Chapter 58

Petro _leading in_ Tickletext.

_Pet_. Now, Signior, you’re safe and happy in the Bedchamber of your Mistress--who will be here immediately, I’m sure; I’ll fetch a Light, and put you to Bed in the mean time--

_Tick_. Not before Supper I hope, honest _Barberacho_.

_Pet_. Oh, Signior, that you shall do lying, after the manner of the antient _Romans_.

_Tick_. _Certo_, and that was a marvellous good lazy Custom.

[_Ex_. Pet.

_Enter_ Philippa _with_ Galliard _by dark_.

_Phil_. My Lady will be with you instantly--[_Goes out_.

_Tick_. Hah, sure I heard some body come softly in at the door: I hope ’.is the young Gentlewoman. [_He advances forward_.

_Gal_. Silence and Night, Love and dear Opportunity. [_In a soft Tone_. Join all your aids to make my _Silvia_ kind; For I am fill’d with the expecting Bliss, [Tick, _thrusts his Head out to listen_. And much Delay or Disappointment kills me.

_Tick_. Disappointment kills me,--and me too, _certo_--’tis she-- [_Gropes about_.

_Gal_. Oh, haste, my Fair, haste to my longing Arms, Where are you, dear and loveliest of your Sex?

_Tick_. That’s I, that’s I, _my Alma! mea Core, mea Vita!_ [_Groping and speaking low_.

_Gal_. Hah--art thou come, my Life! my Soul! my Joy! [_Goes to embrace_ Tick, _they meet and kiss_. ’.death, what’s this, a bearded Mistress! Lights, Lights there, quickly, Lights! nay, curse me if thou scap’st me.

[Tick. _struggles to get away, he holds him by the Crevat and Perriwig_; _Enter_ Petro _with a Candle_.

_Gal_. _Barberacho_--confound him, ‘tis the Fool whom I found this Evening about the House, hovering to roost him here!--Ha--what the Devil have I caught--a _Tartar_? escap’d again! the Devil’s his Confederate.--

[Pet. _puts out the Candle, comes to_ Tick, _unties his Crevat behind, and he slips his head out of the Perriwig, and gets away, leaving both in_ Gal’s _hands_.

_Pet_. Give me your Hand, I’ll lead you a back-pair of stairs through the Garden.

_Tick_. Oh, any way to save my Reputation--oh--

_Gal_. Let me but once more grasp thee, and thou shalt find more safety in the Devil’s Clutches: none but my Mistress serve ye! [_Gropes out after him_.

[Pet. _with_ Tick, _running over the Stage_, Gal. _after ‘em, with the Crevat and Perriwig in one Hand, his Pistol in t’other_.

_Enter_ Philippa _with a Light_.

_Phil_. Mercy upon us! what’s the matter? what Noise is this--hah, a Pistol! what can this mean?

[_A Pistol goes off_.

_Enter Sir_ Signal _running_.

Sir _Sig_. Oh, save me, gentle Devil, save me, the stairs are fortify’d with Cannons and double Culverins; I’m pursu’d by a whole Regiment of arm’d Men! here’s Gold, Gold in abundance, save me.--

_Phil_. What Cannons? what armed Men?

Sir _Sig_. Finding my self pursu’d as I was groping my way through the Hall, and not being able to find the Door, I made towards the stairs again, at the foot of which I was saluted with a great Gun--a pox of the Courtesy.

_Gal_. [_Without_.] Where are ye, Knight, Buffoon, Dog of _Egypt_?

Sir _Sig_. Thunder and Lightning! ‘tis _Gallaird’s_ Voice.

_Phil_. Here, step behind this Hanging--there’s a Chimney which may shelter ye till the Storm be over,--if you be not smother’d before. [_Puts him behind the Arras_.

_Enter_ Gal. _as before, and_ Corn, _at the other door_.

_Cor_. Heavens! What rude noise is this?

_Gal_. Where have you hid this Fool, this lucky Fool? He whom blind Chance, and more ill-judging Woman, Has rais’d to that Degree of Happiness, That witty Men must sigh and toil in vain for?

_Cor_. What Fool, what Happiness?

_Gal_. Cease, cunning false one, to excuse thy self, See here the Trophies of your shameful Choice, And of my Ruin, cruel--fair Deceiver!

_Cor_. Deceiver, Sir, of whom? in what despairing minute did I swear to be a constant Mistress? to what dull whining Lover did I vow, and had the heart to break it?

_Gal_. Or if thou hadst, I know of no such Dog as wou’d believe thee: No, thou art false to thy own Charms, and hast betray’d them To the possession of the vilest Wretch That ever Fortune curst with Happiness; False to thy Joys, false to thy Wit and Youth: All which thou’st damn’d with so much careful Industry To an eternal Fool, That all the Arts of Love can ne’er redeem thee.

Sir _Sig_. Meaning me, meaning me. [_Peeping out of the Chimney, his Face blackt_.

_Cor_. A Fool! what Indiscretion have you seen in me, shou’d make ye think I would choose a Witty man for a Lover, who perhaps loves out his Month in pure good Husbandry, and in that time does more Mischief than a hundred Fools. You conquer without Resistance, you treat without Pity, and triumph without Mercy: and when you are gone, the World crys--she had not Wit enough to keep him, when indeed you are not Fool enough to be kept! Thus we forfeit both our Liberties and Discretion with you villanous witty Men: for Wisdom is but good Success in things, and those that fail are Fools.

_Gal_. Most gloriously disputed! You’re grown a Machivellian in your Art.

_Cor_. Oh, necessary Maxims only, and the first Politicks we learn from Observation--I have known a Curtezan grown infamous, despis’d, decay’d, and ruin’d, in the Possession of you witty Men, who when she had the luck to break her Chains, and cast her Net for Fools, has liv’d in state, finer than Brides upon their Wedding-day, and more profuse than the young amorous Coxcomb that set her up an Idol.

Sir _Sig_. Well argued of my side, I see the Baggage loves me! [_Peeping out with a Face more smutted_.

_Gal_. And hast thou? Oh, but prithee jilt me on, And say thou hast not destin’d all thy Charms To such a wicked Use. Is that dear Face and Mouth for Slaves to kiss? Shall those bright Eyes be gaz’d upon, and serve But to reflect the Images of Fools?

Sir _Sig_. That’s I still. [_Peeping more black_.

_Gal_. Shall that soft tender Bosom be approacht By one who wants a Soul, to breathe in languishment At every Kiss that presses it?

Sir _Sig_. Soul! what a pox care I for Soul--as long as my Person is so amiable?

_Gal_. No, renounce that dull Discretion that undoes thee, Cunning is cheaply to be wise; leave it to those that have No other Powers to gain a Conquest by, It is below thy Charms. --Come swear, and be foresworn most damnably, Thou hast not yielded yet; say ‘twas intended only, And though thou ly’st, by Heaven, I must believe thee; --Say,--hast thou--given him--all?

_Cor_. I’ve done as bad, we have discours’d th’ Affair, And ‘tis concluded on.--

Gal. As bad! by Heaven, much worse! discours’d with him! Wert thou so wretched, so depriv’d of Sense, To hold Discourse with such an Animal? Damn it; the Sin is ne’er to be forgiven. --Hadst thou been wanton to that leud degree, By dark he might have been conducted to thee; Where silently he might have serv’d thy purpose, And thou hadst had some poor excuse for that: But bartering words with Fools admits of none.

_Cor_. I grant ye,--had I talk’d sense to him, which had been enough to have lost him for ever.

Sir _Sig_. Poor Devil, how fearful ‘tis of losing me! [_Aside_.

_Gal_. That’s some Atonement for thy other Sins,-- Come, break thy Word, and wash it quite away.

Sir _Sig_. That cogging won’t do, my good Friend, that won’t do.

_Gal_. Thou shall be just and perjur’d, and pay my Heart the debt of Love you owe it.

_Cor_. And wou’d you have the Heart--to make a Whore of me?

_Gal_. With all my Soul, and the Devil’s in’t if I can give thee a greater proof of my Passion.

_Cor_. I rather fear you wou’d debauch me into that dull slave call’d a Wife.

_Gal_. A Wife! have I no Conscience, no Honour in me? Prithee believe I wou’d not be so wicked-- No,--my Desires are generous, and noble, To set thee up, that glorious insolent thing, That makes Mankind such Slaves, almighty Curtezan! --Come, to thy private Chamber let us haste, The sacred Temple of the God of Love; And consecrate thy Power. [_Offers to bear her off_.

_Cor_. Stay, do you take me then for what I seem?

_Gal_. I am sure I do, and wou’d not be mistaken for a Kingdom: But if thou art not, I can soon mend that fault, And make thee so.--Come, I’m impatient to begin the Experiment. [_Offers again to carry her off_.

_Cor_. Nay, then I am in earnest,--hold, mistaken Stranger--I am of noble Birth; and shou’d I in one hapless loving Minute destroy the Honour of my House, ruin my Youth and Beauty, and all that virtuous Education my hoping Parents gave me?

_Gal_. Pretty dissembled Pride and Innocence! And wounds no less than smiles!--Come, let us in,--where I will give thee leave to frown and jilt; such pretty Frauds advance the Appetite. [_Offers again_.

_Cor_. By all that’s good, I am a Maid of Quality, Blest with a Fortune equal to my Birth.

_Gal_. I do not credit thee; or if I did, For once I wou’d dispense with Quality, And to express my Love, take thee with all these Faults.

_Cor_. And being so, can you expect I’ll yield?

_Gal_. The sooner for that reason, if thou’rt wise; The Quality will take away the Scandal. Do not torment me longer-- [_Offers to lead her again_.

_Cor_. Stay and be undeceiv’d,--I do conjure ye.--

_Gal_. Art thou no Curtezan?

_Cor_. Not on my life, nor do intend to be.

_Gal_. No Prostitute? nor dost intend to be?

_Cor_. By all that’s good, I only feign’d to be so.

_Gal_. No Curtezan! hast thou deceiv’d me then? Tell me, thou wicked honest cozening Beauty, Why didst thou draw me in, with such a fair Pretence, Why such a tempting Preface to invite, And the whole Piece so useless and unedifying? --Heavens! not a Curtezan! Why from thy Window didst thou take my Vows, And make such kind Returns? Oh, damn your Quality: What honest Whore but wou’d have scorn’d thy Cunning?

_Cor_. I make ye kind Returns?

_Gal_. Persuade me out of that too; ‘twill be like ye.

_Cor_. By all my Wishes I never held Discourse with you--but this Evening, since I first saw your Face.

_Gal_. Oh, the Impudence of Honesty and Quality in Woman! A plague upon ‘em both, they have undone me! Bear witness, oh thou gentle Queen of Night, Goddess of Shades, ador’d by Lovers most; How oft under thy Covert she has damn’d her self, With feigned Love to me! [_In Passion_.

_Cor_. Heavens! this is Impudence: that Power I call to witness too, how damnably thou injur’st me. [_Angry_.

_Gal_. You never from your Window talk’d of Love to me?

_Cor_. Never.

_Gal_. So, nor you’re no Curtezan?

_Cor_. No, by my Life.

_Gal_. So, nor do intend to be, by all that’s good?

_Cor_. By all that’s good, never.

_Gal_. So, and you are real honest, and of Quality?

_Cor_. Or may I still be wretched.

_Gal_. So, then farewel Honesty and Quality--’Sdeath, what a Night, what Hopes, and what a Mistress, have I all lost for Honesty and Quality! [_Offers to go_.

_Cor_. Stay.--

_Gal_. I will be rack’d first, let go thy hold! [_In fury_. --Unless thou wou’dst repent.-- [_In a soft tone_.

_Cor_. I cannot of my fixt Resolves for Virtue! --But if you could but--love me--honourably-- For I assum’d this Habit and this Dress--

_Gal_. To cheat me of my Heart the readiest way: And now, like gaming Rooks, unwilling to give o’er till you have hook’d in my last stake, my Body too, you cozen me with Honesty.--Oh, damn the Dice--I’ll have no more on’t, I, the Game’s too deep for me, unless you play’d upon the square, or I could cheat like you.-- Farewel, Quality-- [_Goes out_.

_Cor_. He’s gone; _Philippa_, run and fetch him back; I have but this short Night allow’d for Liberty; Perhaps to morrow I may be a Slave. [_Ex_. Phil. --Now o’ my Conscience there never came good of this troublesome Virtue-- hang’t, I was too serious; but a Devil on’t, he looks so charmingly--and was so very pressing, I durst trust my gay Humour and good Nature no farther. [_She walks about, Sir_ Signal _peeps and then comes out_.

Sir _Sig_. He’s gone!--so, ha, ha, ha. As I hope to breathe, Madam, you have nost neatly dispatcht him; poor fool--to compare his Wit and his Person to mine.--

_Cor_. Hah, the Coxcomb here still.--

Sir _Sig_. Well, this Countenance of mine never fail’d me yet.

Cor. Ah--

[_Looking about on him, sees his face black, squeaks and runs away_.

Sir _Sig_. Ah, whe, what the Deavilo’s that for? --Whe, ‘tis I, ‘tis I, most _Serenissima Signiora_!

[Gal. _returns and_ Philippa.

_Gal_. What noise is that, or is’t some new design To fetch me back again?

Sir _Sig_. How! _Galliard_ return’d!

_Gal_. Hah! what art thou? a Mortal or a Devil?

Sir _Sig_. How, not know me? now might I pass upon him most daintily for a Devil, but that I have been beaten out of one Devilship already, and dare venture no more Conjurationing.

_Gal_. Dog, what art thou--not speak! Nay, then I’ll inform my self, and try if you be flesh and blood. [_Kicks him, he avoids_.

Sir _Sig_. No matter for all this--’tis better to be kickt than discovered, for then I shall be kill’d: and I can sacrifice a Limb or two to my Reputation at any time.

_Gal_. Death, ‘tis the Fool, the Fool for whom I am abus’d and jilted? ’.is some revenge to disappoint her Cunning, and drive the Slave before me--Dog! were you her last reserve? [_Kicks him, he keeps in his cry_.

Sir _Sig_. Still I say Mum.

_Gal_. The Ass will still appear through all disguises, Nor can the Devil’s shape secure the Fool-- [_Kicks him, he runs out, as_ Cor. _enters and holds_ Gal.

_Cor_. Hold, Tyrant--

_Gal_. Oh Women, Women, fonder in your Appetites Than Beasts, and more unnatural! For they but couple with their Kind, but you Promiscuously shuffle your Brutes together, The Fop of business with the lazy Gown-men --the learned Ass with the illiterate Wit--the empty Coxcomb with the Politician, as dull and insignificant as he; from the gay Fool made more a Beast by Fortune to all the loath’d infirmities of Age. Farewel--I scorn to croud with the dull Herd, or graze upon the Common where they fatten. [_Goes out_.

_Phil_. I know he loves, by this concern I know it, And will not let him part dissatisfied. [_Goes out_.

_Cor_. By all that’s good, I love him more each moment, and know he’s destin’d to be mine.--

[_Enter_ Marcella.

--What hopes, _Marcella_? what is’t we next shall do?

_Mar_. Fly to our last reserve; come, let’s haste and dress in that disguise we took our flight from _Viterbo_ in,--and something I resolve.

_Cor_. My soul informs me what--I ha’t! a Project worthy of us both-- which whilst we dress I’ll tell thee,--and by which,

My dear _Marcella_, we will stand or fall: ‘Tis our last Stake we set; and have at all.

[_Exeunt_.