Chapter 51

Enter _Chrisante_ and _Surelove_.

_Chris._ I’m not so much afflicted for my Confinement, as I am that I cannot hear of _Friendly_.

_Sure._ Art not persecuted with _Daring_?

_Chris._ Not at all; though he tells me daily of his Passion, I rally him, and give him neither Hope nor Despair,--he’s here.

Enter _Daring_, _Fear._ _Rant._ and _Jenny_.

_Dar._ Madam, the Complaisance I show in bringing you my Rival, will let you see how glad I am to oblige you every way.

_Ran._ I hope the Danger I have exposed my self to for the Honour of kissing your Hand, Madam, will render me something acceptable--here are my Credentials-- [Gives her a Letter.

_Chrisante_ reads.

Dear Creature, I have taken this Habit to free you from an impertinent Lover, and to secure the damn’d Rogue _Daring_ to my self: receive me as sent by Colonel _Surelove_ from _England_ to marry you--favour me--no more--

Yours, _Ranter_.

--Hah, _Ranter_? [Aside.] --Sir, you have too good a Character from my Cousin Colonel Surelove, not to receive my Welcome. [Gives _Surelove_ the Letter.

_Ran._ Stand by, General-- [Pushes away _Daring_, looks big, and takes _Chrisante_ by the Hand, and kisses it.

_Dar._ ‘Sdeath, Sir, there’s room enough--at first sight so kind! Oh Youth, Youth and Impudence, what Temptations are you to Villanous Woman?

_Chris._ I confess, Sir, we Women do not love these rough fighting Fellows, they’re always scaring us with one Broil or other.

_Dar._ Much good may it do you with your tame Coxcomb.

_Ran._ Well, Sir, then you yield the Prize?

_Dar._ Ay, Gad, were she an Angel, that can prefer such a callow Fop as thou before a Man--take her and domineer. [They all laugh. --’Sdeath, am I grown ridiculous?

_Fear._ Why hast thou not found the Jest? by Heaven, ‘tis _Ranter_, ‘tis she that loves you; carry on the humour. [Aside. Faith, Sir, if I were you, I wou’d devote my self to Madam _Ranter_.

_Chris._ Ay, she’s the fittest Wife for you, she’ll fit your Humour.

_Dar._ _Ranter_--Gad, I’d sooner marry a she-Bear, unless for a Penance for some horrid Sin; we should be eternally challenging one another to the Field, and ten to one she beats me there; or if I should escape there, she wou’d kill me with drinking.

_Ran._ Here’s a Rogue--does your Country abound with such Ladies?

_Dar._ The Lord forbid, half a dozen wou’d ruin the Land, debauch all the Men, and scandalize all the Women.

_Fear._ No matter, she’s rich.

_Dar._ Ay, that will make her insolent.

_Fear._ Nay, she’s generous too.

_Dar._ Yes, when she’s drunk, and then she’ll lavish all.

_Ran._ A pox on him, how he vexes me.

_Dar._ Then such a Tongue--she’ll rail and smoke till she choke again; then six Gallons of Punch hardly recovers her, and never but then is she good-natur’d.

_Ran._ I must lay him on--

_Dar._ There’s not a Blockhead in the Country that has not--

_Ran._ What--

_Dar._ Been drunk with her.

_Ran._ I thought you had meant something else, Sir. [In huff.

_Dar._ Nay--as for that--I suppose there is no great difficulty.

_Ran._ ‘Sdeath, Sir, you lye--and you are a Son of a Whore. [Draws and fences with him, and he runs back round the Stage.

_Dar._ Hold--hold, Virago--dear Widow, hold, and give me thy hand.

_Ran._ Widow!

_Dar._ ‘Sdeath, I knew thee by instinct, Widow, though I seemed not to do so, in Revenge for the Trick you put on me in telling me a Lady dy’d for me.

_Ran._ Why, such an one there is, perhaps she may dwindle forty or fifty years--or so--but will never be her own Woman again, that’s certain.

_Sure._ This we are all ready to testify, we know her.

_Chris._ Upon my Life, ‘tis true.

_Dar._ Widow, I have a shreud Suspicion, that you your self may be this dying Lady.

_Ran._ Why so, Coxcomb?

_Dar._ Because you took such Pains to put your self into my hands.

_Ran._ Gad, if your Heart were but half so true as your Guess, we should conclude a Peace before _Bacon_ and the Council will--besides, this thing whines for _Friendly_, and there’s no hopes. [To _Chrisante_.

_Dar._ Give me thy Hand, Widow, I am thine--and so entirely, I will never--be drunk out of thy Company:--_Dunce_ is in my Tent,--prithee let’s in and bind the Bargain.

_Ran._ Nay, faith, let’s see the Wars at an end first.

_Dar._ Nay, prithee take me in the humour, while thy Breeches are on--for I never lik’d thee half so well in Petticoats.

_Ran._ Lead on, General, you give me good incouragement to wear them.

[Exeunt.