Chapter 27

_Enter_ Bellmour _disguis’d in a travelling Habit_.

_Bel_. Sure ‘tis the day that gleams in yonder East, The day that all but Lovers blest by Shade Pay chearful Homage to: Lovers! and those pursu’d like guilty me By rigid Laws, which put no difference ’.wixt fairly killing in my own Defence, And Murders bred by drunken Arguments, Whores, or the mean Revenges of a Coward. --This is _Leticia’s_ Father’s House-- [_Looking about_. And that the dear Balcony That has so oft been conscious of our Loves; From whence she has sent me down a thousand Sighs, A thousand looks of Love, a thousand Vows. O thou dear witness of those charming Hours, How do I bless thee, how am I pleas’d to view thee After a tedious Age of Six Months Banishment.

_Enter Mr_. Gingle _and several with Musick_.

_Fid_. But hark ye, Mr. _Gingle_, is it proper to play before the Wedding?

_Gin_. Ever while you live, for many a time in playing after the first night, the Bride’s sleepy, the Bridegroom tir’d, and both so out of humour, that perhaps they hate any thing that puts ‘em in mind they are married.

[_They play and sing_.

_Enter_ Phillis _in the Balcony, throws ‘em Money_.

_Rise_, Cloris, _charming Maid, arise! And baffle breaking Day, Shew the adoring World thy Eyes Are more surprizing gay;

The Gods of Love are smiling round, And lead the Bridegroom on, And_ Hymen _has the Altar crown’d. While all thy sighing Lovers are undone.

To see thee pass they throng the Plain; The Groves with Flowers are strown, And every young and envying Swain Wishes the hour his own. Rise then, and let the God of Day, When thou dost to the Lover yield, Behold more Treasure given away Than he in his vast Circle e’er beheld_.

_Bel_. Hah, _Phillis, Leticia’s_ Woman!

_Ging_. Fie, Mrs. _Phillis_, do you take us for Fiddlers that play for Hire? I came to compliment Mrs. _Leticia_ on her Wedding-Morning because she is my Scholar.

_Phil_. She sends it only to drink her Health.

_Ging_. Come, Lads, let’s to the Tavern then-- [_Ex. Musick_.

_Bel_. Hah! said he _Leticia_? Sure, I shall turn to Marble at this News: I harden, and cold Damps pass through my senseless Pores.--Hah, who’s here?

_Enter_ Gayman _wrapt in his Cloke_.

_Gay_. ‘Tis yet too early, but my Soul’s impatient, And I must see _Leticia_. [_Goes to the door_.

_Bel_. Death and the Devil--the Bridegroom! Stay, Sir, by Heaven, you pass not this way. [_Goes to the door as he is knocking, pushes him away, and draws_.

_Gay_. Hah! what art thou that durst forbid me Entrance?--Stand off.

[_They fight a little, and closing view each other_.

_Bel_. _Gayman_!

_Gay_. My dearest _Bellmour_!

_Bel_. Oh thou false Friend, thou treacherous base Deceiver!

_Gay_. Hah, this to me, dear _Harry_?

_Bel_. Whither is Honour, Truth and Friendship fled?

_Gay_. Why, there ne’er was such a Virtue, ’.is all a Poet’s Dream.

_Bel_. I thank you, Sir.

_Gay_. I’m sorry for’t, or that ever I did any thing that could deserve it: put up your Sword--an honest man wou’d say how he’s offended, before he rashly draws.

_Bel_. Are not you going to be married, Sir?

_Gay_. No, Sir, as long as any Man in _London_ is so, that has but a handsom Wife, Sir.

_Bel_. Are you not in love, Sir?

_Gay_. Most damnably,--and wou’d fain lie with the dear jilting Gipsy.

_Bel_. Hah, who would you lie with, Sir?

_Gay_. You catechise me roundly--’tis not fair to name, but I am no Starter, _Harry_; just as you left me, you find me. I am for the faithless _Julia_ still, the old Alderman’s Wife.--’Twas high time the City should lose their Charter, when their Wives turn honest: But pray, Sir, answer me a Question or two.

_Bel_. Answer me first, what makes you here this Morning?

_Gay_. Faith, to do you service. Your damn’d little Jade of a Mistress has learned of her Neighbours the Art of Swearing and Lying in abundance, and is--

_Bel_. To be married! [Sighing.

_Gay_. Even so, God save the Mark; and she’ll be a fair one for many an Arrow besides her Husband’s, though he an old _Finsbury_ Hero this threescore Years.

_Bel_. Who mean you?

_Gay_. Why, thy Cuckold that shall be, if thou be’st wise.

_Bel_. Away; Who is this Man? thou dalliest with me.

_Gay_. Why, an old Knight, and Alderman here o’th’ City, Sir _Feeble Fainwou’d_, a jolly old Fellow, whose Activity is all got into his Tongue, a very excellent Teazer; but neither Youth nor Beauty can grind his Dudgeon to an Edge.

_Bel_. Fie, what Stuff’s here!

_Gay_. Very excellent Stuff, if you have but the Grace to improve it.

_Bel_. You banter me--but in plain _English_, tell me, What made you here thus early, Entring yon House with such Authority?

_Gay_. Why, your Mistress _Leticia_, your contracted Wife, is this Morning to be married to old Sir _Feeble Fainwou’d_, induc’d to’t I suppose by the great Jointure he makes her, and the improbability of your ever gaining your Pardon for your high Duel--Do I speak _English_ now, Sir?

_Bel_. Too well, would I had never heard thee.

_Gay_. Now I being the Confident in your Amours, the Jack-go-between-- the civil Pimp or so--you left her in charge with me at your Departure.

_Bel_. I did so.

_Gay_. I saw her every day; and every day she paid the Tribute of a shower of Tears, to the dear Lord of all her Vows, young _Bellmour_: Till faith at last, for Reasons manifold, I slackt my daily Visits.

_Bel_. And left her to Temptation--was that well done?

_Gay_. Now must I afflict you and my self with a long tale of Causes why; Or be charg’d with want of Friendship.

_Bel_. You will do well to clear that Point to me.

_Gay_. I see you’re peevish, and you shall be humour’d.--You know my _Julia_ play’d me e’en such another Prank as your false one is going to play you, and married old Sir _Cautious Fulbank_ here i’th’ City; at which you know I storm’d, and rav’d, and swore, as thou wo’t now, and to as little purpose. There was but one way left, and that was cuckolding him.

_Bel_. Well, that Design I left thee hot upon.

_Gay_. And hotly have pursu’d it: Swore, wept, vow’d, wrote, upbraided, prayed and railed; then treated lavishly, and presented high--till, between you and I, _Harry_, I have presented the best part of Eight hundred a year into her Husband’s hands, in Mortgage.

_Bel_. This is the Course you’d have me steer, I thank you.

_Gay_. No, no, Pox on’t, all Women are not Jilts. Some are honest, and will give as well as take; or else there would not be so many broke i’th’ City. In fine, Sir, I have been in Tribulation, that is to say, Moneyless, for six tedious Weeks, without either Clothes, or Equipage to appear withal; and so not only my own Love-affair lay neglected--but thine too--and I am forced to pretend to my Lady, that I am i’th’ Country with a dying Uncle--from whom, if he were indeed dead, I expect two thousand a Year.

_Bel_. But what’s all this to being here this Morning?

_Gay_. Thus have I lain conceal’d like a Winter-Fly, hoping for some blest Sunshine to warm me into life again, and make me hover my flagging Wings; till the News of this Marriage (which fills the Town) made me crawl out this silent Hour, to upbraid the fickle Maid.

_Bel_. Didst thou?--pursue thy kind Design. Get me to see her; and sure no Woman, even possest with a new Passion, Grown confident even to Prostitution, But when she sees the Man to whom she’s sworn so very--very much, will find Remorse and Shame.

_Gay_. For your sake, though the day be broke upon us, And I’m undone, if seen--I’ll venture in-- [_Throws his Cloke over_.

_Enter Sir_ Feeble Fainwou’d, _Sir_ Cautious Fulbank, Bearjest _and_ Noisey. [_Pass over the Stage, and go in_.

Hah--see the Bridegroom! And with him my destin’d Cuckold, old Sir _Cautious Fulbank_.--Hah, what ail’st thou, Man?

_Bel_. The Bridegroom! Like _Gorgon’s_ Head he’as turned me into Stone.

_Gay_. _Gorgon’s_ Head--a Cuckold’s Head--’twas made to graft upon.

_Bel_. By Heaven, I’ll seize her even at the Altar, And bear her thence in Triumph.

_Gay_. Ay, and be borne to _Newgate_ in Triumph, and be hanged in Triumph--’twill be cold Comfort, celebrating your Nuptials in the Press-Yard, and be wak’d next Morning, like Mr. _Barnardine_ in the Play--Will you please to rise and be hanged a little, Sir?

_Bel_. What wouldst thou have me do?

_Gay_. As many an honest Man has done before thee--Cuckold him-- cuckold him.

_Bel_. What--and let him marry her! She that’s mine by sacred Vows already! By Heaven, it would be flat Adultery in her!

_Gay_. She’ll learn the trick, and practise it the better with thee.

_Bel_. Oh Heavens! _Leticia_ marry him! and lie with him!-- Here will I stand and see this shameful Woman, See if she dares pass by me to this Wickedness.

_Gay_. Hark ye, _Harry_--in earnest have a care of betraying your self; and do not venture sweet Life for a fickle Woman, who perhaps hates you.

_Bel_. You counsel well--but yet to see her married! How every thought of that shocks all my Resolution!-- But hang it, I’ll be resolute and saucy, Despise a Woman who can use me ill, And think my self above her.

_Gay_. Why, now thou art thy self--a Man again. But see, they’re coming forth, now stand your ground.

_Enter Sir_ Feeble, _Sir_ Cautious, Bearjest, Noisey, Leticia _sad_, Diana, Phillis. [_Pass over the Stage_.

_Bel_. ‘Tis she; support me, _Charles_, or I shall sink to Earth, --Methought in passing by she cast a scornful glance at me; Such charming Pride I’ve seen upon her Eyes, When our Love-Quarrels arm’d ‘em with Disdain-- I’ll after ‘em, if I live she shall not ‘scape me. [_Offers to go_, Gay. _holds him_.

_Gay_. Hold, remember you’re proscribed, And die if you are taken.

_Bel_. I’ve done, and I will live, but he shall ne’er enjoy her. --Who’s yonder, _Ralph_, my trusty Confident?

_Enter_ Ralph.

Now though I perish I must speak to him. --Friend, what Wedding’s this?

_Ral_. One that was never made in Heaven, Sir; ’.is Alderman _Fainwou’d_, and Mrs. _Leticia Bredwel_.

_Bel_. Bredwel--I have heard of her,--she was Mistress--

_Ral_. To fine Mr. _Bellmour_, Sir,--ay, there was a Gentleman --But rest his Soul--he’s hang’d, Sir. [_Weeps_.

_Bel_. How! hang’d?

_Ral_. Hang’d, Sir, hang’d--at the _Hague_ in _Holland_.

_Gay_. I heard some such News, but did not credit it.

_Bel_. For what, said they, was he hang’d?

_Ral_. Why, e’en for High Treason, Sir, he killed one of their Kings.

_Gay_. Holland’s a Commonwealth, and is not rul’d by Kings.

_Ral_. Not by one, Sir, but by a great many; this was a Cheesemonger --they fell out over a Bottle of Brandy, went to Snicker Snee; Mr. _Bellmour_ cut his Throat, and was hang’d for’t, that’s all, Sir.

_Bel_. And did the young Lady believe this?

_Ral_. Yes, and took on most heavily--the Doctors gave her over--and there was the Devil to do to get her to consent to this Marriage--but her Fortune was small, and the hope of a Ladyship, and a Gold Chain at the Spittal Sermon, did the Business--and so your Servant, Sir. [_Ex_. Ralph.

_Bel_. So, here’s a hopeful Account of my sweet self now.

_Enter Post-man with Letters_.

_Post_. Pray, Sir, which is Sir _Feeble Fainwou’d’._?

_Bel_. What wou’d you with him, Friend?

_Post_. I have a Letter here from the _Hague_ for him.

_Bel_. From the _Hague_! Now have I a curiosity to see it--I am his Servant--give it me--[_Gives it him, and Exit_.--Perhaps here may be the second part of my Tragedy, I’m full of Mischief, _Charles_--and have a mind to see this Fellow’s Secrets. For from this hour I’ll be his evil Genius, haunt him at Bed and Board; he shall not sleep nor eat; disturb him at his Prayers, in his Embraces; and teaze him into Madness. Help me, Invention, Malice, Love, and Wit: [_Opening the Letter_. Ye Gods, and little Fiends, instruct my Mischief. [_Reads_.

Dear Brother,

_According to your desire I have sent for my Son from _St. Omer’s_, whom I have sent to wait on you in_ England; _he is a very good Accountant, and fit for Business, and much pleased he shall see that Uncle to whom he’s so obliged, and which is so gratefully acknowledged by--Dear Brother, your affectionate Brother_, Francis Fainwou’d.

--Hum--hark ye, _Charles_, do you know who I am now?

_Gay_. Why, I hope a very honest Friend of mine, _Harry Bellmour_.

_Bel_. No, Sir, you are mistaken in your Man.

_Gay_. It may be so.

_Bel_. I am, d’ye see, _Charles_, this very individual, numerical young Mr.--_what ye call ‘um Fainwou’d_, just come from _St. Omers_ into _England_--to my Uncle the Alderman. I am, _Charles_, this very Man.

_Gay_. I know you are, and will swear’t upon occasion.

_Bel_. This lucky Thought has almost calm’d my mind. And if I don’t fit you, my dear Uncle, May I never lie with my Aunt.

_Gay_. Ah, Rogue--but prithee what care have you taken about your Pardon? ‘twere good you should secure that.

_Bel_. There’s the Devil, _Charles_,--had I but that--but I have had a very good Friend at work, a thousand Guyneys, that seldom fails; but yet in vain, I being the first Transgressor since the Act against Duelling. But I impatient to see this dear delight of my Soul, and hearing from none of you this six weeks, came from _Brussels_ in this disguise--for the _Hague_ I have not seen, though hang’d there--but come--let’s away, and compleat me a right _St. Omer’s_ Spark, that I may present my self as soon as they come from Church.

[_Exeunt_.