Boy. Sir!

Enter Boy with a Letter.

Beau. My child!

Cour. A pimp, for a guinea, he speaks so gently to him.

Beau. Tell her she has undone me, she has chosen the only way to enslave me utterly; tell her, my soul, my life, my future happiness, and present fortune, are only what she'll make 'em.

Boy. At seven, sir.

Beau., Most infallibly.

Cour. Ay, ay, 'tis so: now what a damned countryitch have I, to dive into the secret! Beaugard! Beaugard! are all things in a readiness? the husband out of the way, the family disposed of? Come, come, come, no trifling; be free-hearted and friendly.

Beau. You are married, Ned, you are married; that's all I have to say: you are married.

Cour. Let a man do a foolish thing once in his lifetime, and he shall always hear of it-Married, quoth-a! pr'ythee be patient: was married about a twelvemonth ago, but that's past and forgotten. Come, come, communicate, communicate, if thou art a friend, communicate.

Beau. Not a tittle. I have conscience, Ned, conscience; though I must confess 'tis not altogether so gentleman-like a companion: but what a scandal would it be upon a man of my sober demeanour and character, to have the unmerciful tongue of thy legitimate spouse roaring against me, for debauching her natural husband! Cour. It has been otherwise, sir.

Beau. Ay, ay, the time has been, Courtine, when thou wert in possession of thy natural freedom, and mightest be trusted with a secret of this dear nature; when I might have opened this billet, and shewed thee this bewitching name at the bottom: but woe and alas!

O matrimony, matrimony! what a blot art thou in an honest fellow's 'scutcheon!

Cour. No more to be said; I'll into the country again, like any discontented statesman; get drunk every night with an adjacent schoolmaster; beat my wife to a down-right housekeeper; get all my maid-servants every year with bastards, till I can command a seraglio five miles round my own palace, and be beholden to no man of two thousand pound a year for a whore, when I want

one.

Beau. Good words, Ned, good words, let me advise you; none of your marriage-qualities of scolding and railing, now you are got out of the turbulent element. Come hither, come; but first let us capitulate: will you promise me upon your conjugal credit, to be very governable, and very civil?

Cour. As any made spaniel, or hang me up for a cur. Beau. Then this note, this very billet, Ned, comes from a woman, who, when I was strolling very pensively last Sunday to church, watched her opportunity, and poached me up for the service of satan.

Cour. Is she very handsome, Beaugard?

Beau. These country squires, when they get up to town, are as termagant after a wench, as a tied-up hungry cur, got loose from kennel, is after crusts. Very handsome said you? let me see: no, not very handsome neither; but she'll pass, Ned, she'll pass.

Cour. Young?

Beau. About eighteen.

Cour. Oh Lord!

Beau. Her complexion fair, with a glowing blush always ready in her cheeks, that looks as nature were watching every opportunity to seize and run away with her.

Cour. Oh the devil, the devil! this is intolerable. Beau. Her eyes black, sparkling, sprightful, hot and piercing.

Cour. The very description of her shoots me through my liver.

Beau. Her hair of a delicate light amber-brown, curling in huge rings, and of a great quantity.

Cour. So.

Beau. Her forehead large, majestic, and generous,
Cour. Very well.

Beau. Her nose neat, and well-fashioned.

Cour. Good.

Beau. With a delicious, little, pretty, smiling mouth,
Cour. Oh!

Beau. Plump, red, blub lips.

Cour. Ah

Beau. Teeth whiter than so many little pearls; a bewitching neck, and tempting, rising, swelling breasts. Cour. Ah

Beau. Then such a proportion, such a shape, such a waist

Cour. Hold: go no lower, if thou lov'st me.

Beau. But by your leave, friend, I hope to go something lower, if she loves me.

Cour. But art thou certain, Beaugard, she is all this thou hast told me? so fair, so tempting, so lovely, so bewitching?

in

Beau. No; for, you must know, I never saw her face my life: : but I love my own pleasure so well, that I'll imagine all this, and ten times more, if it be possible. Cour. Where lives she?

Beau. That I know not neither; but my orders are to meet her fairly and squarely this evening by seven, at a certain civil person's shop in the upper walk, at the New Exchange, where she promises to be very good-natured, and let me know more of her mind.

Cour. I'll e'en go home, like a miserable blockhead as I am, to my lodging, and sleep.

Beau. No, Ned: thou knowest my good chances have always been lucky to thee: who can tell but this lady-errant that has seized upon my person, may have a straggling companion, or so, not unworthy my friend? Cour. "Tis impossible.

Beau. Not at all; for, to deal heartily with thee in

this business, though I never saw her face, or know who she is, yet thus far I am satisfied, she is a woman very witty, very well-bred, of a pleasant conversation, with a generous disposition, and, what is better than all, if I am not extremely misinformed, of noble quality, and damnably rich. Such a one cannot want good, pretty, little, under-sinners, Ned, that a man may fool away an hour or two withal very comfortably. Cour. Why then I'll be a man again. Wife, avaunt, and come not near my memory; impotence attends the very thoughts of thee. At seven you say, this evening? Beau. Precisely.

Cour. And shall I go along with thee, for a small venture in this love voyage?

Beau. With all my

heart.

Cour. But how shall we dispose of the burdensome time, till the happy minute smiles upon us?

Beau. With love's best friend, and our own honest old acquaintance, edifying Champaign, Ned; and for good company, though it be a rarity, I'll carry thee to dine with the best I can meet with, where we'll warm our blood and thoughts with generous glasses, and freehearted converse, till we forget the world, and think of nothing but immortal beauties, and eternal loving.

Cour. Then here I strike the league with thee: and now Methinks we're both upon the wing together, Bound for new realms of joy, and lands of pleasure; Where men were never yet enslav'd by wiving, But all their cares are handsomely contriving T'improve the noble arts of perfect living. [Exeunt.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

Enter COURTINE and BEAUGARD.

Cour. But was that thy father?

Beau. Yes, that civil, sober, old gentleman, Cour

tine, is my father: and, to tell thee the truth, as wicked and as poor as ever his son was. I sent him a cordial of a hundred guineas this morning, which he will be sure to lose before to-morrow morning, and not have a shilling to help himself.

Cour. Methought, as I looked into the room, he rattled the box with a great deal of grace, and swore half a dozen rappers very youthfully.

Beau. Pr'ythee no more on't, 'tis an irreverent theme; and next to atheism, I hate making merry with the frailties of my father.

Cour. But then as to the lady, Beaugard.

Beau. "Tis near the hour appointed, and that's the shop we meet at; the mistress of it, Courtine, is a hearty well-wisher to the mathematics; and her influence, I hope, may have no ill effect o'er my adventure.

Cour. Methinks this place looks as it were made for loving: the lights on each hand of the walk look stately; and then the rusling of silk petticoats, the din and the chatter of the pretty little party-coloured parrots, that hop and flutter from one side to t'other, puts every sense upon it's proper office, and sets the wheels of nature finely moving.

Beau. Would the lady of my motion would make haste, and be punctual; the wheels of my nature move so fast else, that the weight will be down before she

comes.

Mrs. Fur. Gloves or ribbands, sir? very good gloves or ribbands; choice of fine essences. Captain Beaugard, shall I sell you nothing to day?

Beau. Truly, mistress Furnish, I am come to lay out a heart at your shop this evening, if my pretty merchant-adventurer don't fail to meet me here.

Mrs. Fur. What, she that spoiled your devotion o' Sunday last, captain?

Beau. Dost thou know her, my little Furnish? Mrs. Fur. There is a certain lady in the world, sir, that has done me the honour to let me see her at my poor shop sometimes.