Chapter 59

Enter Sir _Morgan Blunder_ in a Night-Gown and Cap; to him _Manage_ with a Caudle.

_Man._ Your Lady Mother has sent you a Caudle, Sir.

Sir _Morg._ Good Mrs. _Manage_, remember my kind Love to my Lady Mother, and tell her, I thank her for her Posset, but never eat in a Morning after hard drinking over night.

_Man._ Ah, Sir, but now you’re marry’d to a fine Lady, you ought to make much of your self.

Sir _Morg._ Good Madam, as little of your Matrimony as of your Caudle; my Stomach is plaguy squeamish, and a hair of the old Dog’s worth both of ‘em. Oh! sick! sick!

Enter Sir _Merlin_, singing a Song in praise of a Rake-hell’s Life.

A SONG.

The _Town-Rake_; written by Mr. _Motteux_.

I.

_What Life can compare with the jolly Town-Rake’s, When in Youth his full Swing of all Pleasure he takes? At Noon, he gets up, for a Whet, and to dine, And wings the dull Hours with Mirth, Musick and Wine; Then jogs to the _Play-house_, and chats with the Masks, And thence to the _Rose_, where he takes his three Flasks. There, great as a _Cæsar_, he revels, when drunk, And scours all he meets, as he reels to his Punk; Then finds the dear Girl in his Arms when he wakes. What Life can compare with the Jolly Town-Rake’s?_

II.

_He, like the _Great Turk_, has his Favourite She; But the Town’s his _Seraglio_, and still he lives free. Sometimes she’s a Lady; but as he must range, _Black-Betty_, or _Oyster-Doll_, serves for a Change. As he varies his Sports, his whole Life is a Feast; He thinks him that’s soberest the most like a Beast. At Houses of Pleasure breaks Windows and Doors; Kicks Bullies and Cullies, then lies with their Whores. Rare work for the Surgeon, and Midwife he makes. What Life can compare with the Jolly Town-Rake’s?_

III.

_Thus in _Covent-Garden_ he makes his Campaign, And no Coffee-house haunts, but to settle his Brain. He laughs at dry Morals, and never does think, Unless ‘tis to get the best Wenches and Drink. He dwells in a Tavern, and lies ev’ry where, And improving his hours, lives an Age in a Tear: For as Life is uncertain, he loves to make haste; And thus he lives longest, because he lives fast: Then a Leap in the dark to the Devil he takes. What Death can compare with the Jolly Town-Rake’s?_

Sir _Mer._ Why, how now, Sir _Morgan_, I see you’ll make a Husband of the right Town-Mode: What, married but four Days, and at your separate Apartment already?

Sir _Morg._ A Plague of your what d’ye call ums.

Sir _Mer._ Rakehells you would say, Cousin, an honourable Appellation for Men of Bravery.

Sir _Morg._ Ay, ay, your Rakehells--I was never so muddled with Treason, Tierce Claret, Oaths and Dice, all the Days of my Life--Was I in case to do Family duty? S’life, you drank down all my Love, all my Prudence too; Gad forgive me for it.

Sir _Mer._ Why, how the Devil cam’st thou to bear thy Liquor so ill? Ods my Life, you drunk like a _Frenchman_ new come to the University.

Sir _Morg._ Pox, I can bear their drinking as well as any Man; but your _London_ way of Bousing and Politics does not agree with my Constitution. Look ye, Cousin, set quietly to’t, and I’ll stand my ground; but to have screaming Whores, noisy Bullies, rattling Dice, swearing and cursing Gamesters, Couz. turns the Head of a Country-Drinker, more than the Wine.

Sir _Mer._ Oh! Use, Cousin, will make an able Man.

Sir _Morg._ Use, Cousin! Use me no Uses; for if ever you catch me at your damn’d Clubs again, I’ll give you my Mother for a Maid: Why, you talk downright Treason.

Sir _Mer._ Treason, ay--

Sir _Morg._ Ah Cousin, why, we talk’d enough to--hang us all.

Sir _Mer._ My honest Country-Couz. when wilt thou understand the _Guelphs_, and the _Gibelins_, and learn to talk Treason o’ this side the Law? bilk a Whore without remorse; break Windows, and not pay for ’.m; drink your Bottle without asking Questions; kill your Man without letting him draw; play away your Money without fear of your Spouse, and stop her Mouth by undermining her Nose?

Sir _Morg._ Come, come, look you, Cousin, one word of Advice now I’m sober; what the Devil should provoke thee and me to put ourselves on our twelve Godfathers for a Frolick? We who have Estates. I shou’d be loth to leave the World with a scurvy Song, composed by the Poet _Sternhold_.

Enter at the Door Sir _Rowland_, hearkning.

Or why, d’ye see, shou’d I expose my Noddle to the Billmen in Flannel, and lie in the _Roundhouse_, when I may go to bed in a whole skin with my Lady Wife?

Sir _Mer._ Gad, Sir _Morgan_, thou hast sometimes pretty smart satirical Touches with thee; use but _Will’s_ Coffee-house a little, and with thy Estate, and that Talent, thou mayst set up for a Wit.

Sir _Morg._ Mercy upon me, Sir _Merlin_, thou art stark mad: What, I a Wit! I had rather be one of your Rakehells: for, look ye, a Man may swear and stare, or so; break Windows, and Drawers Heads, or so; unrig a needy Whore, and yet keep one’s Estate: but should I turn Wit, ‘twere impossible; for a Wit with an Estate is like a Prisoner among the Cannibals.

Sir _Mer._ How so, good Sir _Morgan_?

Sir _Morg._ Why, the needy Rogues only feed him with Praise, to fatten him for their Palates, and then devour him.

Sir _Mer._ I applaud your choice, Cousin; for what Man of Bravery wou’d not prefer a Rake to a Wit? The one enjoys the Pleasures the other can only rail at; and that not out of Conscience, but Impotence: for alas! a Wit has no quarrel to Vice in Perfection, but what the Fox had to the Grapes; he can’t play away his hundred Pound at sight; his Third Day won’t afford it; and therefore he rails at Gamesters; Whores shun him, as much as Noblemen, and for the same cause, Money; those care not to sell their Carcases for a Sonnet, nor these to scatter their Guineas, to be told an old Tale of a Tub, they were so well acquainted with before.

Sir _Morg._ What’s that, Sir _Merlin_?

Sir _Mer._ Why, their Praise;--for the Poet’s Flattery seldom reaches the Patron’s Vanity; and what’s too strong season’d for the rest of the World, is too weak for their Palates.

Sir _Morg._ Why, look ye, Cousin, you’re a shreud Fellow: Whence learn’d you this Satire? for I’m sure ‘tis none of thy own; for I shou’d as soon suspect thee guilty of good Nature, as Wit.

Sir _Mer._ I scorn it; and therefore I confess I stole the Observation from a Poet; but the Devil pick his Bones for diverting me from the noble Theme of Rakehells.

Sir _Morg._ Noble Theme, Sir _Merlin_! look ye, d’ye see: Don’t mistake me, I think ‘tis a very scurvy one; and I wou’d not have your Father know that you set up for such a Reprobate; for Sir _Rowland_ would certainly disinherit thee.

Sir _Mer._ O, keep your musty Morals to your self, good Country Couz; they’ll do you service to your _Welch_ Criminals, for stealing an Hen, or breaking up a Wenches Inclosure, or so, Sir _Morgan_; but for me, I despise ‘em: I have not been admitted into the Family of the _Rakehellorums_ for this, Sir: Let my Father drink old _Adam_, read the _Pilgrim’s Progress_, _The Country Justice’s Calling_, or for a Regale, drink the dull Manufacture of Malt and Water; I defy him; he can’t cut off the Entail of what is settled on me: and for the rest, I’l trust Dame _Fortune_; and pray to the Three Fatal Sisters to cut his rotten Thred in two, before he thinks of any such Wickedness.

Enter Sir _Rowland_ in a great Rage.

Sir _Row._ Will you so, Sir? Why, how now, Sirrah! get you out of my House, Rogue; get out of my Doors, Rascal. [Beats him.

Enter Lady _Blunder_.

L. _Blun._ Upon my Honour now, Brother, what’s the matter? Whence this ungenerous Disturbance?

Sir _Row._ What’s the matter! the disturbance! Why, Sister, this Rogue here--this unintelligible graceless Rascal here, will needs set up for a Rakehell, when there’s scarce such a thing in the Nation, above an Ale-draper’s Son; and chuses to be aukardly out of fashion, merely for the sake of Tricking and Poverty; and keeps company with the senseless, profane, lazy, idle, noisy, groveling Rascals, purely for the sake of spending his Estate like a notorious Blockhead: But I’ll take care he shall not have what I can dispose of--You’ll be a Rake-hell, will you?

L. _Blun._ How, Cousin! Sure you’ll not be such a filthy beastly thing, will you?

Sir _Mer._ Lord, Aunt, I only go to the Club sometimes, to improve my self in the Art of Living, and the Accomplishments of a fine Gentleman.

Sir _Row._ A fine Gentleman, Sot, a fine Coxcomb! [Beats him.

Sir _Morg._ Hold, hold, good Uncle; my Cousin has been only drawn in, a little or so, d’ye see, being Heir to a good Estate; and that’s what his Club wants, to pay off old Tavern Scores, and buy Utensils for Whores in Fashion.

Sir _Row._ My Estate sold to pay Tavern-Scores, and keep nasty Whores!

L. _Blun._ Whores! ay, filthy Creatures; do they deal in Whores? Pray, Cousin, what’s a Rake-hell?

Sir _Row._ A Rake-hell is a Man that defies Law and good Manners, nay, and good Sense too; hates both Morality and Religion, and that not for any Reason (for he never thinks) but merely because he don’t understand ’.m: He’s the Whore’s Protection and Punishment, the Baud’s Tool, the Sharper’s Bubble, the Vintner’s Property, the Drawer’s Terror, the Glasier’s Benefactor; in short, a roaring, thoughtless, heedless, ridiculous, universal Coxcomb.

Sir _Mer._ O Lord, Aunt, no more like him than an Attorney’s like an honest Man. Why, a Rake-hell is--

Sir _Row._ What, Sirrah! what, you Rebel? [Strikes him.

L. _Blun._ Nay, good Brother, permit my Nephew to tell us his Notion.

Sir _Mer._ Why, Aunt, I say a Rake-hell is your only Man of Bravery; he slights all the Force of Fortune, and sticks at no Hazard--plays away his hundred Pounds at sight, pays a Lady’s Bill at sight, drinks his Bottle without equivocation, and fights his Man without any Provocation.

Sir _Row._ Nay then, Mr. Rogue, I’ll be sworn thou art none: Come, Sir, will you fight, Sir? will you fight, Sir? Ha! [Draws his Sword.

Sir _Mer._ Fight, Sir! fight, Sir!

Sir _Row._ Yes, fight, Sir: Come, spare your Prayers to the three Fatal Sisters, and cut my Thred thy self, thou graceless reprobate Rascal--Come, come on, you Man of Bravery. [Runs at Sir _Merlin_, who retires before him: Sir _Morgan_ holds Sir _Rowland_.

Sir _Mer._ Oh, good Sir, hold: I recant, Sir, I recant.

Sir _Row._ [Putting up.] Well, I’m satisfy’d thou’lt make no good Rake-hell in this Point, whatever you will in the others. And since Nature has made thee a Coward, Inclination a Coxcomb, I’ll take care to make thee a Beggar; and so thou shalt be a Rake-hell but in Will, I’ll disinherit thee, I will, Villain.

L. _Blun._ What, disinherit your eldest Son, Brother?

Sir _Mer._ Ay, Aunt, his very Heir apparent? Aunt, to show you how the old Gentleman has misrepresented us, give me leave to present you a Dance I provided to entertain your Son with, in which is represented all the Beauties of our Lives.

L. _Blun._ Oh! by all means, Cousin, by all means.

Sir _Mer._ What hoa! _Roger_, bring in the Dancers.

_Here the Dance, representing Rake-hells, Constable, Watch, &c._

Enter _Philip_.

_Phil._ Sir, who do’s your Worship think is arriv’d?

Sir _Row._ My Son _George_, I hope, come in the Nick.

_Phil._ Even so, Sir, from _Paris_-- [Exit.

Sir _Row._ The Prodigal return’d! then kill the fatted Calf.

Enter _George_ drest like a Prentice.

--My own dear Boy, thou art welcome to my Arms, as e’er thy Mother was; for whose dear sake I pardon all thy Follies. [_George_ Kneels.

Sir _Mer._ Ay, Sir, I had a Mother too, or I’m bely’d-- [Weeping. Pox take him that he should come just in the nick, as the old Fellow says-- [Aside.

Sir _Row._ Yes, you had a Mother, whom in my Youth I was compel’d to marry; and, Gad, I think, I got thee with as ill a Will; but _George_ and my _Olivia_ in heat of Love, when my desire was new. But harkye, Boy _George_, you have cost me a damn’d deal of Money, Sirrah; but you shall marry, and redeem all, _George_.

_Geo._ What you please, Sir; to study Virtue, Duty and Allegiance, shall be my future Business.

Sir _Row._ Well said, _George_, here’s a Boy now.

Sir _Mer._ Virtue and Allegiance! Lord, Lord, how came so sneaking a fellow to spend five thousand Pounds of his Master’s Cash?

Sir _Row._ She’s rich, _George_, but something homely.

_Geo._ She’ll not be proud then, Sir.

Sir _Row._ Not much of her Beauty--she’s of a good staid Age too, about some fourscore.

_Geo._ Better still, Sir, I shall not fear Cuckoldom.

Sir _Row._ For that I cannot answer; but she has two thousand a year. I mean to settle my Family, and then--marry my self, _George_.

L. _Blun._ What, to this old Lady’s Grand-daughter? Methinks she’s more fit for your Son, Sir _Rowland_, and the old Lady for you.

Sir _Row._ No, no, the young Rogues can help themselves with Mistresses; but ‘tis well if an old Man can keep his Wife to himself--I’ve invited ’.m to Dinner to day, and see, they are come.

Enter Lady _Youthly_, led by her Chaplain [Mr. _Twang_], and leaning on a Staff, and _Teresia_.

L. _Youth._ Where’s Sir _Rowland Marteen_? Oh, your Servant, Sir, I am come. [Runs against _George_.

_Twang._ Your Ladyship is mistaken, this is not Sir _Rowland_, but a handsome proper young Man.

L. _Youth._ A young Man! I cry your mercy heartily--Young Man, I alighted in the Sun, and am almost blind.

_Geo._ With wondrous old Age. [Aside.

L. _Youth._ Good lack, Sir _Rowland_, that I should mistake a young Man so!

Sir _Row._ Ay, Madam, and such a young Man too.

L. _Youth._ Ay, ay, I see him now. [Puts on her Spectacles.

_Geo._ S’death, what a Sepulcher is here to bury a Husband in? How came she to escape the Flood? for sure she was not born since. [Aside.

Sir _Row._ This is the lusty Lad, my Son _George_, I told your Ladyship of.

L. _Youth._ Cot so, cot so, is it so, Sir? I ask your Pardon, Sir. Mr. _Twang_, take a survey of him, and give me your Opinion of his Person and his Parts.

_Twang._ Truly, Madam, the young Man is of a comely Personage and Lineaments.

L. _Youth._ Of what, Sir?--Lord, I have such a Cold. [Coughs.

_Geo._ Which she got when the _Picts_ went naked.

L. _Blun._ Madam, you have a Power over Sir _Rowland_; pray intreat him to take his Son, Sir _Merlin_, into Grace again. [To _Teresia_.

_Ter._ That, Sir, you must grant me; pray let me know the Quarrel. [Sir _Rowland_ seems to tell.

_Geo._ By Heaven, she’s fair as the first ruddy Streaks of opening Day. [Looking on _Teresia_. Young as the budding Rose, soft as a _Cupid_, but never felt his Dart, she is so full of Life and Gaiety. Pray, Madam, who is that Lady? [To Lady _Blun._

L. _Blun._ The Grandchild of your Mistress, and your Mother that must be.

_Geo._ Then I shall cuckold my Father, that’s certain. [Aside.

Sir _Row._ For your sake, Madam, once again I re-establish him in my family; but the first Fault cashiers him--Come, let’s in--Here, my Lady _Youthly_, take _George_ by the hand; but have a care of the young Rogue, if he comes once to touch so brisk a Widow, he sets her Heart on fire.

_Geo._ Which will burn like a snuff of a Candle; no body will be able to endure it. [Aside. --So Fortune, I see, provides for me: On this hand Wealth, on that young Pleasures lie; He ne’er wants these, who has that kind Supply.

[Exeunt.

_The End of the First Act._