SCENE VII.

_Enter_ WILD, JOLLY, CARELESS, CAPTAIN, PARSON, _and_ FIDDLERS, _and one with a torch, with their cloaks and their swords, putting them on_. _Enter_ WILD'S _man_.

WILD. See you wait diligently, and let them want nothing they call for. Come, shall we go? 'tis very late.

CAPT. But how does Wanton carry it?

WILD. They saluted her; and Mistress Pleasant swore you might see the country simplicity in her face.

PAR. A pox upon her, crafty gipsy!

CAPT. Why, art not thou glad to see she can be honest when she will?

PAR. I'll show you all a trick for her within these few days, or I'll miss my aim.

JOLLY. Come, let's go.

[_They all offer to go._

CAPT. I have a mind to stay till Wanton comes.

WILD. Stay a little, then, for 'twill not be long ere they be abed.

CAPT. I hear Wanton's voice.

_Enter_ WANTON.

WILD. Are they abed?

WAN. Yes, and have so admired you and Master Careless, and abused the lovers! Well, gentlemen, you are the wits of the time; but if I might counsel--well, they might lie alone this night; but it should go hard if I lay not with one of them within a month.

CARE. Were they so taken with their lodging?

WAN. All that can be said, they said: you are the friendliest men, the readiest men, the handsomest men; men that had wit, and could tell when to be civil, and when to be wild; and Mistress What's-her-name, the younger, asked why Master Wild did not go a-wooing to some rich heir; upon her conscience, she said, you would speed.

CARE. Well, well, there's a time for all things: come, let's go.

[_They offer to depart._

WILD. Take a light. Good night, Wanton.

CAPT. D'ye hear, d'ye hear? let me speak with you.

[_They all come back again._

WILD. What's the business?

CAPT. I cannot get hence this night: but your good angels hang at your heels, and if I can prevail, you shall stay.

WILD. What to do?

CAPT. What to do? why I'll be hanged, if all this company do not guess.

JOLLY. Prythee, what should we stay for?

CAPT. For the widow and her niece. Are they worth the watching for a' night?

WILD. Yes, certainly.

CAPT. Then take my counsel, and let me give it out y' are married. You have new clothes come home this morning, and there's that you spoke of I'll fetch from the tailor's; and here's a parson shall rather give them his living than stay for a licence; the fiddlers, too, are ready to salute 'em.

CARE. But if they refuse?

JOLLY. Which, upon my conscience, they will.

CAPT. As you hope, else you are laughed at for missing the widow. Ned, follow my counsel; appear at her chamber-window in thy shirt, and salute all that passes by. Let me alone to give it out, and invite company, and provide dinner; then, when the business is known, and I have presented all your friends at court with ribands, she must consent, or her honour is lost, if you have but the grace to swear it, and keep your own counsel.

CARE. By this hand, he has reason, and I'll undertake the widow.

WILD. It will incense them, and precipitate the business, which is in a fair way now; and if they have wit, they must hate us for such a treachery.

CAPT. If they have wit, they will love you: beside, if it come to that, we two will swear we saw you married, and the parson shall be sworn he did it. Priest, will you not swear?

PAR. Yes, anything; what is't, Captain?

WILD. If this jest could do it, yet 'tis base to gain a wife so poorly. She came hither, too, for sanctuary; it would be an uncivil and an unhospitable thing, and look as if I had not merit enough to get a wife without stealing her from herself: then, 'tis in mine own house.

CAPT. The better; nay, now I think on't, why came she hither? How do you know the plague is there? all was well at dinner; I'll be hanged if it be not a plot: the lovers, too, whom you abused at dinner, are joined with them: a trick, a mere trick of wit to abuse us! and to-morrow, when the birds are flown, they'll laugh at you, and say, two country-ladies put themselves naked into the hands of three travelled city wits, and they durst not lay hold on them.

CARE. A pox upon these niceties!

WAN. If they have not some design upon you, hang me: why did they talk so freely before me else?

CARE. Let's but try; we are not now to begin to make the world talk; nor is it a new thing to them to hear we are mad fellows.

CAPT. If you get them, are they worth having?

WILD. Having? yes.

CAPT. If you miss them, the jest is good. Prythee, Ned, let me prevail; 'tis but a mad trick.

WILD. If we would, how shall we get into the chamber?

WAN. Let me alone for that; I'll put on my country simplicity, and carry in a chamber-pot; then, under pretence of bolting the back-door, I'll open it--and yet I grudge them the sport so honestly; for you wenchers make the best husbands: after you are once married, one never sees you.

CAPT. I warrant thee, wench.

WAN. No, faith, I have observed it, they are still the doating'st husbands, and then retreat and become justices of the peace, and none so violent upon the bench as they against us poor sinners. Yet I'll do it; for upon my conscience, the young gentlewoman will fall upon her back, and thank me.

[_Exit_ WANTON.

CAPT. Away, go then, and leave your fooling; and in the morning, Ned, get in, and plead naked with your hands in the bed.

PAR. And if they cry, put your lips in their mouths, and stop them.

CAPT. Why, look you, you have the authority of the church too.

WILD. Well, I am now resolved: go you about your part, and make the report strong.

CARE. And d'ye hear? be sure you set the cook at work, that if we miss, we may have a good dinner and good wine to drink down our grief.

CAPT. Miss! I warrant thee, 'twill thrive.

[_Exit_ CAPTAIN.

CARE. Nay, if I knock not down the widow, geld me, and come out to-morrow complete uncle, and salute the company with, You are welcome, gentlemen, and Good-morrow, nephew Ned.

WILD. Uncle Tom, good morrow, uncle Tom.

_Enter_ WANTON.

WAN. All's done; the door is open, and they're as still as children's thoughts: 'tis time you made you ready, which is to put off your breeches, for 'tis almost day. And take my counsel, be sure to offer force enough, the less reason will serve: especially you, Master Wild, do not put a maid to the pain of saying, Ay.

WILD. I warrant thee, wench; let me alone.

CARE. We'll in and undress us, and come again, for we must go in at the back-door.

WILD. I'll meet you. Is the Captain gone?

[_Exeunt_ WILD _and_ CARELESS.

WAN. Yes, yes, he's gone.

JOLLY. Come, Master Parson, let us see the cook in readiness. Where are the fiddlers? What will become of our plot? for the coachman, Master Sad, and his friend, will stink of their jest if this thrive.

PAR. They have slept all night, on purpose to play all day.

JOLLY. When the ribands and points come from the Exchange, pray see the fiddlers have some; the rogues will play so out of tune all day else, they will spoil the dancing, if the plot do take.

_Enter_ WILD _and_ CARELESS _in their shirts, with drawers under, nightgowns on, and in slippers_.

WAN. Let's see them in the chamber first, and then I shall go with some heart about the business. So, so, creep close and quietly: you know the way; the widow lies in the high bed, and the pallet is next the door.

[_They kneel at the door to go in; she shakes her coats over them._

WILD. Must we creep?

WAN. Yes, yes, down upon your knees always, till you get a woman, and then stand up for the cause: stay, let me shake my smock over you for luck's sake.

JOLLY. Why so? I warrant you [I'll] thrive.

PAR. A pox take you, I'll pare your nails when I get you from this place once.

WAN. Sweetheart, sweetheart, off with your shoes.

PAR. Ay, with all my heart, there's an old shoe after you.[270] Would I gave all in my shop the rest were furnished with wives too!

JOLLY. Parson, the sun is rising; go send in the fiddlers, and set the cook on work; let him chop soundly.

PAR. I have a tithe-pig at home, I'll e'en sacrifice it to the wedding.

[_Exit_ PARSON.

WAN. They will find them in good posture, they may take privy marks, if they please; for they said it was so hot they could endure no clothes, and my simplicity was so diligent to lay them naked, and with such twists and turns fastened them to the feet, I'll answer for't they find not the way into them in an hour.

_Enter_ SERVANT _and_ PARSON.

JOLLY. Why, then, they may pull up their smocks, and hide their faces.

SER. Master Jolly, there was one without would speak with you.

JOLLY. Who was it?

SER. It is the lady that talks so well.

JOLLY. They say, indeed, she has an excellent tongue; I would she had changed it for a face; 'tis she that has been handsome.

PAR. Who? not the poetess we met at Master Sad's?

JOLLY. Yes, the same.

PAR. Sure, she's mad.

JOLLY. Prythee, tell her I am gone to bed.

SER. I have done as well, sir: I told her Mistress Wanton was here; at which discreetly, being touched with the guilt of her face, she threw out a curse or two, and retreated.

WAN. Who is this you speak of? I will know who 'tis.

PAR. Why, 'tis she that married the Genoa merchant; they cozened one another.

WAN. Who? Peg Driver, bugle-eyes?

JOLLY. The same, the same.

WAN. Why, she is ugly now?

PAR. Yes; but I have known her, by this hand, as fine a wench as ever sinned in town or suburbs. When I knew her first, she was the original of all the wainscoat chambermaids with brooms and barefoot madams you see sold at Temple Bar and the Exchange.

WAN. Ah, th' art a devil! how couldst thou find in thy heart to abuse her so? Thou lov'st antiquities too: the very memory that she had been handsome should have pleaded something.

JOLLY. _Was handsome_ signifies nothing to me.

WAN. But she's a wit, and a wench of an excellent discourse.

PAR. And as good company as any's i' th' town.

JOLLY. Company! for whom? Leather-ears, his majesty of Newgate watch? There her story will do well, while they louse themselves.

PAR. Well, you are curious now, but the time was when you skipped for a kiss.

JOLLY. Prythee, parson, no more of wit and _was handsome_; but let us keep to this text--[_He kisses_ WANTON]--and with joy think upon thy little Wanton here, that's kind, soft, sweet, and sound: these are epithets for a mistress, nor is there any elegancy in a woman like it. Give me such a naked scene to study night and day: I care not for her tongue, so her face be good. A whore dressed in verse and set speeches tempts me no more to that sweet sin, than the statute of whipping can keep me from it. This thing we talked on, which retains nothing but the name of what she was, is not only poetical in her discourse, but her tears and her love, her health, nay, her pleasure, were all fictions, and had scarce any live flesh about her, till I administered.

PAR. Indeed, 'tis time she sat out, and gave others leave to play; for a reverend whore is an unseemly sight: besides it makes the sin malicious, which is but venial else.

WAN. Sure, he'll make a case of conscience on't: you should do well (sweetheart) to recommend her case to your brethren that attend the committee of affection, that they may order her to be sound and young again, for the good of the commonwealth.