The Works of Aphra Behn, Vol. III - Aphra Behn
Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34
_Let_. Alas, I heard, my _Bellmour_, thou wert dead.
_Bel_. And was it thus you mourn'd my Funeral?
_Let_. I will not justify my hated Crime:
But Oh! remember I was poor and helpless,
And much reduc'd, and much impos'd upon.
[Bellmour _weeps_.
_Bel_. And Want compell'd thee to this wretched Marriage--did it?
_Let_. 'Tis not a Marriage, since my _Bellmour_ lives;
The Consummation were Adultery.
I was thy Wife before, wo't thou deny me?
_Bel_. No, by those Powers that heard our mutual Vows,
Those Vows that tie us faster than dull Priests.
_Let_. But oh my _Bellmour_, thy sad Circumstances
Permit thee not to make a publick Claim:
Thou art proscribed, and diest if thou art seen.
_Bel_. Alas!
_Let_. Yet I wou'd wander with thee o'er the World,
And share thy humblest Fortune with thy Love.
_Bel_. Is't possible, _Leticia_, thou wou'dst fly
To foreign Shores with me?
_Let_. Can _Bellmour_ doubt the Soul he knows so well?
_Bel_. Perhaps in time the King may find my Innocence, and may extend
his Mercy:
Mean time I'll make provision for our Flight.
_Let_. But how 'twixt this and that can I defend
My self from the loath'd Arms of an impatient Dotard,
That I may come a spotless Maid to thee?
_Bel_. Thy native Modesty and my Industry
Shall well enough secure us.
Feign your nice Virgin-Cautions all the day;
Then trust at night to my Conduct to preserve thee.
--And wilt thou yet be mine? Oh, swear a-new,
Give me again thy Faith, thy Vows, thy Soul;
For mine's so sick with this Day's fatal Business,
It needs a Cordial of that mighty strength;
Swear--swear, so as if thou break'st--
Thou mayst be--any thing--but damn'd, _Leticia_.
_Let_. Thus then, and hear me, Heaven! [_Kneels_.
_Bel_. And thus--I'll listen to thee. [_Kneels_.
_Enter Sir_ Feeble, _L_. Fulbank, _Sir_ Cautious.
Sir _Feeb_. _Lette, Lette, Lette_, where are you, little Rogue, _Lette_?
--Hah--hum--what's here--
_Bel_. snatches her to his Bosom, as if she fainted.
_Bel_. Oh Heavens, she's gone, she's gone!
Sir _Feeb_. Gone--whither is she gone?--it seems she had the Wit to
take good Company with her--
[_The Women go to her, take her up_.
_Bel_. She's gone to Heaven, Sir, for ought I know.
Sir _Cau_. She was resolv'd to go in a young Fellow's Arms, I see.
Sir _Feeb_. Go to, _Francis_--go to.
L. _Ful_. Stand back, Sir, she recovers.
_Bel_. Alas, I found her dead upon the Floor,
--Shou'd I have left her so--if I had known your mind--
Sir _Feeb_. Was it so--was it so?--Got so, by no means, _Francis_.--
_Let_. Pardon him, Sir, for surely I had died,
Bur for his timely coming.
Sir _Feeb_. Alas, poor Pupsey--was it sick--look here--here's a fine
thing to make it well again. Come, buss, and it shall have it--oh, how I
long for Night. _Ralph_, are the Fidlers ready?
_Ral_. They are tuning in the Hall, Sir.
Sir _Feeb_. That's well, they know my mind. I hate that same twang,
twang, twang, fum, fum, fum, tweedle, tweedle, tweedle, then scrue go
the Pins, till a man's Teeth are on an edge; then snap, says a small
Gut, and there we are at a loss again. I long to be in bed with a--hey
tredodle, tredodle, tredodle,--with a hay tredool, tredodle, tredo--
[_Dancing and playing on his Stick like a Flute_.
Sir _Cau_. A prudent Man would reserve himself--Good-facks, I danc'd so
on my Wedding-day, that when I came to Bed, to my Shame be it spoken, I
fell fast asleep, and slept till morning.
L. _Ful_. Where was your Wisdom then, Sir _Cautious_? But I know what a
wise Woman ought to have done.
Sir _Feeb_. Odsbobs, that's Wormwood, that's Wormwood--I shall have my
young Hussey set a-gog too; she'll hear there are better things in the
World than she has at home, and then odsbobs, and then they'll ha't,
adod, they will, Sir _Cautious_. Ever while you live, keep a Wife
ignorant, unless a Man be as brisk as his Neighbours.
Sir _Cau_. A wise Man will keep 'em from baudy Christnings then, and
Gossipings.
Sir _Feeb_. Christnings and Gossipings! why, they are the very Schools
that debauch our Wives, as Dancing-Schools do our Daughters.
Sir _Cau_. Ay, when the overjoy'd good Man invites 'em all against that
time Twelve-month: Oh, he's a dear Man, cries one--I must marry, cries
another, here's a Man indeed--my Husband--God help him--
Sir _Feeb_. Then he falls to telling of her Grievance, till (half
maudlin) she weeps again: Just my Condition, cries a third: so the
Frolick goes round, and we poor Cuckolds are anatomiz'd, and turn'd the
right side outwards; adsbobs, we are, Sir _Cautious_.
Sir _Cau_. Ay, ay, this Grievance ought to be redrest, Sir _Feeble_; the
grave and sober part o'th' Nation are hereby ridicul'd,--Ay, and
cuckolded too for ought I know.
L. _Ful_. Wise Men knowing this, should not expose their Infirmities, by
marrying us young Wenches; who, without Instruction, find how we are
impos'd upon.
_Enter Fiddles playing, Mr_. Bearjest _and_ Diana _dancing_;
Bredwel, Noisey, &c.
L. _Ful_. So, Cousin, I see you have found the way to Mrs. _Dy's_ Heart.
_Bea_. Who, I, my dear Lady Aunt? I never knew but one way to a Woman's
Heart, and that road I have not yet travelled; for my Uncle, who is a
wise Man, says Matrimony is a sort of a--kind of a--as it were, d'ye
see, of a Voyage, which every Man of Fortune is bound to make one time
or other: and Madam--I am, as it were--a bold Adventurer.
_Dia_. And are you sure, Sir, you will venture on me?
_Bea_. Sure!--I thank you for that--as if I could not believe my Uncle;
For in this case a young Heir has no more to do, but to come and see,
settle, marry, and use you scurvily.
_Dia_. How, Sir, scurvily?
_Bea_. Very scurvily, that is to say, be always fashionably drunk,
despise the Tyranny of your Bed, and reign absolutely--keep a Seraglio
of Women, and let my Bastard Issue inherit; be seen once a Quarter, or
so, with you in the Park for Countenance, where we loll two several ways
in the gilt Coach like _Janus_, or a Spread-Eagle.
_Dia_. And do you expect I shou'd be honest the while?
_Bea_. Heaven forbid, not I, I have not met with that Wonder in all my
Travels.
L. _Ful_. How, Sir, not an honest Woman?
_Bea_. Except my Lady Aunt--Nay, as I am a Gentleman and the first of my
Family--you shall pardon me, here--cuff me, cuff me soundly.
[_Kneels to her_.
_Enter_ Gayman _richly drest_.
_Gay_. This Love's a damn'd bewitching thing--Now though I should lose
my Assignation with my Devil, I cannot hold from seeing _Julia_ to
night: hah--there, and with a Fop at her Feet.--Oh Vanity of Woman!
[_Softly pulls her_.
L. _Ful_. Oh, Sir, you're welcome from _Northamptonshire_.
_Gay_. Hum--surely she knows the Cheat. [_Aside_.
L. _Ful_. You are so gay, you save me, Sir, the labour of asking if your
Uncle be alive.
_Gay_. Pray Heaven she have not found my Circumstances!
But if she have, Confidence must assist me-- [_Aside_.
--And, Madam, you're too gay for me to inquire
Whether you are that _Julia_ which I left you?
L. _Ful_. Oh, doubtless, Sir--
_Gay_. But why the Devil do I ask--Yes, you are still the same; one of
those hoiting Ladies, that love nothing like Fool and Fiddle; Crouds of
Fops; had rather be publickly, though dully, flatter'd, than privately
ador'd: you love to pass for the Wit of the Company, by talking all
and loud.
L. _Ful_. Rail on, till you have made me think my Virtue at so low Ebb,
it should submit to you.
_Gay_. What--I'm not discreet enough;
I'll babble all in my next high Debauch,
Boast of your Favours, and describe your Charms
To every wishing Fool.
L. _Ful_. Or make most filthy Verses of me--
Under the name of _Cloris_--you _Philander_,
Who in leud Rhimes confess the dear Appointment;
What Hour, and where, how silent was the Night,
How full of Love your Eyes, and wishing mine.
Faith, no; if you can afford me a Lease of your Love,
Till the old Gentleman my Husband depart this wicked World,
I'm for the Bargain.
Sir _Cau_. Hum--what's here, a young Spark at my Wife?
[_Goes about 'em_.
_Gay_. Unreasonable _Julia_, is that all,
My Love, my Sufferings, and my Vows must hope?
Set me an Age--say when you will be kind,
And I will languish out in starving Wish:
But thus to gape for Legacies of Love,
Till Youth be past Enjoyment,
The Devil I will as soon--farewel.
[_Offers to go_.
L. _Ful_. Stay, I conjure you stay.
_Gay_. And lose my Assignation with my Devil. [_Aside_.
Sir _Cau_. 'Tis so, ay, ay, 'tis so--and wise Men will perceive it; 'tis
here--here in my forehead, it more than buds; it sprouts, it flourishes.
Sir _Feeb_. So, that young Gentleman has nettled him, stung him to the
quick: I hope he'll chain her up--the Gad-Bee's in his Quonundrum--in
Charity I'll relieve him--Come, my Lady _Fulbank_, the Night grows old
upon our hands; to dancing, to jiggiting--Come, shall I lead your
Ladyship?
L. _Ful_. No, Sir, you see I am better provided--
[_Takes_ Gayman's _hand_.
Sir _Cau_. Ay, no doubt on't, a Pox on him for a young handsome Dog.
[_They dance all_.
Sir _Feeb_. Very well, very well, now the Posset; and then--ods bobs,
and then--
_Dia_. And then we'll have t'other Dance.
Sir _Feeb_. Away, Girls, away, and steal the Bride to Bed; they have
a deal to do upon their Wedding-nights; and what with the tedious
Ceremonies of dressing and undressing, the smutty Lectures of the Women,
by way of Instruction, and the little Stratagems of the young Wenches
--odds bobs, a Man's cozen'd of half his Night: Come, Gentlemen, one
Bottle, and then--we'll toss the Stocking.
[_Exeunt all but L_. Ful. Bred, _who are talking, and_ Gayman.
L. _Ful_. But dost thou think he'll come?
_Bred_. I do believe so, Madam--
L. _Ful_. Be sure you contrive it so, he may not know whither, or to
whom he comes.
_Bred_. I warrant you, Madam, for our Parts.
[_Exit_ Bredwel, _stealing out_ Gayman.
L. _Ful_. How now, what, departing?
_Gay_. You are going to the Bride-Chamber.
L. _Ful_. No matter, you shall stay--
_Gay_. I hate to have you in a Croud.
L. _Ful_. Can you deny me--will you not give me one lone hour i'th'
Garden?
_Gay_. Where we shall only tantalize each other with dull kissing,
and part with the same Appetite we met--No, Madam; besides, I have
business--
L. _Ful_. Some Assignation--is it so indeed?
_Gay_. Away, you cannot think me such a Traitor; 'tis more important
business--
L. _Ful_. Oh, 'tis too late for business--let to morrow serve.
_Gay_. By no means--the Gentleman is to go out of Town.
L. _Ful_. Rise the earlier then--
_Gay_.--But, Madam, the Gentleman lies dangerously--sick--and should he
die--
L. _Ful_. 'Tis not a dying Uncle, I hope, Sir?
_Gay_. Hum--
L. _Ful_. The Gentleman a dying, and to go out of Town to morrow?
_Gay_. Ay--a--he goes--in a Litter--'tis his Fancy, Madam--Change of Air
may recover him.
L. _Ful_. So may your change of Mistress do me, Sir--farewel.
[_Goes out_.
_Gay_. Stay, _Julia_--Devil, be damn'd--for you shall tempt no more,
I'll love and be undone--but she is gone--
And if I stay, the most that I shall gain
Is but a reconciling Look, or Kiss.
No, my kind Goblin--
_I'll keep my Word with thee, as the least Evil;
A tantalizing Woman's worse than Devil_.
[_Exit_.
ACT III.
SCENE I. _Sir_ Feeble's _House_.
_The Second Song before the Entry_.
A SONG made by Mr. _Cheek_.
_No more, Lucinda, ah! expose no more
To the admiring World those conquering Charms:
In vain all day unhappy Men adore,
What the kind Night gives to my longing Arms.
Their vain Attempts can ne'er successful prove,
Whilst I so well maintain the Fort of Love.
Yet to the World with so bewitching Arts,
Your dazling Beauty you around display,
And triumph in the Spoils of broken Hearts,
That sink beneath your feet, and croud your Way.
Ah! suffer now your Cruelty to cease,
And to a fruitless War prefer a Peace_.
_Enter_ Ralph _with Light, Sir_ Feeble, _and_ Bellmour
Sir _Feeb_. So, so, they're gone--Come, _Francis_, you shall have the
Honour of undressing me for the Encounter; but 'twill be a sweet one,
_Francis_.
_Bel_. Hell take him, how he teazes me! [_Undressing all the while_.
Sir _Feeb_. But is the young Rogue laid, _Francis_--is she stoln to Bed?
What Tricks the young Baggages have to whet a man's Appetite?
_Bel_. Ay, Sir--Pox on him--he will raise my Anger up to Madness, and I
shall kill him to prevent his going to Bed to her. [_Aside_.
Sir _Feeb_. A pise of those Bandstrings--the more haste the less speed.
_Bel_. Be it so in all things, I beseech thee, _Venus_.
Sir _Feeb_. Thy aid a little, _Francis_--oh, oh--thou choakest me,
'sbobs, what dost mean? [_Pinches him by the Throat_.
_Bel_. You had so hamper'd 'em, Sir--the Devil's very mischievous
in me. [_Aside_.
Sir _Feeb_. Come, come, quick, good _Francis_, adod, I'm as yare as a
Hawk at the young Wanton--nimbly, good _Francis_, untruss, untruss.
_Bel_. Cramps seize ye--what shall I do? the near Approach distracts
me. [_Aside_.
Sir _Feeb_. So, so, my Breeches, good _Francis_. But well, _Francis_,
how dost think I got the young Jade my Wife?
_Bel_. With five hundred pounds a year Jointure, Sir.
Sir _Feeb_. No, that wou'd not do, the Baggage was damnably in love with
a young Fellow they call _Bellmour_, a handsome young Rascal he was,
they say, that's truth on't; and a pretty Estate: but happening to kill
a Man he was forced to fly.
_Bel_. That was great pity, Sir.
Sir _Feeb_. Pity! hang him, Rogue, 'sbobs, and all the young Fellows in
the Town deserve it; we can never keep our Wives and Daughters honest
for rampant young Dogs; and an old Fellow cannot put in amongst 'em,
under being undone, with Presenting, and the Devil and all. But what
dost think I did? being damnably in love--I feign'd a Letter as from the
_Hague_, wherein was a Relation of this same _Bellmour's_ being hang'd.
_Bel_. Is't possible, Sir, you cou'd devise such News?
Sir _Feeb_. Possible, Man! I did it, I did it; she swooned at the News,
shut her self up a whole Month in her Chamber; but I presented high: she
sigh'd and wept, and swore she'd never marry: still I presented; she
hated, loathed, spit upon me; still, adod, I presented, till I presented
my self effectually in Church to her; for she at last wisely considered
her Vows were cancell'd, since _Bellmour_ was hang'd.
_Bel_. Faith, Sir, this was very cruel, to take away his Fame, and then
his Mistress.
Sir _Feeb_. Cruel! thou'rt an Ass, we are but even with the brisk
Rogues, for they take away our Fame, cuckold us, and take away our
Wives: so, so, my Cap, _Francis_.
_Bel_. And do you think this Marriage lawful, Sir?
Sir _Feeb_. Lawful! it shall be when I've had Livery and Seisin of her
Body--and that shall be presently Rogue,--quick--besides, this
_Bellmour_ dares as well be hang'd as come into _England_.
_Bel_. If he gets his Pardon, Sir--
Sir _Feeb_. Pardon! no, no, I have took care for that, for I have, you
must know, got his Pardon already.
_Bel_. How, Sir! got his Pardon, that's some amends for robbing him of
his Wife.
Sir _Feeb_. Hold, honest _Francis_: What, dost think 'twas in kindness
to him! No, you Fool, I got his Pardon my self, that no body else should
have it, so that if he gets any body to speak to his Majesty for it, his
Majesty cries he has granted it; but for want of my appearance, he's
defunct, trust up, hang'd, _Francis_.
_Bel_. This is the most excellent revenge I ever heard of.
Sir _Feeb_. Ay, I learnt it of a great Politician of our Times.
_Bel_. But have you got his Pardon?--
Sir _Feeb_. I've done't, I've done't; Pox on him, it cost me five
hundred pounds though: Here 'tis, my Solicitor brought it me this
Evening. [_Gives it him_.
_Bel_. This was a lucky hit--and if it scape me, let me be hang'd by a
Trick indeed. [_Aside_.
Sir _Feeb_. So, put it into my Cabinet,--safe, _Francis_, safe.
_Bel_. Safe, I'll warrant you, Sir.
Sir _Feeb_. My Gown, quick, quick,--t'other Sleeve, Man--so now my
Night-cap; well, I'll in, throw open my Gown to fright away the Women,
and jump into her Arms.
[_Exit Sir_ Feeble.
_Bel_. He's gone, quickly, oh Love inspire me!
_Enter a Footman_.
_Foot_. Sir, my Master, Sir _Cautious Fulbank_, left his Watch on the
little Parlor-Table to night, and bid me call for't.
_Bel_. Hah--the Bridegroom has it, Sir, who is just gone to Bed, it
shall be sent him in the Morning.
_Foot_. 'Tis very well, Sir--your Servant--
[_Exit_ Footman.
_Bel_. Let me see--here is the Watch, I took it up to keep for him--but
his sending has inspir'd me with a sudden Stratagem, that will do better
than Force, to secure the poor trembling _Leticia_--who, I am sure, is
dying with her Fears.
[_Exit_ Bellmour.
SCENE II. _Changes to the Bed-chamber; _Leticia_ in an undressing by the
Women at the Table_.
_Enter to them Sir_ Feeble Fainwou'd.
Sir _Feeb_. What's here? what's here? the prating Women still. Ods bobs,
what, not in Bed yet? for shame of Love, _Leticia_.
_Let_. For shame of Modesty, Sir; you wou'd not have me go to Bed before
all this Company.
Sir _Feeb_. What, the Women! why, they must see you laid, 'tis the
fashion.
_Let_. What, with a Man? I wou'd not for the World.
Oh, _Bellmour_, where art thou with all thy promised aid? [_Aside_.
_Dia_. Nay, Madam, we shou'd see you laid indeed.
_Let_. First in my Grave, _Diana_.
Sir _Feeb_. Ods bobs, here's a Compact amongst the Women--High Treason
against the Bridegroom--therefore, Ladies, withdraw, or, adod, I'll lock
you all in.
[_Throws open his Gown, they run all away, he locks the Door_.
So, so, now we're alone, _Leticia_--off with this foolish Modesty, and
Night Gown, and slide into my Arms.
[_She runs from him_.
H'e', my little Puskin--what, fly me, my coy _Daphne_,
[_He pursues her. Knocking_.
Hah--who's that knocks--who's there?--
_Bel_. [_Within_.] 'Tis I, Sir, 'tis I, open the door presently.
Sir _Feeb_. Why, what's the matter, is the House o-fire?
_Bel_. [_Within_.] Worse, Sir, worse--
[_He opens the door, _Bellmour_ enters with the Watch in his hand_.
_Let_. 'Tis _Bellmour's_ Voice!
_Bel_. Oh, Sir, do you know this Watch?
Sir _Feeb_. This Watch!
_Bel_. Ay, Sir, this Watch?
Sir _Feeb_. This Watch!--why, prithee, why dost tell me of a Watch? 'tis
Sir _Cautious Fulbank's_ Watch; what then, what a Pox dost trouble me
with Watches? [_Offers to put him out, he returns_.
_Bel_. 'Tis indeed his Watch, Sir, and by this Token he has sent for
you, to come immediately to his House, Sir.
Sir _Feeb_. What a Devil, art mad, _Francis_? or is his Worship mad, or
does he think me mad?--go, prithee tell him I'll come to him to morrow.
[_Goes to put him out_.
_Bel_. To morrow, Sir! why all our Throats may be cut before to morrow.
Sir _Feeb_. What sayst thou, Throat cut?
_Bel_. Why, the City's up in Arms, Sir, and all the Aldermen are met at
_Guild-Hall_; some damnable Plot, Sir.
Sir _Feeb_. Hah--Plot--the Aldermen met at _Guild-Hall!_--hum--why, let
'em meet, I'll not lose this Night to save the Nation.
_Let_. Wou'd you to bed, Sir, when the weighty Affairs of State require
your Presence?
Sir _Feeb_.--Hum--met at _Guild-Hall_;--my Clothes, my Gown again,
_Francis_, I'll out--out! what, upon my Wedding-night? No--I'll in.
[_Putting on his Gown pausing, pulls it off again_.
_Let_. For shame, Sir, shall the Reverend Council of the City debate
without you?
Sir _Feeb_. Ay, that's true, that's true; come truss again, _Francis_,
truss again--yet now I think on't, _Francis_, prithee run thee to the
Hall, and tell 'em 'tis my Wedding-night, d'ye see, _Francis_; and let
some body give my Voice for--
_Bel_. What, Sir?
Sir _Feeb_. Adod, I cannot tell; up in Arms, say you! why, let 'em fight
Dog, fight Bear; mun, I'll to Bed--go--
_Let_. And shall his Majesty's Service and his Safety lie unregarded for
a slight Woman, Sir?
Sir _Feeb_. Hum, his Majesty!--come, haste, _Francis_, I'll away, and
call _Ralph_, and the Footmen, and bid 'em arm; each Man shoulder his
Musket, and advance his Pike--and bring my Artillery Implements
quick--and let's away: Pupsey--b'u'y, Pupsey, I'll bring it a fine thing
yet before Morning, it may be--let's away: I shall grow fond, and forget
the business of the Nation--Come, follow me, _Francis_.--
[_Exit Sir_ Feeble, Bellmour _runs to_ Leticia.
_Bel_. Now, my _Leticia_, if thou e'er didst Love, If ever thou
design'st to make me blest--Without delay fly this adulterous Bed.
Sir _Feeb_. Why, _Francis_, where are you, Knave?
[_Sir _Feeb_. within_.
_Bel_. I must be gone, lest he suspect us--I'll lose him, and return to
thee immediately--get thy self ready.--
_Let_. I will not fail, my Love.
[_Exit_ Bellmour.
_Old Man forgive me--thou the Aggressor art,
Who rudely forc'd the Hand without the Heart.
She cannot from the Paths of Honour rove,
Whose Guide's Religion, and whose End is Love_.
[_Exit_.
SCENE III. _Changes to a Wash-house, or Out-House_.
_Enter with a Dark-lanthorn_ Bredwel _disguis'd like a Devil,
leading_ Gayman.
_Bred_. Stay here till I give notice of your coming.
[_Exit_ Bredwel, _leaves his Dark-Lanthorn_.
_Gay_. Kind Light, a little of your aid--now must I be peeping, though
my Curiosity should lose me all--hah--Zouns, what here--a Hovel or a
Hog-sty? hum, see the Wickedness of Man, that I should find no time to
swear in, but just when I'm in the Devil's Clutches.
_Enter_ Pert, _as an old Woman, with a Staff_.
_Old W_. Good Even to you, fair Sir.
_Gay_. Ha--defend me; if this be she, I must rival the Devil, that's
certain.
_Old W_. Come, young Gentleman, dare not you venture?
_Gay_. He must be as hot as _Vesuvius_ that does--I shall never earn my
Morning's Present.
_Old W_. What, do you fear a longing Woman, Sir?
_Gay_. The Devil I do--this is a damn'd Preparation to Love.
_Old W_. Why stand you gazing, Sir? A Woman's Passion is like the Tide,
it stays for no man when the hour is come--
_Gay_. I'm sorry I have took it at its Turning; I'm sure mine's ebbing
out as fast.
_Old W_. Will you not speak, Sir--will you not on?
_Gay_. I wou'd fain ask--a civil Question or two first.
_Old W_. You know too much Curiosity lost Paradise.
_Gay_. Why, there's it now.
_Old W_. Fortune and Love invite you, if you dare follow me.
_Gay_. This is the first thing in Petticoats that ever dar'd me in vain.
Were I but sure she were but human now--for sundry Considerations she
might down--but I will on--
[_She goes, he follows; both go out_.
SCENE IV. _A Chamber in the Apartments of L. _Fulbank.
_Enter_ Old Woman _followed by_ Gayman _in the dark_.
[_Soft Musick plays, she leaves him_.
_Gay_.--Hah, Musick--and Excellent!
SONG.
_Oh! Love, that stronger art than Wine,
Pleasing Delusion, Witchery divine,
Want to be prized above all Wealth,
Disease that has more Joys than Health;
Though we blaspheme thee in our Pain,
And of thy Tyranny complain,
We all are bettered by thy Reign.
What Reason never can bestow,
We to this useful Passion owe.
Love wakes the dull from sluggish Ease,
And learns a Clown the Art to please:
Humbles the Vain, kindles the Cold,
Makes Misers free, and Cowards bold.
'Tis he reforms the Sot from Drink,
And teaches airy Fops to think.
When full brute Appetite is fed,
And choak'd the Glutton lies, and dead;
Thou new Spirits dost dispense,
And fine'st the gross Delights of Sense.
Virtue's unconquerable Aid,
That against Nature can persuade;
And makes a roving Mind retire
Within the Bounds of just Desire.
Chearer of Age, Youth's kind Unrest,
And half the Heaven of the blest_.
_Gay_. Ah, _Julia, Julia!_ if this soft Preparation
Were but to bring me to thy dear Embraces;
What different Motions wou'd surround my Soul,
From what perplex it now.
_Enter Nymphs and Shepherds, and dance_.
[_Then two dance alone. All go out but_ Pert _and a Shepherd_.
--If these be Devils, they are obliging ones:
I did not care if I ventur'd on that last Female Fiend.
Man sings.
_Cease your Wonder, cease your Guess,
Whence arrives your happiness.
Cease your Wonder, cease your Pain,
Human Fancy is in vain_.