I have a friend, Gratian, the man my heart
Has cherish'd most; we from our youth were rivals
For my dear Porcia: tell him, if I die,

I left her to him, as the dearest legacy

I could bequeath: bid him be tender of her,
For she'll deserve it from him.-Would she did!

Grat. Heaven knows, it is my curse, spite of her scorn, to love her even to madness; nor shall this man of war, this French-bred hero, win her with nothing but cap and feather: I wonder he's not come yet.

his

Theod. I have heard the man is gallant; but in honesty, as thou art my friend, I wish thou would'st hear good counsel.

Grat. Thine must be noble.

Theod. I'd have thee think no more of this proud

woman.

Grat. I wish 'twere possible.

Theod. Their sex is one gross cheat; their only study How to deceive, betray, and ruin man:

They have it by tradition from their mothers,

Which they improve each day, and grow more exquisite. Their painting, patching, all their chamber-arts,

And public affectations, are but tricks

To draw fond men into that snare, their love.

Grat. Would this could cure mine!

Theod. When we're caught fast, 'tis then they shew their natures,

Grow haughty, proud, to vex the wretch they've conquer'd;

Tho' the same hour they glance abroad for new ones.
But let a woman know you're once her slave,

Give her once testimony that you love her,
She'll always be thy torment, jilt, design,
And practise ends upon thy honest nature;
So strong is their antipathy to truth.
Grat. But let a fool-

Theod. Oh give them but a fool,

A senseless, noisy, gay, bold, bristling blockhead,
A rascal with a feather, and cravat-string,

No brains in's head; a vain, pert, empty rogue,
That can prune*, dance, lisp, or lie very much,
They're lost for ever: they'll give all they have
To fools, or for 'em.-

Grat. But, my friend, this granted,

Grant Porcia this, and more, as she's the relict
Of thy dear brother, and my valu'd friend,
The injury she brings upon thy honour

Must not be slighted; and that's my cause now. Theod. There thou o'ercom'st me: still our men of mettle

Delay their time; the day grows late; let's walk

Down by yon wall; may be they've miss'd the place: Besides, I fancy company is coming this way, and we may be prevented. Methinks I would not lose so fine a morning, and do nothing.

Grat. Nor I.

Enter SYLVIA and LUCRETIA.

Sylv. Oh Lucrece, 'twas the pangs of jealousy, curst jealousy, that brought me hither.

Luc. Where lodged you then last night?

Sylv. Here, in this house, my cousin Porcia's house: I met her late last night, just as I alighted, harassed with my journey, and the cause of it: had she not took pity of me, heaven knows how my perplexities would have disposed me!

Luc. What, in this house?

Sylv. Here, in this very house.

Luc. I'm glad I know it; I'll take such care it shall not be long a secret.

[Aside.

Sylv. The garden opening thus upon the fields, invited me to take the morning-air here; for sleep's a guest that stays but little with me. Why sighest thou, Lucrece?

Luc. I'm thinking why my cousin Porcia should choose this residence.

This word is improperly altered in the edit. of 1757, to prim. To prune, signifies to pink, or dress affectedly.

Sylv. 'Tis for a lover, Lucrece; Beaugard courts her, a friend and lewd companion of my false husband's. Luc. I know him but too well.

Sylv. Why, dost thou love him?

Luc. So much that I can neither eat, drink, nor sleep in peace for the tormenting thoughts of him.

Sylv. By heavens I pity thee. Oh have a care of marriage, Lucrece, marriage; 'twill be thy bane, and ruin thee for ever. Marriage spoils faces; how I look with marriage!

Luc. I see no change.

Sylv. No change? I have not slept six nights in peace since the curst day I wedded.

Luc. Will then a husband spoil one's sleep so sadly? Sylv. A husband's, Lucrece, like his wedding-clothes; Worn gay a week, but then he throws 'em off, And with 'em too the lover: then his days Grow gay abroad, and his nights dull at home: He lies whole months by thy poor longing side Heavy and useless, comes faint and loth to bed, Turns him about, grunts, snores: and that's a husband.. Luc. Is Courtine such a one?

Sylv. "Tis pain to tell thee the life I lead with him, He's colder to me than adamant to fire; but let him loose amongst my kitchen-furniture, my maids, never was seen so termagant a towser: he loves a nasty, foul-fed, fulsome drab, and scorus the tender joys my arms invite him to. To be despised at that rate, so dishonoured, makes me even curse the chance that made me woman: would I had been any creature else.--See yonder, yonder he comes: thy mask, thy mask, dear Lucrece.

Luc. Farewell; I'll away, and leave ye fairly both together. [Exit.

Enter COURTINE.

Cour. What, fly thy ground, faint soldier? How, another! Nay then 'twas nobly done; two to one had been odds else: had it not, pretty one?

Sylv. Why, who are you, sir?

Cour. E'en a wandering knight, that have forsaken my castle in the country, and am come up to town for preferment truly.

Sylv. And one would think so proper, lusty, a wellmade fellow as you are should not be long out of employment.

Cour. Dost thou know me, my dearest?

Sylv. No.

Cour. Then I am sure thou canst have no exception against me.

Sylv. But suppose I had a mind to a little farther acquaintance with you; what then, sir?

Cour. Why, then thou may'st reasonably suppose that I'll make no evil use of thy good inclinations: faith there are very pretty gardens hereabouts; let us commit a trespass for once, break into one of 'em, and roll a camomile walk together this morning.

Sylv. O Lord, sir!

Cour. She's coming already.

Sylv. If I should let you make advantage of my weakness now, you would be false afterwards, forsake me, and break my heart.

Cour. Pretty fool! what innocent scruples she makes! Sylv. Have you no other mistress already? Have you no engagements that will return hereafter upon your heart to my prejudice?

Cour. Shall I swear?

Sylv. But han't you truly?

Cour. If I have, may that blue mountain over our heads there, fall down and crush ne like a pelted toad. Sylv. To shew you then that I deserve your faithCour. What wilt thou shew me?

Sylv. A face which I am not ashamed of, though you'll perhaps be scandalized when you see it.

Cour. The devil take me if I am though, so it prove not very horrible indeed.

Sylv. What think you then, sir; is it such a one as you looked for?

Cour. My own wife!

Sylv. Yes, thy unhappy wife.

Thou false, deceitful, perjur'd, shameless wretch:
Have I deserv'd this from thee?

Cour. Pox confound her

[Takes out a Book, and falls a reading.

Sylv. Is this the recompense of all my love?
Did I bestow my fortune on thy wants,
Humble myself to be thy dove-like wife;
And is this all I'm worth?

Cour. [Reads] -Wealth is a great

Provocative to am'rous heat.—
For what is worth in any thing,

But so much money as 'twill bring?
Hudibras, part the second, canto the first.

Sylv. Patience direct me! have I wrought my nature To utmost sufferance, and most low contentment?

Set my poor heart to cares? Have I been blest

With children by thee, to be left with scorn,

Cast off, neglected, and abandon'd vilely?
Speak, is not this hard usage?—

Cour. Umph!

Sylv. Umph! What's umph?

Cour. Umph, that's I, child; umph is I, I, I, my dear.

Sylv. Death! death and torments! Cut my wretched throat,

Don't treat me thus: by heav'n I'll bear't no longer.
Cour. No more.

Sylv. I have done, sir.

Cour. What do you at London?

Sylv. Is it a fault to follow what I'm fond of?

Cour. Can't I enjoy my pleasure, take my freedoms,

But you must come, and spoil the high-season'd dish,

With your insipid, whining, senseless jealousy?
Sylv. Pr'ythee forgive me-

Cour. Where did you lodge last night?

Sylv. Here with a kinswoman;

May be

you know her not; her name is Porcia,