SCENE III.--_Covent Garden.

_Enter_ LOVEMORE _and_ FREDERICK.

_Love._ It is so pleasant a night that I will see you over the Garden to your lodgings.

_Fred._ That compliment won't pass upon me. Your reason for sauntering this way is that 'tis near Penelope's.

_Love._ I come for her sake! No; should she write, beseech, kneel to me, I think I ne'er should value her more. No, I'll be no longer her tool, her jest; she shall not dally with a passion she deserves not.

_Fred._ 'Twere very well were this resolution in your power; but believe me, friend, one smile, one glance that were but doubtful whether favourable, would conquer all your indignation.

_Love._ Faith, I'm afraid what you say is true.

_Fred._ Then strive not to be rationally mad, which you attempt if you think you can at once be at your own command and at another's. Would you be master of yourself and have a mistress?

_Love._ But I can rebel against that mistress.

_Fred._ Do if you can. Nay, I'm sure 'tis in your power, because to-morrow morning you are to fight a rival for her--because though you know she lies backwards, and you can't so much as see her chamber window, you must needs walk hither. Well, I protest I'm of your mind; there is, me thinks, now a particular, amiable gloom about that house--though, perhaps, to ordinary beholders it is exactly like the others.

_Love._ You are very witty, I must confess, at your friend's follies, Mr. Frederick.

_Fred._ I won't then any longer disturb your meditation, but e'en go home like a dull rogue as I am, and without love enough to any woman, or hatred enough to any man, to keep me awake, fall fast asleep--I was going to wish you rest, but you are above all that. If it should rain, I'd advise you not to forget it does, but go into the Piazza. [_Exit._

_Love._ 'Tis very well, I'm deservedly laughed at. But the door opens--Bookwit's footman! [LATINE _crosses the stage._] The master, I suppose, is there too. I'll watch for his coming out----The morning approaches too slowly. He shall not sleep to-night except it be for ever----Oh, revenge! Oh, jealousy!

_Enter_ YOUNG BOOKWIT, _with bottle and glass, singing._[71]

_Y. Book._

Since the day of poor man, That little, little span, Though long it can't last, For the future and past Is spent with remorse and despair.

With such a full glass Let that of life pass, 'Tis made up of trouble, A storm though a bubble, There's no bliss but forgetting your care.

I wonder what's become of poor Latine. I wish he had a bumper of this----[_Drinks._

_Love._ I have no patience to observe his insolent jollity; how immoderately joyful my misery has made him!--Bookwit!

_Y. Book._ Lovemore!

_Love._ What, sir! are you diverting the thought of to-morrow morning's business with midnight riot? Or is it an assignation keeps you out of bed thus late?

_Y. Book._ An hour or two till morning is not much in either of our lives; therefore I must tell you now, sir, I am ready for your message.

_Love._ That conscious light and stars are witnesses of----

_Y. Book._ I want no witnesses. I have a sword, as you bid me meet you. [_They draw and fight._

_Love._ You've done my business. [_Falls._

_Y. Book._ Then I've done what you desired me. But this is no place for me. [_Exit._

_Enter_ CONSTABLE _and_ WATCHMEN.

_Const._ Where, where was this clashing of swords? So-ho! So-ho! You, sir, what, are you dead? Speak, friend; what are you afraid of? If you are dead, the law can't take hold of you.

_Watch._ I beg your pardon, Mr. Constable, he ought by the law to be carried to the Round-house for being dead at this time of night.

_Const._ Then away with him, you three----And you, gentlemen, follow me to find out who killed him. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ SIMON.

_Sim._ What's the matter, good gentlemen, what's the matter? Oh, me! Mr. Lovemore killed! Oh, me! My mind gives me that it must be about our young lady.

_Watch._ Does it so, sir? Then you must stay with us. [_Some hold_ SIMON, _whilst others carry_ LOVEMORE _off._

_Sim._ I stay with you! Oh, gemini! Indeed, I can't----They can't be without me at our house.

_Watch._ But they must, friend----Harkee, friend--I hope you'll be hanged. [_Whispers him._

_Sim._ I hanged! Pray, sir, take care of your words. Madam Penelope's, our young lady's servant, hanged! Take care what you say.

_Enter_ LATINE.

_Lat._ Whither can this Bookwit be gone?

_Sim._ Oh! Mr. John, Mr. Lovemore is killed just now, since you went out of our house; and you and your master must have an hand in it.

_Lat._ How? Lovemore killed! [_They seize_ LATINE.

_Enter others with_ YOUNG BOOKWIT.

_Y. Book._ Hands off, you dirty midnight rascals. Let me go, or----

_Const._ Sir, what were you running so fast for? There's a man killed in the Garden, and you're a fine gentleman, and it must be you--for good honest people only beat one another----

_Lat._ Nay, nay, we are all in a fair way to be fine gentlemen, Mr. Simon and all.

_Const._ Hands off, rascals, you said just now--do you know what a constable is?

_Y. Book._ The greatest man in the parish when all the rest are asleep.

_Const._ Come, come, I find they are desperate fellows; we'll to the justice, and commit 'em immediately. I'll teach rascals to speak high-treason against a petty constable----[_Exeunt._[72]

_Enter_ FREDERICK _and_ OLD BOOKWIT.

_O. Book._ You well may be surprised at my waiting here for your coming home. But you'll pardon me, since it is to ease me of an anxiety that keeps me waking.

_Fred._ I shall be very glad if I am capable of doing that.

_O. Book._[73] You knew my Tom at Oxford, and I believe were not so hard a student, but you made some acquaintance in the town--therefore, pray tell me, do you know Mr. Newtown there--his family, descent, and fortune?

_Fred._ What Newtown?

_O. Book._ I'll tell you, sir, what you young fellows take most notice of old ones for--a token that you needs must know him by--he's the father of the fair Matilda, your celebrated beauty of that town.

_Fred._ I assure you, sir, I never heard of the father or daughter till this instant; therefore I'm confident there's no such beauty.

_O. Book._ Oh, sir, I know your drift--you're tender of informing me for my son's sake! He told me all himself. I know all the progress of his love with the young lady; how he was taken in the night in her bedchamber by his pistol going off, the family disturbance that was raised upon it, which he composed by marrying--I know it all.

_Fred._ Is Tom Bookwit then married at Oxford?

_O. Book._ He is, indeed, sir; therefore our affairs are now so linked that 'twill be an ill office both to the Newtowns and to us to conceal anything from me that relates to them.

_Fred._ A man can't be said to conceal what he does not know----But it seems it was Mr. Bookwit gave you this account himself.

_O. Book._ Yes, sir; I told you, sir, I had it from himself.

_Fred._ Then I'm sure there was nothing left out; he never tells a story by halves.

_O. Book._ Why, then, you think my son's a liar.

_Fred._ Oh fie, sir, but he enlivens a mere narration with variety of accidents; to be plain, his discourse gains him more applause than credit. You could not, I believe, have married your son to a less expensive lady in England than this Mrs. Matilda. I'll be sworn you'll avoid all the charge of gay dress, high play, and stately childbirth. You understand me, sir?

_O. Book._ I never could see anything in my son that's disingenuous, to put his aged father to this shame.

_Fred._ Never fret or grieve for it. He told Lovemore this morning such a relation of his feasting ladies, and I know not what, that he has brought a tilt upon his hands to-morrow morning; therefore keep him at home. I'll to his adversary, so we'll convince him of a fault which has so ill (though not intended) consequences.

_O. Book._ You'll highly oblige me, sir; I'll trouble you no longer. [_Exeunt._