife? by my troth, and I
were she, I know what I wou'd do--
Sir _Tim_. Thou do--what thou wouldst have done sixty Years ago,
thou meanest.
_Nur_. Marry come up, for a stinking Knight; worse than I have gone
down with you, e'er now--Sixty Years ago, quoth ye--As old as I am--
I live without Surgeons, wear my own Hair, am not in Debt to my Taylor,
as thou art, and art fain to kiss his Wife, to persuade her Husband
to be merciful to thee--who wakes thee every Morning with his Clamour
and long Bills, at thy Chamber-door.
Sir _Tim_. Prithee, good Matron, Peace; I'll compound with thee.
_Nur_. 'Tis more than thou wilt do with thy Creditors, who, poor Souls,
despair of a Groat in the Pound for all thou ow'st them, for Points,
Lace, and Garniture--for all, in fine, that makes thee a complete Fop.
Sir _Tim_. Hold, hold thy eternal Clack.
_Nur_. And when none would trust thee farther, give Judgments for twice
the Money thou borrowest, and swear thy self at Age; and lastly--to
patch up your broken Fortune, you wou'd fain marry my sweet Mistress
_Celinda_ here--But, Faith, Sir, you're mistaken, her Fortune shall not
go to the Maintenance of your Misses; which being once sure of, she,
poor Soul, is sent down to the Country-house, to learn Housewifery, and
live without Mankind, unless she can serve her self with the handsom
Steward, or so--whilst you tear it away in Town, and live like Man and
Wife with your Jilt, and are every Day seen in the Glass Coach, whilst
your own natural Lady is hardly worth the Hire of a Hack.
Sir _Tim_. Why, thou damnable confounded Torment, wilt thou never cease?