Chapter 12

_Enter_ Bellmour, _Sir_ Timothy, Sham _and_ Sharp.

_Bel_. Damn it, give us more Wine. [_Drinks_. Where stands the Box and Dice?--Why, _Sham_.

_Sham_. Faith, Sir, Your Luck’s so bad, I han’t the Conscience to play longer--Sir _Timothy_ and you play off a hundred Guineas, and see if Luck will turn.

_Bel_. Do you take me for a Country Squire, whose Reputation will be crackt at the loss of a petty Thousand? You have my Note for it to my Goldsmith.

_Sham_. ‘Tis sufficient if it were for ten thousand.

_Bel_. Why, Sir _Timothy_--Pox on’t, thou’rt dull, we are not half debauch’d and leud enough, give us more Wine.

Sir _Tim_. Faith, _Frank_, I’m a little maukish with sitting up all Night, and want a small refreshment this Morning--Did we not send for Whores?

_Bel_. No, I am not in humour for a Wench-- By Heaven, I hate the Sex. All but divine _Celinda_, Appear strange Monsters to my Eyes and Thoughts.

Sir _Tim_. What, art Italianiz’d, and lovest thy own Sex?

_Bel_. I’m for any thing that’s out of the common Road of Sin; I love a Man that will be damn’d for something: to creep by slow degrees to Hell, as if he were afraid the World shou’d see which way he went, I scorn it, ‘tis like a Conventicler--No, give me a Man, who to be certain of’s Damnation, will break a solemn Vow to a contracted Maid.

Sir _Tim_. Ha, ha, ha, I thought thou would’st have said at least--had murder’d his Father, or ravish’d his Mother--Break a Vow, quoth ye--by Fortune, I have broke a thousand.

_Bel_. Well said, my Boy! A Man of Honour! And will be ready whene’er the Devil calls for thee--So--ho--more Wine, more Wine, and Dice.

_Enter a Servant with Dice and Wine_.

Come, Sir, let me-- [_Throws and loses_.

Sir _Tim_. What will you set me, Sir?

_Bel_. Cater-tray--a hundred Guineas--oh, damn the Dice--’tis mine--come, a full Glass--Damnation to my Uncle.

Sir _Tim_. By Fortune, I’ll do thee reason--give me the Glass, and, _Sham_, to thee--Confusion to the musty Lord.

_Bel_. So--now I’m like my self, profanely wicked. A little room for Life--but such a Life As Hell it self shall wonder at--I’ll have a care To do no one good deed in the whole course on’t, Lest that shou’d save my Soul in spite of Vow-breach. --I will not die--that Peace my Sins deserve not. I’ll live and let my Tyrant Uncle see The sad effects of Perjury, and forc’d Marriage. --Surely the Pow’rs above envy’d my Bliss; Marrying _Celinda_, I had been an Angel, So truly blest, and good. [_Weeps_.

Sir _Tim_. Why, how now, _Frank_--by Fortune, the Rogue is Maudlin--So, ho, ho, so ho.

_Bel_. The matter?

Sir _Tim_. Oh, art awake--What a Devil ail’st thou, _Frank_?

_Bel_. A Wench, or any thing--come, let’s drink a round.

_Sham_. They’re come as wisht for.

_Enter_ Flauntit, Driver, Doll _and_ Jenny _mask’d_.

_Bel_. Oh, damn ‘em! What shall I do? Yet it would look like Virtue to avoid ‘em. No, I must venture on--Ladies, y’are welcome.

Sir _Tim_. How, the Women?--Hold, hold, _Bellmour_, let me choose too-- Come, come, unmask, and shew your pretty Faces.

_Flaunt_. How, Sir _Timothy_! What Devil ow’d me a spite. [_Aside_.

Sir _Tim_. Come, unmask, I say: a willing Wench would have shew’d all in half this time.

_Flaunt_. Wou’d she so, Impudence! [_Pulls off her Mask_.

Sir _Tim_. How, my _Betty_!

_Flaunt_. This is the Trade you drive, you eternal Fop, when I sit at home expecting you Night after Night.

Sir _Tim_. Nay, dear Betty!

_Flaunt_. ‘Tis here you spend that which shou’d buy me Points and Petticoats, whilst I go like no body’s Mistress; I’d as live be your Wife at this rate, so I had: and I’m in no small danger of getting the foul Disease by your Leudness.

Sir _Tim_. Victorious _Betty_, be merciful, and do not ruin my Reputation amongst my Friends.

_Flaunt_. Your Whores you mean, you Sot you.

Sir _Tim_. Nay, triumphant _Betty_, hear thy poor _Timmy_.

_Flaunt_. My poor _Ninny_, I’m us’d barbarously, and won’t endure it.

Sir _Tim_. I’ve won Money to Night, _Betty_, to buy thee Clothes--hum --hum--Well said, _Frank_, towse the little Jilts, they came for that purpose.

_Flaunt_. The Devil confound him, what a Prize have I lost by his being here--my Comfort is, he has not found me out though, but thinks I came to look for him, and accordingly I must dissemble.

_Bel_. What’s here? A Lady all in Tears!

Sir _Tim_. An old Acquaintance of mine, that takes it unkindly that I am for Change--_Betty_, say so too, you know I can settle nothing till I’m marry’d; and he can do it swingingly, if we can but draw him in.

_Flaunt_. This mollifies something, do this, and you’ll make your Peace; if not, you Rascal, your Ears shall pay for this Night’s Transgression.

Sir _Tim_. Come hither, _Frank_, is not this a fine Creature?

_Bel_. By Heaven, a very Devil!

Sir _Tim_. Come, come, approach her; for if you’ll have a Miss, this has all the good Qualities of one--go, go Court her, thou art so bashful--

_Bel_. I cannot frame my Tongue to so much Blasphemy, as ‘tis to say kind things to her--I’ll try my Heart though--Fair Lady--Damn her, she is not fair--nor sweet--nor good--nor--something I must say for a beginning. Come, Lady--dry your Eyes: This Man deserves not all the Tears you shed. --So--at last the Devil has got the better of me, And I am enter’d.

_Flaunt_. You see, Sir, how miserable we Women are that love you Men.

_Bel_. How, did you love him? Love him against his Will?

_Flaunt_. So it seems, Sir.

_Bel_. Oh, thou art wretched then indeed; no wonder if he hate thee-- Does he not curse thee? Curse thee till thou art damn’d, as I do lost _Diana_. [_Aside_.

_Flaunt_. Curse me! He were not best in my hearing; Let him do what he will behind my Back. What ails the Gentleman?

_Bel_. Gods! what an odious thing mere Coupling is! A thing which every sensual Animal Can do as well as we--but prithee tell me, Is there nought else between the nobler Creatures?

_Flaunt_. Not that I know of, Sir-- Lord, he’s very silly, or very innocent, I hope he has his Maidenhead; if so, and rich too. Oh, what a booty were this for me! [_Aside_.

_Bel_. ‘Tis wondrous strange; Why was not I created like the rest, Wild, and insensible, to fancy all?

_Flaunt_. Come, Sir, you must learn to be gay, to sing, to dance, and talk of any thing, and fancy any thing that’s in your way too.

_Bel_. Oh, I can towse, and ruffle, like any Leviathan, when I begin-- Come, prove my Vigor. [_Towses her_.

_Flaunt_. Oh, Lord, Sir! You tumble all my Garniture.

_Bel_. There’s Gold to buy thee more--

_Flaunt_. Oh, sweet Sir--wou’d my Knight were hang’d, so I were well rid of him now--Well, Sir, I swear you are the most agreeable Person--

_Bel_. Am I?--let us be more familiar then--I’ll kiss thy Hand, thy Breast, thy Lips--and--

_Flaunt_. All--you please, Sir--

_Bel_. A tractable Sinner! [_Offers to kiss her_. Faugh--how she smells--had I approach’d so near divine _Celinda_, what A natural Fragrancy had sent it self through all my ravisht Senses! [_Aside_.

_Flaunt_. The Man’s extasy’d, sure, I shall take him. Come, Sir, you’re sad.

_Bel_. As Angels fall’n from the Divine Abode, And now am lighted on a very Hell! --But this is not the way to thrive in Wickedness; I must rush on to Ruin--Come, fair Mistress, Will you not shew me some of your Arts of Love? For I am very apt to learn of Beauty--Gods-- What is’t I negotiate for?--a Woman! Making a Bargain to possess a Woman! Oh, never, never!

_Flaunt_. The Man is in love, that’s certain--as I was saying, Sir--

_Bel_. Be gone, Repentance! Thou needless Goodness, Which if I follow, canst lead me to no Joys. Come, tell me the Price of all your Pleasures.

Sir _Tim_. Look you, Mistress, I am but a Country Knight. Yet I shou’d be glad of your farther Acquaintance. --Pray, who may that Lady be--

_Driv_. Who, Mrs. Flauntit, Sir?

Sir _Tim_. Ay, she: she’s tearing fine, by Fortune.

_Driv_. I’ll assure you, Sir, she’s kept, and is a great Rarity, but to a Friend, or so--

Sir _Tim_. Hum--kept--pray, by whom?

_Driv_. Why, a silly Knight, Sir, that--

Sir _Tim_. Ay, ay, silly indeed--a Pox upon her--a silly Knight, you say--

_Driv_. Ay, Sir, one she makes a very Ass of.

Sir _Tim_. Ay, so methinks--but she’s kind, and will do reason for all him.

_Driv_. To a Friend, a Man of Quality--or so.

Sir _Tim_. Ay, she blinds the Knight.

_Driv_. Alas, Sir, easily--he, poor Cully, thinks her a very Saint--but when he’s out of the way, she comes to me to pleasure a Friend.

Sir _Tim_. But what if the Fool miss her?

_Driv_. She cries Whore first, brings him upon his Knees for her Fault; and a piece of Plate, or a new Petticoat, makes his Peace again.

Sir _Tim. Why--look you, Mistress, I am that Fop, that very silly Knight, and the rest that you speak of.

_Driv_. How, Sir? then I’m undone, she’s the Upholder of my Calling, the very Grace of my Function.

Sir _Tim_. Is she so? e’en keep her to your self then, I’ll have no more of her, by Fortune--I humbly thank you for your Intelligence, and the rest. Well--I see there’s not one honest Whore i’th’ Nation, by Fortune.

_Enter_ Charles Bellmour, _and_ Trusty.

Hark ye, Mistress, what was your Bus’ness here?

_Flaunt_. To meet a Rogue!--

Sir _Tim_. And I to meet a Whore, and now we are well met.

_Flaunt_. How, Sir?

Sir _Tim_. Nay, never be surpriz’d, for your Intrigues are discover’d, the good Matron of the House (against her Will) has done me that kindness--you know how to live without your Keeper, and so I’ll leave you.

_Flaunt_. You’re too serviceable a Fool to be lost so. [_Aside_.

_Bel_. Who knows this bold Intruder?

_Char_. How, Sir, am I a Stranger to you? But I shou’d wonder at it, since all your last Night’s Actions betray’d a strange depravity of Sense.--Sir, I have sought you long, and wish I had not found you yet, since both the Place and Company declare, how grossly you’ve dissembled Virtue all this while.

_Bel_. Take hence that prating Boy.

_Char_. How, Sir--You are my elder Brother, yet I may be allow’d to do the Business that I came for, and from my Uncle to demand your Wife.

_Bel_. You may return, and tell him that she’s dead.

_Char_. Dead! sure, Sir, you rave. [_Turns him about_.

_Bel_. Indeed I do--but yet she’s dead, they say.

_Char_. How came she dead?

_Bel_. I kill’d her--ask no more, but leave me. [_Turns him about again_.

_Char_. Sir, this is Madman’s Language, and not to be believed.

_Bel_. Go to--y’are a saucy Boy.

_Char_. Sir, I’m an angry Boy-- But yet can bear much from a Brother’s Mouth; Y’ave lost your sleep: pray, Sir, go home and seek it.

_Bel_. Home! I have no Home, unless thou mean’st my Grave, And thither I cou’d wish thou wou’d conduct me. [_Weeps_.

_Flaunt_. Pray Heaven this young virtuous Fellow don’t spoil all. --Sir, shall I send for a Scrivener to draw the Settlement you promis’d me?

_Bel_. Do so, and I’ll order him to get it ready.

_Char_. A Settlement! On whom? This Woman, Sir?

_Bel_. Yes, on this Woman, Sir.

_Char_. Are you stark mad?--Know you where you are?

_Bel_. Yes, in a Baudy-house.

_Char_. And this Woman, Sir.--

_Bel_. A very Whore--a tawdry mercenary Whore! And what of this?

_Char_. And can you love her, Sir?

_Bel_. No, if I did, I wou’d not gratify her.

_Char_. What, is’t in Charity to keep her honest?

_Bel_. Neither.

_Char_. Is your Lust grown so high--

_Bel_. Take that-- [_Strikes him_. For naming but so base a thing to me.

_Char_. I wear a Sword, but not to draw on Mad-men. But since y’are so free, Sir, I demand that Fortune, which by my Father’s Will y’are bound to pay the day after your Wedding-Day; my Sister’s too is due.

_Bel_. Ha, ha, ha,--Sir _Timothy_, come hither--who dost think this is?

Sir _Tim_. A Fidler, perhaps--let him play in the next Room.

_Bel_. No, my Brother--come to demand his Portion of me; he says I am in leud Company, and, like a Boy, he wou’d correct me.

Sir _Tim_. Why, this comes of Idleness; thou should’st have bound him Prentice in time, the Boy would have made a good saucy Taylor.

_Char_. Sirrah, y’are a Rascal, whom I must thus chastise. [_Kicks him_.

[_They all draw, and_ Bellmour _stands foremost, and fights with_ Charles; _the Women run squeaking out, Sir_ Tim. Sham, _and_ Sharp _sneak behind_; Trusty _interposes_.

_Trust_. Hold, hold, I beseech you, my dear Masters! Oh, what a fight is this? Two Brothers fighting with each other! Oh, were my old Master alive, this wou’d break his Heart: Oh, Sir, you’ve kill’d your Brother!

_Bel_. Why, then his Portion’s paid. [Charles _wounded_.

Sir _Tim_. How, kill’d! Nay, ‘tis time we departed then, and shifted for ourselves.

[_Ex. Sir_ Tim. Sham _and_ Sharp.

_Trust_. Oh, Sir, shall I send for a Chyrurgion?

_Char_. No, for a Coach rather, I am not wounded much.

[_Ex_. Trusty.

_Bel_. How dar’st thou trust thy self alone with me?

_Char_. Why should I fear thee?

_Bel_. Because I’m mad, Mad as a Tygress rob’d of her dear Young.

_Char_. What is’t that makes you so?

_Bel_. My Uncle’s Politicks, Hell take him for’t, Has ruin’d me, thou and my Sister too, By marrying me to a fair hated Maid, When I had plighted all my Faith before.

_Enter_ Trusty.

_Trust_. Sir, here’s a Coach.

_Char_. Come, Brother, will you go home with me?

_Bel_. Home!--no, never to that place thou call’st so. If, when I’m dead, thou wouldst behold thy Brother, And take the last Adieu from his cold Lips, (If those so perjur’d can deserve that kindness) Inquire for lost _Celinda_, at whose Feet Thou shalt behold me fall’n a Sacrifice. Till then, I’ll let mistaken Parents know The mischiefs that ensue a broken Vow.

[_Ex. severally_.