Chapter 76

_Enter_ Elaria _and_ Mopsophil.

I.

_A Curse upon that faithless Maid, Who first her Sex’s Liberty betray’d; Born free as Man to Love and Range, Till nobler Nature did to Custom change, Custom, that dull excuse for Fools, Who think all Virtue to consist in Rules_.

II.

_From Love our Fetters never sprung; That smiling God, all wanton, gay and young, Shows by his Wings he cannot be Confined to a restless Slavery; But here and there at random roves, Not fix’d to glittering Courts, or shady Groves_.

III.

_Then she that Constancy profess’d Was but a well Dissembler at the best; And that imaginary Sway She feign’d to give, in seeming to obey, Was but the height of prudent Art, To deal with greater liberty her Heart_.

[After the Song _Elaria_ gives her Lute to _Mopsophil_.

_Ela_. This does not divert me; Nor nothing will, till _Scaramouch_ return, And bring me News of _Cinthio_.

_Mop_. Truly I was so sleepy last Night, I know nothing of the Adventure, for which you are kept so close a Prisoner to day, and more strictly guarded than usual.

_Ela. Cinthio_ came with Musick last Night under my Window, which my Father hearing, sallied out with his _Mirmidons_ upon him; and clashing of Swords I heard, but what hurt was done, or whether _Cinthio_ were discovered to him, I know not; but the Billet I sent him now by _Scaramouch_ will occasion me soon Intelligence.

_Mop_. And see, Madam, where your trusty _Roger_ comes.

_Enter_ Scaramouch, _peeping on all sides before he enters_.

You may advance, and fear none but your Friends.

_Scar_. Away, and keep the door.

_Ela_. Oh, dear _Scaramouch_! hast thou been at the Vice-Roy’s?

_Scar_. Yes, yes. [_In heat_.

_Ela_. And hast thou delivered my Letter to his Nephew, Don _Cinthio_?

_Scar_. Yes, yes, what should I deliver else?

_Ela_. Well--and how does he?

_Scar_. Lord, how should he do? Why, what a laborious thing it is to be a Pimp? [_Fanning himself with his Cap_.

_Ela_. Why, well he shou’d do.

_Scar_. So he is, as well as a Night-adventuring Lover can be,--he has got but one Wound, Madam.

_Ela_. How! wounded say you? Oh Heavens! ‘tis not mortal.

_Scar_. Why, I have no great skill; but they say it may be dangerous.

_Ela_. I die with Fear, where is he wounded?

_Scar_. Why, Madam, he is run--quite through the Heart,--but the Man may live, if I please.

_Ela_. Thou please! torment me not with Riddles.

_Scar_. Why, Madam, there is a certain cordial Balsam, call’d a Fair Lady; which outwardly applied to his Bosom, will prove a better cure than all your Weapon or sympathetick Powder, meaning your Ladyship.

_Ela_. Is _Cinthio_ then not wounded?

_Scar_. No otherwise than by your fair Eyes, Madam; he got away unseen and unknown.

_Ela_. Dost know how precious time is, and dost thou fool it away thus? What said he to my Letter?

_Scar_. What should he say?

_Ela_. Why, a hundred dear soft things of Love, kiss it as often, and bless me for my Goodness.

_Scar_. Why, so he did.

_Ela_. Ask thee a thousand Questions of my Health after my last night’s fright.

_Scar_. So he did.

_Ela_. Expressing all the kind concern Love cou’d inspire, for the Punishment my Father has inflicted on me, for entertaining him at my Window last night.

_Scar_. All this he did.

_Ela_. And for my being confin’d a Prisoner to my Apartment, without the hope or almost possibility of seeing him any more.

_Scar_. There I think you are a little mistaken; for besides the Plot that I have laid to bring you together all this Night,--there are such Stratagems a brewing, not only to bring you together, but with your Father’s consent too; such a Plot, Madam--

_Ela_. Ay, that would be worthy of thy Brain; prithee what?--

_Scar_. Such a Device--

_Ela_. I’m impatient.

_Scar_. Such a Conundrum,--Well, if there be wise Men and Conjurers in the World, they are intriguing Lovers.

_Ela_. Out with it.

_Scar_. You must know, Madam, your Father (my Master, the Doctor) is a little whimsical, romantick, or Don-Quicksottish, or so.

_Ela_. Or rather mad.

_Scar_. That were uncivil to be supposed by me; but lunatic we may call him, without breaking the Decorum of good Manners; for he is always travelling to the Moon.

_Ela_. And so religiously believes there is a World there, that he Discourses as gravely of the People, their Government, Institutions, Laws, Manners, Religion, and Constitution, as if he had been bred a _Machiavel_ there.

_Scar_. How came he thus infected first?

_Ela_. With reading foolish Books, _Lucian’s Dialogue of the Lofty Traveller_, who flew up to the Moon, and thence to Heaven; an heroick Business, call’d _The Man in the Moon_, if you’ll believe a _Spaniard_, who was carried thither, upon an Engine drawn by wild Geese; with another Philosophical Piece, _A Discourse of the World in the Moon_; with a thousand other ridiculous Volumes, too hard to name.

_Scar_. Ay, this reading of Books is a pernicious thing. I was like to have run mad once, reading Sir _John Mandevil_;--but to the business,--I went, as you know, to Don _Cinthio’s_ Lodgings, where I found him with his dear Friend _Charmante_, laying their Heads together for a Farce.

_Ela_. Farce!

_Scar_. Ay, a Farce, which shall be call’d,--_The World in the Moon_: Wherein your Father shall be so impos’d on, as shall bring matters most magnificently about.

_Ela_. I cannot conceive thee, but the Design must be good, since _Cinthio_ and _Charmante_ own it.

_Scar_. In order to this, _Charmante_ is dressing himself like one of the Caballists of the _Rosycrusian_ Order, and is coming to prepare my credulous Master for the greater Imposition. I have his Trinkets here to play upon him, which shall be ready.

_Ela_. But the Farce, where is it to be acted?

_Scar_. Here, here, in this very House; I am to order the Decorations, adorn a Stage, and place Scenes proper.

_Ela_. How can this be done without my Father’s Knowledge?

_Scar_. You know the old Apartment next the great Orchard, and the Worm-eaten Gallery that opens to the River; which place for several Years no body has frequented; there all things shall be acted proper for our purpose.

_Enter_ Mopsophil _running_.

_Mop_. Run, run, _Scaramouch_, my Master’s conjuring for you like mad below, he calls up all his little Devils with horrid Names, his Microscope, his Horoscope, his Telescope, and all his Scopes.

_Scar_. Here, here,--I had almost forgot the Letters; here’s one for you, and one for Mrs. _Bellemante_. [_Runs out_.

_Enter_ Bellemante _with a Book_.

_Bell_. Here, take my Prayer-Book, _Oh Ma tres chère_. [_Embraces her_.

_Ela_. Thy Eyes are always laughing, _Bellemante_.

_Bell_. And so would yours, had they been so well employ’d as mine, this morning. I have been at the Chapel, and seen so many Beaus, such a number of Plumeys, I cou’d not tell which I should look on most; sometimes my Heart was charm’d with the gay Blonding, then with the melancholy Noire, anon the amiable Brunet; sometimes the bashful, then again the bold; the little now, anon the lovely tall: In fine, my Dear, I was embarass’d on all sides, I did nothing but deal my Heart _tout autour_.

_Ela_. Oh, there was then no danger, Cousin.

_Bell_. No, but abundance of pleasure.

_Ela_. Why, this is better than sighing for _Charmante_.

_Bell_. That’s when he’s present only, and makes his Court to me; I can sigh to a Lover, but will never sigh after him:--but Oh, the Beaus, the Beaus, Cousin, that I saw at Church.

_Ela_. Oh, you had great devotion to Heaven then!

_Bell_. And so I had; for I did nothing but admire its Handy-work, but I cou’d not have pray’d heartily, if I had been dying; but a duce on’t, who shou’d come in and spoil all but my Lover _Charmante_, so dress’d, so gallant, that he drew together all the scatter’d fragments of my Heart, confin’d my wandering Thoughts, and fixt ‘em all on him: Oh, how he look’d, how he was dress’d!

SINGS.

_Chevalier à Cheveux blonds, Plus de Mouche, plus de Poudre, Plus de Ribons et Cannons_.

--Oh, what a dear ravishing thing is the beginning of an Amour!

_Ela_. Thou’rt still in Tune, when wilt thou be tame, _Bellemante_?

_Bell_. When I am weary of loving, _Elaria_.

_Ela_. To keep up your Humour, here’s a Letter from your _Charmante_.

Bellemante _reads_.

_Malicious Creature, when wilt thou cease to torment me, and either appear less charming, or more kind? I languish when from you, and am wounded when I see you, and yet I am eternally courting my Pain. _Cinthio_ and I, are contriving how we shall see you to Night. Let us not toil in vain; we ask but your consent; the Pleasure will be all ours, ‘tis therefore fit we suffer all the Fatigue. Grant this, and love me, if you will save the Life of_ Your _Charmante_.

--Live then, _Charmante_! Live as long as Love can last!

_Ela_. Well, Cousin, _Scaramouch_ tells me of a rare design’s a hatching, to relieve us from this Captivity; here are we mew’d up to be espous’d to two Moon-calfs for ought I know; for the Devil of any human thing is suffer’d to come near us without our Governante and Keeper, Mr. _Scaramouch_.

_Bell_. Who, if he had no more Honesty and Conscience than my Uncle, wou’d let us pine for want of Lovers: but thanks be prais’d, the Generosity of our Cavaliers has open’d their obdurate Hearts with a Golden Key, that lets ‘em in at all Opportunities. Come, come, let’s in, and answer their Billet-Doux.

[_Exeunt_.